Rap In Musicals, Part II: How Hamilton Fixed Literally Everything

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A little over a year ago, I wrote an article called "Rap In Musicals, And How We've Been Getting It Wrong." In it, I made two major arguments: one, that rap was as well-suited to musicals as pen to page, and two, that most uses of rap in the musical theatre thus far had largely failed to realize the extraordinary synergistic potential of these two forms. I then went on to list techniques in the musical theatre that rap would complement perfectly.

I could reiterate all of my points here, but I no longer have to. I can now just point to Hamilton and say, "yeah, basically that." Nonetheless, let's briefly run through these ideas and examine them in the context of Broadway's latest runaway smash.

Cinemibus: Episode 5, "Enchanted" and the Case for the Musical

Cinemibus: Episode 5, "Enchanted" and the Case for the Musical from Cinemibus on Vimeo.

I don't usually post my Cinemibus videos on this blog anymore, but this one is musical-related, so there.

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Fiona's Tragedy in "Shrek: The Musical"

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I'm going to do a bit of dramaturgy on a work you might never have given more than half a thought to: Shrek, The Musical.

There are plenty of complaints you might feel tempted to make about the show, many of them no doubt valid, but there is one element that I love, and confidently call an unqualified improvement on the original movie: the characterization of Princess Fiona.

The show took it upon itself to invent backstories for all of its mains (with the exception of Donkey, but the contrast between his inherently absurd nature as a talking animal and his refreshingly uncomplicated life was always a central part of the joke, so fair enough). The characterization for Shrek adds a little bit to the character, but mostly leaves intact the crucial dynamic between him and Donkey, where he starts out as the straight man to Donkey's over-gregarious affect, but ends up with Donkey being the voice of reason to his overbearing misanthropy. The backstory for Farquaad is arguably an improvement, giving him a fairy tale parentage that adds an element of self-loathing to his persecution of the fairy tale creatures in a distinctly (if uncertainly intentional) Hitler-esque fashion.

However, the character of Fiona gets the most fascinating revamp, and this is arrived at by trying to flesh out the actual mechanics of her situation in the first place.

Fiona is locked in a tower guarded by a dragon, waiting for a rescuer to come and free her. This much is established in the movie. The show, however, establishes that she was about seven years old when she was first sent off to live in the tower and left there in isolation for around twenty years. And while this is never taken in the Oldboy-style psychological direction that premise could imply, the unfairness of it all is not glossed over. In fact, the best song in the show is entirely about precisely that.

"I Know It's Today" shows Fiona at three different ages, eventually all appearing onstage at the same time (very good use of the flexibility of theatre there, bravo), each singing about how they know that today is going to be the day they are finally freed from the tower. And yet there are subtle differences in the attitudes of the three.

The youngest version of Fiona very much buys into the supposed romance of it all. She is not stupid, however - her feelings of repulsion towards the bad parts of Rapunzel's experience imply that she only finds it romantic because she has been given the impression that she will not be made to suffer on account of the asinine tradition she has been forced to take part in.

"There's a princess
In a tower.
Oh my gosh, that's just like me!
Poor Rapunzel
Needs a haircut,
But the witch won't set her free.
She passes time by singing
Like someone else I know
As years go by she sits and waits,
As years go by...Uh oh...
A torturous existence...
I don't remember this part!
She wishes she were dead...
Skip ahead, skip ahead!
But in the end, Rapunzel finds a millionaire.
The prince is good at climbing and braiding golden hair!"

As a side note, the fact that she is sent away to fulfill her role at such a young age is a wonderfully pointed jab at how these stories often indoctrinate young women with a potentially toxic vision of femininity from far too early in childhood, but that is not presently the point.

As she ages, Fiona becomes more cynical. She has had to wait, but not for too long so far.

"There's a princess
In a coma
Glad it's her instead of me.
Pretty maiden
In a glass box
How, I wonder, does she pee?"

The line, "Glad it's her instead of me," is a blatant indication that Fiona does not yet realize that she, too, has been locked away in a box both literally and metaphorically, but again she is far from stupid. She questions the mechanics of the fairy tale she is reading, and specifically the part that ignores (as so many fairy tales do) that its female lead is a biological human being and not simply a will-less love doll. How is Snow White supposed to pee while catatonic? How is Fiona supposed to live in a tower on her own for years without losing her mind? The stories do not care, and neither did the society that created them.

When we get to adult Fiona, we reach the end of this progression. Young Fiona believes that she'll be rescued today because she genuinely believes the system works. Teenage Fiona believes it because it would just be unthinkably unfair if it didn't. Adult Fiona believes it because it has become psychologically necessary for her to do so in order to stay sane.

"Now I know he'll appear,
'Cause there are rules and there are strictures
I believe the storybooks I read by candlelight
My white knight, my knight and his steed
Will look just like these pictures!
It won't be long now, I guarantee!"

Each Fiona sings this verse in turn and then together, but it means something slightly different to each one.

Even after Shrek rescues her but before he unmasks, Fiona is obsessed with making the scene conform to the idea she was given of how this was supposed to work. She rationalizes his oddness as best she can, and in her song "This Is How A Dream Comes True" she manages to briefly convince herself that everything she has been through has ultimately worked out for the best. As long as the rules and strictures hold, she can almost convince herself that what she suffered was worthwhile.

"This is how I pictured it,
More or less I must admit... 
A thumping in my heart,
A life about to start...
I knew this day would come 
And you would find your way.
At last my dreams come true. 
I knew, I knew, I knew...
It would be today!"

It is only after she realizes that her rescuer was an ogre that her confidence in the system breaks down and she begins the back half of her character arc in which she gradually comes to love the aspects of herself that fall outside what society has told her is expected.

What we have, essentially, is the story of a woman who is literally put in a box and told that if only she waits for long enough, the system will eventually work for her. She waits twenty years for this to happen, and being rescued by an ogre is the system failing her that one last time that pushes her over the edge.

All of this, of course, is slightly undermined by the fact that the musical is still named Shrek and not Fiona, but I still love how far the idea was taken, to the point where I think that Fiona is the most genuinely compelling character in the show, and certainly the one whose arc I am most invested in by the end. Whatever else the show did right or wrong, this quietly subversive change both fascinates and pleases me.

The Discerning Lyricist Guide to Musicals: Chess

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Rap In Musicals, And How We've Been Getting It Wrong

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I think that we have been approaching the use of rap in the musical theatre the wrong way all this time. In the paragraphs that follow, I hope to briefly convince you of two things...
1. That rap is well-suited to integration in a musical theatre idiom, and
2. That some fairly basic misconceptions about the dramatic strengths of rap have prevented this integration from being carried out in a manner and to a degree that matches its potential.

Rap is, on paper, an excellent fit for the musical theater. The musical is perhaps the only field of creative endeavor that really and truly cares about lyrics. It is, at any rate, the only one that demands perfect rhyme and meter as a prerequisite for full respect. The influence of pop music has, in the last couple of decades, somewhat corrupted this ideal, but the musical is still leagues above its corrupter in almost every regard.

Rap, however, comes in a close second. The demands of the form may not be as rigorous, true - much rap is still far too eager to settle for mere assonance rather than rhyme, but that has always been the premise of rap. The rhymes, such as they are, may not be elegant, but in exchange there will be more than twice as many of them. The best rap emphasizes precise and complex vocal rhythms, unpredictable rhyme schemes, and imaginative wordplay. See Tech N9ne for an excellent example of the first, Kanye West for the second, and Childish Gambino for the third.

It is easy to see, therefore, the appeal inherent in the idea of the two formats that value lyrics the most joining forces. Which is why it is incredibly surprising that it has not happened more often. Sure, we have had sprechstimme, we have had the Witch's story in Into the Woods, we have even had Rex Harrison, but it is only recently that shows like In The Heights have attempted to bring rap to the musical theatre in a big way. And even then, I think In The Heights failed in being the one thing I suspect it most desperately wanted to be, which was influential.

I think this reticence, however, can only partly be put down to neophobia. The fact is, even on the few occasions on which I have heard rap used in a musical, I don't think I have ever heard it used particularly well. No, not even in In The Heights.

We think of rap as soliloquy, as an outer expression of internal monologue, similar to the big belting numbers with which we are familiar from the rest of the musical theatre. And, to be sure, some rap is like this, but I would like to contend that this is not where rap is at its best, that it is not where rap really excels. Look at the more casual format of rap mixtapes, the back-and-forth banter of dis track feuds, and even the use of the latest slang in a way that revolutionized musical theatre lyrics when Frank Loesser did it, and I think you will come to roughly the same conclusion I have: Rap, at its best, is not monologue. It is dialogue.

And this is where I think we have been going wrong. Usnavi desperately shouting to be heard over the swelling orchestra in In The Heights merely underlines the more fundamental issue - rap is a format for people talking to each other, and should be used as such. Even in its soliloquy mode, it is the conversational intimacy with the listener, the feeling that the artist is talking to you as they would a friend, that lends rap the largest part of its undeniable mass appeal.

Now, there are already parts of the musical theatre that rap could very easily be worked into. Recitative could be made roughly a thousand times less awkward by making it a witty and efficient rap break, for example. But I think true integration demands an even larger change in paradigm. We can design new types of conversational songs that always sounded awkward when sung but might sound like the most natural thing in the world with the shifting rhythms and colloquial style of rap. We can make soliloquy songs more confessional and less presentational.

I genuinely believe that rap offers a new range of techniques to the musical theatre dramatist, but exploiting the full potential of those techniques will require thinking about musical drama in a new way to suit a new style.

1776 and Trying NOT to Get That Laugh

Being laughed at for something we take seriously is a more or less universal fear, but it is especially potent in storytelling because often the integrity of an entire scene or even of the entire work can hinge on a moment not being interrupted by unwanted laughter. If you are a playwright, however, you do have one final recourse - not an ideal one, by any stretch - in the form of the players in whose mouths your words have been placed.

Author and playwright Jean Kerr once said, "It's very embarrassing to say to an actor, please try not to get that laugh." This reminded me of one of the best examples I have ever seen of needing to overcome the comedy in the material, and it happens to come from one of my nostalgic favorites: the musical 1776.

Because it does dramatize a historical conflict - the debate over declaring American Independence - of which we already know the outcome, Peter Stone's book has to draw the audience into that world so entirely that the part of our brains that knows of course the damned thing's going to get signed is either pushed away or ignored. For the most part, it does that splendidly. There is one moment of dramatic climax, however, that lives or dies on how well it is played. Or, in short, how well it manages not to get that laugh.

All the other delegates have cast their votes in favor of independence. All of the backroom deals, persuasive rhetoric, and agonizing compromises have finally paid off. The last undecided state is Pennsylvania, and the tie-breaker delegate within that three-person delegation is...James Wilson.

The moment that they, as characters, and we, as an audience, realize that James Wilson is going to decide the entire question of independence is a crucial one. This is a man whose defining character trait up to this point has been that he has no opinions of his own. The rising dramatic tension of the scene requires that the audience take this seriously, but in some of the embarrassingly large number of productions I have seen, this moment gets the biggest laugh of the night and just flattens the dramatic progression. What went wrong?

The problem is that there are two warring elements in this scene. On the one hand, there is the supreme irony - and thus the inherent humor - in the fact that the entire debate has come down to the one man in the room who gives the least of a shit about it. On the other hand, there is the dramatically intriguing fact that the entire debate has come down to the one man in the room whose actions are entirely unpredictable to us.

All of the other votes were previously more or less decided behind the scenes before that final vote is held. The scene flies through those votes, which makes this part of the scene its dramatic heart. You cannot afford a big laugh here. But I have seen this moment played for laughs in the past, sometimes accidentally by directors who weren't careful enough, sometimes deliberately by directors who didn't know any better.

The irony of the situation can never be entirely eliminated of course. It is integral to the situation. But it need not necessarily be a laugh-out-loud sort of irony. With careful direction and performance, it can instead be a dry, detached irony. Maybe it can even achieve a bit of Brechtian alienation and make us think - in line with the themes of the work as a whole - about just how arbitrary some decisive historical turning points can be. James Wilson is the horse-shoe nail for want of which the battle might be lost. But the audience must think about this, not laugh about it. And that responsibility, for better or worse, falls on the people putting on the production.

This serves as a reminder of a number of things, but mostly of the extent to which playwrighting cannot be seen as an isolated art. 1776 has a fantastic book, but there is a moment within it that dies on its arse if the director and actors bringing it to life are not, in their own way, equally fantastic at what they do. Sometimes, not getting that laugh is the greatest service you can render to your material.

Some Thoughts On "Galavant"

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Before we begin, let me just lay it out there that I actually enjoyed much of Galavant. Like the Mel Brooks When Things Were Rotten comedy aesthetic it frequently tries to ape, any cringing a bad joke might induce is minimized by a brisk pace and an admirable reluctance to dwell for too long. And even in spite of all the probably quite horrible things I am doubtless going to say about it, I will be sticking with it for at least the first few weeks, so that is something I suppose.

Now, two episodes in and we can tell a few things about Galavant, the latest attempt to bring the musical to television. The first and most encouraging thing we can tell is that this is not Cop Rock, the beige standard by which all subsequent attempts at TV musicals must be judged. That may not sound like much, but the knowledge that the weirdly and hilariously awful lightning of Cop Rock has not struck again is oddly heartening. 




At the same time, Galavant does seem to lack the demented level of conviction that Cop Rock had and which was simultaneously the best and absolute worst part of that show. It overall seems faintly embarrassed to be a musical, which is a shame because there are plenty of perfectly reasonable things for it to be embarrassed about.

The jokes generally fall into one of two categories, either this is funny because everybody is singing or this is funny because anachronistic vernacular is being used in a medieval setting. Contrary to what I expected and feared, there is actually not too much of the former with a few slightly unbearable exceptions. While this is a welcome relief, it means that much of the humor in the show has to lean on the latter type of joke, which while not actively painful is not typically very funny either.

A little bit of mileage is derived from subversions of genre tropes that manifest themselves in the frequent plot twists, but those subversions are never really adequately explored, and an opportunity is lost to examine why those tropes do not work in the world of today. But it is not really fair to criticize a show for not being what I would want it to be, I realize on reflection, so just file that under "opportunities missed" and then promptly forget about it.

The performances are all solid and frequently quite funny, with Timothy Omundson in particular doing far better than his part demanded as a tyrannical monarch who just wants to be loved but never carries the thought far enough to change his mode of behavior.

The music by Alan Menken is fine, although far from his best work, while the lyrics by Glen Slater have their moments but are nowhere near as off-the-wall as they would have to be to render the subversion jokes interesting and not, as the most cringey of the lyrics puts it, "a fairy-tale cliche."

None of this is to say that Galavant is bad. It's perfectly serviceable. What it isn't is good enough to be the kick in the pants that the musical needs to become mainstream again. It manages to sidestep the hurdles that would have left it looking like, to take an entirely random example, Cop Rock...



...which I find gratifying, because as much as I love Cop Rock in all its mutant glory, producing another one would serve no purpose but to hand a bucketful of slingshot ammunition to the knee-jerk musical-hating brigade and obligingly present its backside to them for a rollicking round of punishment. As it is, Galavant neither hurts nor substantially improves the cultural position of the musical. It will convert no one, but neither will it become a tedious running joke. We will see.

I will be covering Galavant as it airs, so be sure to follow this blog for more down the line.

Review - Into The Woods, the movie

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A good adaptation is like a game of Jenga. You are going to have to pull out some blocks, there must be no mistaking that, but the trick is to pick which blocks to pull out so that the whole thing does not come tumbling down. I bring this up because any discussion of the recent movie of Into The Woods among musical theatre aficionados will inevitably come back to what was left out, so let us address that first.

Yes, a lot of material was omitted, including the crucial reprise of Agony - cut, I suspect, for time - and the classic No More - cut because the subplot that prompts it in the stageshow was condensed nearly out of existence. The second omission has obviously been a larger point of contention than the first, largely because No More has managed to become part of the consensus Sondheim canon. But here we return to Jenga - pull out the subplot that finally drives the Baker to sing No More, and you have to pull out No More or the whole thing topples.

Similarly, if you have to cut down the full character arc of the Witch into something more concise, then you have to cut a particular character death - if you have seen the show, you know which one - that serves no purpose in the show but to push that character arc forward. I have seen a lot of people complaining about that last change too, but without the attendant character development for the Witch, it would have just been a fruitless shock death and I was actually intensely glad to see it left aside.

James Lapine, for my money, did an immensely canny job of condensing his original show book for the movie, to the point at which every cut, however painful, was something I had to grudgingly admit to understanding, at least in the context of the structure Lapine was carving out for this version. Whenever I thought I had found a grievance that could not be answered, Lapine was at least half a step ahead of me, and whatever your problems with some of the resultant decisions they were at least decisions taken with some degree of care and forethought. Bravo. Gold star. Well, maybe silver. Silver is still good.

With that out of the way, the performances. And let me be very clear before we begin, I DO NOT CARE ABOUT CLASSICAL VOCAL TRAINING. This is musical theatre, not opera. If you care more about vocal tone than about the acting, you can just about jog on back to choir practice. We are trying to tell stories here, not show off.

That said, this movie happily had no Russell Crowe, i.e. no actor whose lack of vocal training was so obvious as to pull you out of the experience. Chris Pine as one of the princes charming came the closest, but even his strained delivery was effectively covered for by some very funny staging involving the two princes splashing about in a stream with their shirts open. In any case, his screen persona has just the right mix of charm and smarm for the character, so much can be forgiven when seeing him onscreen. Cold consolation for those listening to the soundtrack, but there you are.

As for the other actors, Anna Kendrick was far and away the best, combining vocal chops with a pleasantly put-upon performance as Cinderella. A close second, and more of a surprise, was Emily Blunt as the wife of the Baker, who gave an immensely charming rendition of Moments In The Woods and was generally superb throughout. James Corden was frequently just as charming as the everyman Baker, Johnny Depp turned out to be a disturbingly good choice for the Wolf with his combination of allure and deep underlying wrongness, and the child actors playing Red and Jack were both excellent. At any rate they were not distracting, which after a certain point is all you can ask of a child actor, really.

Then there is Meryl Streep. Meryl Streep throws herself into the role of the Witch with great aplomb and obvious enthusiasm, conveying the pain, exasperation, and fury inherent in the role, all of which fails to entirely compensate for the fact that she is not Bernadette Peters. I know that is an unfair standard to hold anyone to, but the fact remains that anyone taking on the role of the Witch will inevitably be compared to Bernadette Peters, and even Meryl Streep is no Bernadette Peters. Setting that comparison aside...yes, she is perfectly fine in the role. Far from the best I have seen, but also hardly the worst, and certainly the best big-name actress we could have asked for in the part.

The direction from Rob Marshall is serviceable, if uninteresting. It fails to fully reconcile the new cinematic format with the stagiest elements of the show, meaning that some of the transitions in the opening number that flow seamlessly onstage are rendered considerably more awkward in the film. Also, the movie never finds an effective solution for the problem of how to visually convey the Wolf, eventually giving up and deciding to essentially hand-wave the fact that the Wolf is just Johnny Depp in a little makeup.

Of course, the big question hanging over this and, indeed, over virtually every adaptation of very good source material is why a medium change was necessary in the first place. To its cost, this is a question that the movie never really answers, particularly when its source material was just so good when left alone as a stage musical.

However, resolved as I am to stop banging incessantly on about medium transfers, I am willing to ignore this for one simple reason - if it gets more people into musicals, and Sondheim musicals in particular, it will have been worth it. As a film, I honestly have no idea how well it works. As an advertisement for the dramatic potential of musicals, I can imagine and in fact have frequently seen far worse ambassadors than this one. So do go and see it, particularly if musicals have never really grabbed you before. Maybe it will inspire you to seek out more good material in the form. At any rate, I wish.

The Talking Picture, Ep. 15 - Genre Myopia, A Limerick Sequence