A review
As I rounded the corner onto West 45th Street, I could tell I was in for a night of opulence before I even reached the theatre. The Al Hirschfeld marquee glowed a brilliant red that lit up half the block. This was no ordinary marquee – heavy, gleaming letters spelling out the name of the famous French cabaret, a large and lusciously painted “L’amour” splashed across the building’s brick wall, and an illuminated elephant watering itself advertised the Tony-award winning musical to one and all (whether you wanted to see it or not).
Inside was no less extravagant; in fact, it was decidedly more so. I don’t always appreciate great attention to detail, but even I couldn’t miss the fact that the entire auditorium had been decorated to look like the inside of the Moulin Rouge. Heavy red fabrics draped all the walls, small gold cherubs adorned the pillars, and little windmills were positioned throughout the room. But it was the set that took everyone’s breath away. I myself uttered a “wow” as I showed the usher my ticket and entered the auditorium. If I had thought the marquee was bright, then the set was blinding. Everything was red, the Moulin Rouge’s signature sultry shade, and there were lights everywhere. Huge neon lettering displaying the show’s title wrapped around the front of the stage. High up stage left held the iconic red windmill, and stage right had the equally iconic elephant (Satine’s “dressing room”). Everything glittered, purposely assaulting the senses, and I was properly primed for the spectacle I was about to see.
Directed by Alex Timbers, Moulin Rouge! The Musical is adapted from Baz Luhrmann’s 2001 film of the same name which, I am not embarrassed to say, was my raison d’être for a few years in high school. I could sing every song and recite every line and so I was, of course, a bit apprehensive as to what it would be like seeing my childhood fantasy brought to life. I was not disappointed. The story follows Christian (Aaron Tveit) and Satine (Natalie Mendoza) living in 1899’s Paris. The latter, a celebrated courtesan and star of the famed Moulin Rouge club. The former, a poor writer in search of his bohemian ideals: truth, beauty, freedom, and love.
At about ten minutes to curtain, the performers started appearing on stage, setting the scene. Cabaret girls in flashy corsets with fantastic pink hair, gentlemen in top hat and tails, and circus types, including a jester, milled about the stage, silent but vivid. Showtime was indicated by the arrival of Aaron Tveit – I use the actor’s name rather than his character’s because, fresh off of winning his Tony a few days earlier, he was who the screaming girls in the audience came to see. It must have been a bit difficult, settling into a character named Christian when the audience is shrieking, “Aaron!” but he managed.
Let me say that, from the start, I didn’t love him as Christian. I’m not sure if it was because the writers chose to make the character an American from “Lima, Ohio” (perhaps Tveit can’t do a convincing English/Irish/Scottish accent?), or because he seemed a bit too young for his romantic counterpart, but either way, I didn’t feel like the bohemian, love-obsessed artist settled under his skin at any point. Now, to be clear: he was simply splendid to watch, but let’s just say I don’t think he would have won the Tony if he hadn’t been the only person in his category.
As the company took their places, a deep, resounding, and familiar riff began pulsing through the theatre and the show took off like a shot. After only a few minutes, I had the naïve but genuine thought: I am going to love every minute of this. Well, in the end I wouldn’t, but as I think back over the opening number I’m still not surprised I felt that way. It was loud. It was flashy. It was energetic. It was truly spectacular. I felt as though the show reached past the proscenium, grabbed me by the face, and yanked me into the overwhelmingly heady world of the Moulin Rouge. The dancers were phenomenal, and the orchestrations exceedingly impressive. Both Act I and Act II’s opening numbers were worth the price of admission alone, so I have no regrets over coughing up (pun intended, for anyone who knows the plot) the money to see this Broadway megamusical.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT #1:
I didn’t think I needed to say this, but after sitting through this performance it’s clear that I do. My friends, a Broadway musical is not a concert. I know you know every song that’s being sung. I get that you’re excited. But I just shelled out a ton of money to hear these professionals sing, and when I can’t hear them because you and Becky and Ashley are excitedly singing along to Pink’s “Raise Your Glass,” someone’s gonna get punched. It’ll probably be Becky. So please, download the soundtrack when you get home and belt it out in the shower. Until then, please shut your mouth. Thank you!
The first fifteen minutes raced by, but then as it became time to flesh out some plot lines, the show became a tad silly. Of course, I know what you’re about to say: Moulin Rouge! The Movie was pretty darn silly. But that film was art; Baz Luhrmann’s direction was akin to Barnum using his innovative three-ring circus – the audience’s eye is directed to what the ringmaster wants it to see, not a boy shoveling elephant muck, nor flimsy plot holes. With this musical adaptation, the ridiculous parts that Luhrmann was able to “art” over were laid bare on the stage and delivered a sucker punch right to the show’s gut. It first happened around the time Satine is dancing with Christian, believing him to be the Duke she’s to seduce. The glamour fell away a bit and I saw the awkwardly creaking mechanics of a scene that’s necessary for driving the plot forward, but which didn’t get the same lavish attention of its creator as other, more enjoyable numbers.
The show is a jukebox musical, although I hesitate to term it as such because it’s like no jukebox musical I’ve ever seen – and we’ve been inundated with them in the last decade or two. Mamma Mia, anyone? Justin Levine and his co-orchestrators must have been drinking a little absinthe themselves to have come up with their jaw-dropping and creative score. To call the songs “mash-ups” is to do them an injustice; the composers didn’t just combine two songs to stand side-by-side as one, but rather took anywhere from three to ten songs, dropped them in a blender, mixed them up, baked them in an oven and produced clever and beautiful new music. A bit of Googling tells me that no fewer than seventy songs have been used in the new stage adaptation. They come fast and furious, and it’s flabbergasting.
There were times, however, when I was left wondering why certain popular songs were even put into the show (that’s the beauty of a jukebox musical: depending on your genre, you have a LOT of options). One of the only solos in the show comes when Satine sings Katy Perry’s “Firework” and contemplates her bedraggled life. Not wanting to use lyrics like “do you ever feel like a plastic bag,” the composers had to take a very small slice of the song and have her repeat lyrics that fit the show to turn it into a whole number. Not to mention the fact that it’s so iconic a song that it was, perhaps, too iconic for a lead’s solo. And putting one more nail in the coffin that I’ve boxed this paragraph into, I need to also mention that Mendoza’s vocals were not suited to a Katy Perry song. This is in no way her fault; the only person’s voice suited to singing Katy Perry songs is Katy herself. Mendoza slipped more than once into a beautiful soprano tone that showed clear vocal skill and was supremely weird to hear singing about being a firework. When she did take a breath to belt, I could see the veins popping out of her neck and hear the strain in her throaty voice.
Although I didn’t feel much chemistry between Tveit and Mendoza playing the star-crossed lovers, I still enjoyed all their love scenes and the accompanying music. Act I closed with an updated and excellent version of the famous “Elephant Love Medley,” and then I jumped up to try and sprint to the ladies’ room.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT #2:
If you are ever lucky enough to see a show at the Al Hirschfeld theatre, ladies, please take this valuable tidbit of knowledge I wish I’d had: At eight minutes into intermission, the men’s room becomes a gender-neutral washroom. Well, praise be, Broadway theatres are finally thinking about logistics. I didn’t know this, and so found myself in the most comically-long line imaginable. The ladies’ room is downstairs towards the back of the lobby, and the line not only extended up the stairs to the main floor, but wrapped around the entire lobby. We poor ladies, standing with our legs crossed tightly at the knees, looked up at the attendants with pleading eyes. Would we even make it before intermission was over? It seemed unlikely. Anyone who knows me even a little knows that not peeing at intermission is simply not an option, so I was disappointed that I would miss the beginning of Act II. But then, an angel of mercy opened up a break in the stanchions and said in a loud, clear voice, “Anyone who would like to use the men’s room is now welcome to do so.” I bolted, as did a few other women near me, but not nearly as many as I would have guessed. Oh well, they missed the life-changing opening number for Act II, and I didn’t. I had to see some bums as I passed the urinals towards the stalls, but believe me, it was totally worth it.
Act II went rollicking along quite nicely. I think I actually enjoyed it more than Act I because it was packed full of those big numbers I keep extolling, with less time for any weak dialogue or awkward emotional self-reflection. The highlight for me, without question, was “Chandelier” and its transition into “El Tango de Roxane” (the latter being the number that young ladies everywhere, myself included, anxiously awaited to see if it would live up to our adolescent memories. It did.). In a bit of a departure from the original story, Harold Zidler (played by the always-perfect Danny Burstein) distracts Christian from pursuing Satine by pouring superfluous amounts of absinthe down his throat. The bohemians have a party with the green fairy, belting out Sia’s famous party-girl number, which then transitions into Christian’s alcohol-fueled jealousy song/tango/inner turmoil breakdown (no longer sung by the Argentinean, as in the film). It was absolutely breathtaking. My hands covered my mouth (or rather, my mask) in shock the entire time. I was in awe.
The Argentinean’s character has been fleshed out from its movie days. No longer a narcoleptic and no longer a complete moron, Santiago (Ricky Rojas) is an intelligent bohemian compatriot to Toulouse-Lautrec, as well as an accomplished dancer. His routines with Nini (Robyn Hurder) were electrifying, and the couple’s skill on the dance floor stunning.
The only thing that detracted from Act II for me was this:
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT #3:
During the first act, the gentleman next to me had been taking up a bit more space than he was allotted, but it wasn’t too bad. When I returned from intermission, however, he had his coat on his lap, the sleeves sprawling into my seat, and he man-spread his knees as wide as they could possibly go. Not having those kind of parts between my legs, I don’t know how necessary this is, but unfortunately in a cramped Broadway theatre, you just don’t have that luxury, gents. To gentlemen theatre-goers everywhere: if your knees (or any part of you, really) are past the left and right edges of your seat, then you are man-spreading and using your inherent but incorrect sense of superiority to tell yourselves it’s acceptable.
Finally, after having been shoved over to the left side of my seat for a few minutes, I decided to push back. I let my right knee line up exactly with the edge of my seat, which pushed his left knee back towards him. He looked at me in surprise. I ignored him and didn’t move my leg to make room for his. He might have gotten the message, but I doubt he learned his lesson. Despite my fidgeting, his coat remained half in my lap for the remainder of the show.
After seeing this show, I have a new respect for lighting as stagecraft. The lighting took phenomenal dance numbers and elevated them to something I’ve never seen before on a stage. The use of lighting so intertwined with choreography was new to me, and created fantastic tableaux that are burned into my memory.
I feel like this is a show that simply has to be seen live. The soundtrack, which I’ve since listened to (I went into the show totally fresh, and I would suggest you do too, if you can), doesn’t really do the whole thing justice. And watching an illegal bootleg (which I have definitely never, ever done…) couldn’t capture the special effects, nor the overwhelming energy, that truly made this show a one-of-a-kind beast.
Overall, the show was a success. Of course it was; it won ten Tony’s. To be honest, it was two and a half hours of getting to hear Aaron Tveit sing and I’m not mad about that. Could you tell he was living it up and enjoying every riff, every vocal run, every high belt that came out of his mouth? Absolutely. Was he showing off a bit? For sure. Is he amazingly talented and does he deserve two-plus hours of uninterrupted singing time? Honestly, yes. So I have no problem with how much more singing he did compared to everyone else. So much so that, when Natalie Mendoza got the final bow instead of him, I was a bit confused. To everyone watching, Moulin Rouge! The Musical was clearly Aaron Tveit’s show. And I “can-can-can” deal with that just fine.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT #4:
As soon as the curtain fell on the final number, the audience jumped to its feet. Let me just take a moment to mourn the traditional standing ovation. Lore tells us that the first standing ovation occurred in the mid-eighteenth century, when King George II was so overcome by a performance of Handel’s Messiah that he leapt to his feet in rapture and – because he was the king – so did everyone else. But in 2021, we all now leap to our feet because we think it’s expected of us. Well, it’s not. A standing “O” should be reserved for only the most astonishing, impressive, and hardworking performance. It’s a gesture that says, “Everything was great, but you were even better.” Now that gesture is empty and meaningless. Not to mention the fact that these days there is usually a surprise final number, and now we’re all standing like idiots when we could be sitting comfortably in our chairs. So please, I beg of you: sit down and clap like a normal person, and save this special gift for the performer, or show, that really deserves it.
