It was not the first time I saw RENT
It's one of the shows I am most familiar with. I had seen it three times live (twice in one night because we got free tickets for the matinee)--a touring company in my hometown and a production my university did two years ago. They were VERY good productions with boatloads of talent. Aside from that, I memorized the OBC Recording almost as soon as I got it (almost seven years ago--two burned CDs from a girl at theater camp who was astounded I'd never heard of it). I saw the movie on opening night with my best friend, dressed as Maureen and Mimi (really, we just looked like fourteen year old tramps. It is not a comfortable photograph to look at now, let me tell you). I read fanfiction and text roleplayed and watched the DVD religiously and found bootleg recordings of the workshop and demos. I was convinced that Mark and Roger were desperately in love with each other. I familiarized myself with its notable cast memembers (I was ENDLESSLY amused when I found out that Norbert Leo Butz had gone on as an understudy for Roger many years ago). I worshipped the ground Anthony and Adam walked on. In 2008 I went to the movie theater once again, all by myself this time, to see the one-night showing of the professionally-filmed Closing Performance. And those three times I saw it live always brought something new. I remember specifically being engaged in Collins's character for the first time in my school's performance, and really believing the chemistry between Roger and Mimi (I was a hardcore believer that Mark and Roger were in love with each other) when I saw it at the same performing arts center I'd had theater camp at. Needless to say, I was pretty certain I understood the show. I analyzed the sung dialogue and cried in all the right places every time. I was a middle/high school theater kid who was discovering the word "bohemian," and later a college student who understood just how good a box of free Captain Crunch could taste. I never quite grew out of my love for all the characters, or the music, though I was never as obsessed with it as I was in the years surrounding 2006. Maybe that space is important in what I'm about to tell you.
Last weekend, I was in New York City. I had been in Long Island for about a week and a half, taking the train into Manhattan once in a while to see if I could find a job or just at least determine if it was where I really wanted to live. I was in the City longer than I'd ever been in my life, combined. I learned the subways, how to navigate the streets in midtown, I picked a favorite Deli (Al's on 35th and 7th), a favorite bookstore (the Strand on Broadway and 12th, oh my God best bookstore of my life), and for the most part I was by myself. Just as I would be if I decided to move up there. I was determined, at the very least, to see a show before I had to leave. Foremost in my mind was Daniel Radcliffe in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, because I had never seen or heard the show, and I love the stuffing out of Daniel. But tickets were expensive, and the rush lines were long, and I was never up early enough to get a chance at them. But I remembered RENT had been revived for Off-Broadway, and since the lotto first row and only $25, I might as well give it a shot. Friday night, I didn't get in, even though that night I had decided to drag my cousin along after a day at the Museum of Natural History. Saturday, I was by myself again. It was an afterthought, really. I'd spent the day in the East Village, wallowing in the piles of lovely books The Strand has to offer. I figured, I could give it a try, and if I didn't get in, my cousin was at home waiting to take me out to sushi with his girlfriend.
New World Stages is on an otherwise fairly dark street--50th between 8th and 9th Avenues. It glows chrome and neon green, but you don't really notice until it's on top of you. It also houses Avenue Q, Million Dollar Qurtet, Freud's Last Session, Naked Boys Singing (which has The Best promo poster ever), and an awesome-looking bubble show for younger kids. At six o'clock, shivering because I am a Floridian who does not know how to dress for the weird autumn that New England got this year, I put my name in. I waited on the bench-height stone wall, a few feet from the assistant stage manager taking the lotto who couldn't possibly have been a year older than me. A small circle of people gathered, waiting for the drawing. One or two people made small talk with Stage Manager Girl about what she did backstage and as I listened I found myself profoundly missing the few months I had spent as mic tech for my high shool's production of Les Miserables my sophomore year. Also talking to the ASM was a very tiny blonde girl I vaguely recognized, holding a bouquet of flowers. I couldn't think of where I had seen her before, but I assumed she was in the show and I'd know once I looked it up at home, or the playbill if I got in. Across the sidewalk, standing by a shish kebab cart, was a group of young, eager-looking thirty-somethings. Three of them. Now, the way the lotto works is you can win up to two tickets. If your name is called, you can ask for one, or two. Going in an odd numbered group can be problematic, as you can imagine, and relies heavily on two of your group's members being called. I suppose that's why, forlorn and hidden though I was, Amy decided to approach me. Amy was the girl of the threesome, an energetic and kindly woman who got my attention by smiling at me. We would make a deal. They were in for all or nothing. If only one of them got called and I didn't, I could have the winning ticket. If I got called and so did one of their group, I would get two and share my winnings with one of their group. Amy got picked. Immediately after, I did as well.
With an hour and a half to kill before the show, the group took me to a nice-looking bar and restaurant that made me feel insanely underdressed. They were here on business, and were delighted that they could write meals like this off as an expense. They insisted I order a drink, and I did not correct their assumption that I was over 21 (and I am three months away from that being the case). I ended up downing fancy goblets of a beer I'd never heard of and nibbling on shrimp cocktail while we all got acquainted. Amy had a 12-year-old son and lived in Pennsylvania. Robbie was in love with Broadway and Rent and had seen it quite a few times before it had closed. The other one, Richard I think his name was, had only seen one show in his life--Miss Saigon, many years before. He was a new father to an adorable baby named Ella. When we went back to the theater, they bought me another beer and after chatting in the too-loud New World Stages bar, and we all sat down in the front row. The foot of the stage was about level with my forehead, and I had to crane my neck to see it all. But it was close, and beautiful.
I knew there'd be changes with the revival, and it was most apparent first in the set. There was still a mess of multi-level scaffolding, but there were also TVs in the back, and three tiny tables instead of the one big one. The band was nestled on the second level, but I could only see the conductor's arms. My head buzzing pleasantly with beer, and my bladder giving subtle warnings of, at the very least, bolting once Intermission came. I was fine now, but I almost got up to play it safe, when Mark and Roger--or, Adam Chanler-Berat and Matt Shingledecker, sprinted onstage and began.
Despite my style in describing my night so far I'm not going to give you a play-by-play, because hopefully you know the show by now, and because by the title song my bladder was aching so bad that the only way I could keep from peeing myself was to bounce my leg furiously and mouth all the lyrics to give myself something to do. Sadly, I counldn't concentrate nearly as well as I normally would on my favorite lines. I regret to say that this did not last long, and during one of my favorite damn numbers, "Will I," I had to leave, or else pee over the entire seat. Cursing my third beer, and possibly even my second, I crawled past the shins of the other front row lotto winners, sprinted my way up the isle and into the bathroom. When I came back, "Santa Fe" was in progress, and with the encouragement of the sweetest little usher boy, I waited at a seat in the back until the brief dialogue break to get back to my own seat (seriously though I cannot get over how adorable he was. Gay as the day is long, gently touching my arm to say I could wait over there, sweetie).
The only other incident of note during the show was right after Seasons of Love, a not-as-adorable usher came and took the guy sitting next to me's phone away. Apparently he'd been recording small bits of the show on it. Luckily the applause and music drowned out the small argument that broke out bewtween them.
Now, I'm going talk about why I wrote this thing in the first place. It's because, despite memorizing the score and watching it over and over and over and even writing as the characters when I paricipatd in the fandom, I realized that I had never really got the show. Oh, I thought I did. And I was aware of the major themes and the message it was trying to convey, and I loved all the characters deeply. But that night, watching half the time with a buzzed mind half-focused on not peeing everywhere, I got it. I understood the show in a more broad and personal way than I ever had before. And I owe that to a couple of reasons. The fact that I was in New York City, had actually gone to the East Village, was closer to the age of the characters. That I am at a point in my life where many things, like my future and my way of making a living, are uncertain. That I am soon striking out on my own. That I am struggling doggedly to create. Something. Maybe even something I could be proud of. And one thing for sure--the casting director was a motherfucking genius. I'd never really thought about the difference between an actor who would be good at playing a character, and an actor who could be that character (I suppose I should call it the Luna Lovegood factor, because that's what everyone said about Evanna Lynch). Every single actor in this show was... let me explain. If I thought about the people the show was about. If Mark Cohen or Mimi Marquez were people, that was these actors. Of course Matt Shingledecker isn't actually an ex-junkie rock star and Corbin Reid isn't actually a sassy lesbian lawyer. But the costumes and the acting and the everything were just so fucking perfect I can't even express to you. Morgan Weed understudied as Maureen that night, but you'd never had known if you hadn't looked at the playbill. It was seamless. It was beautiful. The fucking camera actually recorded the actors and it showed on the little TVs in the back (so did ads for Buzzline and the riots on Ave B, a really cool touch!). Oh, and that girl out front was Tracy McDowell, making a special appearance to fill in as Mrs Cohen/coat salesman/girl with blue streak in her hair/To dance! while Morgan went on as Maureen. Tracy was Ivy in the Long Island production of Bare (as well as being in RENT as practically everyone), and I talked to her about it briefly after the show.
I just. You guys, I got it. It's not just living with disease and living for your art and living for today. It's struggle and trying your damnedest and sometimes failing and learning what it means not to be alone in a world that doesn't always seem to care and losing more than winning and taking an entire year to write one mediocre song based on an opera motif you can't get out of your head because at least it means you made something and aren't wasting yourself, and maybe sometimes you can save your girlfriend's life with the power of rock and roll. I could write an English paper on it if I tried.
When I left the theater, if you donated twenty-someodd bucks to Broadway Cares, you could take a polaroid with Adam and Matt in the lobby. But I already spent the $25 on the ticket, and I didn't have that much money to spare. It's a shame stagedooring is such a formal thing nowadays, but it's for a good cause I suppose. Instead, fishing a spare single out of my wallet to give a little something, I asked the guy manning the bucket (the male soloist from SoL) where Tracy would be coming out. He answered, and when he saw me put cash in, he asked if it was for the photo op. "Nope," I said. "Too broke for that." He told me to wait, and pinned a little red ribbon on the lapel of my jacket. It was sweet.
If it weren't almost 4am and maybe if I hadn't been buzzed and/or desperate to pee for most of the performance, maybe this review would be more coherent and more about the show and the acting and the production, but all I can express is how great that a-ha moment was for me. And I hope that everyone gets a chance to see it, even if you've seen RENT a million times.
P.S. I just found out that guy who plays Angel is younger than me. I don't even know how to even anymore. He's in this production and still going to school for drama. How do you...talent.
ETA: Also, sorry this is wildly incoherent with so many typos and style errors. But as I said, it was 4am, and I'm not gonna fix it now.
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