One of the worst moments in musical film—or at least the one that comes to mind for the sake of illustration—is in the bad adaptation of Kiss Me, Kate, when the two gangsters, out of nowhere, turn to the camera and start singing “Brush Up Your Shakespeare.”
It’s a movie. There is no audience to whom you have to cheat front.
The musical numbers of a movie musical must be filmed as if there is no Broadway audience, which means that the performers cannot randomly turn to an audience. An entire movie can’t exist within four walls, then for short bursts acknowledge the fourth wall. For modern moviegoers, that changes the rules created by the conventions of film and is awkward. That's when people say musicals are not sophisticated enough for modern audiences.
You see this handled well in many of the recent musicals. When Jack Kelly sings “Sante Fe” in Newsies, he’s not singing it to the audience. It is a reflection of his own state in life, and it is sung back to himself. It is photographed from a variety of directions, so that he is not always facing the camera. When he is filmed facing forward, his expression reverts his attention to his own contemplations. When he dances, he is not performing a number for the audience; it is the physical expression of his emotions. Because of this, “Sante Fe” is not awkward at all.
You see this done beautifully and often by Adam Shankman in Hairspray. During “Big, Blonde, and Beautiful,” the dancing is photographed facing toward Maybelle and Edna. The audience still experiences that wonderful choreography, but it is given an audience within the movie. It feels natural, rather than having it all faced out, acknowledging the existence of a fourth wall audience.
Even when Shankman uses the traditional forward-facing style, as he does in the ending of “Welcome to the 60’s,” he places the camera at an angle, so that the characters aren’t performing to the fourth wall. This gives the choreography a sense that these characters all happen to be dancing in the same direction, as opposed to performing for an audience.
A good example of how this might have changed classic musicals is “I’m Going Back” in Bells are Ringing. In the show (and movie), it is the moment when Ella has finally exhausted herself with all of her own antics and secret identities. She feels she has lost the man she loves because of her antics, and she’s ready to give up being an operator. In the movie, as in the stage show, Ella sings the song facing the fourth wall, doing her choreography, including the Jolson bit, to the audience.
To give Ella an audience within the movie, a modern director might have Ella perform the song to her switchboard. It would be a natural outlet, since all of her problems stemmed from her job at the switchboard. In essence, she would be letting out her frustration on herself because of the people whom she tried to help, represented in her mind by the switchboard where she met them all. Ella might turn away, singing to herself in a manner similar to Jack in Newsies, but the focus is still on something within the movie—herself.
Modern audiences don’t buy musicals when they push the boundaries of reality too far. We know audiences have a high tolerance for creativity and artificiality in movies—the plethora of horror, torture, action, super-hero, and romantic comedies more than proves this. But it’s the random performance to a fourth-wall audience that pops up out of nowhere that creates awkward moments in movie musicals. To resolve this, be it in singing or choreography, it is key to give the performer an audience within the movie, be it himself or herself, another character, or another object. This keeps a consistent tone and focus throughout the whole piece, just as is done in every other movie genre.
the Broadway Mouth
October 2, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Modernizing Movie Musicals: Chapter 1 (Concept)
When I talked about the Hollywood adaptation of the musical Hairspray last year, I mentioned how the producers should write the book on making movie musicals. Honestly, this is something I’ve thought much about long before Hairspray last summer, and since they haven’t written a book on the subject, I’m taking it upon myself to do it for them, one chapter (or idea) at a time.
Chapter 1 is about the concept. Hollywood analysts used to say that modern audiences wouldn’t buy musicals because audiences have become too sophisticated. I said it then, and I’ll say it again—Nonsense!
Let’s face it, there’s nothing “sophisticated” about the run-of-the-mill torture movies or action flicks. It takes as much willing suspense of disbelief to watch Transformers, I Am Legend, and Iron Man as it does to watch a musical. I would believe that Judy Garland saves the day by singing in Summer Stock as much as I can believe that Edward Norton turns into a giant green man.
This is evidenced by the great successes of Moulin Rouge, Chicago, Dreamgirls, Hairspray, and Mamma Mia!, the latter of which is probably one of the corniest, most un-sophisticated musicals of them all.
The key, however, is all in how it is done. Up until Hairspray, no one ever would have thought that the traditional singing musical would work again, which explains a few of the problems with the Dreamgirls adaptation, which attempted to hide its musical roots until the characters had to inevitably sing something outside of the concert setting.
What those analysts should have said is that audiences were too sophisticated for musicals the way they were usually done in the 1930s-1950s. It’s simply a matter of updating the style, which means breaking away from the movie musical’s Broadway roots.
the Broadway Mouth
September 30, 2008
Chapter 1 is about the concept. Hollywood analysts used to say that modern audiences wouldn’t buy musicals because audiences have become too sophisticated. I said it then, and I’ll say it again—Nonsense!
Let’s face it, there’s nothing “sophisticated” about the run-of-the-mill torture movies or action flicks. It takes as much willing suspense of disbelief to watch Transformers, I Am Legend, and Iron Man as it does to watch a musical. I would believe that Judy Garland saves the day by singing in Summer Stock as much as I can believe that Edward Norton turns into a giant green man.
This is evidenced by the great successes of Moulin Rouge, Chicago, Dreamgirls, Hairspray, and Mamma Mia!, the latter of which is probably one of the corniest, most un-sophisticated musicals of them all.
The key, however, is all in how it is done. Up until Hairspray, no one ever would have thought that the traditional singing musical would work again, which explains a few of the problems with the Dreamgirls adaptation, which attempted to hide its musical roots until the characters had to inevitably sing something outside of the concert setting.
What those analysts should have said is that audiences were too sophisticated for musicals the way they were usually done in the 1930s-1950s. It’s simply a matter of updating the style, which means breaking away from the movie musical’s Broadway roots.
the Broadway Mouth
September 30, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Don’t Tell Her Who Told You
You know, for a writer, those are the suckiest words ever. I’ve heard them twice. Twice! Life is so not fair.
I’ve already written about how much I hate networking and why I’m so bad at it (namely because I hate using people and that’s what networking usually becomes).
But, okay, there’s another reason. It always backfires on me and ends with “Don’t tell her who told you.”
The first incident isn’t industry-related like the second. After my first two years of teaching when I attempted to run from the profession in every direction but back, I wanted to become a technical writer as a way to support myself while I worked on my craft. I didn’t go to college for technical writing, but to my way of thinking, if you have skills, the desire to work hard, and the natural intelligence, you can write anything well, even poetry.
But not everyone agreed with me, particularly the people hiring technical writers. Fortunately, the librarian at the school where I had taught and his wonderful wife had a friend who had done technical writing. They hooked me up with her, and she gave me great advice. I mean, she really guided me. She wanted to give me a leg up, and she knew a place where they would likely be hiring technical writers.
But there was a hitch. There’s always a hitch. She gave me the name and phone number of the guy who owned the company, but she had had an awkward run-in with him at a meeting once, and she said, “Just don’t tell him who told you to call him.” She told me to tell him that I met her at a specific conference or something like that.
Did I mention I was only twenty-four at the time? I was a smart twenty-four, but in this situation, I was simply inexperienced.
So I called the guy. I introduced myself and said something like, “Someone told me to call you. She said you might be looking for technical writers and that I might be a good fit.”
“Who was she?”
Crap! He wasn’t supposed to ask that. That wasn’t in the game plan! He was supposed to buy it, ask for my resume with writing samples, and then interview me.
My response to his question was so incredibly stupid (like something I would have said during my days in improv) that I won’t even write it here anonymously. It’s that bad. No freakin’ surprise I didn’t get the interview.
Jump ahead to the summer of 2005. I am now a much smarter twenty-eight, and I am in California for the summer in an attempt to get a sitcom pilot, a drama pilot, or two spec scripts in the hands of anyone with eyes in the industry. Based upon advice in a book (pretty worthless advice, in my opinion, unless you happen to be a telemarketer), I start cold calling agencies in an attempt to talk to someone who will allow me to send them a script.
I start with the smaller agencies. No one cares, no one wants to hear me, see me, or even believe I exist. Every single one. So, I begin in on the bigger agencies.
I call one of the biggest agencies in the industry; I mean huge. This guy answers the phone.
Guy: I’m sorry, man, I can’t transfer you to an agent. You’re aiming too big. No one here’s going to talk to you unless you know someone.
Me: That’s how it is everywhere. I did start small, but nobody wants to talk to you unless you know someone.
Guy: Listen, I know someone you can call. She’s a show runner on South Beach, but I bet she’d be a great person to go to. I’ll give you her number, but you cannot tell her who gave it to you. Whatever you do, don’t tell her who told you.
For those of you not in the industry (or don’t have a $14.95 handbook like me), a show runner is basically a producer. It’s a high-level, work-your-butt-off-to-get-somewhere-and-have-arrived position.
South Beach was the very short-lived UPN drama (though everything on UPN was short-lived, including the network) co-produced by Jennifer Lopez, the show about pretty young rich people who have reckless sex (not to be confused with the entire 2008 fall line-up on the CW). Yes, it was UPN, but Jennifer Lopez gave the show pedigree, and this was a big-time connection.
So, I called the phone number, which must have been for someplace in UPN because that’s how the receptionist identified herself. I asked for the woman, and the receptionist says, “Oh, she’s out of the office. Let me give you her cell phone number.”
Cool.
I call her cell phone.
Me: Hi, my name is _________________, and I was given your name by—
Show Runner: Wait a minute. Who is this?
Me: I’m _________________, and I was given your name to call. I’ve written a few shows—
Show Runner: How did you get my cell phone number?
Me: I . . . called your office, and when I asked for you, she gave it to me.
Show Runner: I’ll have to talk to her. She should not be giving out my phone number. She just can’t be giving it out to just anyone.
Me: I’m sorry. Would you like me to call you back another time at the office?
Show Runner: I’m actually on my way to catch a flight. Who told you to call me?
Me: I’m not supposed to tell you.
Show Runner: What?
Me: He told me that you might be interested in reading my work, but he said I couldn’t tell you who told me.
Show Runner: He told you not to tell me?
Me: I know it’s odd, but he said you would be a good person to contact.
Show Runner: (awkward pause) Okay . . . why don’t you email me copies of your stuff. I’m really busy, but I’ll try to take a look at it.
Me: Thank you, I’ll do that. And don’t worry. I won’t call you on this number again. I’m sorry.
So I emailed her my stuff, and I never heard from her again. No wonder. Would you have emailed me back?
I guess I should have emailed her again to check in, then called to check in, then sent a sympathy card saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your job. I hope it gives you more time to read scripts emailed to you by freaks who call you out of the blue on your cell phone.” Live and learn.
Epilogue
I guess I need to justify these two embarrassing stories by saying that I was actually almost hired as a technical writer twice. The first one was for a position writing about medical treatments in a manner that an average person could understand. The interview went great, and the man interviewing me was a former teacher. We connected instantly, and he had full confidence I could do it well. When the time came, though, he did call to let me know that he had hired someone else, someone who had actually done that very same writing before. He couldn’t pass that up.
An interview for a second position was going really well. The man who co-owned the company graduated from the same college as I, and we shared a few stories of professors we knew. In an attempt to paint myself as a skilled and versatile writer, I talked about my playwright aspirations. Duh! He didn’t hire me because he was looking for someone long term, which is what he basically told me before I left. Little does he know that it’s been seven years, and I’m still not produced anywhere.
I haven’t mentioned this on my blog yet, but I actually did finally escape the clutches of the teaching profession. This past spring I was hired by an exceptional, small, privately owned company. I have the most kind, incredible, and all-around amazing employers and work with some really great people in a human services industry in a position that makes me feel like I’m doing some good in the world.
Getting the job was the story of my life. When I actually get the interview, people genuinely seem to like me, and when they check my professional references, they find that the impression is supported by my track record. I earned this position out of a pool of two hundred applicants, was actively pursued by my employers, and wound up very happy.
There’s a certain hip hop star out there. I interviewed with his/her personal assistant to be a manny. I didn’t get the job because my years of teaching weren’t experience enough. See, if you’d only checked my references . . . You would have had one heck of a manny . . .
But, for the record, I’m happy where I am now. I’m still not anywhere near my dreams, but I have been able to watch my niece grow these past two years, and I now have a job that doesn’t require every ounce of my energy. I actually have time to write! As long as I can write, I know I can improve until my work is worthy of production or publication.
But I hope to God to never hear anyone say, “Don’t tell her who told you” again!
the Broadway Mouth
September 28, 2008
I’ve already written about how much I hate networking and why I’m so bad at it (namely because I hate using people and that’s what networking usually becomes).
But, okay, there’s another reason. It always backfires on me and ends with “Don’t tell her who told you.”
The first incident isn’t industry-related like the second. After my first two years of teaching when I attempted to run from the profession in every direction but back, I wanted to become a technical writer as a way to support myself while I worked on my craft. I didn’t go to college for technical writing, but to my way of thinking, if you have skills, the desire to work hard, and the natural intelligence, you can write anything well, even poetry.
But not everyone agreed with me, particularly the people hiring technical writers. Fortunately, the librarian at the school where I had taught and his wonderful wife had a friend who had done technical writing. They hooked me up with her, and she gave me great advice. I mean, she really guided me. She wanted to give me a leg up, and she knew a place where they would likely be hiring technical writers.
But there was a hitch. There’s always a hitch. She gave me the name and phone number of the guy who owned the company, but she had had an awkward run-in with him at a meeting once, and she said, “Just don’t tell him who told you to call him.” She told me to tell him that I met her at a specific conference or something like that.
Did I mention I was only twenty-four at the time? I was a smart twenty-four, but in this situation, I was simply inexperienced.
So I called the guy. I introduced myself and said something like, “Someone told me to call you. She said you might be looking for technical writers and that I might be a good fit.”
“Who was she?”
Crap! He wasn’t supposed to ask that. That wasn’t in the game plan! He was supposed to buy it, ask for my resume with writing samples, and then interview me.
My response to his question was so incredibly stupid (like something I would have said during my days in improv) that I won’t even write it here anonymously. It’s that bad. No freakin’ surprise I didn’t get the interview.
Jump ahead to the summer of 2005. I am now a much smarter twenty-eight, and I am in California for the summer in an attempt to get a sitcom pilot, a drama pilot, or two spec scripts in the hands of anyone with eyes in the industry. Based upon advice in a book (pretty worthless advice, in my opinion, unless you happen to be a telemarketer), I start cold calling agencies in an attempt to talk to someone who will allow me to send them a script.
I start with the smaller agencies. No one cares, no one wants to hear me, see me, or even believe I exist. Every single one. So, I begin in on the bigger agencies.
I call one of the biggest agencies in the industry; I mean huge. This guy answers the phone.
Guy: I’m sorry, man, I can’t transfer you to an agent. You’re aiming too big. No one here’s going to talk to you unless you know someone.
Me: That’s how it is everywhere. I did start small, but nobody wants to talk to you unless you know someone.
Guy: Listen, I know someone you can call. She’s a show runner on South Beach, but I bet she’d be a great person to go to. I’ll give you her number, but you cannot tell her who gave it to you. Whatever you do, don’t tell her who told you.
For those of you not in the industry (or don’t have a $14.95 handbook like me), a show runner is basically a producer. It’s a high-level, work-your-butt-off-to-get-somewhere-and-have-arrived position.
South Beach was the very short-lived UPN drama (though everything on UPN was short-lived, including the network) co-produced by Jennifer Lopez, the show about pretty young rich people who have reckless sex (not to be confused with the entire 2008 fall line-up on the CW). Yes, it was UPN, but Jennifer Lopez gave the show pedigree, and this was a big-time connection.
So, I called the phone number, which must have been for someplace in UPN because that’s how the receptionist identified herself. I asked for the woman, and the receptionist says, “Oh, she’s out of the office. Let me give you her cell phone number.”
Cool.
I call her cell phone.
Me: Hi, my name is _________________, and I was given your name by—
Show Runner: Wait a minute. Who is this?
Me: I’m _________________, and I was given your name to call. I’ve written a few shows—
Show Runner: How did you get my cell phone number?
Me: I . . . called your office, and when I asked for you, she gave it to me.
Show Runner: I’ll have to talk to her. She should not be giving out my phone number. She just can’t be giving it out to just anyone.
Me: I’m sorry. Would you like me to call you back another time at the office?
Show Runner: I’m actually on my way to catch a flight. Who told you to call me?
Me: I’m not supposed to tell you.
Show Runner: What?
Me: He told me that you might be interested in reading my work, but he said I couldn’t tell you who told me.
Show Runner: He told you not to tell me?
Me: I know it’s odd, but he said you would be a good person to contact.
Show Runner: (awkward pause) Okay . . . why don’t you email me copies of your stuff. I’m really busy, but I’ll try to take a look at it.
Me: Thank you, I’ll do that. And don’t worry. I won’t call you on this number again. I’m sorry.
So I emailed her my stuff, and I never heard from her again. No wonder. Would you have emailed me back?
I guess I should have emailed her again to check in, then called to check in, then sent a sympathy card saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your job. I hope it gives you more time to read scripts emailed to you by freaks who call you out of the blue on your cell phone.” Live and learn.
Epilogue
I guess I need to justify these two embarrassing stories by saying that I was actually almost hired as a technical writer twice. The first one was for a position writing about medical treatments in a manner that an average person could understand. The interview went great, and the man interviewing me was a former teacher. We connected instantly, and he had full confidence I could do it well. When the time came, though, he did call to let me know that he had hired someone else, someone who had actually done that very same writing before. He couldn’t pass that up.
An interview for a second position was going really well. The man who co-owned the company graduated from the same college as I, and we shared a few stories of professors we knew. In an attempt to paint myself as a skilled and versatile writer, I talked about my playwright aspirations. Duh! He didn’t hire me because he was looking for someone long term, which is what he basically told me before I left. Little does he know that it’s been seven years, and I’m still not produced anywhere.
I haven’t mentioned this on my blog yet, but I actually did finally escape the clutches of the teaching profession. This past spring I was hired by an exceptional, small, privately owned company. I have the most kind, incredible, and all-around amazing employers and work with some really great people in a human services industry in a position that makes me feel like I’m doing some good in the world.
Getting the job was the story of my life. When I actually get the interview, people genuinely seem to like me, and when they check my professional references, they find that the impression is supported by my track record. I earned this position out of a pool of two hundred applicants, was actively pursued by my employers, and wound up very happy.
There’s a certain hip hop star out there. I interviewed with his/her personal assistant to be a manny. I didn’t get the job because my years of teaching weren’t experience enough. See, if you’d only checked my references . . . You would have had one heck of a manny . . .
But, for the record, I’m happy where I am now. I’m still not anywhere near my dreams, but I have been able to watch my niece grow these past two years, and I now have a job that doesn’t require every ounce of my energy. I actually have time to write! As long as I can write, I know I can improve until my work is worthy of production or publication.
But I hope to God to never hear anyone say, “Don’t tell her who told you” again!
the Broadway Mouth
September 28, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Let’s Put on a Musical!
Almost a year ago, when I wrote about my very favorite theatre books, high on the list was Peter Filichia’s Let’s Put on a Musical!. I didn’t realize when I had originally written the piece, but Filichia had recently updated the book. Well, I’ve finally acquired a brand new copy of this wonderful second edition. Honestly, theatre fans, you need to check it out.
At first, it may not seem like such a great book for the average theatre fan. It’s a book written to guide theatre group into picking shows that will work for them—outlining general plot, casting needs, significant sets, props, and so on.
But even for the serious musical theatre aficionado, there’s a wealth of interest.
My favorite part is Filichia’s analysis of each show. For each show profiled, he discusses the shows strength and weaknesses (called liabilities). These can include anything from plot holes and weak book-writing to lame lyrics. As one who aspires to write musicals worthy to be produced on Broadway, his insights—don’t forget he is a highly respected critic—are not only interesting but invaluable.
Also of interest is the background he gives on each show, which are brief but to the point, his often detailing their success or failure by listing specific performances for their runs, often including revivals. That’s interesting because it gives you a perspective on how modern audiences have responded to shows.
He also details any suggestions he has or directors have had after working with many of the shows. Again, here are some valuable insights into the construction of the shows, how they work, and how directorial choices affect the final result. It’s interesting to read what these theatre professionals have to say about their experiences with the shows.
Gone from the prior edition are his lame advertising suggestions (well-intended but pretty bad, nonetheless), and replacing it here is the inclusion of any special effects needs, which is a pretty significant consideration in selecting a show.
Also new to this edition are many new shows, from bigger titles like Thoroughly Modern Millie; Beauty and the Beast; and Titanic, to smaller shows, some off-Broadway, like Caroline, or Change; A Man of No Importance; and The Spitfire Grill. Even many of the entries from the prior edition have been updated with new suggestions, revival successes, and other information of note.
As must be expected, there are a few significant absences from the book. My beloved Jane Eyre is not discussed (though, I already know Filichia has qualms with Rochester’s struggle not to get divorced before marrying Jane), nor is the rather big Disney title Aida, which would be high on my list as a high school director (not to mention the show ran for some four years and was far more successful than many other smaller titles included here). There are a number of smaller titles that made it in order to, my guess would be, give choices to small theatre companies looking for small, inexpensive shows. Still, it seems odd to include A Class Act, Pete ‘n Keely, and Thrill Me and to leave out a success like Aida.
Also absent are the “Also Worth a Look” titles from the prior edition, which Filichia only briefly summarized, perhaps because they were shows of lesser interest or higher difficulty. A few of those—Meet Me in St. Louis, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Singin’ in the Rain—are produced quite often and their exclusion would probably be noticed by many community theatre and high school directors.
Despite those exclusions, Let’s Put on a Musical! is an invaluable reference, either to learn about shows or just to learn more about ones you know. Whenever I see a production, hear a new cast recording, or even revisit a recording I’ve heard before, I often pull out Let’s Put on a Musical! to get another perspective. In fact, I would say get the new edition AND hunt down a copy of the old one. There’s enough differing material in both to make it worth the while.
the Broadway Mouth
September 25, 2008
At first, it may not seem like such a great book for the average theatre fan. It’s a book written to guide theatre group into picking shows that will work for them—outlining general plot, casting needs, significant sets, props, and so on.
But even for the serious musical theatre aficionado, there’s a wealth of interest.
My favorite part is Filichia’s analysis of each show. For each show profiled, he discusses the shows strength and weaknesses (called liabilities). These can include anything from plot holes and weak book-writing to lame lyrics. As one who aspires to write musicals worthy to be produced on Broadway, his insights—don’t forget he is a highly respected critic—are not only interesting but invaluable.
Also of interest is the background he gives on each show, which are brief but to the point, his often detailing their success or failure by listing specific performances for their runs, often including revivals. That’s interesting because it gives you a perspective on how modern audiences have responded to shows.
He also details any suggestions he has or directors have had after working with many of the shows. Again, here are some valuable insights into the construction of the shows, how they work, and how directorial choices affect the final result. It’s interesting to read what these theatre professionals have to say about their experiences with the shows.
Gone from the prior edition are his lame advertising suggestions (well-intended but pretty bad, nonetheless), and replacing it here is the inclusion of any special effects needs, which is a pretty significant consideration in selecting a show.
Also new to this edition are many new shows, from bigger titles like Thoroughly Modern Millie; Beauty and the Beast; and Titanic, to smaller shows, some off-Broadway, like Caroline, or Change; A Man of No Importance; and The Spitfire Grill. Even many of the entries from the prior edition have been updated with new suggestions, revival successes, and other information of note.
As must be expected, there are a few significant absences from the book. My beloved Jane Eyre is not discussed (though, I already know Filichia has qualms with Rochester’s struggle not to get divorced before marrying Jane), nor is the rather big Disney title Aida, which would be high on my list as a high school director (not to mention the show ran for some four years and was far more successful than many other smaller titles included here). There are a number of smaller titles that made it in order to, my guess would be, give choices to small theatre companies looking for small, inexpensive shows. Still, it seems odd to include A Class Act, Pete ‘n Keely, and Thrill Me and to leave out a success like Aida.
Also absent are the “Also Worth a Look” titles from the prior edition, which Filichia only briefly summarized, perhaps because they were shows of lesser interest or higher difficulty. A few of those—Meet Me in St. Louis, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and Singin’ in the Rain—are produced quite often and their exclusion would probably be noticed by many community theatre and high school directors.
Despite those exclusions, Let’s Put on a Musical! is an invaluable reference, either to learn about shows or just to learn more about ones you know. Whenever I see a production, hear a new cast recording, or even revisit a recording I’ve heard before, I often pull out Let’s Put on a Musical! to get another perspective. In fact, I would say get the new edition AND hunt down a copy of the old one. There’s enough differing material in both to make it worth the while.
the Broadway Mouth
September 25, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
$11.99 is a Pretty Darn Good Price
For an Original Broadway Cast Recording of a new show, $11.99 is a pretty darn good price. I was perusing the music section at my local Barnes and Noble recently and noticed that there were several significant permanent price drops on a few recent Broadway show cast recordings.
Barnes and Noble pretty much sells items at the manufacturer’s suggested retail price, which means that their discounted prices are likely going to be reflected wherever these CDs are sold.
The shows whose prices I recall having lowered to this unbelievable steal of a price were Paul Gordon’s and John Caird’s Jane Eyre, William Finn’s A New Brain, and David Yazbek’s The Full Monty. There could be other titles as well. If you know of any, please share them with the rest of us.
the Broadway Mouth
September 23, 2008
Barnes and Noble pretty much sells items at the manufacturer’s suggested retail price, which means that their discounted prices are likely going to be reflected wherever these CDs are sold.
The shows whose prices I recall having lowered to this unbelievable steal of a price were Paul Gordon’s and John Caird’s Jane Eyre, William Finn’s A New Brain, and David Yazbek’s The Full Monty. There could be other titles as well. If you know of any, please share them with the rest of us.
the Broadway Mouth
September 23, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Reviews, Internet Buzz, and How I Wasted $125 (And You Can Too!)
What stinks most about Internet buzz is you never know what to believe. It really does stink. Right now there’s a lot of buzz going on about many shows out previewing throughout the country—people have strong opinions about 13, 9 to 5, Shrek, not to mention the already-opened Tale of Two Cities.
The start of the problem is that you can’t always/usually trust the critics entirely. We all have loved shows the critics have gleefully trounced—perhaps The Wedding Singer, Wicked, or Sweet Smell of Success. So when the reviews come out, you read them fully aware that you are quite possibly reading something written by someone who sees 150 plays a year, hates 100 of them, despises 35, thinks 10 are okay, and only actually liked 4.5 (second act trouble, you know). Nothing surprises them because they’ve seen everything, and you can’t tell if they are more interested in being entertained or seeing something that breaks new ground.
But you also can’t trust the message boards (of which I am a proud member) because everyone there thinks they are the next Ben Brantley with the one and only perspective anyone should have about any show, an opinion that is Gospel truth because they themselves form it with a story sense that would make George Abbott plead for a master class. And let’s face it; if the director makes a choice different from what we would make, he or she clearly made the wrong decision, right?
That’s why I never know what to think. And that’s how I wound up throwing away $125 on Tarzan.
Yes, I knew the critics hated Tarzan—but did they hate it because it was slow, plodding, and well-intentioned-however-sadly-misguided (and very boring, despite a great amount of talent on stage)? Or did they hate it because it was a Disney show? After all, you can’t really be a critic and like a Disney show.
Then I read the message boards. Okay, what they said about Tarzan, these are the same things people said about shows I loved—The Scarlet Pimpernel, Jane Eyre, The Wedding Singer, Bells are Ringing, Follies, Beauty and the Beast—so did they hate it because Tarzan had a giant purple spider and a cartoon projected on a screen rather untheatrically? Or did they hate it because they hate pretty much everything, particularly if its Disney?
Right now there’s some pretty bad buzz out there concerning about every musical opening so far this fall—Tale of Two Cities, 13, Shrek, and 9 to 5. If I make it to New York next spring, how will I know which one is a Tarzan and which is a Wicked? My inner voice says I’ll probably love Tale of Two Cities, and since I couldn’t stand ten minutes of the movie Shrek (okay, mostly because it was so ugly), I don’t really care about the stage version. I have high hopes for 13 because of Jason Robert Brown, though the concept sounds highly not interesting (though I am willing to give it a try because Jason Robert Brown is a genius in my book, which makes it of interest despite the kid-focused story), and I’m willing to see what happens with 9 to 5 since I do have a soft place in my heart for Stephanie J. Block.
Hmmm, the critics have nothing to do with those choices, and I guess I’m not too dissuaded by the message boards either.
But then, do I really want to waste $125? On Tarzan, I knew it was a real gamble, and I walked in knowing full well that I could be wasting my money. But I wanted to see the new Disney show because it was a Disney show and had its original cast. Plus, truth be told, I really wanted to see Merle (insert: sigh) Dandridge in it. It was a calculated risk I consciously made fully aware of the possibility. Still, it cost me $125, and it didn’t do anything for me.
the Broadway Mouth
September 20, 2008
The start of the problem is that you can’t always/usually trust the critics entirely. We all have loved shows the critics have gleefully trounced—perhaps The Wedding Singer, Wicked, or Sweet Smell of Success. So when the reviews come out, you read them fully aware that you are quite possibly reading something written by someone who sees 150 plays a year, hates 100 of them, despises 35, thinks 10 are okay, and only actually liked 4.5 (second act trouble, you know). Nothing surprises them because they’ve seen everything, and you can’t tell if they are more interested in being entertained or seeing something that breaks new ground.
But you also can’t trust the message boards (of which I am a proud member) because everyone there thinks they are the next Ben Brantley with the one and only perspective anyone should have about any show, an opinion that is Gospel truth because they themselves form it with a story sense that would make George Abbott plead for a master class. And let’s face it; if the director makes a choice different from what we would make, he or she clearly made the wrong decision, right?
That’s why I never know what to think. And that’s how I wound up throwing away $125 on Tarzan.
Yes, I knew the critics hated Tarzan—but did they hate it because it was slow, plodding, and well-intentioned-however-sadly-misguided (and very boring, despite a great amount of talent on stage)? Or did they hate it because it was a Disney show? After all, you can’t really be a critic and like a Disney show.
Then I read the message boards. Okay, what they said about Tarzan, these are the same things people said about shows I loved—The Scarlet Pimpernel, Jane Eyre, The Wedding Singer, Bells are Ringing, Follies, Beauty and the Beast—so did they hate it because Tarzan had a giant purple spider and a cartoon projected on a screen rather untheatrically? Or did they hate it because they hate pretty much everything, particularly if its Disney?
Right now there’s some pretty bad buzz out there concerning about every musical opening so far this fall—Tale of Two Cities, 13, Shrek, and 9 to 5. If I make it to New York next spring, how will I know which one is a Tarzan and which is a Wicked? My inner voice says I’ll probably love Tale of Two Cities, and since I couldn’t stand ten minutes of the movie Shrek (okay, mostly because it was so ugly), I don’t really care about the stage version. I have high hopes for 13 because of Jason Robert Brown, though the concept sounds highly not interesting (though I am willing to give it a try because Jason Robert Brown is a genius in my book, which makes it of interest despite the kid-focused story), and I’m willing to see what happens with 9 to 5 since I do have a soft place in my heart for Stephanie J. Block.
Hmmm, the critics have nothing to do with those choices, and I guess I’m not too dissuaded by the message boards either.
But then, do I really want to waste $125? On Tarzan, I knew it was a real gamble, and I walked in knowing full well that I could be wasting my money. But I wanted to see the new Disney show because it was a Disney show and had its original cast. Plus, truth be told, I really wanted to see Merle (insert: sigh) Dandridge in it. It was a calculated risk I consciously made fully aware of the possibility. Still, it cost me $125, and it didn’t do anything for me.
the Broadway Mouth
September 20, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
High School Musicals, Part 3: Dancing in Women’s Underwear . . . ?
Midway through The Wedding Singer, my thought was “This would be such a fun show to do in a high school. Too bad it can’t be done.”
It’s a myth that old Broadway shows were purely wholesome entertainments. I once saw a great regional production of Oklahoma! with a group of teachers who had grown up loving the movie. They were more than slightly surprised by some of the lyrics in the stage version. In the old days, though, when schools did shows like Oklahoma! or The Pajama Game, they could easily look to the film adaptations for guidance on how to incorporate alterations to make the show appropriate for their students. The lyrics were already changed by the original creators for the movies, so there was no danger is adapting those changes.
My college directing teacher told us that you could get away with taking out the swear words, but really, anything other than that, you were legally out of bounds. She taught us to respect the work of the playwright, to honor their intentions, and that if a show in its entirety wasn’t right for your actors or your audience, then it was best to pick another show.
When I saw The Wedding Singer, I knew there was no way for a high school to do the show without severely damaging the integrity of the piece. Here was a show with instant name recognition for the audience, with really catchy songs, and loads of laughs. Plus, kids would love the retro 80s factor. The Wedding Singer really would be a blast for high school students to tackle.
But from beginning to end, there’s too much material not appropriate for high school actors. Songs incorporate the f-bomb, strippers, drugs, and sexual practices. A major plot element involves a character waking up to wonder if he’s had sex with a woman he doesn’t love, not to mention her seduction of him the night before. And what would a high school do with a gay character like George (who, in song lyrics, dances in women’s underwear and professes not to like women at all).
I’ve also wondered what high schools will do with Hairspray. There’s not much inappropriate in the stage version, but there are lines about kids with condoms, a lesbian phy ed teacher taking advantage of her students, plus a few other devious lines here and there that would give administrators cause to wince. If you can easily leave a line out, that’s not so bad for a high school director to do, but to take on rewriting dialogue or lyrics is crossing the line. Hopefully, when it is licensed, the writers will provide equitable solutions for high school directors to use.
With the exception of a big, challenging show like Les Miserables, I don’t think most high school directors would opt for a “School Edition” or “Jr.” production of a show. High school directors generally do aspire to make a great show, and while “Jr.” productions are great for middle schools, to do a The Wedding Singer Jr. at a high school would be beneath most students and directors (though, there is an audience for high schools doing High School Musical, so what do I know?). The creators could re-write a PG-rated The Wedding Singer, but that would just be cheap. There’d have to be too many major changes (as opposed to changing a line of dialogue or a lyrics here or there).
Dirty Rotten Scoundrels is another show that has the potential to be a heap of fun at a high school that would simply not work for a high school to produce.
Maybe that’s why the most common new shows to make it to high school are Seussical and Beauty and the Beast. They can actually be done at a high school.
the Broadway Mouth
September 18, 2008
It’s a myth that old Broadway shows were purely wholesome entertainments. I once saw a great regional production of Oklahoma! with a group of teachers who had grown up loving the movie. They were more than slightly surprised by some of the lyrics in the stage version. In the old days, though, when schools did shows like Oklahoma! or The Pajama Game, they could easily look to the film adaptations for guidance on how to incorporate alterations to make the show appropriate for their students. The lyrics were already changed by the original creators for the movies, so there was no danger is adapting those changes.
My college directing teacher told us that you could get away with taking out the swear words, but really, anything other than that, you were legally out of bounds. She taught us to respect the work of the playwright, to honor their intentions, and that if a show in its entirety wasn’t right for your actors or your audience, then it was best to pick another show.
When I saw The Wedding Singer, I knew there was no way for a high school to do the show without severely damaging the integrity of the piece. Here was a show with instant name recognition for the audience, with really catchy songs, and loads of laughs. Plus, kids would love the retro 80s factor. The Wedding Singer really would be a blast for high school students to tackle.
But from beginning to end, there’s too much material not appropriate for high school actors. Songs incorporate the f-bomb, strippers, drugs, and sexual practices. A major plot element involves a character waking up to wonder if he’s had sex with a woman he doesn’t love, not to mention her seduction of him the night before. And what would a high school do with a gay character like George (who, in song lyrics, dances in women’s underwear and professes not to like women at all).
I’ve also wondered what high schools will do with Hairspray. There’s not much inappropriate in the stage version, but there are lines about kids with condoms, a lesbian phy ed teacher taking advantage of her students, plus a few other devious lines here and there that would give administrators cause to wince. If you can easily leave a line out, that’s not so bad for a high school director to do, but to take on rewriting dialogue or lyrics is crossing the line. Hopefully, when it is licensed, the writers will provide equitable solutions for high school directors to use.
With the exception of a big, challenging show like Les Miserables, I don’t think most high school directors would opt for a “School Edition” or “Jr.” production of a show. High school directors generally do aspire to make a great show, and while “Jr.” productions are great for middle schools, to do a The Wedding Singer Jr. at a high school would be beneath most students and directors (though, there is an audience for high schools doing High School Musical, so what do I know?). The creators could re-write a PG-rated The Wedding Singer, but that would just be cheap. There’d have to be too many major changes (as opposed to changing a line of dialogue or a lyrics here or there).
Dirty Rotten Scoundrels is another show that has the potential to be a heap of fun at a high school that would simply not work for a high school to produce.
Maybe that’s why the most common new shows to make it to high school are Seussical and Beauty and the Beast. They can actually be done at a high school.
the Broadway Mouth
September 18, 2008
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