Category Archives: Broadway

How do you faithfully transfer a classic and much-beloved novel to the stage and convey the precise charm and power of the original? You don’t. It simply isn’t possible, especially with the writing and weighty school-taught history of Harper Lee’s practically-perfect work. Rather than attempt a straight-forward translation, Aaron Sorkin wisely reinterprets, to a minor extent, the story of ‘To Kill A Mockingbird,’ bringing it into the modern-day lexicon and leaning on the powerful parallels with today’s volatile social climate. Yet far from removing the grace and tenderness of the original, it translates its overriding themes into our cynical and, some might rightly say, evil times while keeping the story very much of its own era. It’s both telling and tragic to see how some things haven’t changed very much.

A noble yet deceptively-subtle star-turn by Jeff Daniels as Atticus Finch provides the bedrock foundation around which his children and the story at hand tread delicate, damning steps. When that foundation reveals cracks and fissures, and the steadfast archetype of Atticus gets shaken more than he did in the original book, it reveals the shifting tectonics of all the time that has gone by since its first publication, as well as a more complex reading of a character we all thought we knew so well. The doubly-nuanced layers of this lend the production its pristine sparkle and compelling relevance.

Daniels gets the star status here, but rather than going the easy route with showy theatrics or affably robust stalwartness, he underplays with almost infuriatingly-restrained nuances, occasionally mumbling what I’m hoping were throwaway lines (since I missed a few of them). It’s a genius move on his part, turning much of the audience into the children he so easily vexes with his unflappable and imperturbable conscience ~ like his daughter Scout.

Inhabiting a child’s body that manages to exhibit energy, awkwardness, and grace all at once, Celia Keenan-Bolger is the earnest heart of the piece, one that has to break a little to grow. As she comes of age during the summer at hand, she loses a bit of her innocence, not unlike the country depicted at the time. We all lose a little bit of innocence when faced with ugly realities.

In the world then, as in the world now, violence is ever-ready to descend, even in the unlikeliest of places. The heaviness of it all is not always blatant, but it’s somehow more vicious because of its hidden nature. Seen and sensed in a demolished camellia, a rumpled ham costume, and a broken arm, it seeps into everything, and when it finally explodes with visceral ferocity (as in the moment when Atticus spars with Bob Ewell) the audience finds itself in conflicted, exultant relief. Yet even in the most chilling and tense portion of both the play and the book, as a gang of hooded townsfolk come to deliver their own violent justice to the accused, the idea of violence ~ and the possibility of its eruption ~ is more menacing than any actual act itself. Like the book, this Mockingbird sings of tension and strife that thrives just beneath the surface, constantly threatening to bubble up at any moment. Atticus seems built to steer clear of such churnings, but when it finally reaches his own children, he has his own quiet reckoning.

As Scout, Keenan-Bolger is an admirable foil for Daniels ~ all exuberance and hope and reverence for her father. In his portrayal of Scout’s brother Jem ~ Will Pullen channels fervent, righteous impatience that sometimes boils over into anger. He wants to please his father as much as he questions his steadfast beliefs and methods of doling out justice. Rounding out the kids is a visiting quirky neighbor, Dil, who is impressively fleshed out by Gideon Glick, even given the character’s backseat status.

Much has been made of Calpurnia’s more pointed deviation from her role in the book, and though LaTanya Richardson Jackson ends up heavy-handed in some spots, overall she is the update that this ‘Mockingbird’ needs to make it soar, and such tweaking doesn’t spoil or destroy the intent. Who knows, maybe a privileged audience in today’s world needs such a reckoning?

The play begs for modern-day comparisons, a tribute both to its source material and Sorkin’s masterful update. Is Atticus the precursor or prototype of someone like Robert Mueller? Steadfastly holding true to the methods and laws and beliefs of a system that proves broken in the face of moral complexities and less-than-moral personalities? I’ll leave that for you to decide. This version of Mockingbird is ripe for many readings, and based on ticket sales and audience response (a rabid round of applause was heard whenever someone pushed against prejudice or patriarchy) this version may be the antidote to our troubled times.

The spell of the stage adaptation lies in large part to a stellar cast. It lures you in with its seductive southern drawl, it unarms with a little wit and laughter, and then it pounces with deadly accuracy, aiming right for the heart. It tears down what small bit of hope we might still have in humanity, while building it back up with the smallest of gestures. It’s there in the unsaid and unspeakable support Atticus delivers with a kiss to Dil’s head. The supposed innocence of a child recognizing the voice of a classmate’s father behind a hood of hate. The conflicted and ultimately resigned acceptance of what we can’t change, and the indefatigable audacity of what we might change simply by trying.

In the end, when Atticus is forced to bend his rigid by-the-book beliefs, it is heartbreaking yet affirming. We have to sit with our decisions for the rest of our lives. In the same way we sit beside our past, and sometimes it’s uncomfortable, and sometimes it’s wrong, and when there are no right answers, you do the best with the lessons you’ve been given, the life only you have known, and once in a while you can move your own moral compass, shifting it just the slightest bit, and that has to be enough.

It struck me halfway through this moving musical that all of my friend’s children have no memory of what happened on 9/11, and therefore the next generation will grow up in a state of innocence at least somewhat similar to how me and my friends grew up. There’s something very sorrowful in that, and something rather lucky too. Both sides of the story are in effect as ‘Come From Away’ weaves its tale of the aftermath of that dark day, when planes were re-routed out of American air space and onto Canadian soil, in a tiny town in Newfoundland. Overwhelmed by the 39 planes that arrived (the airport had only ever seen five or six a day at the most), the town came together to welcome and care for the thousands of scared, confused and shell-shocked new additions who had “come from away” to a land in the middle of nowhere.

While the specter of 9/11 hangs somberly over the proceedings, and there are moments of elegiac reverence that will bring you back to that haunted day, it is the resilience and generosity of the human spirit that ultimately wins out in the end, creating a memorable distillation of a world gone mad and trying to rescue and heal itself in the face of unimaginable horror. I didn’t think a musical could do it such honor, but ‘Come Away Away’ achieves that and more, giving us a voice of optimism in some very dim days.

Brought to glorious life by a cast that sees each member playing multiple roles, this is very much an ensemble piece (nine of the fifteen listed numbers are attributed only to ‘Company’) – and though each performer gets a few stand-out moments, the overall effect is a group working together to make things better – the very personification of the story at hand. Whether strapped convincingly in their airplane seats or rollicking wildly in the local pub, they manage to make a group of disparate chairs (the main set-pieces of a sparse, tree-framed stage) come alive, transforming seamlessly in and out of character from local to visitor, and somehow it never gets confusing.

Backed by an onstage band that stays largely hidden in the shadows of the trees (until the post-finale release), the music on hand is the driving force that buoys the production, providing a compelling foil for all the spoken exposition. It also drives the more rousing numbers, setting things into motion with ‘Welcome to the Rock’ and giving soaring anthemic propulsion to ‘Somewhere in the Middle of Nowhere.’ Comedic moments like ‘Screech In’ get ear-worm melodies while the aptly titled ‘Prayer’ incorporates a classic hymn while winding in a world of spiritual sounds.

The pendulum from profound joy to heartrending grief swings back and forth several times during the course of the evening, giving due gravitas to the proceedings, yet the show never stops being engaging and entertaining. As the days slowly unfurl, life finds a way to adapt to everything that came after. One couple comes together while another breaks apart, friendships are made and instantly galvanized under the weight of what the world was going through, and by the end of the show this human experience, which should have by all rights been nothing more than an unbearable exercise in sadness has become an uplifting example of how good we can sometimes be.

Music Box Theatre

Contorted in anguish, his body writhes precariously before an audience, both in the story and on the stage of the Music Box Theatre. His face streams with sweat and tears, his face quivers, and his hands tremble with the weight upon his shoulders. It is the weight of the world – the weight of being a teenager, which, even in the best of possible worlds, is the worst weight of them all. He stumbles to the ground, melting into a pool of angst and despondency, and just when you think you can’t bear the awkward silence and the agonizing quiet, he launches into ‘You Will Be Found’ – the Act One closer that is a high point of ‘Dear Evan Hansen’, last year’s Tony Award winner for Best Musical. And that’s just the emotional roller-coaster of the last ten minutes of the first act.

With its weighty subject matter and grim modern-day depiction of the desolation of an ever-encroaching online world, ‘Dear Evan Hansen’ seems an unlikely choice for Best Musical material, yet somehow the overriding emotional catharsis of the show, along with a powerful set of songs courtesy of Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, makes this a ride worth taking.

It begins in familiar territory for most of us: parent and child growing pains. We’ve all been on one or both ends of that formula, and as the mothers in ‘Anybody Have a Map?’ lament, there is no easy answer. From there, the musical takes off as title character Evan Hansen seeks to conquer his doubts and heal his mysteriously-broken arm, wondering at his inability to connect with others in ‘Waving Through a Window’. After a misguided letter and sudden tragedy lead Evan on a quest requiring deception to ease another family’s pain, the main catalyst sets the musical in motion. Rather than face the truth, Evan crafts a happier version of events that never really happened, but the beauty of ‘For Forever’ is that there is a kernel of truth in the wanting for such a perfect day to be real. That wanting is authentic. If he believes in it enough, if he makes it sound so good that everyone will want to believe in it too, then the lie might be forgiven. It might be given another life as something else, something that soothes and corrects a past that might not be as perfect.

Before things get bogged down in that philosophic contemplation, there is the hilarious trio of ‘Sincerely, Me’ and the comedic relief of Evan’s “family friend” Jared. Such transitions are absolutely vital in such a heavy show, but would be bright spots in any musical treading the boards right now.

As the title character for Wednesday and Saturday matinees, Michael Lee Brown gets the brunt of the emotional walloping, but his physical embodiment and vocal athletics are more than mettle for the task at hand. His Evan Hansen is all frail and flailing delicacy masked by self-deprecating humor, mirroring his mother’s initially over-the-top can-do attitude. When that mask is ripped off, it’s a remarkable thing to watch whether he will replace it with another.

Evan’s two would-be compatriots, Conor Murphy and Jared Kleinman, guide him in ways both hilarious and poignant. As the latter, Will Roland gets the majority of laughs, with impeccable comedic timing and sly delivery. Mike Faist brings typical teen angst and surprising tenderness to the troubled Conor.

The parents here are on equally complex footing. As the mothers, Rachel Bay Jones and Jennifer Laura Thompson are saddled with the weight of their teenage offspring, each dealing with fractured families in their own way. Ms. Jones gets the eleventh-hour tearjerker ‘So Big/So Small’ that finally breaks through to her son. As the lone father in the piece, Michael Park is all stoic, low-growl slumber until he opens up in ‘To Break in a Glove’. By the time Evan’s final salvo comes in ‘Words Fail’, the family that he has created is one to which we all suddenly belong. The need for that is primal and powerful. What happens when it’s taken away is devastating.

‘Dear Evan Hansen’ is about the families we create for ourselves, out of desperation or delusion or the simple need to survive. It’s about the lies we tell ourselves and the lies we tell each other – to be kind, to be consoling, to get through the day – and how draining and debilitating those lies can become. It’s about the existences we conjure and create, the facades of perfection we try so hard to keep flawless at any price. Mostly, though, it’s about the ways in which we matter, how each of us, despite our growing disenchantment and the ever-crushing way the world works, does in fact matter. And we are not alone. This musical reaches out to make a connection in a world where connecting no longer seems to make a difference. It’s a cry as gripping as a son’s desperate hug for his mother, a longing for a solution as insoluble as the longing for a lost father, and a quest for a moment of meaning as harrowing as the last hold on a tree branch before letting go.

Circle in the Square Theatre

Inventive, ingenious and invitingly-entertaining, ‘Once on This Island’ has transformed the Circle in the Square into a piece of theatrical paradise. Set on “an island in the French Antilles, then and now,” the current revival magically places its audience right on the island as well (and front row ticket-holders would do well to dress accordingly, i.e. for sand, which I neglected to mention to my Mom as she carefully strode across the beach in open-toed fancy shoes). It’s a delightful rendering of immersion theater that never feels gimmicky or trite, one that succeeds largely because the music and emotion behind the story are strong enough to merit a revival.

‘Once on This Island’ tells the tale of a little girl who loses her family in a storm but is taken in by a loving set of parents. When she grows up, she falls in love with a man she helped nurse back to health, but is prevented from being with him by their economic and social status. The interplay of nature versus society runs throughout the show, and the gorgeous melodies and songs of Stephen Flaherty and Lynn Ahrens (the team that would later create the equally-beautiful music of ‘Ragtime’) anchor the spectacular visuals.

Enchanting and epic, the breezes that blow off this magnificent musical are based on the most primal emotion of them all: love. It is felt in the details of the piece, from the present moment magic of the maelstrom to the distant evocation of the gods. It’s there in the sand beneath our feet and the water lapping at the edge of the stage. It’s there in the computer cords making up the headdress of one goddess, the plastic bags hanging like a couture necklace around another, and the Coca Cola spines of the deliverer of death. At once immediate and timeless, the musical sings the song of familial loyalty, endless love, sacrifice, loss, and redemption.

Hailey Kilgore is a revelation in her star-making turn as the grown Ti Moune. Her journey from wide-eyed innocent to cast-out lover helps turn this production into a seering work of art; her final scene at the gate is the heartbreaking stuff of theatrical legend. Isaac Powell gives a compelling performance as Daniel, object of and willing participant in Ti Moune’s affection. Daniel makes his own choices, as much as he is allowed, realizing his own trapped fate and powerless (or unwilling) to fight against it. It’s a difficult role, less showy and emotionally brittle as Kilgore’s, and more tricky because of it. That we are just as torn by his fate is testament to Powell’s complex portrayal (and I’m not just saying that because he complimented my shoes before the show began).

As the couple who takes in Ti Moune, Philip Boykin and Kenita R. Miller provide support, ambivalence, warnings and love as they let their little girl go. More than that, Ms. Miller offers a devastating portrayal of a mother-figure faced with the prospect of losing her child, something she shows in tears or the worrying of her hands as she sprinkles sand in superstitious protection. Her more powerful spell comes in the form of love, such as when she joins her daughter in a dance to show the society snobs a moment of unabashed revelry and joy.

The various gods supply both plotline catalysts and a sort of Greek chorus sounding board. Quentin Earl Darrington makes a commanding Agwe, overseeing the sea and the storms with whimsical and sometimes fierce abandon. Broadway veteran Lea Salonga brings her glorious soprano presence to the island as Erzulie, spinning choral gold with words of love. She is but one voice of many that raises this production to the realm of greatness.

The staging is genius, and it’s not just about the beach. I never thought anything more could be done with the sand on stage, but when it dissolves into a glorious carpet, and then into a floor of marble, it’s like a miracle happening right before your eyes. Such stagecraft is stunning, lending more wonder to the enchantment at hand, yet it remains rooted to the reality of the present, as it’s not a special effect but a clever manipulation of materials on hand. A car chase finds abstract assembly of its main vehicle in surprisingly effective form, while the gates of the palace are as formidable as they are fluid. Performers make double and sometimes triple duty use of the wreckage on-set; repeated viewings are probably necessary to fully appreciate all the little details as well as the majestic way they work together to create a perfect panoply.

The music remains the centerpiece here, and though there are some individual songs that stand out, it’s the piece as a whole that wields its true energy and power, even and especially in the aftermath of devastation and loss. The lilting and bittersweet ‘Some Girls’ is as heartrending as ‘We Dance’ is uplifting. Instruments are made from discarded plastic bottles and similar flotsam, resulting in a raw, organic sound – all the better to appreciate the voices.

By the final act of rebirth, storytelling has become a faith and religion unto itself. We pass on traditions, and songs, and tales of our past so that the future generations may learn, live and love better than those of us who came before. The last notes are hopeful reminders that the past, no matter how painful, can be reconstructed and repurposed – much like the throw-away objects that form the costumes and scenery here – and reborn in a new way. Without telling that story, there would be nowhere to go.

Our annual Mother’s Day weekend on Broadway has been officially finalized, and the note-card delineating our run of theatrical pieces is due back from the printer any day. I’m still scoping out possible restaurants (sometimes the meals are just as important as the shows) and daytime excursion ideas (shopping and museums) but those are less rigid (and occasionally benefit from a complete lack of planning).

• The first entry in our Broadway weekend is, pardon the terrible pun, the only straight play we are attending this season (our two other selections being proper musicals). ‘The Boys in the Band’ is actually more of a gay play, one of the first of its kind to be produced, and it’s celebrating its 50^thanniversary with this landmark production. Until recently, I’ve avoided the infamously-acerbic source material, but a few weeks ago a local theater group was putting it on, so Andy and I whet our appetites and were introduced to its acerbic heart. A play very much of its time, I’m interested to see what the Broadway production and its electrifying cast of gay Hollywood starlets does with the work. Jim Parsons, Zachary Quinto, Matt Bomer, Andrew Rannells, Robin DeJesus, Brian Hutchison, Charlie Carver, Michael Benjamin Washington and Tuc Watkins contribute to the ensemble magic.

• Our second selection is a magical musical revival: ‘Once On This Island’. That goes back to one of my first cognizant memories of Broadway, and it wasn’t in Times Square proper, but on my television screen in our Amsterdam family room. It was the first time I ever watched the Tony Awards, and I was blown away by this musical that was running away with all the awards. It was ‘Once On This Island’, and all these years later it’s back on Broadway with a critically-lauded production.

• The third jewel in this year’s Broadway crown (at least for us) will be ‘Dear Evan Hansen’, a show that slipped through last year’s selection rather egregiously. I’m most excited about this one, based on the soundtrack and story themes, and though original lead Ben Platt exited long ago, I’m confident the subsequent performers are more than up to the task at hand.

Lyric Theatre, 214 West 43rd Street

Outside the theatre, the black abstract rendering of a large wing hovers over the line of attendees waiting to get in a full hour before the performance is set to begin (as instructed by a voluminous collection of e-mail messages). We make our way through the metal detectors and security in excited and orderly fashion, and even the numerous people in capes and witch-and-wizard-inspired wardrobe don’t cause much of a hold-up. Inside the newly-renovated Lyric Theatre, everything is Harry Potter, right down to the red carpet which is emblazoned with a royal ‘H’ design; the interior wall-paper is festooned with the same ‘H’ pattern, and clearly someone is banking on this two-part play being around for some time.

With all the magic that this experience is bringing to Broadway, the main ‘M’ word that strikes me throughout the two-night event is ‘money’. It’s there in the HP details that run throughout the theater, in the little concession stands that offer all sorts of cute libations (at about $16 a pop) and the little store that offers food stuff and merchandise (t-shirts go for $30 and sweatshirts start at $60). Money is the main thing on my mind as I sat through the first night of the magical experience. The bottom line of it, for me, was the nagging notion that this could have, and perhaps should have, been done in one big three-hour show. There’s something very Dark-Lordish about forcing parents to buy two nights of entertainment (as if anyone is going to see one or the other). That automatically doubles the profit. And if you are lucky enough to get face-value tickets for the orchestra, two people seeing both nights will run you approximately $811.50 with all requisite fees and taxes. I don’t know what that is in galleons, but it’s a lot.

As for the plays themselves, if you love Harry Potter you will love this experience, and may even wish for a third night of magic. If you don’t love HP, or if you’ve never read the books or seen the films, you will likely be extremely confused and possibly even unmoved or unimpressed by what’s happening on stage. More than any other theatrical event I’ve been to, this one relies on an audience’s knowledge and understanding of the wizarding world that was conjured so memorably in the novels. The program goes some way toward clearing up that bit for the rare audience member who has shelled out all that money without knowing anything about HP, but even I, avid reader of Playbills, lost interest by the recap of Year Five and the glossary entry of ‘Patil, Padma & Parvati’. If you have to supply that much background information for the newcomer to enjoy the show, you’ve already lost. That’s wholly beside the point here, as I happen to love Harry Potter, and the people seeing the show seemed to love him far more than me. But if you think you can go in and enjoy this production without knowing anything about its storied past, you may be sorry.

Billed as picking up the Harry Potter saga nineteen years after the last book was completed, J.K Rowling, Jack Thorne and John Tiffany wrote the new work in traditional play format. As such, it is very true to its source material, and for a world starved for anything new in the Harry Potter canon, it made for a quick read. It’s less of a quick play, and to answer whether it really needed two parts, I’d argue no. If they took out the flashy flourishing of capes alone and the unnecessary transitional bits, they’d shave off half an hour instantly. A slightly repetitive beginning, reminiscent of the way most of the Potter books opened with a chapter of two of dreary Dursley recapitulation, extends things unnecessarily. And I strongly contend that there is one narrative thread too many, but these issues aside, the play’s magic is undeniable. That’s in no small part due to the impeccable cast.

Casting the grown-up versions of Harry, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy as almost-forty-something parents is risky work, but each choice pays off solidly. As the iconic title character, Jamie Parker delivers the requisite angst and agitations of a father coming to terms with his child and his childhood at the same time. Noma Dumezweni brings a commandeering presence to her Hermione Granger, and there is delicious pay-off in seeing this beloved character in her current Ministry position. As Ron Weasley, Paul Thornely gets some of the night’s biggest laughs, who perceptively describes himself as the least ‘intense’ of the lot. Alex Price nails the duality of Draco Malfoy, himself struggling with a son who may or may not live up to expectations. As their children Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy, two youngsters match the emotional high-bar set by their parental counterpoints: Sam Clemmett and Anthony Boyle. Clemmett shines darkly as the son of Harry Potter, an impossible-to-live-up-to position, while Boyle sets the stage on fire with comedic flair and endearing dorkiness. The two of them set the real plot in motion for this clock-turning two-evening journey through time. The themes are familiar and universal: parental love, childhood loneliness, and the enduring sustenance of friendship, and whenever the play returns to these core pillars, the cast is able to shine (most of whom remain intact from the London world premiere).  

The magic of the beloved books is brought to remarkable life thanks to some amazing special effects. Hermione’s library comes alive, swallowing several characters whole. Dementors take fearsome flight, and the time-turning sequences are spectacular. The stagecraft wizardry is a magnificent wonder, almost worth the price of admission alone, and the way they execute the magic is a seamless feat of how-did-they-do-that jaw-dropping wonder. Yet none of that matters if you can’t touch the heart. The time-honored crux of where parents and children meet is here, marred and scarred by love and loss, touched and tinged by sadness and elation, and each emotion gets its center-stage turn. By the end it’s a mish-mash of emotional ‘murkiness’, which is both good and bad for a play of this scope and size. I maintain that a streamlined version could more effectively crest such emotional waves, and a more focused concentration on delivering the quiet, impactful moments might better serve its emotional arc, but that might be too picky. Sometimes, the spectacle is enough, and a return to this magical world should more than satisfy anyone who misses the enchantment that Rowling conjured for so many summers.

“Are you ready to wake up?”

The best part of this promotional tag line is its potential to ring so true. I didn’t even realize I was asleep, and it took a show like this to shake off the stupor of my 41-year-old mind. With its Russian origin and modern/historical juxtaposition of style and story, this is a gloriously immersive piece of theater. It started as one of the most intimate productions, and despite its transfer to Broadway proper it’s managed to retain such intimacy. Performers toss out treats to the audience, who are seated in a jewelbox of a theater, interspersed with cozy tables lit with lamps and buffeted by stairs and even a bar that seamlessly blends into the action.

Prepare to be drawn into the world and then deliciously bound by a rope of seductive red velvet. Such ties are pretty and soft to touch at first, but they close tightly, choking out reason and sense in the service of want and desire.

One of the most inventive musicals in years, ‘Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812’ leads with its heart – vital, passionate, and cruel in the way it wants and wants and wants – then crushes with its head – the analysis of the ways in which we give and receive love, in the way love is both a tool and a symptom, the poison and the antidote – and by the end I realized that not only was this waking that wild and dangerous part that lives inside most of us in our youth, but also jostling the preconceived limits of the modern-day musical. On both fronts, this comet delivers.

Josh Groban gets the headlines and the billing, but Denae Benton is the real star of this production. Lucas Steele does everything he can to steal the show, and his antics in ‘The Abduction’ – in the form of all those vocal and physical gymnastics (and a fierce head of blonde hair that defies gravity and logic) – ensure that he is not forgotten. And though as Andrey he is missing for much of the evening, Nicholas Belton casts a shadow and a spell with a simple silhouette that most performers can only dream of conjuring.

This magically immersive experience succeeds thanks in no small part to the winsome and gregarious cast of characters that appears in and around the audience without ever infringing on their space. It’s a tricky fine-line, but they walk it (and dance it, some even in stilts) in thrilling fashion. Speaking of fashion, the costume design by Paloma Young is a spectacular mash-up of military garb and street-punk passion, with details of Russian bears and insignia, and a green coat that Anatole wears which I simply must have for the fall season. Coupled with some astounding choreography in an intricate theater-in-the-round set-up, it’s as much a visual treat as it is a sonic delight. Yet all the flash and pizzazz would not amount to much if there wasn’t a story of awakening – both in Natasha’s venture into the first triangle of love, desire, and reason, as well as within Pierre’s discovery of meaning at a point when he’s almost given up. Every performer is invested here, and the end result is one of rich rewards, where the audience is completed enchanted by this world on the edge of war. [Even the moment-shattering possibility in the ringing of a ‘Halloween’ ring tone (which Groban later referenced in a stinging tweet) could not mar the emotional crest that the end of the evening reached.]

If you’ve ever been wrecked by love, ever sunken to the ground with the fresh wound of the heart that it seems only youth can feel, you should be touched and moved by the sort of grace that Pierre offers to Natasha at the end of the evening. That great comet of passion – so wondrous and wicked and wild – is a clarion call to life. It wakes us all up – a reminder that love can be as deliriously destructive as it can be tenderly gracious. All you can do is hold on, revel in those moments when happiness is at hand, and, when all else fails, smash your glasses on the floor.

It’s difficult to be good when you’re human, but impossible to be great if you’re not. When we think back on the origin of this country, we tend to idolize our Founding Fathers as demi-gods. They came up with one of the most perfect systems of a democratic government, one that will hopefully withstand the current attack from He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, and the sheer genius of it instills all involved with a certain magical power. We forget that they were human. ‘Hamilton’ reminds us that being human means wanting freedom. It also means wanting a certain glory ~ whether that’s as a politician, a President, a father, a sister, a son or a mother.

To be honest, I had little to no interest in seeing this one. History and hip-hop never held much of an allure, and when a musical is hyped-up as much as ‘Hamilton’ has been there is little chance it will live up to expectations. Happily, I was mistaken in my reluctance. ‘Hamilton’ soars, and sings, and moves the audience so profoundly that you feel the world, and your experience in it, shift slightly after you’ve seen it.

The great historical panoply of the founding of our nation plays out amid the personal trials and tribulations of Alexander Hamilton, and it’s interesting to note that with all of the great, and oft forgotten, acts that he accomplished, his personal story here is what may be the most moving. The complexity of his relationships with women (the Schuyler sisters, both of whom he seemed to love, and only one of whom became his wife) and his tender yet tricky relationship with his son form the emotional heft even as the drama of the birth of America takes center stage. Aaron Burr’s ambivalent and ultimately ruinous relationship with Hamilton illustrates what can happen when two soon-to-be-legendary characters clash, and the delicate balance between competitive friends is a golden thread that runs throughout the show ~ shining, tarnishing, and tempting as the glory each of them seeks.

For anyone expecting a dry and dull re-telling of the American revolution, you will be pleasantly surprised. From the revolutionary colorblind casting to the infusion of rap and hip-hop into a traditional musical, the storied phenomenon is rightly justified. Its timeless message of inclusion and acceptance is more profound than ever. Opening with a quick dramatic vamp that recalls ‘Sweet Charity’ or ‘Gypsy‘, this is the sort of game-changing musical that relies on the tried and true construct of the art form, while giving it glorious new life. You’ll learn something in the quick cadence of words, but it will entertain at every turn, and when combined and intertwined with the song-writing brilliance of Lin-Manuel Miranda, this musical hybrid becomes something wonderful.

The Chicago cast does justice to the powerful material, and there’s not a weak link in the bunch. The hilarious turns from the King of England are the stuff of musical comedy magic. ‘You’ll Be Back’ begins his trio of crowd-pleasing numbers, and the dead-pan upper-crust delivery belies the deadly aim of his intentions. The moving turn of Hamilton’s wife Eliza brings a graceful purity and steely conviction to a situation that requests of her the most difficult task of all: forgiveness. Her fiery rendition of ‘Burn’ is stunningly-spine-tingling in its damnation, but it is her grace at the very end that completes the story. No one here is one-dimensional, with the possible exception of the King of England ~ but he’s so funny and tuneful it doesn’t matter.

Hamilton’s search for greatness, and his unyielding belief in his country, is at once heroic and damning, and his journey ~ fraught with heartache, pain, loss, love, weakness and redemption ~ transcends the story of America into one of universal truth. Near the end of the production, Hamilton poses a question and the proposal of an answer: “What is a legacy?… It’s planting seeds… in a garden you never get to see.”

This may be Miranda’s greatest legacy as well ~ a piece that has electrified Broadway, and now the rest of the world. The cost of being a good father and husband is weighed against the cost of being a great leader, and everyone pays dearly for both, in the best and worst ways. Yet that is the human experience: brilliant and brutal and beautiful even in its failings. It’s a profoundly American experience too, and the theatrical world can add this to its own history.

At the end, the question of what remains when the tree of history is shaken gets poignant examination as the cast ponders, “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” The quiet ones may not get the glory, but they often get the final word. They are the ones writing it. Eliza tells the last part of this tale, proof that history does not end with the death of those who changed it, but lives on in the rest of us. ‘Hamilton’ is a work of art that will do the same.