Mar 142013
 

Screen Shot 2013-03-14 at 17.47.27I’m struck by how many local news Web memes center on low-grade minstrelsy.

The classic entertainment trope of the happy minstrel refuses to die. For generations, the biggest form of American entertainment was the minstrel show, in which actors (both white and black) made themselves up with exaggerated and blackened features, spoke in a comic dialect, and played the fool. In the minstrel show version of America, black people were full of personality but ultimately harmless simpletons. They loped and jived and ate watermelon and possessed a childlike naïveté about the world. In the minstrel version of America, blacks gleefully traded the misery and poverty of their everyday lives for the opportunity to sing and dance and make white folks smile with a catch phrase or a lively “coon song.”

In the 1890s, former slave George W. Johnson recorded “The Whistling Coon,” and it became one of the first best-selling singles by an African-American the United States. Contemporary audiences thought the inhumane lyric (“He’s a limpy, happy, chuckle-headed huckleberry nig/…With a cranium like a big baboon”) was hilarious, but they also probably saw it as a harmless goof. Here’s another standard minstrel show from the radio days. If anything, it’s milder than what Americans would have paid to see in the years after Reconstruction. Although contemporary audiences thought they were merely laughing at funny characters, it’s pretty obvious to our ears that they were participating in a dehumanizing exercise:

Continue reading »

May 242012
 

There are many things about Broadway musicals that make me shift in my seat. One is when the heroine winds up alone on stage and sings wistfully, and at agonizing length, about how lonely she is. Another is the power “I love you” ballad the two leads slam out together, climaxing with a seismic belt and the obligatory applause.

But the third, and by far the worst, is the newest bad habit of modern musicals: songs with a lyric written in the second person. These are the songs when the character in question, once they’ve broken into song, can barely utter the word “I.” Instead, they layer their words with “you,” distancing themselves from the outburst and rending musical moments like a stack of platitudes of bumper stickers. They sound like musical fortune cookies.

I think I blame Sondheim for this modern stylistic entrenchment. In 1970, his main character in Company reached his big epiphany about loneliness while singing “Being Alive” in the second person.

Someone to hold you too close,
Someone to hurt you too deep,
Someone to sit in your chair,
To ruin your sleep.

He went on like that for a few verses because he had to. He was a character who couldn’t embrace his needs, who shelved them while his loved ones developed and moved on around him. Finally, in the last verses, he switches to the first person, indicating he’s finally made his personal breakthrough.

Somebody, hold me too close,
Somebody, hurt me too deep,
Somebody, sit in my chair
And ruin my sleep
And make me aware
Of being alive,
Being alive.

It was a good song. It worked. And the trick of using the second person worked for a good reason. Bobby wasn’t fully an “I” yet. He was all super-ego, and resisting the naked urges of his ego. I suspect that in some ways, he reflected Sondheim himself, who takes an intellect-first approach to writing and perhaps by constitution isn’t automatically emotive. Continue reading »

Apr 302012
 

Pardon her, but she’s about to sing

The re-mainstreaming of the musical could be said to be a decade old this year. It was in 2002 that the movie version of Chicago was released and subsequently snatched up the Oscar for Best Picture.

Ever since, pop culture has been chasing the genre again. Sometimes it’s a wild cross-cultural and financial success (Glee, Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog), and sometimes a miserable flop of torturously inept proportions (the 2005 adaptation of The Producers).

Although the musical departed the pop culture mainstream along with jukeboxes and crooners, there’s still enough money in them — if they’re done correctly — to have been a constant lure for the past decade. What was once a pet genre, invoked only in private or in some kind of pastiche such as Pennies from Heaven, is now being taken seriously again on its own terms, for its own unique language.

Much of the thanks go to Howard Ashman, the genius wordsmith who returned Disney to its groove, and to its black bottom line, with The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast. He died at the peak of the AIDS holocaust before he could rightfully claim the credit that Michael Eisner greedily usurped as his own. But where Ashman laid the groundwork for pop culture re-acceptance of the musical with modern idioms, his work, whether it was for Disney Animation or for Little Shop of Horrors, seemed to always spring from an awareness that musicals work best in a candy-colored, backlot-imagined, hyper reality.

After all, modern audiences’ brittle, Vietnam-fired sensibilities are troubled by the musical’s annoying tendency to feature characters who unnervingly break into song. Problematic, that, and the clearest way around that intellectual short circuit, as the syrupy-sweet set designers at MGM’s Freed Unit knew, is to bathe productions in a surreality that excuses the transgression of song. Ashman’s greatest triumph was knowing that, and knowing the one medium — animation — could support song best. Continue reading »

Dec 062011
 
Oklahoma movie poster

Fire down below: Laurey and Curly reach the climax

You may think the musical Oklahoma! is a sweet little show about friendly farmers and cowmen, but I’ve got an arousing awakening for you. Oklahoma! is drenched in sexual innuendo, rape metaphor, and bestiality references. After all, the whole plot revolves around who gets to take Laurey to the “box social” — a coded consummation metaphor if ever there was one.

Many years ago, I wrote this (don’t worry, it’s pretty short and it moves fast) about the 1955 Fred Zinnemann movie version of Rodgers and Hammerstein‘s 1943 Broadway musical Oklahoma!. As I decode this assumed G-rated masterpiece for torrid subtext, I guarantee that you will never look at that chestnut the same way ever again.

I wrote this for a film studies course at Northwestern University. It’s a little-known fact that the history and writing of the American musical is a special discipline of mine. I don’t talk about it much, but it’s true. I even have an MFA in music theatre from New York University, a lot of good may it do me.

I wrote this mostly as a lark to see what I could get away with, but it holds up. May my perspective make this old snoozer recharged with sexual energy for you.

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Much has been written about the significance of Oklahoma! in the history of American musical theatre.  Most historians place it as the milestone in the integration of the musical’s construction in conveying themes, plot and character.  Its reputation among laymen is one of a simpleminded, quaint musical.  What both factions ignore in their analyses, however, is that Oklahoma! is full of subtle but rough-hewn sexual and violent undertones that in fact contradict its reputation as mere mild entertainment.

Oklahoma! was released in 1955 after the New York and touring companies had closed and introduced the new wide-screen process called Todd-AO.  It was re-released in 1956 by 20th Century Fox in CinemaScope.  It tells story of Curly McLain (Gordon MacRae) and Laurey Williams (Shirley Jones), who, in a fit of coquettish spite, accepts an invitation to a social from the brute farmhand Jud Fry (Rod Steiger).  Laurey’s ensuing self-torment plus the tension between Jud and Curly drives the plot from that point on.  True to the Rodgers and Hammerstein style, there is also a contrasting subcouple in the form of Will Parker (Gene Nelson) and Ado Annie (Gloria Grahame), who pines for any man with a seductive intent, including the peddler Ali Hakim (Eddie Albert).

Oklahoma! has reached the status of an enduring classic, thanks mostly to its mainstream proliferation through the Fred Zinnemann film.  While its bumpkin characters seem homey and charming in light of modern musical works, the film itself remains fresh and entertaining.  The songs and dancing are in part responsible for that, but one might argue that its nearly perverse subthemes of sexual desire and violence help the film maintain a gripping, if subconscious, appeal.

The primary sexual themes of Oklahoma! play themselves out in its characters.  There is Laurey, the virginal girl coming of sexual age; Curly, the suave, sexy charmer clearly obsessed with bedding Laurey; Ado Annie, the girl, recently come of sexual age and unable to control her sexual impulses — a victim of her own Freudian id; Jud Fry, who represents an unfettered, unchivalrous sexual carnality that contrasts the cultural expectations of Claremore; Ali Hakim, also a victim of his own id but, unlike Annie, quite aware of his manipulatory manner of obtaining gratification; Will Parker, who is like Laurey in his virginal, wide-eyed view of sex; and Aunt Eller, the matriarch-cum-madam of Claremore, wise in the ways of sex and lust and engrossed with matchmaking her Laurey with a suitable sexual partner — the handsome Curly.

It is Aunt Eller who carries out the first sexual act, which, like everything else in Oklahoma!, is disguised with a down-home flavor.  She is seen daydreaming and churning butter (a subliminally phallic gesture), no doubt dreaming of her younger, sexual days.  When Curly chats with her, she keeps her eyes focused on him, surveying him and continuing her phallic strokes.  The first thing she says to him also indicates her sexual desire for the virile Curly: “If I wasn’t an ole woman, and if you wasn’t so young and smart-alecky, why, I’d marry you and git you to set around at night and sing to me [i.e. be intimate with me]“  Aunt Eller’s churning halts when Curly mentions Laurey, her niece.  Although Aunt Eller wears a smile as he mentions her, she promptly stops her action and opens up the churn — in essence, castrating Curly in any hopes of making love to such an “ole woman.”  In a moment, she’s scooping out globs of butter and saying “you young ‘uns!” (The dairy product metaphor for sex is repeated during “I Cain’t Say No”: “S’posin’ ‘at he says ‘at you’re sweeter’n cream/ And he’s gotta have cream er die?”  And later, women’s home-cooked meals are auctioned to their suitors at the Skidmore Ranch.)

The butter metaphor is by no means the only sexual undertheme perpetrated by Aunt Eller.  In fact, throughout the film, Aunt Eller is the only person in Claremore who seems to be wise to the ways of sex and appreciates fully the sexual goals of the courtship ritual.  Her primary function is that of matchmaker for the girls, helping them obtain a suitable sexual partner.

Oklahoma movie still

Nice basket: Curly is obsessed with getting into Laurey's hamper

For example, she opens her home to all the couples on the way to the Skidmore Ranch.  Once inside, the ladies undress and primp themselves in preparation for their evenings with the menfolk.  Not only is the “Many a New Day” scene voyeuristic on behalf of the viewers, but it is a depiction of how Claremore girls pride themselves on catching a man.  The number itself represents contradiction — it’s a feminist stance yet sung while in underwear.  Although Laurey may deny the idea that her world centers around a man, we also discover the shallowness of her decree when she nearly breaks down at song’s end.  During the song, there are a number of sexual issues: girls try to outdo each other with attractiveness and showiness, women tie their corsets with thrusting, rhythmic pulses and two pubescent girls become frustrated with their own lack of expertise.  While the girls primp and preen inside, comparing undergarments and discussing sexuality, the men are outside, dipping their heads in a horse trough.   The statement of who’s luring who is more than implicit.

Aunt Eller in essence affects the whole plot.  She uses Jud to make Curly jealous enough to try harder for Laurey but when Jud’s obsession becomes apparent, she gets worried.

Aunt Eller also endorses the men in their own pursuit of more vigorous sexual satisfaction.  In the “Kansas City” scene, she reacts to the assumed pornography inside the “Little Wonder” first with the expected, gender-ascribed disdain (“The hussy!”) but then gives the men approval from the other side of the sexual fence of experience when she says “How do you turn the thing to see the other pitcher?”  Plus, underneath her grey dress she wears a flaming red petticoat, which she flashes along with her legs to the camera in “Kansas City.”  Later in the number, Will Parker chooses Aunt Eller over the two adolescent girls, presumably because of her knowledge in sexual matters.  The lyric of the song depicts sexual awakening (i.e. the stripper in Kansas City) and sure enough, soon the two adolescent girls are petting Will and sheepishly trying to get him to notice them.  At the point when he does embarrassedly notice the two girls, Aunt Eller vanishes off the left of the screen into the train office.  It’s almost as if she was making herself scarce to matchmake Will with the young ladies.

She matchmakes at other times, too, stressing physical contact over romantic courtship: (“Why don’t you grab her and kiss her when she gets that way, Curly?”)  When Laurey and Curly finally do wed, she protects their intimacy within the house by halting the shivoree crowd at the stoop.

Aunt Eller seems to be very much in control of the townspeople and supervises their mating.  During “The Surrey With the Fringe on Top,” she is shown as the only object in the Todd-AO vista, gazing intently at Curly and Laurey.  In “Kansas City,” she escorts the ensemble to the far end of the train platform with outstretched arms, as if pushing them.  In “The Farmer and the Cowman,” she whips out a pistol and forces everyone to dance.  Also, even though Curly is about to be killed by the “Little Wonder,” Hakim wastes time in telling Aunt Eller about the hidden knife, and she is the one to save Curly’s life; the matchmaking must go on, and by her hand.  She even literally auctions off the girls at the social like a whorehouse madam.  Yet, however in control she may be, as when she threatens Ali Hakim with an eggbeater down his windpipe, she retains her sexuality, getting a pair of garters in the bargain.

Violence is hardly scarce in Oklahoma! as far as sex goes.  In fact, Oklahoma seems to be teeming with an undercurrent of unfulfilled sexual desire and violence waiting to emerge, be it between farmer and cowman or two eligible ladies.  Each man seems willing to kill to obtain his love.  Curly tries to convince Jud to commit suicide.  Jud tries to kill Curly twice (once with a sexual toy).  Will tells Ali he would kill him for Annie.  Gertie Cummings has fights with both Annie and Laurey (rolling on the ground, of course).

The community structure of Claremore revolves around obtaining sex through appropriate societal channels.  Marriage is usually the way to get that sex.  When a marriage proposal (and thus the promise of sex) arrives, it is monumental.  When Annie is engaged to Ali, she promptly goes to report it to the other girls in the community.  Laurey and Curly’s marriage is also a community spectacle.

Premarital sex is often alluded to, however, particularly through the lusty characters of Annie and Ali, who would be termed “sexual addicts” in today’s America.  Says Will: “I’m goin’ t’marry her!”  Ali: “On purpose?,” implying the famous Oklahoma shotgun marriage.  Obviously, any moral code isn’t apparent to Ali.  He wants to bed Annie in the Claremore Hotel.  He also suggests that he, Laurey and Annie engage in a menage a trois by skinny dipping together.  He’s been “feeling up” Annie behind the haystack (his confession that results in his shotgun engagement to Annie). At the end, he’s caught in illicit (by Claremore standards) sex and forced by shotgun to marry Gertie Cummings.  Finally, he sells garters and bloomers and other forbidden delights like drugs (the Egyptian smelling salts).

In Oklahoma!, women obtain sexual fulfillment when in a semi-drugged state.  “Laurey’s Dream” is the most obvious example.  Ado Annie, too, seems ever-comatose and virtually unresponsive, doggedly singing her number “I Cain’t Say No.”

Gloria Grahame as a vamp

This is how movies audiences knew Gloria Grahame before she played Ado Annie: As a sex addict of another kind

Also, the sexuality of women is related to beasts in Oklahoma!  During “Kansas City,” as Will describes the round shape of the burlesque queen, the non-diagetic sound of a horse whinny is mixed in.  Later in the number, he sings to his horse as one of the pubescent, sexually-unready girls faintly tries to grab his attention.  Before the reprise of “I Cain’t Say No,” Annie compliments Will’s manner of roping horses in between his sexual advances.  He also tells Annie that roping steers all day makes him think of her.  The connection between beasts and sex is obvious. Later, after “All ‘Er Nothin’,” he pens Annie in with a farmyard fence like a common hog before kissing her.  Even Ali Hakim joins in, describing Annie’s “soft, round tail.”  At first glance, these allusions seem rustic and apropos for the midwestern setting, but in actuality they are blatant objectifications.

As in other film musicals, dance implies sex.  In “Kansas City,” Will tries to teach the young girls how to dance — i.e. how to become sexually mature enough to capture his attention.  In her dream, dancing with Jud symbolizes Laurey’s moral decay and at the social, she reels in disgust at the prospect of dancing with Jud.  Also at the social, Annie and Will go from dancing together to immediately and furtively sneaking away for hanky-panky — the natural progression.  Also, Annie laments Will’s own fidelity after he dances with the two pubescent girls.

Unlike other film musicals, however, blatant objectification of sex is not used much.  It is cloaked instead under the character and custom of the Oklahomans.  Lusty observation of the opposite sex is frowned upon.  Jud peeps on Laurey twice in the film but that act is in no way presented as positive or does it instill desire in the audience.  The only time the women are put on pedestals for the men in the town is during the hamper auction.  Although the metaphor of the woman’s sexuality as a scrumptious meal for her suitor is striking (and it is repeated when Will compares Ado’s mouth to ripe berries in the reprise of “I Cain’t Say No”), it is hardly as blatant as, say, a Ziegfeld girl, showing legs and bosom with come-hither glee.  Like all sexuality in Oklahoma!, the sexuality of the girls is obscured by the charm of local custom.  As an audience unused to such coding, we see the custom but not the actual sexuality itself, mistaking it for chivalry.

Each character fits into this chivalric custom.  Jud is ostracized not for his sexual desires (even Will owns the “Little Wonder”) but mostly for his selfish and coarse refusal to cooperate with the chivalric code.  Curly is attractive because he tries to turn its tables and have the women proposition him.  Romance comes when we sense his intense desire to abandon egocentricity and conform to the code, which he eventually does when he proposes humbly to Laurey.  Annie’s sexual drive is not reprehensible because she is unaware of her indiscretions and is instead fulfilled by them.  Furthermore, she obeys the chivalric code and promptly responds to all gentlemanly advances.  Laurey is the perfect ingenue — virginal and a victim of a man’s romantic system, resorting to dreams for her sexual fulfillment.  Will, intent on obeying the code at the cost of $100 total, is just discovering the wonders of romance and thus excusable from his reckless tendency to woo every available female.  Ali Hakim is a rascal for his shrewd manner of circumventing the code, and also forgivable because of his pure wheedling, con-man ability.

Oklahoma! is not without out-and-out innuendo, however.  Take, for example, Will’s “Oklahoma Hello,” in which Annie is straddled (like a horse — the woman as a beast theme) about the groin.  Later, at film’s end, a disheveled Will and Annie have clearly been screwing around behind the house: “You missed all the excitement!” someone says.  Annie responds, dazed: “No, we didn’t.  Hello, Will,” and Will giggles. Did they engage in sex during the trial scene? The audience must guess, but given Annie’s insatiable appetite and Will’s hankering for Annie, we imagine they have.

Naturally, such open-ended presentations and cultural cloaking was the only way that Oklahoma! could appeal both to New York’s sly but conservative audiences and later slip by the film’s censors.  Like Cole Porter’s famous double-entendres, Hammerstein’s suggestive script (which was adapted almost word for word by Sonya Levien and William Ludwig for the film) managed to carry off dozens of sexual themes under the pretense of a simple, enigmatic culture.

There’s a storehouse of sexual activity swarming in Oklahoma! and enough to fill several ten-page papers.  In overview, however, it suffices to note the several main themes in the film: the cloaking of continual sexual pursuit beneath local custom and chivalry, the dependency of each character on that custom, the matriarchal presence of the madam Aunt Eller and the existence of other major themes such as the sexual linkage of beasts and dancing as they relate to Oklahoma!‘s setting and genre.  In those themes alone there is enough to give any Rodgers and Hammerstein fan pause as she or he considers Oklahoma!‘s innate sexuality and perversity.

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Gertie Cummings? Really?

College is hot.

Oklahoma movie still

It's not "Porky's." It's R&H: Laurey bathes in front of Ado Annie

Jun 292011
 
Follies original production Playbill

Cracked in the head, but a historical document nonetheless

Although a whole lot bothers me about musicals, there are some things that I love, specifically, what stems from history. I almost never listen to a cast recording and get goofily carried away. I start thinking about the place and time of it, the look of the cabs that passed outside the theatre, the hats and coats on top of the heads of the audiences and the political and social concerns inside them.

I like the document of the cast album. It’s so rare to allow history to sing in your ear.

As a document, the original cast recording of 1971′s Follies was shredded from the start. People now acknowledge that the show is, if not really a perfect masterpiece, then one of Stephen Sondheim’s most compelling, and widest-ranging. Its daring was what turned people off: It’s about middle-aged people having nervous breakdowns when they return to an abandoned theatre, Weissman’s, that once was the centre of their young romantic lives. At the end, a demo crew breaks through the wall and everyone leaves, shattered. Wheee!

The promise of self-doubt and meltdowns with top hats (particularly during Vietnam, when the middle class had enough to regret) didn’t appeal to many people back then, so it wasn’t destined to run for long. And the show’s casting, scenic, and narrative demands are extreme enough to mean the show is rarely revived, perhaps rightfully so, which makes the original production a brief flash of mythology for New Yorkers and singers alike. But in 1971, as it was running, of course no one knew how hindsight would inform its legacy, or that “I’m Still Here” would become a standard.

So everyone allowed themselves to be stupid. Harold Prince was in a snit over something CBS had done with one of his forevermore forgettable movie ventures. CBS’s Goddard Lieberson was the undisputed master of cast recordings, but Prince was so pissy he didn’t care. So he gave the recording rights to Capitol, which had experience mostly in cynical commercial pop recordings — not in documents. Those Hollywood Boulevard types didn’t understand that cast recordings are, in a sense, snapshots of a moment. They are museums to a work of art that will only exist in that form once. They pay homage to specific cultural and economic conditions as much as they strive to entertain eccentric grandmothers and closeted future showboys.

Anyway, the lush and rangy score was hacked, compressed, and disemboweled to fit on one tinny LP.

Follies on Time magazine

See? Musicals are too culturally relevant! They're even on the cover of TIME! What's more culturally relevant than that? (Oh... wait...)

For the recording, Capitol rented a ballroom at the Manhattan Center on 34th near Eighth Avenue. The venue itself was a ruined theatre, having been built by Oscar Hammerstein I in a failed bid to unseat the Metropolitan Opera as New York’s dominant opera institution. Today, in further proof of the continued re-ascendancy of vaudeville-by-television, the building is where America’s Got Talent has its annual New York auditions.

A year before, CBS gave Sondheim’s Company 18 and a half hours of recording to get things right — which they needed, considering how drunk Elaine Stritch was — but the more complex and orchestral Follies was given just a single day to nail everything and clean up. In his book Everything Was Possible, Ted Chapin remembers it was a day of buzzing mics, flipped switches, and crossed signals. Not only was everything cut to hell, but people had only a few minutes to record unfamiliar, newly gutted versions of their songs before hitting the street again.

Even the album cover was lazy: the show’s poster was slapped in the middle, not even cropped, so there were long white spaces on either side.

On YouTube, I found some files by JonthesYT, a guy I don’t know, but whom I know I already love. A true historian who appreciates that cast recordings are perhaps more about American cultural preservation than mere entertainment, he has created the Follies original cast album the way it should have been. By mashing up, deftly and with an engineer’s ear, the original truncated disc with good-quality live recordings of the short-lived 1971 show in performance at the Winter Garden Theatre, he has matched the performances as they truly are.

Here’s the musical triptych of “Rain on the Roof,” “Ah, Paree!”, and “Broadway Baby.” In 1971, only the second two were included, and “Broadway Baby” was chopped in half.

From a custodial point of view, it’s horrifying to think that “Broadway Baby,” which is now a familiar tune that’s regarded as an American classic song, was not recorded in its full form by the person who first sang it. The person who first sang it, Ethel Shutta, is also fading away thanks to a lack of documents preserving her, even though she was a fixture on American stages and radio for some 73 years.

Thanks to Capitol and Hal Prince’s hissy fit, we were deprived of that artifact. But this guy has re-assembled it and restored it, with dozens of hidden edits in each track, to a sense of its truth, if only on YouTube.

My favorite one is “Losing My Mind” by Dorothy Collins. It’s already one of my favorite songs, but her little step-up on “mind” at the end of the bridge (which wasn’t recorded but was rescued from a live performance) is an interpretation I’ve never heard before. Now, I realize that had this bridge been recorded, every girl singer since 1971 would have sung that lick. Because that’s what we do, like it or not: We sing like the original sang it. Further proof the cast recording is a more powerful document than a pop song: it guides interpretation forever.

It’s a stupid little thing, really, and it may be something that only musical fans will appreciate. But it’s at 2:55:

I suppose there is an argument to be made for the idea that because Follies‘ original document was so awful, people have spent decades re-inspecting the work and trying to redeem it. And without James Goldman’s sometimes hard-to-swallow book to compare beside the score, Sondheim gets all the glory, while regional theatre companies everywhere fail to realize the many hazards that prevent the final piece, once mounted, from connecting the way they hoped it would. Thanks again to the document of the cast album, for boosting life where previously there may have been only shame.

People love to mock musicals. Even the people in musicals mock musicals, because they don’t want to be seen as so unhip as to lack a sense of humor.

But musicals are not all about jazz hands and kick lines and belters dressed up as French peasants. They are markers of our culture — and they are distinctly American, since we invented them. Their successes inform us about our national rhetoric, and their failures tells us about our culture, too.

There’s a slice of American history in every disc, just as there’s something to learn from a black and white movie on TCM, a jazz album, or a comic book.

Follies is coming back to Broadway in August. As proof that producers perhaps still don’t precisely grasp the full feather of history of the piece, it will play the 25-year-old Marquis Theatre, whose construction (and that of the vertical bunker of the Marriott tower above it) demanded the demolition of five antique theatres on the block.

The Marquis Theatre itself created four theatre ghosts like the Weissman’s. It’s as if they’re mounting their show in the very parking lot that replaced Weissman’s haunted playhouse.

Aug 192010
 

PBS showed a live telecast of the Broadway revival of South Pacific tonight as the show prepares to close. I saw this production, which opened two years ago, for the first time last Tuesday, and I liked it so much I made sure to watch it again tonight. I know there are a lot of people who roll their eyes, thinking that it’s just another fuddy-duddy, old-style showtune cheese plate.

But that’s truly unfair. It was a product of a different time, and we are all just tourists to that time. That’s why we don’t understand it. It’s not corn. It’s culture shock.

P.T.S.D in the S.P.

To understand any piece of popular entertainment, you have to understand the society that produced it. And to understand South Pacific, you have to understand two things: the Pacific military theatre of World War Two and its reverberations in American culture in 1949, when the show premiere at the Majestic Theatre, where The Phantom of the Opera is now.

I could write an entire book on this topic. But start with this: In 1949, the people sitting through the theatre had only recently gotten through the war. By the opening strains of the overture, I have read, many of them began sobbing. The memories flooded back both for servicemen and the families who had stood by them. It was far too close to them and brought up the most visceral emotions a human can confront. Many of them had fought in the Pacific, which made the miseries of Europe look pale in comparison. There’s no way to exaggerate what the Pacific battles were like: the gore, the mental and physical torture, the fearful waiting, the doomed sense of being trapped, hemmed in by encroaching killers.

In Italy, a G.I. stood a chance of hiding in the forests. On the ocean, though when torpedos struck your submarine or your Navy ship — the men in South Pacific are mostly SeaBees, charged with building airstrips and the like on newly taken islands — there was nothing for you but a vast sea with sharks beneath and Japanese planes and blistering sun above. The islands were rigged with explosives and snipers’ nests. There was not enough water, nor reliable supply routes for food. There was disease, there was the stench of rot. And above all, there was the feeling of being absolutely trapped, and of waiting for your eventual doom. When one island was gained, usually with an unspeakable loss of life, the men packed up to another island where it began again. It was because of the deadening accumulation of Pacific battles that America felt it had no choice but to drop the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to end it completely.

That was the real South Pacific, and that is the information that every single American carried heavily in their minds when they attended the show. So the wallop that South Pacific packs came from what Rodgers and Hammerstein were not saying. The dissection of racism  in “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught” has been exhaustively discussed because racism became the United States’ obsessive issue in the 1950s and 1960s. There’s a reason the musical was only the second to win the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, which back then meant something, and that song certainly played a major part.

The original window card

But there are other, less explicit messages, and America’s post-war, Hawaii-fed style obsession with anything Polynesian may have overshadowed many of them. Largest of them, in my mind, is that at the end of the show, everyone marking time on that island (which is unnamed in the script) is finally called up to board ships and go fight the Japanese. Students of history, and modern audiences who paid attention to the giant campaign map onstage, noticed how close the base was to the island of Guadalcanal. So when the SeaBeas, pilots, and nurses march offstage at the end of the show, they are not going to dance a jig and kiss each other in Times Square. They are going to one of the most savage campaigns in the war: 29 ships lost, 7,100 killed. To give a clue of how brutal it was, the Japanese took only 4 prisoners. These characters are going to die. People in 1949 knew that all too well, because they probably loved people who suffered over the six months in Gudalcanal.

That includes our reckless Luther Billis, whose unspoken love for Nellie Forbush has been denied — the surest sign of a tragic hero, literarily speaking. Many of those young men died in the dirt without having ever known love. Knowing that, “There Is Nothing Like a Dame” becomes, to me, a heartwrenching keen. The Lincoln Center production captures this eerie truth without saying it. There are no words on the page for it because the original writers didn’t need to say it. Instead, the company, marching in battle fatigues, reprises “Honey Bun” with a distant, almost lethargic softness. They are already dead. The song they choose to sing, as they go to their torturous deaths (or at the very least, life-changing pain), is, intentionally, the silliest one in the show, and it makes us realize that up until now, they have been teasing each other because they know, deep down, a truth they cannot openly discuss. Their island was not a paradise after all. They’re marching to their likely ends, under the scorching sun. The audience knew it, which was what made the preceding frivolity so beautiful and so poignant.

It’s not just the leads whose unspoken stories would have wrenched viewers in 1949: Bloody Mary, who seems at first like mere comic relief, a Tonkinese Stepin Fetchit, in fact schemes to prostitute her own daughter so they can escape “paradise” and cash in on the American Dream. The character of Liat is so eager to subjugate herself for the hallowed American, Lt. Cable, that she never speaks. Her entire character, then, is an embodiment of hungry desperation for American wealth. Former Navy seamen would have met many such people, living stranded on their islands, during their own military waiting games. Thirty years later, in Vietnam, they’d discard women like them again for the same reasons, abandoning them rather than fitting them into the jigsaw of their consumerist/racist lives back home. (For more on that, see Miss Saigon.)

Late in the second act, Luther Billis tries selling some medicine to one SeaBee, who rejects the transaction because the pills are actually standard issue. A moment later, Billis tries the same sale on a nurse, who tells him that the pills are junk and officers use something else now. It’s a subtle complaint of the military power structure, and the feeling that enlisted men were cannon fodder, that is lost on most modern audiences.

"Here am I, your special island": Guadalcanal, where Billis & co. ended up

Nellie Forbush’s change of heart about Emile de Becque’s dead Polynesian wife might seem undeveloped by Hammerstein’s and Joshua Logan’s script. First she’s opposed to marrying him, and suddenly she’s wishing him back. But every audience member in 1949 noticed the critical moment. They saw what she had just gone through: She hears about the death of an airman friend, which causes her to envision the death of her love. Every person in America had lost someone they knew in World War Two, and everyone knew the power of personal transformation, the rueful sense of lives never lived, that the experience brought to them.

The audience knew why Nellie had changed: She had brushed near death, as had nearly every living person on the planet. And so the audience wept.

If someone had written a masterpiece about 9/11 in 2008, we might have a slight sense of how they felt in 1949. But even that wouldn’t compare, since so few of us actually lost loved ones in that attack. There are many things about 9/11 that we still find too painful to describe, and images we collectively agree not to show — and because we are all well aware of the dark nuances of what happened, we wouldn’t have to anyway. R&H felt confident skirting the shadows, too. The word “Japanese” is barely spoken in South Pacific.

Nellie, in the end, chooses to stay on the island with Emile. Turned off by her own shallowness, which was bred by American culture, she decides to isolate with her Frenchman and adoptive children. Think about that in 1949. Most of the servicemen came home. She stayed. She didn’t come back to America because she found something more real. Can you imagine what a bittersweet message that was, coming off the fervent patriotism whipped up during the War Years? It was both a rejection of the United States and and embrace of the values we’ve always assumed we held dear, but may actually not.

I had only seen one other production of this before last week, and in it, Robert Goulet, playing de Becque,  strutted around the stage like Ron Burgundy. It was a bad show. South Pacific is often done poorly because it’s not understood, and it’s not understood because Rodgers and Hammerstein understood their audience so well, and left the most important undertones off the page.

I’m always struck about how self-centered we are about our entertainment. We forget everything always comes from its time, and seeing something made for another generation ideally involves the same mental preparation you’d make when traveling to another country. It’s culture shock. It’s a form of travel. And to navigate your way, you must always adjust what you think you know — and never assume you know more than the people in the past. They knew. They just didn’t have to discuss it.

Danny Burstein and a pre-'Glee' Matthew Morrison, in the revival's original cast, 2008

May 282010
 

I saw Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson at the Public Theater. It grabbed me. Musicals that portray little-known aspects of American life strike a chord in me: Floyd Collins and Dreamgirls are two of my favorites, and my thesis musical at NYU, Americo Presents the Stars and Stripe Cavalcade, was a Cabaret-style skewering of all those milky American myths we’re force fed throughout grade school.

It also grabbed me because of what it managed to do: make Andrew Jackson a character who sings. Brendan Milburn and I struggled with how to make John Brown sing (I mentioned this a few weeks ago after my visit to Harpers Ferry), but Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson solved it by making its subject a rock star. Old Hickory was a young emo dude in tight, tight pants, and who spouted vulgarities as he guided his own outsized ego around the stage like a parade float. John Brown would be a rock star, too, I decided.

But BBAJ was more than just a diversion to me. It was a very clear metaphor. Although its first drafts were written before we’d ever heard of Sarah Palin, it seemed to warn about the American tendency to nurture cults of personality into positions of power, where they can really do some awful damage, such as creating the Trail of Tears.

Good grief, I thought. Are we going through this again? I began to see a lot of similarities between Old Hickory and that woman on Fox News. They were both the products of their own vicious, divided, violent times, when old ways of doing things were falling apart and a new way was clearly demanded.

• Both Palin and Jackson rose from the wildernesses of their nation
• Palin claims to be the choice of the people. Jackson, too, was swept to office with a rally cry of populism
• Jackson was known as a fierce military man; Palin can shoot a moose from the sky
• Both came from modest families, had weak educational backgrounds, and began political careers in lowly posts
• Both Palin and Jackson gained support by claiming to despise elitism, federalism, and business-as-usual Washington; both deeply mistrusted those in power
• They share fierce nationalism, and both implied they were the right kinds of patriots, as opposed to the people who disagreed with them; for both, humble roots are the noblest pedigree of a true American
• Palin has a persecution complex, and a paranoia about a constant tide of enemies — or at least, pretends to in many speeches. Jackson did, too, and his letters prove it
• Palin’s private life turned into a major campaign issue; Jackson’s wife Rachel was dragged through the mud for being a bigamist; the validity of the marriages of both were eternal topics of debate
• Both paid attention to political details, gathering supporters in a broad range of classes and occupations, and collecting the support of crucial news organizations to paint their opponents as undemocratic, elitist, and exclusive
• Jackson was about the preservation of the white yeoman gentry; Palin is the heroine of the middle-class Christian
• Palin quit the governorship mid-term, Jackson quit the Senate. He did it to run for president later. (He was also the governor of Florida for just nine months)
• The morality of both were intensely questioned while, ultimately, it was their values (less than their abilities) that earned them followers. Every move Palin makes is examined for its propriety; so were Jackson’s
• Palin and Jackson both derive(d) power by whipping Americans into a state of furious anti-Federalism
• Both were widely judged to be incompetent for the presidency, with little state and legistlative experience
• Jackson mocked his opponents with sneering nicknames such as “the aristocrats” and “the Monarchial party”; Palin employs derisive nicknames routinely, such as with “fatcats”
• The fortunes of both turned on the actions of an unemployed painter: Joe the Plumber’s antics may have cost McCain/Palin points, while an unemployed house painter tried to assassinate Jackson on the steps of the Capitol (he had two guns, but both misfired)
• Both had sons who required special attention; Palin’s son Trig is well-known, but what’s largely forgotten is that Jackson adopted an Indian, Lyncoya, who was orphaned after Jackson and his men killed some 850 in the Creek War. (I can only imagine that caring for these children absolved some inner conflicts, and at the least softened them to criticism for their political actions.)

Andrew Jackson

Sarah Palin

Although he was responsible for many military deaths in the name of his various causes, he was also fond of duels. He murdered a man, a political rival named Dickinson, in a duel once. He let the other guy shoot first. “Great God, have I missed him?” Dickinson asked his second. But no, Jackson has taken the bullet, right near his heart, and now that his rival’s shot was spent, he took his turn. He pulled his trigger and polished Dickinson off.

Yeah, Jackson was a badass; there’s no doubt of that. But being a badass does not make you fit for anything except a bottle fight. But one can never underestimate the American tendency to elect the person they wish they were like, rather the one who is probably most fit to lead.

Because Americans thought it would be a great idea to vote for the underdog, he eventually won the presidency in 1828. Upon his inauguration, he threw the doors of the White House open for all Americans to celebrate. They trashed the place, smashing the china soiling the furniture, and nearly collapsing the floorboards.

That turned out to be one of American history’s greatest metaphors. In truth, he was not well equipped to navigate Washington, the rules of our government, and his own murky beliefs about just how far the Federal government should extend into states’ lawbooks. When push came to shove, and when it came to implementing his agenda, he couldn’t hack it.

He wound up creating the Trail of Tears — an abhorrent act of genocide, a national shame forever — and because of the deaths and destruction he approved and enabled, many call him the American Hitler. He ratified dozens of treaties but pretty much broke them all. He also had a big hand in creating the system in which the President rewards the party die-hards by giving them positions in his government. We all know what kind of fanaticism and divisive gamesmanship that can breed now.

Some people say he averted a civil war over the role of federal power. This, though, had much to do with the machinations of the people around him, and let’s not forget that a real civil war came 30 years later, and he also did nothing to eliminate slavery, which would have averted that, too.

BBAJ suggests pretty strongly that maybe it’s not a great idea to let the people decide everything that governs them. You don’t elect someone who plays outside the rules and still expect them to advance the game. It’s probably not any better an idea than letting corporations and business take over the government and wriggle out of regulation, as has happened in the past 30 years and which has now resulted in two ongoing wars over oil and an entire sea turned into a garbage pool by BP.

Even though the crowd that attends New York theatre is a bit more versed in American history than Mom and Pop Walmart usually is, most of them didn’t know that much about Jackson. How could we, when our mythology has done so much to expunge his sins from the record? After all, Jackson is enshrined on the $20 bill despite the fact he worked tirelessly to abolish the national bank entirely, going as far as taking federal money out and giving it to state banks. (Mostly unregulated, they frittered it away, causing a depression).

Looking forward, what is Sarah Palin capable of? Jackson thought any attack on him was an attack on his people, and Palin sure talks that way, too, showing the same steadfast ambition for the highest office that he wanted, and eventually scored twice. She’s certainly a rock star to her followers, and her platform and snide verbiage is every bit as effective as Jackson’s was in the 1820s and 1830s.

I do see one difference, besides the fact Jackson hated corporations: He was adamant that no state had the right to “nullification,” meaning it could not strike down, individually, any federal law it wanted. But Sarah Palin has already come out in defense of Arizona’s immigration papers law, saying the federal laws were not to Arizona’s satisfaction. In that, even though I can’t stand the guy, I lean toward Jackson’s side. Defending unity has its benefits; Palin’s version, though, sounds more like anarchy.

She hasn’t given us a Trail of Tears, and she may never do so, but history is almost always a guide, at least of what’s possible. And history is always a warning never to underestimate the underdog in a bottle fight.