The first time I ever cried while watching a theatrical production was in 1979, at a performance of A Chorus Line on Broadway. After spending two hours hearing the heart-wrenching stories of 17 dancers vying for eight spots in the ensemble of a new musical, and having felt kicked in the gut when I saw which ones had been selected (and which ones hadn't), when the finale began -- presumably showing us the eight successful auditioners in costume in the big number they'd been rehearsing all night -- and all of 17 of them were in the chorus after all -- oh, children, I was a goner.
It hit me like the moment in E.T. when Eliot mourns his friend's death and then the little alien's stomach glows red. He's not dead after all! Gets me every time.
I saw the original Broadway production of Chorus Line one more time in the early 1980s and, other than occasionally playing the cast album, that's been the extent of my exposure to the show over the last 25 years. (After reading the ghastly reviews, I steered clear of the movie version.) So when Mike -- who's never seen the show or the movie -- and I went to see the touring company of the current Broadway revival last night at the Ahmanson, I was ready for us both to shed a few tears.
I got a little choked up at the end, but Mike remained dry-eyed.
Why? How could a show that I thought was a guaranteed two-hankie affair for even the most callous theatergoer leave neither one of us searching for a Kleenex?
The current Broadway production, on which this tour is based, is not so much a revival as it is a faithful re-creation of the original. The book, music and lyrics; the lighting, the sets, the orchestrations; even the costumes are identical. The show remains firmly set in 1975, and for a dramatically legitimate reason. To update the show eight years, to 1983, would have resulted in no updating at all. But to update it to 1984 or any year thereafter would have required confronting the issue of AIDS, which devastated the community of Broadway dancers and which didn't even exist 33 years ago. Sadly, four of the show's creators (Michael Bennett, who conceived, directed and choreographed the show; book writers James Kirkwood and Nicholas Dante; and lyricist Edward Kleban) have all died, two of them (Bennett and Dante) from AIDS themselves.
Viewed as a period piece, though, surprisingly little in A Chorus Line seems dated. Sure, there are references to 42nd Street as a seedy neighborhood that probably make little sense to younger audience members who know it only as a family-friendly Disney wonderland. And the presence of only one African-American in such a group of hopefuls would be mighty unlikely in today's post-Gregory-Hines-Savion-Gl0ver-and-hip-hop world.
But the individual stories of the dancers -- their frequently unhappy childhoods, their invariably confusing adolescences, their adult fears and joys -- touch universal and timeless themes. The book and score still develop characters as endearing, entertaining and sometimes heartbreaking in 2008 as they were in 1975.
Marvin Hamlisch's music and Kleban's lyrics still impress. The score may include a ballad that was obviously written to be a hit outside the show ("What I Did for Love") and a production number that's not nearly as melodic as the Jerry Herman showstoppers it's intended to evoke ("One"), but it remains beautifully integrated with the book and counts among its gems two perfectly crafted character songs, "At the Ballet" and "Nothing." Jonathan Tunick's orchestrations are completely fresh, but then, after all, they're Jonathan Tunick orchestrations.
Fortunately, the problem isn't the singing and dancing. Wouldn't that be embarrassing? These people are auditioning for a Broadway musical and they have can't sing and dance! The voices are uniformly strong and Michael Bennett's choreography, re-created by Baayork Lee, is simultaneously contemporary and classic-Broadway.
Ultimately, where this production fails to deliver is in the acting. There's a lot of it in this show, and almost all of it is of the overwrought, handwringing variety. These 17 dancers have been put on the spot; they've been asked by a wacked-out, EST-era director to share their internal lives with him and their competitors for a shot at a job. This is not something that happens to these people every day; their responses should be spontaneous. (Zach, the director, even criticizes a couple of dancers whose answers he deems pre-programmed or false.)
But there's hardly a spontaneous, genuine moment in this Chorus Line. Every monologue is milked for the maximum laughs or the deepest sympathy. The confessions of Paul, the sexually abused Puerto Rican boy who became a performer in drag shows at the age of 16, elicited this response from my partner: "Well, that was over the top. They could have cut a good three minutes out of that."
He was half right. In the hands of the right actor, telling the story for the first time, one would not want one word to be cut. But Kevin Santos's portrayal is over the top.
But that's nothing compared to the final confrontation between director Zach (Michael Gruber) and his ex-paramour Cassie (Nikki Snelson), the former chorus girl who didn't make it as a star and has come back to perform "on the line" again. To call the acting soap-operaish is an insult to soap operas.
Only Emily Fletcher, as the aging and sardonic Sheila, comes across as believable -- which makes sense, considering that her character's persona is a mask that cracks wise but never cracks.
Director Bob Avian can be blamed for all the onstage histrionics. Perhaps in his desire to re-create the original Chorus Line verbatim, he has tried to get his actors to duplicate the exact performances of the first cast. But remember, all of the characters in A Chorus Line are based on real people, and the original cast included eight of them. Their reliving of their lives onstage, however melodramatic, had to ring more truthfully than the imitations I saw onstage last night.
That said, when the vamp to "One" began after Zach announced the names of the eight chosen dancers, and when all 17 of them promenaded onstage in those glittering gold tuxedoes, I have to confess, I misted up. They're all in the chorus line after all!
Gets me every time.
It hit me like the moment in E.T. when Eliot mourns his friend's death and then the little alien's stomach glows red. He's not dead after all! Gets me every time.
I saw the original Broadway production of Chorus Line one more time in the early 1980s and, other than occasionally playing the cast album, that's been the extent of my exposure to the show over the last 25 years. (After reading the ghastly reviews, I steered clear of the movie version.) So when Mike -- who's never seen the show or the movie -- and I went to see the touring company of the current Broadway revival last night at the Ahmanson, I was ready for us both to shed a few tears.
I got a little choked up at the end, but Mike remained dry-eyed.
Why? How could a show that I thought was a guaranteed two-hankie affair for even the most callous theatergoer leave neither one of us searching for a Kleenex?
The current Broadway production, on which this tour is based, is not so much a revival as it is a faithful re-creation of the original. The book, music and lyrics; the lighting, the sets, the orchestrations; even the costumes are identical. The show remains firmly set in 1975, and for a dramatically legitimate reason. To update the show eight years, to 1983, would have resulted in no updating at all. But to update it to 1984 or any year thereafter would have required confronting the issue of AIDS, which devastated the community of Broadway dancers and which didn't even exist 33 years ago. Sadly, four of the show's creators (Michael Bennett, who conceived, directed and choreographed the show; book writers James Kirkwood and Nicholas Dante; and lyricist Edward Kleban) have all died, two of them (Bennett and Dante) from AIDS themselves.
Viewed as a period piece, though, surprisingly little in A Chorus Line seems dated. Sure, there are references to 42nd Street as a seedy neighborhood that probably make little sense to younger audience members who know it only as a family-friendly Disney wonderland. And the presence of only one African-American in such a group of hopefuls would be mighty unlikely in today's post-Gregory-Hines-Savion-Gl0ver-and-hip-hop world.
But the individual stories of the dancers -- their frequently unhappy childhoods, their invariably confusing adolescences, their adult fears and joys -- touch universal and timeless themes. The book and score still develop characters as endearing, entertaining and sometimes heartbreaking in 2008 as they were in 1975.
Marvin Hamlisch's music and Kleban's lyrics still impress. The score may include a ballad that was obviously written to be a hit outside the show ("What I Did for Love") and a production number that's not nearly as melodic as the Jerry Herman showstoppers it's intended to evoke ("One"), but it remains beautifully integrated with the book and counts among its gems two perfectly crafted character songs, "At the Ballet" and "Nothing." Jonathan Tunick's orchestrations are completely fresh, but then, after all, they're Jonathan Tunick orchestrations.
Fortunately, the problem isn't the singing and dancing. Wouldn't that be embarrassing? These people are auditioning for a Broadway musical and they have can't sing and dance! The voices are uniformly strong and Michael Bennett's choreography, re-created by Baayork Lee, is simultaneously contemporary and classic-Broadway.
Ultimately, where this production fails to deliver is in the acting. There's a lot of it in this show, and almost all of it is of the overwrought, handwringing variety. These 17 dancers have been put on the spot; they've been asked by a wacked-out, EST-era director to share their internal lives with him and their competitors for a shot at a job. This is not something that happens to these people every day; their responses should be spontaneous. (Zach, the director, even criticizes a couple of dancers whose answers he deems pre-programmed or false.)
But there's hardly a spontaneous, genuine moment in this Chorus Line. Every monologue is milked for the maximum laughs or the deepest sympathy. The confessions of Paul, the sexually abused Puerto Rican boy who became a performer in drag shows at the age of 16, elicited this response from my partner: "Well, that was over the top. They could have cut a good three minutes out of that."
He was half right. In the hands of the right actor, telling the story for the first time, one would not want one word to be cut. But Kevin Santos's portrayal is over the top.
But that's nothing compared to the final confrontation between director Zach (Michael Gruber) and his ex-paramour Cassie (Nikki Snelson), the former chorus girl who didn't make it as a star and has come back to perform "on the line" again. To call the acting soap-operaish is an insult to soap operas.
Only Emily Fletcher, as the aging and sardonic Sheila, comes across as believable -- which makes sense, considering that her character's persona is a mask that cracks wise but never cracks.
Director Bob Avian can be blamed for all the onstage histrionics. Perhaps in his desire to re-create the original Chorus Line verbatim, he has tried to get his actors to duplicate the exact performances of the first cast. But remember, all of the characters in A Chorus Line are based on real people, and the original cast included eight of them. Their reliving of their lives onstage, however melodramatic, had to ring more truthfully than the imitations I saw onstage last night.
That said, when the vamp to "One" began after Zach announced the names of the eight chosen dancers, and when all 17 of them promenaded onstage in those glittering gold tuxedoes, I have to confess, I misted up. They're all in the chorus line after all!
Gets me every time.
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