The show was anticipated like crazy—the Brooks pedigree! Remember The Producers? What a crazy, million Tony-winning smash that was!—and priced accordingly. Premium tickets (a rotten idea pioneered by Brooks and Co. when Producers hit big) reached excesses of $400, group sales seats (bread n' butter, folks) were drastically limited, and, perhaps worst of all, the critics seemed pretty fed up with the whole endeavor. Acidic word-of-mouth spread throughout the industry, from creative types to tour directors, and the show was marked (perhaps not entirely fairly) an arrogant, dead-on-arrival failure. Don't piss off the theatre queens and the cigar-chomping tour company people! They're vicious!

The New York Times details the story today, getting show producer Robert F.X. Sillerman to sheepishly admit: “What they perceived as our arrogance was nothing more or less than my ignorance.” Oh, sad. Though, we're not sure we believe that!

Sillerman goes on to add that the show will recoup its investment, though just barely. And, well, given the show's astronomical ($11 million to mount, $600,000 a week to keep up) budget, we're not sure we believe that either.

The boy we saw this past week (and the boy who chief New York Times critic Ben Brantley saw) was a fellow named David Alvarez, a beguilingly accented young son of Cuban defectors raised in Québec. He's a revelation in the ballet bits, an angry smear of slight imperfections in his tap, and a multi-culti trilingual 13-year-old trying his best in the show's more dialogue-heavy stretches. We mean to say he's terrific and pure and now well-reviewed by the biggest newspaper in the land and... what about the other two? Will they be forced to forever play catch up? Essentially they're all fighting to become... what? The next Andrea McArdle? What's sad for the fey American boy and the sternly pretty Soviet bloc chap who play Billy in rotation with Alvarez, is that their Cuba-fro'd counterpart has actually already won.

They'll all be nominated for Tonys together if they're nominated at all (as is what happened in London and Sydney when the show opened in those cities), they share interview time, and a thick veil of secrecy is kept under which Billy will be going on what night. But still, man. Alvarez bled into his shoes for all the critics, for the all the glory (and the big, pretty Times Arts page photo). The American kid tappa-tappa-tappa'd for the big Opening Night and the blonde comrade performed on The View, but you'll only get that one critics' night. And the rightful son took the mantle that evening. Which makes the show uplifting. And makes the show really, really sad.

I mean, really, it's not exactly a new idea. As a pathetically dedicated connoisseur of all things teenagery, I've seen bits of the whole in a million different movies and TV shows. Kids like to gawp at good looking other kids, they like music, they like dancing, they like romance, and they like more than anything else—desperately, arms pulled close to their chests, eyes tearing—to see something of themselves reflected back at them. And the first High School Musical, when it leapt onto the airwaves in the spring of 2006, combined all of those things in one sugary 90 minute sitting. (As for that last bit, I'm not saying that the denizens of East High with their bright colors and general niceness are at all real, but all kids at one point or another feel alienated and different and many, if not all, secretly want to be a surprise star. Right?) It was a bit of alchemy that is laughable in its obviousness. Why didn't anyone think of this before?

I guess someone sort of did with Grease in the 70's, which, when money is tinkered with and adjusted for inflation, is one of the most successful movies of all time. But Grease featured showtunes where HSM features pop songs. Grease had sex jokes and pregnancy scares while HSM is prêt-à-porter for Evangelical America (the romantic leads don't even kiss in the first one!) The melding of dancing, acting, and singing has made being a triple threat practically necessary in order for a dreamer to become a hero to these bebopping youngs (Generation Z?) Sure Zac Efron, who plays hunky basketball star turned, um, high school musical star Troy Bolton, didn't actually, you know, sing in the first one. But he does now! And he did in Hairspray! You've Kenny Ortega, the film's director (also directed Newsies, swoon) and company to thank for the likes of we-do-it-all! up and comers Demi Lovato, Selena Gomez, and Miranda Cosgrove. (Ask your nieces and nephews to whom I'm referring.)

Oh! Hah! So what's the plot? Well the first one, like I said above, is about Troy Bolton, a doe-eyed young b-ball jock who ends up singing a romantic, upbeat poppy karaoke duet with a mysterious chica at a teen New Year's Eve party held at the ski resort where they're both staying over winter break. Then, back in Albuquerque of all places, gasp! There's the girl. Her name is Gabriella Montez and she is a transfer math and science geek. Troy has his sports, Gaby has her nerd stuff and never the twain shall meet. Except there's that nagging memory of singing among snowy peaks... Eventually they both muster up the gumption to audition for the school's spring musicale, much to the displeasure of resident star Sharpay Evans and her twinky (like they seriously go as far to make him gay as they can without having him make out with a dude) brother Ryan. The status quo is rocked—how can a jock sing and dance? how can a nerd sing, dance, and land the hottest boy in school??—and the kids sing a song about breaking out of prescribed high school molds. And, you know, in the end there's romance and everyone gets a part in the musical and whee! Happy! The second one takes place during summer vacation, and they all work at a country club. There's double crossing and a talent show and it's all deeply, deeply silly and not really worth describing other than to say that at one point Zac wanders the desert and sings a plaintive ballad. I'm still sort of laughing and shivering about that one.

The third installment, well who knows! It's got a bigger budget and like 10! new! songs! And it's sure to be a huge hit. You don't have to see it by any means, but I think it's something you should know about lest you become one of those stuffy grownups who forgets how to have mindless fun (other than like getting shitfaced and stuff which is mindless fun but not really all that wholesome. If you watch the movies while getting shitfaced, well you're just about the coolest person ever then, aren't you?) Purists be damned who say that this isn't a real musical because it's just music videos crammed into a thin plot. The success of these bubblegum fantasias allows actual pop and rock-tinged pieces of Art like recent theatrical critical darlings In The Heights and the masterful Passing Strange to find audiences where they might not have before.

So enjoy it or don't, but know that it's not going away without an elaborately-choreographed pop-and-lock dancefight. Nobody puts baby Rent in a corner. Nobody.

Ben Brantley of the New York Times seems to think she's trying just a bit too hard:

And while Ann is supposed to arrive at the Keller household with high hopes and good intentions, Ms. Holmes delivers most of her lines with meaningful asperity, italicizing every word. This Ann is straight from the school of the Erinyes (those avenging furies from Greek mythology), and I didn’t believe for a second that she really loved the honorable, naïve Chris.

Clive Barnes over at the Post doesn't have much to say, other than describing her as "coltish" and "looking tough under a glossy wig." Hm. Wigs are always fun!

The Daily News' Joe Dziemianowicz is a little more positive:

Holmes, a TV and film vet, makes a fine Broadway debut. Her rather grand speech pattern takes getting used to, but she seems comfortable and adds a fitting glint of glamour. Dancing with Lithgow, kissing Wilson, she makes you forget about her being Mrs. Tom Cruise. At times, however, Holmes is strangely shrill.

Yes, "strangely shrill" sounds about right.

And finally Melissa Rose Bernardo of Entertainment Weekly thinks she's just OK:

After a painfully awkward first scene, she relaxes a bit; she's at her best opposite Wilson, who's terrifically cast as Sons' moral compass.

So good notes for the boys, some pluses for Dianne Wiest, and mostly "meh"s for Mrs. Cruise. Well, at least it wasn't a complete disaster.

[Photo: Sarah Krulwich for the 'New York Times']

youranalogbuddy's new line beats the original, "For Some Reason Tom Just Loves The Sailor Look."

If you could have a drink with another Top 40 person—Jay-Z, David Cross, Liev Schreiber, Kiki and Herb, or Patti LuPone—what do you do? And what do you talk about?
Anderson Cooper: I’ve yet to see Kiki and Herb perform. I consider it my single greatest failure as a New Yorker. I’ve had tickets, and something has always come up. So I’d opt for drinks with them. Time, place and attire of their choosing.

Well, Andy. I saw them in Boston and let me tell you, sister. It's worth it. Just a nice night out with the boys, you know? Do it!

Cruise was really low key. He was descended upon by a litany of producers—the only group of people in the house whose disposition and machinations are stranger than his own—at every. Available. Opportunity. He went backstage after the show; I imagine they waited quite a bit before coming out. Holmes didn't do any talking at all, it was all John Lithgow [doing the pre-show introductions]. When Martha Plimpton got there, she asked a friend: 'This is general admission? Shit.' She saw two of the boys from Coast Of Utopia and talked with them for five during intermission. It's a low-key night: most people are obliged by industry standards to keep their mouths shut and their camera phones off.

In fact, most industry people there were far too scared to say anything after the show, and I couldn't really get a word out of anybody I was with - pretty typical for a preview audience and industry - but everyone was especially guarded last night. Besides which, other than not sullying The Good Name Of Our Lady Cruise as pertains to their job, most people in the business don't give a shit about her. So it goes.

So everyone was quiet and scared around Tom Cruise. Makes sense to us.

I first saw Rent when I was 13 years old, at the Shubert theater in Boston. It was the first touring company, and they ended up doing a heavily extended six month run. I saw it five times with various combinations of friends. I saw it twice more when it returned in 2000 (17 years old, a little more cynical), sleeping overnight in front of the theater for $20 first or second row rush seats. So I was familiar, in a very distinct sense and muscle memory way, with the junk pile of a set that looms on stage when you walk in, that giddy feeling you have knowing that it will soon be warmed and lit up. I was soaking wet from the hurricane or tropical storm or whatever that passed through, and felt appropriately bedraggled in the Nederlander, which was completely overhauled, and yet distressed, when the show came in. I got a tiny and expensive little glass of red wine and asked the bartender what was coming in next. "Guys and Dolls," he said grumpily.

A standing ovation greeted the cast as they walked out on stage at the top of the show. When they launched into the first salvo of sing-speaking and then the barnstormer song, "Rent," it was both pleasantly familiar and also a little off. The cast seemed a bit tired, as did the seats and the walls and even that trusty junky set. Or maybe it was just me, now maybe feeling too wet and too cold to really enjoy anything. Plus I was alone and still drinking the sad little wine and maybe feeling older and a little less bedazzled by these colorful young people's hyperbolic emotions. The performances were all fine, though some folks were a bit miscast. Mimi was a beautiful singer but too operatic for the scratchy, desperate role. Roger was even more melodramatic than usual, and Mark even more detached and forgettable. Eden Espinosa (from Wicked and that unfortunate Bklyn: The Musical) played a fun, chipper, kinda wholesome Maureen and Tracie Thoms, from the ughhhh movie version, was a strong and sexy Joanne. A couple of the original chorus members were back, which was fun to see but also a little...depressing.

Things picked up as the first act zipped along (faster than I remembered), "Another Day" and "Christmas Bells" particular highlights. And then came the rainy and smoky intermission and the cast walking out in a line to sing "Seasons of Love," met by another standing ovation (getting tired from standing) and the death-filled, downer tumble of the second act ("Without You" was still lovely, if oversung). By the time the reliably stirring finale was belted, I admit I was won over all over again—if not by this particular cast and slightly wrong tempo and definite datedness of the material, certainly by the old, bittersweet, inclusive spirit of the show, still alive in the audience of, I'm guessing, mostly longtime devotees. Though my seatmates were newbies.

I met Debbie, a woman who had seen the movie and loved its soundtrack. When her husband passed away two years ago, she took comfort in the soundtrack's (yes a bit hokey by now, but still something good and hopeful) message of survival and rememberance and weathering all things as best as one can. She said she loved the show and was very glad she'd finally stopped procrastinating and bought the ticket. To my right were Lily and TJ, two precocious 13-year-olds (the cirrrcle of liiiife). Both devoted theatre fans (I believe they said they'd seen Gypsy, which is sorta heavy stuff for their age, no?), TJ had seen Rent on stage before, while Lily had only seen the film. She said they were "obsessed" with the soundtrack. Throughout the show she rocked back and forth, sat as far forward in her seat as she could, and occasionally grabbed TJ and whispered something to him. She seemed rapt and enamored, and I felt briefly jealous that I couldn't enjoy the thing for the first time again. But I was glad that she could.

After the long (and blessedly final) standing ovation, I turned to ask the kids' what their final impressions were. But they'd already disappeared into the crush of people cramming their way out of the theater. In some ways I was glad I didn't get to ask them. If they'd said something not so good I think I would have been crushed. I prefer to assume they loved it as I did when I was 13 and feeling revolutionary. And though I had maybe seen something not that good that night, I was still happy I'd made the effort one last time. The show will live on for years and years in tours and awkward, wobbly college productions, but here (and at the New York Theatre Workshop downtown) was where it had first bloomed and flourished. 12 years of "today," now ceding, finally, to tomorrow.

[Lights up on a couch. It is nearing a state one could call "ratty." There is a coffee table littered with old magazines and bits of marijuana. A man, BLOB, shuffles on. Blob sits down on the couch and reaches underneath it. He pulls out a laptop computer. Opens it on the table. He scratches his head. Types a little. Maybe chuckles once or twice. He looks as though he's just about to fall asleep, but never quite does. At times he types furiously, at others he just balances the computer precariously on his knees and watches some sort of video on the computer screen. This continues for eight hours. Finally he closes the computer and sits back in the couch. He closes his eyes. A roommate, BEBE, enters. She drops her bag on the floor.]

BEBE: Hey. How was your day?

BLOB: Eh.

BEBE: Did you get out at all?

BLOB: No.

BEBE: You should, it's really nice out.

[Blob nods his head and does a weak attempt at a thumbs-up.]

BEBE: Let's open the curtains here...

[She goes to open the curtains, Blob reacts violently with a series of grunts and moans.]

BEBE: Fine. Fine. Well, what are you doing tonight?

[Blob gets up. Shuffles off stage. He soon returns with a beer (or glass of wine or cocktail) and sits back down on the couch.]

BEBE: Aha.

BLOB: Did you get batteries for the remote?

[Bebe sighs. Picks her bag up, digs around. Pulls out a pack of batteries, tosses it on the coffee table.]

BLOB: Great, thanks.

BEBE: Well... Uh, well I guess I'm going to... go... this way now.

BLOB. Mm.

BEBE: You know you should probably—

[She stops herself, sighs again. Blob doesn't notice. She exits. Blob sits still for a moment, then reaches for the computer. Opens it up again. The lights fade and all that is left is the blue glow of the monitor illuminating his sallow, ashen face. This continues for years and years and years. End of play.]

That is some pretty exciting stuff, right? Continue the play in the comments below if you care to.

Steverino_Begins' new line beats the original, Brief Wish For a Whole Different Life Pauses Actress For a Second, Then Computer Chip In Head Blinks Back On

The Village Voice suggests Will & Grace annoyance Sean Hayes as Nathan Detroit and crooner and new Broadway favorite Harry Connick Jr. as Sky Masterson. I could see Connick doing it, but not Sean Hayes. Wouldn't that be a bit of a Nathan Lane retread anyway? Who do you think should be lucking and ladying around? What about the dolls?

miasma-protege's new line beats the original, Theatre Actors Practice Their Craft.

"Broadway is not about surprises. It's about rewarding the putrid, formulaic crap that makes Broadway Broadway" — Als
(Which is, OK, sort of true. But why be such a shit about it?)

"A shallow, ill-informed New York Times review of Clifford Odets's The Country Girl couldn't see beyond the backstage story to the fascinating dissection of a symbiotic relationship underneath." — Lahr
(Hah. Calling Ben Brantley shallow and uninformed is sorta funny. Plus, I can forgive Lahr a little more than Als, mostly because he helped write the wonderful Elaine Stritch: At Liberty, for which he won, um, a Tony.)

"Elevator Repair Service (The Sound and the Fury) and Richard Maxwell. Collectively, that's the best theatre being made." — Als
(Groan. Get over thyself.)

"I'm also interested to see if the sentimental claptrap of Billy Elliot will succeed in picking the pockets of the American public as it has in London." — Lahr
(Something popular is "sentimental claptrap." Snooze.)

Then Als proceeds to say that August: Osage County had the worst casting and direction of the season, which is just silly because things like The Little Mermaid and Grease existed. He's just being a contrarian windbag. Ugh.

The musical numbers were relatively unremarkable, save for Patti LuPone's (also a winner last night) flaming "Everything's Coming Up Roses" and the creaky original cast of Rent who jiggled around on stage while the 400th replacement cast swayed awkwardly behind them. Oh, and the terrific Passing Strange looked and sounded great. I was disappointed that it didn't pick up more trophies ( show creator and star Stew won for best book of a musical). Host Whoopi Goldberg changed costumes a lot, like she did when hosting the Oscars a hundred and thirty-six years ago, most "amusingly" as a sassy black Mary Poppins. So Broadway theatre drums along another year, and the folks toiling away nobly in off-off-Broadway companies, and in regional theaters across the country, watch and sigh. Above is a clip of Glenn Close making an endearing ass of herself.

"Mario was originally No. 1 on our radar as we planned the campaign," said an insider. "We were ready to call him with an offer, but then we saw Nick. He's younger, sexy, more interesting. On top of that, his body was crazy. We set up a meeting, and when he walked in, that was it. We never even looked at anyone else after that."

Another underwear exec called Adams, 25 to Lopez's 34, "the new face of sexy." Burn!

Obviously, the underwear story could be a giant marketing ploy. The company claims it was "ready to call [Lopez] with an offer," but it is never stated that Lopez sought or had any interest in the endorsement deal. On the other hand, Lopez sounds like he'd strip down in front of a camera at the drop of a hat.

[Post, Nick Adams, Mario Lopez]

(Photos via nickadams.biz and mariolopez.net)

Hey did you know that host Haylie Duff (sister of Hilary) was on Broadway once, as a 109th replacement in Hairspray?? Well don't worry, she reminds you every two minutes! And were you aware that Jerry Mitchell, the sly queen who choreographed and directed the stage show, is "legendary"? Yeah, neither did I. Mostly because he's not. But the show will try to tell you, 145 times, that he is. Eyyyyyuck. The girls are as desperate and sad as one would assume, and none seem to recognize the essential failure in logic of thinking that winning this show would be the achievement of their lifelong dream. Because, um, this is fleeting and silly and guarantees nothing beyond a bad six-month contract. Plus, no one cares. Or, hm, maybe you do. You're all big Max Crumm fans, right?

Mario Lopez (Image via Broadway World)


Nick Adams


Spencer Liff (Image via Broadway World)

Almost exactly a year ago, Daisey was performing his monologue Invincible Summer at the ART's Zero Arrow Theatre when a group of 87 Christian protesters staged a walk out (objecting to his language? his content? it's somewhat unclear) and poured water over the original copy of the work. (He sits at a table with his notes, much like the late, great Spalding Gray.) He rebounded expertly from the awkward situation and continued on in his typical effusive, open, and intelligent way. A great performance. Daisey is a smart and exciting fellow, and his work is a blessed reminder that not all theatre is failing us. Read the Times review of How Theatre Failed Us here, and watch video of the protest incident below.