4/1/2026 HOUSE: THE MUSICAL Princeton University Streaming Service
LAURIE’S LEGACY
As if y’all didn’t know, House was a series that ran for eight seasons on Fox starting in 2004. It starred Hugh Laurie (Jeeves and Wooster) as an acerbic but brilliant diagnostician at Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital who marshalled his team of assistants on cases of rare and unusual diseases. Modelled on the Sherlock Holmes paradigm, Dr. House used observation and deduction to conclude the root cause(s) of whatever odd symptom(s) highlighted the “case of the week.” The primary joy of the series was Laurie’s portrayal of a brilliant man fighting demons and rules and the entire medical ethos. He was over-the-edge abusive to everyone but still managed to keep viewers coming back week after week to see him save lives and ruin friendships.
I was late to the game, just starting to watch it last year, going on multi-episode binges with my lovely and patient spouse (who finally succeeded in turning me on to the show). And, like most of America before me, I am loving it.
So of course, even though we’re only on season 7, I had the opportunity to screen a new video of a musical version, House: The Musical. It will be “dropped” onto the (overpriced) Princeton University Streaming Service (see link below) starting next week. Oddly, I was sent a “screener copy” based on my Atlanta Theatre Buzz credentials and had the pleasure of watching it three times already. For the record, my House-loving spouse could not make it through once. But I loved it.
It takes three episodes from the first season and adds Broadway-caliber songs that are funny, moving, and ear-wormy toe-tappingly memorable. And it has populated it with a cast that, at first glance, seems so wrong, but (in the final analysis) is so right.
The show starts with an under-the-main-titles production number featuring the entire cast (“Physician Heal Thyself”), in an energetically choreographed spectacle through which a frowning Gregory House MD (brilliantly played by Nathan Lane) hobbles in perfect time and without tripping over the chorus of orderlies, nurses, and patients who exhibit gruesome disfigurements and oozing sores. It shouldn’t work, it should be gross, but it is strangely elegant and beautiful.
It immediately segues into the hospital’s clinic, where Dr. House diagnoses dozens of patients with a preposterously rapid patter song that would make Gilbert and Sullivan blush (or win any contemporary Free Style battle). (On one of my viewings, I had Closed Caption turned on, which gave up half-way through the number and just displayed [Rapidly Listed Medical Terms] on the screen.)
We are soon introduced to the Director of the Medical Center, Dr. Lisa Cuddy (Megan Hilty) whom House is constantly (and inappropriately) ogling (their duet “The Unbearable Appeal of Cuddy’s Boobs” is both aggressively misogynistic and sweetly tender). She has brought him three cases. The gimmick here is that all three patients are played by Daniel Radcliffe in various detail-character-specific make-ups. In one he is a monk with odd rashes (changed from a nun in the original series). In another, he is aa high-schooler who collapses during sex. Finally, he is a legendary Jazz musician who may (or may not) have ALS. All three cases interweave throughout the show (unlike the series which focused on one case per episode), and all climax with the recurring song “It’s Never Lupus.” (Except {spoiler alert} one of them is, again, straying from the original episode.)
We also meet House’s best Friend (?) and sounding board / whipping boy, the Oncologist Dr. James Wilson (Leo Norbert Butz) whose wistful ballad “Isn’t it Bromantic?” is a mid-Act I show-stopper. As to House’s team, they are Dr. Alison Cameron (Cynthia Erivo), still obsessing over her dead husband’s contribution to a potential In-Vitro fertilization (“A Sploogey Love Song”), Dr. Robert Chase (Timothée Chalamet) who skillfully maintains an Aussie accent that is NEVER reminiscent of Dylan (“My Outback Outbreak Outing”), and Dr. Eric Foreman (Lin-Manuel Miranda, who, incidentally, was also in the original series) who raps a meta-recognition that his name matches that of a character on That 70’s Show “- Am I really Omar or Am I Topher?”).
Oh, for the record, I must also commend several cameos by Justin Timberlake as nurses on the receiving end of House’s abuse and lack-of-respect. Although each is a different gender, ethnicity, and age, all have the recurring leitmotif (“I’m Going to H.R.”), amusingly reminiscent of the “Skidmarks on My Heart” moments from the Go-Go’s / Sir Philip Sidney musical Head Over Heels.
And, because there are three separate cases, we get to hear “The Look,” an instrumental vamp (with off-screen voices chanting “He Knows He Knows He Knows”) three times, at different points, in different contexts, with different tempos, and in different styles. This is an aggressively eclectic score (which, curiously remains anonymous, though I suspect Lin-Manuel had a hand in much of it).
But, for my money, the highlight of the show is House’s solo “The Vicodin Tango,” in which he goes into a deep emotional self-analysis of his work, his cynicism, his attraction to Dr. Cuddy and his addiction to Vicodin, expressing all five levels of grief until ending with a queasy and not-too-easy acceptance. That Nathan Lane can navigate such an intricate emotional maelstrom without missing a beat of the brilliant choreography is a testament to his skill and charisma. In a sane universe, this performance would be Emmy material. (A Tony may be right out, because I don’t think this show would ever work on stage, logistics being a cruel (but not impossible hint-hint-hint).task mistress.
So, the strengths of House: The Musical are its cast, its score, and especially its sketched-in-acid (or is that Vicodin?) portrait of a genius, of a man obsessed with saving lives and with upsetting apple carts. Its memorable characters do full justice to their broadcast antecedents, in spite of the canon variations in the libretto.
For the record, if you don’t have the final anthem (“Everybody Lies”) stuck in your head for days, you just may be suffering from a complicated collection of brain ailments. Just not Lupus.
-- Brad Rudy (BKRudy@aol.com #HouseTheMusical #PrincetonStreamingService
If you are independently wealthy, you could do worse than the Princeton Streaming Service. It may be pricey ($300/per month) but it includes thousands of hours of lectures and interactive post-graduate-level content. Including all episodes of the original House. Just remind me to cancel before that first month’s subscription hits my account. Click Here for a Preview.
4/1/2025 Preview: WELCOME TO THE VILLAGES! Out of Box Theatre (et alia)
SEX AFTER SIXTY
(Preview Disclaimer: This is actually a review of a performance from last night at the Sharon Morse Performance Center in the Spanish Springs community at Florida’s The Villages. It will be re-cast before Out of Box remounts it, but that is the cast that will follow the show across America. As part of that ensemble, I fully acknowledge my biases but I’m of an age (and political zeitgeist) that I am now allowed to refuse to accept any fault as I consider myself perfectly perfect in every way.)
(As another disclaimer, I have a history with Out of Box Theatre and consider (some) of these people friends and colleagues. In fact, they have invited me to follow this play back to Atlanta as they participate in a rolling tour across the smaller theaters of America. I will be performing as “Old Guy With No Butt Hair,” but only because they asked and only because I miss them mightily and only because they won’t make me sing. Nor should they.)
So, last night I saw a workshop production of Welcome to the Villages! It is a new show by the creators of Menopause and Menopause II, both of which I absolutely hate (to admit another bias). Like those shows, this uses parodies of popular (and not-so-popular) songs to weave a toe-tapping, tongue-twisting tapestry of life and sex amongst the retirees inhabiting Florida’s The Villages. It is having a short run at the Sharon Morse Black Box Theatre in the Spanish Springs community of The Villages, where just last month I witnessed a very good equity production of Pippin.
Unlike their previous menopausal efforts, the creators (who will remain nameless here in an effort to avoid litigation), have (this time) created a show that is a delight, a tuneful excursion to life in The Villages, sometimes (incorrectly) called the “Chlamydia Capital of America.” Sure, there are laughs a-plenty and tons of recognizable Boomer Easter Eggs, with songs those of us with eclectic tastes may just recognize (yes, there is both Lin-Manuel and G&S). But there are also whimsical observations about retirement life, about obsessions with golf, and about the joys and the sorrows of empty nests and the kids who visit too rarely and stay too long.
Opening with a rousing “Welcome to the Villages” (think Something Rotten’s “Welcome to the Renaissance”), we are introduced to three couples – Donny and Melly have been married for over forty years, surviving many of Donny’s affairs and Melly’s obsessions with all things red and Slavic. Marjie and Ayo are two women who had to wait for their respective husbands to pass before acknowledging their mutual attraction and fondness of knitting and scrapbooking and scissoring. Happiest of all are Ben and Jerry, who “came out” before AIDS, have been together longer than any of the couples, and who couldn’t give a French-fart about what society and the world think of them. A recurring source of humor in the piece is their fondness for PDA’s and the other couples’ snarky responses.
We are introduced to the complex “loofah” codes – apparently, you hang a loofah on your golf cart to indicate your sexual preferences. It is to the main couples’ credit that none are interested in any outside-the-relationship hookups. As Ayo tells us in “Welcome to my STD” (Alice Cooper’s “Welcome to my Nightmare”), her ex-husband tended to infect her more often than not, and she is DONE with that fear. Marjie responds with “Seethin’” (Ariana Grande’s “Breathin’”), assuring us that she shares Ayo’s disdain for unnecessarily anonymous intimacy.
Of course, just to give a sense of what really goes on behind closed doors, we are given a glimpse of a wild and crazy bare-butt party as part of the dance break during “The Color of My Loofah” (think Barnum’s “The Color of my World”), hence my participation with the Out-of-Box cast.
Other songs that strike very familiar chords to those of us over sixty are “Depends Depends Depends” (think “Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps” from the Great American Songbook) extolling the virtues of “just letting go” when the bladder aches for release with no amenity within striking distance, There’s also “TIA” (“LBJ” from Hair) about ALL the various short-term memory fails and other acronyms affecting aging brains and lifestyles (TIA, TGA, EOL, TBI, QOL, STI, UTI, and STD for example).” Other well-aimed parodies include “It’s Quiet Upstairs” (Hamilton’s “It’s Quiet Uptown”) about the loss of a spouse in a house with no Stairmaster, “Oh False One,” (G&S’s Pirates of Penzance in which Melly categorizes all of Donny’s betrayals – ironically to everyone except him, “Boomers Have it” (Adele’s “Rumor has it”) extolling the virtues of growing up in the 50’s and ‘60’s (“My Prodigy Password Included My Draft Lottery Number”), a reminder of southern springtime woes ("Footsteps in the Pollen" to the tune of "Lipstick on Your Collar"), the ultimate links hymn "Golfing in the Park with George," and, most memorably, "The Internet is for (what were we talking about?)” (Avenue Q’s “The Internet is for Porn”) highlighting the wide range of computer skills inherent in folks ”of a certain age”. For example, Ben spent a career as a programming pioneer and is able to harness AI to roll over and beg for mercy. On the other hand, Ayo – who speaks fluent Japanese -- can barely navigate her desk-top’s translation programs. One of the funniest moments comes when they all talk about flip-phones, cell-phones, radio phones, but Donny pulls out a soup can with kite string. Okay, you have to be “of a certain age” to get that reference.
Still and all, it comes to a beautiful conclusion as the entire cast (including the now-dressed orgiasts) giving us a rousing “Hey There Good Times” (Cy Coleman’s I Love My Wife) to celebrate all the joyous and adventuresome years to come. They may be fewer in number than those that have come before, but they will no doubt be fuller and more memorable (except for those niggling TIA episodes).
To be honest, folks over sixty have been getting short shrift in American theatre and especially in musicals. For every Gin Game or Driving Miss Daisy or On Golden Pond, there are years of ONLY shows about young folks “coming of age,” finding (or losing) love, or agonizing about work and family and aimlessness and showing an existential malaise that, frankly, those of a more mature bearing, find dull and self-indulgent. It has been OVER FIFTY YEARS since Kander and Ebb’s 70 Girls 70, the only musical I can think of about the elderly. I can only wish an elder artist soon finds the wherewithal to look at seniors and their lives with affection, with respect, and, if done right, with a bit of envy.
If all goes right, Welcome to the Villages will be presented by Out of Box Theatre (Venue TBA) before Midsummer, after which it will travel back to the Villages, then to Louisville, Fargo, Portland, Boca Raton, Topeka, Seattle, Juneau, Honolulu, and, hopefully, Greenwich Village.
The Out of Box production will be produced and designed and directed by Topher Payne, with the cast filled with Out of Box regulars – Carolyn Choe and Bob Smith (recalled from Spain, hopefully) as Melly and Donny, Zip Rampy and Jerry Jobe as Ben and Jerry, and Mary Clare Klooster as Marjie. Ayo has yet to be cast, as Mr. Payne insists on them being played by an Asian female-identifying actor over fifty. Auditions will be announced shortly.
In addition, the party scene will be filled by actors who have graced Out of Box’s stages before and may again – there will be folks younger than I (I trust), but this will be my first time baring it all on stage. On a more exciting note, my wife may join me as “Younger Woman,” now that both her parents are no longer alive to cower in shame. Others signed include Rial Ellsworth, Lauren Coleman, Emily Kalat, Annie Cook, and long-time lighting consultant Jonathan Lyles, who steadfastly has always refused to go before an audience unless he can do it naked.
Welcome to the Villages promises to be a funny, moving, and memorable night at the theatre for more mature audiences. You will be recognized! You will be honored! You will be entertained!
-- Brad Rudy (BKRudy@aol.com #OutOfBoxTheatre #WelcomeToTheVillages #AprilFool)
4/1/2024 MELANIA: THE PUPPET MUSICAL Center for Puppetry Arts Playhouse
PULLING STRINGS
Is it at all possible to create a blatantly non-political musical centered on a divisively political story? The new “puppet musical” in a special Monday-only performance at the Center for Puppetry Arts, makes a valiant attempt, and more often than not, succeeds. Ish.
Diametrically opposed television pundits Rachel Maddow and Tucker Carlson decided the only way to be “fair” would be to collaborate on the life story of former first lady Melania Trump, and, in true Bring it On fashion, were joined by songwriters Lin-Manuel Miranda and Lee Greenwood who collaborate on the score. The result is an amalgam of musical styles that can charitably be described as “goofy,” but, which somehow lingers in the brain like an ailment that can only be controlled with penicillin or abstinence.
We first meet Melanija Knavs in her childhood home of Yugoslavia, as, amid the bloody horrors of the civil war tearing apart her country, she aspires to be a
teenage model. A Disneyesque “I want” song sung completely in Slovenian called “Poser” – the Slovenian word for “One Who Poses”-- introduces our heroine, here embodied as a cute and cuddly Muppet.
Soon known as “Melania Knauss” (with a country-twangy patter song called “A Knauss in the House”), she escapes her war-torn home for the runways of Milan and Paris. It’s not long before she meets Paolo Zampolli, a businessman who sees a spark in Melania that he fans by sponsoring her immigration to God Bless the U.S.A. At this point and for the rest of the show, the 26-year-old heroine is played by Janice of the Muppet Show, sporting a very convincing brunette wig to avoid trademark infringement. (Kudos to the puppeteers who aged the Janice Muppet not a whit to successfully mirror Melania’s apparent lack of aging.)
Enter, Donald Trump. A simple-soul who wants nothing more than to win his billionaire father’s love, mostly by going through wives and proving casinos don’t have to be profitable. His love story with Melania is the heart and soul of the second act (there are three total), with Melania carrying the bulk of the musical load. (For the record, her voice sounds a lot like Broadway star Laura Benanti, but I suspect the Center for Puppetry Arts would rather not shell out the money for that level of talent for a one-night only show).
In any case, it isn’t long before the strings come out, Melania is putting words in the Donald’s voice-actor’s mouth, and the road to the white house is gleaming like a golden shower of Slovenian coins. It soon becomes apparent that Melania’s husband knows nothing about his spouse and would rather not learn – her plaintive “I’m from Slovenia Not Slovakia” is sadly funny and rhythmically alluring. Yes, it’s an angry song, but it ends with laughter and some (off-stage) marital activity.
I’m of two minds on this one. I would have like to have seen some point of view – we all have strong feelings yea or nay about Trump, but the final script (by someone named “George Spelvin” who does their best to blend the conflicting ideas of Maddow and Carlson) is so bland and innocuous that it left me cold. Yes, I like the idea of Melania being not a victim but a master manipulator, the puppeteer behind Trump’s appeal and failures, and she is a much more interesting character here than on newsfeeds from either the left or the right.
For the record, the Center for Puppetry Arts has made a wise decision in NOT including any program (analog or digital) with this one-day performance, merely a leaflet crediting the creators. I’m not sure I want to know what actors are responsible (though they are uniformly excellent) or which artisans created the Henson-rip-off Muppets.
In the final analysis, Melania will be a litmus test – haters will still hate the ex-POTUS, fans will still love him. I doubt if anyone is neutral. But one thing we can agree on – Melania Knause (the script NEVER calls her Melania Trump) deserves credit for platforming a successful modelling and marriage career on the bloody tearing apart of Yugoslavia. And that’s nothing to sneer at!
-- Brad Rudy (BKRudy@aol.com)
#MelaniaThePuppetMusical #AprilFool #ApologiesToCenterForPuppetryArts
4/1/2023 DIK OD TRIAANENEN FOL City Springs Theatre Company
BAIT AND SWITCH
It was with great anticipation that I walked into Sandy Springs’ Byers Theatre for a production of Bin Faaarkrekkion’s Dik od Triaanenen Fol. After all, this is the starkly influential work in Finland’s contribution to the early aughts’ “Scandinavian Sour Milk Musicals” (the answer, if you will, to England’s “Kitchen Sink Dramas” of the 1960’s). And I have been a rabid fan of Ms. Faaarkrennion ever since her seminal performance as the penis in Lars von Trier’s Dogme 95 film Splinter.
Imagine my disappointment when the production turned out to be not only NOT Finnish, not only NOT Dik od Triaanenen Fol, and NOT even featuring Ms. Faaarkrennion, but a musical rendering of Malory’s classic tale of Britain’s King Arthur and his grail-driven knights. It was a classic bait-and-switch scam, a get-'em-in with a false promise, then overwhelm them with anti-Finland propaganda (Fish Schlappers? Really? That hasn’t even been a thing since the Helsinki Accords banned them following the tragic 1953 incident at the School for Peasant One-Legged Children.)
Yes, I know we critics need to remain objective and bury our biases alongside those memories of our aunties with the toxic red lipsticks and the Pall Mall reeking breath. But really? How am I expected to remain objective when my expectations are shattered more soundly than my afternoon naps by the strip mining next door?
So, how was this weak substitute? What was I expected to endure in lieu of the soul stirring, aromatic sour-milk musical I had been waiting my whole life to see?
To be perfectly honest, I didn’t get it. It involved supposedly comic high jinks layered over a profoundly moral quest for chivalric perfection, High-stepping knights in armor, coconut-wielding equestrian feats of questionable authenticity, and a fierce bunny.
I am all in favor of serious looks at the histories and legends of our fellow Euro-zone compatriots (even those who chose to abandon us with their Brexit tomfoolery), but this was just too much. To be perfectly honest, I took the first opportunity to get up and leave, clacking my own coconuts to hie me thence with the utmost celerity.
Will I ever get to see Ms. Faaarkrennion perform live? Will I ever be given the opportunity to experience all five intermissionless hours of Dik od Triaanenen Fol? The chances are growing slimmer than the Black Knight’s ability to arm wrestle.
I’d say more, but I am late for another fish-schlapping session with my kids.
-- Brad Rudy (BKRudy@aol.com #LlamaVision #DikOdTriaanenenFol (Les Sighs) #Aprillipila)
4/1/2022 TULIP DREAMS Serenbe Playhouse
A MOST UNWELCOME RETURN
I know I have publicly stated that I will NOT write about shows I do not like, that I see my role more as a cheerleader than an arbiter of good taste and bad decisions. But sometimes, a production comes along that is as welcome as a lower G.I. malfunction, complete with the smells and sensations of such an affliction, and attention must be paid to those responsible.
Such a production is the first (and probably final) effort by Serenbe Playhouse to recover its clout, its creativity, its popularity. The best that could be said about Tulip Dreams, the Hope-Jones-Wooten jukebox musical about Tiny Tim, is that I will finally NOT be compelled to make that heinously long commute to the forests of Serenbe.
Does the world really need – or even WANT – a musical about Tiny Tim, whose novelty act encompassed only one hit but several albums (and marriages)? Exactly how many songs besides “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” can found to fill out a full evening? The answer is three. Excerpts. But we DO hear “Tiptoe” at least six times – probably more, because I did manage to mercifully doze off midway through the third act.
To counter all the negative social media Serenbe experienced, the producers have chosen to cast with no regard to gender, ethnicity, or age. The only saving grace is that they did chose actors of talent, experience, and skill. Unfortunately, this production was beyond even their considerable skill.
Let’s start with the gimmicky ploy of casting long-time Scrooge Chris Kayser as Tiny Tim (We get it!). Normally, seeing Mr. Kayser in a Weird Al wig singing falsetto would be a guilty pleasure! But did he have to insert “Bah, Humbug” into every scene, every song? And why did no one tell him his five o’clock shadow was so wrong for the scenes of Tiny Tim (aka “Herbert Buckingham Khaury”) as a child with his first ukulele. (Kudos though to my friend Rivka Levin for giving the uke tutor a grandiose over-the-top talent that unfortunately did not pass on to Mr. Kayser’s less-than-adequate ukulele abilities.).
As Tiny Herbert goes through his youth and teenage years, we are treated to the spectacle of Kathleen McManus sporting a broad brogue (Is it Scottish or Irish? Does it matter?) as Mother “Miss Tillie,” (who was, in fact, of Belarusian heritage) and Kayce Grogan-Wallace as Father Butros (here referred to as Butros-Butros for no reason whatsoever). Ms. Grogan-Wallace is, however, the first one to sing “Tiptoe,” and she brings to it her expected break-the-rafters impressive belt voice. Theo Harness, in the only age-gender-ethnicity appropriate casting, is a true delight in a short scene as Butros[-Butros]’s father, a Maronite Priest with a fondness for oddly shaped smokes.
As Tiny Tim finds fame on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in, the “special casting” begins to work a strangely compelling spell. Ann-Carol Pence and Anthony Rodriguez bring to Rowan and Martin a wry humor (and a compelling interpersonal connection) that I often found lacking in the original Laugh-In, Laura Cole makes Johnny Carson amusing with her constant Shakespearean digressions and full-voiced diction (Kudos also to Heidi Cline McKerley and Arden Adams for their unique sharing of the role of Ed McMahon), and Al Stilo channels Roger Ebert in the scene of Tiny Tim’s first success at Page 3, the Greenwich Village Gay and Lesbian Club of Tiny’s first success.
It's when we get to Tiny Tim’s marriages that the casting really goes off the rails. All three women are played by men in the worst clichéd drag imaginable – dime store wigs, men’s clothes, and stiletto heels. It’s as if Annie Hall decided to audition for Ru Paul.
Jeff McKerley tries to recover his Georgia McBride magic as “Miss Vicki,” but has to rely on his usual “Jeff McKerley” schtick to get a smile (no laugh) from the audience (who, truth to tell, all sat in gob-smacked silence at the horror unfolding before them). Accomplishing the impossible task of being funnier than Mr. McKerley were Daniel Parvis as Miss Jan and Robin Bloodworth as Miss Susan, Tiny Tim’s second and third wives. But then again, their scenes were short and they did NOT have to do that outrageous ballet to “Tiptoe” that Mr. McKerley was tasked to do with BOTH Ed McMahons.
Staged at Serenbe’s Oklahoma barn, there is nary a tulip in sight. Still, a small note of nostalgia is incurred by the Isle of Wight Festival recreation of “There Will Always be an England,” decidedly the best moment in the play, especially since it was one of the few times we heard a song other than “Tiptoe Through the Tulips,” (the others being “A Tisket A Tasket” during the Page 3 scene and “On the Good Ship Lollipop” during the Rowan and Martin scene.)
Closing out the play is a syrupy bittersweet deathbed scene, in which Mr. Kayser reprises “Tiptoe” yet one more time, as Robert Wayne (as Tiny Tim biographer Harry Stein) silently takes notes.
So, yes, this play was a disaster from conception to production, the only highlights being the game efforts from the talented cast, and the energetic choreography from Jennifer Smiles that was (often) delightful. I will not talk about the direction and music direction, because, well, they were by people I respect, and I don’t want to hurt them professionally. Needless to say, both Director and Music-Director were part of the cast and should have known better.
Technically, there was no set, and the lights were limited to the setting sun and headlights from a row of pick-up trucks (which dimmed as the evening stretched towards midnight and their batteries slowly drained), so the less said about the tech, the better. There was no live orchestra (how could there be with the MD on stage?) and the tracks were of dubious quality, often staticky and once even skipping like a scratched record.
Is this the worst show I’ve seen at Serenbe? If not, it’s definitely in the bottom five. To make matters worse, my brand-new 2013 Chevy got stuck in the muddy parking space and was scratched by a hit-and-runner.
But I’m not bitter.
-- Brad Rudy (BKRudy@aol.com #AprilFool)
4/1/2021 TITUS AMDRONICUS: THE MUSICAL (JR) Hazzard Children’s Theatre and Bait Shop
WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?
(Bias Alert: I worked with this company and was cheated out of several pay checks by them and tend to view their work through loathing-tinted glasses.)
So, how much credence are we to give a writer-director, who casts children in their musical adaptation of Shakespeare’s bloodiest work, and even mis-spells the leading character’s name?
I cannot imagine the trauma experienced by these kids as they slog their way through such mis-guided musical numbers as “Cutting Out Her Tongue with Love,” “Tamora’s Tasty Tampons,” and “The Saturninus Samba.” And Sondheim should really sue over “The Worst Pies in Rome-don.”
Writer-Director-Producer {Name withheld at their lawyer’s request} has created a deplorable four-hour musical without a single redeeming quality that should only exist to draw confessions out of political prisoners. Parents should sue for compensation for the inevitable therapy bills to bring their (admittedly talented) progeny back to some semblance of sanity.
The less said about their choice to play Tamora themselves and to use THAT image for poster and publicity, the better.
Titus Amdronicus: The Musical (Jr) is a bad show with a bad script and bad music (the accordion, bagpipe, and banjo accompaniment was especially pain-inducing), badly directed and giving anyone unfortunate to sit through its entire four hours a bad feeling that no amount of hot showering will erase.
And I refuse to spend another moment even thinking about it,
-- Brad Rudy (BKRudy@aol.com @bk_rudy #TitusHazzard )