In the Heights
Review
Audiences love a good musical—they just do. To begin with, musicals are fun, and unabashedly so. Then there’s the dancing, the singing and physical feats that accompany any musical worth its salt. But regardless, a musical is truly at its best when it follows the cardinal rule: Only use music and dance when simple spoken word cannot match the intensity of emotion. When a show veers from this formula, endless, pointless songs parade onstage while onlookers want to throw themselves off any close balcony. But, when it is, tingles ripple through the audience as it feels what can’t be described in regular conversation. The music surges into emotion, and sentimental or not, that can’t be denied by any snarky comments in our cynical world. Essentially then, hope is the third gift offered by the best musicals and sought out by theater goers whether they realize it or not.
And this full-fledged, wide grinning, heart pounding hope is exactly what In the Heights brings with its sexy salsa strut. A gutsy bite and heartfelt underpinning are the staples in Lin Manuel Miranda’s tale of Washington Heights in modern day New York. Usnavi, the bodega owner (perfectly played by Lin himself), raps his way through the hilarities, anecdotes and struggles of el barrio, introducing a troupe of colorful characters along the way. When an unexpected lottery win forces the entire hood to reconsider goals, they must decide whether to follow new dreams or stick to the old. In its immigrant roots, the show touches upon ethnic specificity while retaining a universal truth—without a home and family, what will dreams-come-true really mean? The writer’s voice rings sharp and precise, gathering the particulars of a people and place that are clearly so dear to him, without masking them in rose colors—an impressive new kid on the block for sure.
The cast magnificently fills out characters that could easily become caricatures. Most impressive is Robin De Jesus as Sonny, the insecure but adorable sidekick who always says the wrong thing but means well. His voice is strong, with aptly-twitchy movements and puppy eyes—casting at its best. The voices that blow out of young lovers Nina and Benny played by Mandy Gonzalez and Christopher Jackson, are show-stopping tear-jerkers, and while some of the love moments can seem canned (there are kids in the audience mind you), by the end of the show the two have fully grown the relationship. Olga Merediz as Abuela Claudia has now been nominated for a TONY and rightly so. Shifting between a supporter of the blooming youngsters around her, to a woman with her own fears and dreams, Abuela is the unsung glue that holds the barrio together. And Merediz herself, seems to play the same role in the cast.
The ensemble steps up to the main players’ standards, vividly depicting the gang of spunky New Yorkers. Although their roles border on sentimental at times (they smile for the most part and the poverty that resides in the area is only touched upon), there is real work being done to flesh out each individual onstage. Andy Blankenbeuhler’s choreography, a blend of Latino slink, fluid contemporary and hip hop funk offers the entire cast moments to melt and pop, and the area’s joyous quality is lived most fully in his dance sequences.
With the show’s finale, “Home,” it’s impossible not to get swept up in the genuine voice set forth by Miranda. A new talent with wild potential, he brings a fresh perspective to the melting-pot stance and offers hope that a chile-hot kick is still available on the Great White Way.
In the Heights
Rating: To Die For
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Michael Clarke Redux
If there is a John Paul Gaultier of the dance world, his name is Michael Clark. Stylish and badass, the 46-year-old Scott has made the rounds choreographing masterpieces onstage, as well as in a dramatic soap opera offstage.
After training at the Royal Ballet and being touted on the 1980s dance scene, Clark was swept away by a nasty little habit known as heroin addiction. Since kicking it, he's set off to reclaim his creative edge and made his American re-debut on June 4th at the Rose Theater in New York City.
The anticipation in the audience pre-show mirrored a strange duality of the paparazzi age: Show-goers seemed equally interested in the possibility that Clark would a) fail miserably like many post-glory boat-rockers or b) climb to new heights with a fresh, more mature perspective. Any schaudenfreude was mostly squashed: Clarke’s work on program A was captivating and unique. A win for the boy back in town.
The evening consisted of two U.S premiers under the title of Stravinsky Project: OO, the music a deluge of punk anthems and a surprising Barbara Streisand ballad, was first, followed by O, Clark’s rendition of Apollo to Stravinsky’s landmark score. Throughout both, Clark’s interest in a ballet bottom and modern top played out in classical ballet steps like echapes and chennes, juxtaposed with angular, jutting, tilting, twirling arms and torsos. In O, this duality was further echoed by the trappings: a black stage was lined in white labyrinth patterns and the dancers were outfitted for much of it in variations of stark unitards with a black back and tan front—a dancer split both by different styles on top and bottom, plus front to back with a thin line of light and dark.
The sleek costume also established a trippy visual effect of halves—legs and arms disappearing, or appearing in odd ways as the two dimensional robot dancers scooped and staggered: When the dancers first slid on to the stage, stepping slowly into an attitude, they then curled their backs towards their outstretched toe like a piece of plastic being burned by the sun, furling backwards into an inside-out standing circle. The tan of the bodysuit made half of the body disappear—Jim Morrison reality.
Throughout the challenging work filled with difficult extensions and yoga- handstands of all sorts, Clark also went against the grain in a gentler way: Although the music was blaring and frantic at times (Sex Pistols and Iggy Pop are the anthems of angst), much of the movement was languid—he is no conformist, even to the music’s whims. The sharp upper body and flexible legs made the dancers look like odd dolls, robotic and inviting at the same time, with a 2-D quality highlighted by the sleek outfits.
Third in the line up of O was Streisand’s rendition of the melancholy Sondheim tune, “Send in the Clowns,” a tongue and cheek choice paired with the only naked work of the evening (listed on the program, of course). Often, when choreography is shown without clothing, one has to wonder—why? Does this piece benefit from nudity, or is merely shock value? Here, the slow undulations were enhanced by the nudity (well half really- feather and fur boas were held over genitalia in a burlesque type way that was almost asexual). And if perhaps one ever got too serious, then Streisand’s crooning in the back would pop in for ironic relief.
In the last section to "Submission" by the Sex Pistols, more anger and passion came to the surface, as popping knees, splicing arms and dervish twirling filled the stage and Clark’s investigation of the extreme took center stage. Like very young children who are fascinated with their own abilities and exploring just how far each bone can move, steps were dissected until a simple knee bend was broken into four movements—a twisted technician’s parade.
After the blaring opening (appreciated by the younger of the crowd, but disdained—vocally—by some of the older patrons), O seemed tame, and not quite as exciting, if still well done. In Clark’s retelling, Apollo is trapped in a giant, clear jewel box that later opens to become a mirror of doors. Classical floor patterns and port de bras are showcased here, still partnered with odd, forceful upper body contortions, but less so than his first piece. A lovely pas de deux between Terpsichore and Apollo was the highlight—soft feminity and classical masculine strength combined gently to an effect striking in its repose against the earlier fire.
The program in its entirety may not have seemed thrilling to those old enough to have seen shows at the Judson Church or impromptu performances at Studio 54. But for those of us who missed our chance to meet Leigh Bowery, Clark’s second coming is welcome in its force—a middle finger clearly sticking up in front of a face that is smiling sweetly.
After training at the Royal Ballet and being touted on the 1980s dance scene, Clark was swept away by a nasty little habit known as heroin addiction. Since kicking it, he's set off to reclaim his creative edge and made his American re-debut on June 4th at the Rose Theater in New York City.
The anticipation in the audience pre-show mirrored a strange duality of the paparazzi age: Show-goers seemed equally interested in the possibility that Clark would a) fail miserably like many post-glory boat-rockers or b) climb to new heights with a fresh, more mature perspective. Any schaudenfreude was mostly squashed: Clarke’s work on program A was captivating and unique. A win for the boy back in town.
The evening consisted of two U.S premiers under the title of Stravinsky Project: OO, the music a deluge of punk anthems and a surprising Barbara Streisand ballad, was first, followed by O, Clark’s rendition of Apollo to Stravinsky’s landmark score. Throughout both, Clark’s interest in a ballet bottom and modern top played out in classical ballet steps like echapes and chennes, juxtaposed with angular, jutting, tilting, twirling arms and torsos. In O, this duality was further echoed by the trappings: a black stage was lined in white labyrinth patterns and the dancers were outfitted for much of it in variations of stark unitards with a black back and tan front—a dancer split both by different styles on top and bottom, plus front to back with a thin line of light and dark.
The sleek costume also established a trippy visual effect of halves—legs and arms disappearing, or appearing in odd ways as the two dimensional robot dancers scooped and staggered: When the dancers first slid on to the stage, stepping slowly into an attitude, they then curled their backs towards their outstretched toe like a piece of plastic being burned by the sun, furling backwards into an inside-out standing circle. The tan of the bodysuit made half of the body disappear—Jim Morrison reality.
Throughout the challenging work filled with difficult extensions and yoga- handstands of all sorts, Clark also went against the grain in a gentler way: Although the music was blaring and frantic at times (Sex Pistols and Iggy Pop are the anthems of angst), much of the movement was languid—he is no conformist, even to the music’s whims. The sharp upper body and flexible legs made the dancers look like odd dolls, robotic and inviting at the same time, with a 2-D quality highlighted by the sleek outfits.
Third in the line up of O was Streisand’s rendition of the melancholy Sondheim tune, “Send in the Clowns,” a tongue and cheek choice paired with the only naked work of the evening (listed on the program, of course). Often, when choreography is shown without clothing, one has to wonder—why? Does this piece benefit from nudity, or is merely shock value? Here, the slow undulations were enhanced by the nudity (well half really- feather and fur boas were held over genitalia in a burlesque type way that was almost asexual). And if perhaps one ever got too serious, then Streisand’s crooning in the back would pop in for ironic relief.
In the last section to "Submission" by the Sex Pistols, more anger and passion came to the surface, as popping knees, splicing arms and dervish twirling filled the stage and Clark’s investigation of the extreme took center stage. Like very young children who are fascinated with their own abilities and exploring just how far each bone can move, steps were dissected until a simple knee bend was broken into four movements—a twisted technician’s parade.
After the blaring opening (appreciated by the younger of the crowd, but disdained—vocally—by some of the older patrons), O seemed tame, and not quite as exciting, if still well done. In Clark’s retelling, Apollo is trapped in a giant, clear jewel box that later opens to become a mirror of doors. Classical floor patterns and port de bras are showcased here, still partnered with odd, forceful upper body contortions, but less so than his first piece. A lovely pas de deux between Terpsichore and Apollo was the highlight—soft feminity and classical masculine strength combined gently to an effect striking in its repose against the earlier fire.
The program in its entirety may not have seemed thrilling to those old enough to have seen shows at the Judson Church or impromptu performances at Studio 54. But for those of us who missed our chance to meet Leigh Bowery, Clark’s second coming is welcome in its force—a middle finger clearly sticking up in front of a face that is smiling sweetly.
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