Juvenile Shows vs. "Good Theater"

Several years ago, my dad took me to see the touring production of Monty Python's Spamalot.

I remember walking into the theater in Cleveland, Ohio with hundreds of other Monty Python fans, waiting to see jokes that I had grown up on put to music and lights. We were ready to laugh and not take ourselves seriously and just be in the moment of a show based off of something that I, personally, wouldn't have ever thought to make a musical out of. Well. Most of us.

I don't know why this has stuck with me, but I remember at intermission, a woman turning to the person next to her and going, "Oh, I thought this was high brow."

Can we think about this for a moment? Monty Python. The troupe who crafted such irreverent beauties as Flying Circus, Life of Brian, Holy Grail....you thought that was going to be high brow? Who are you and why are you deconstructing my beautiful theater going experience good madame? Have a velvety cushioned, overpriced seat.

But this statement wasn't a symptom of a new sentiment and it's not something that's gone away since. For many people, theater has the preconceived reputation of being high brow, classy, and upper crust. It's something that's representative of the elite's access to the arts- which is why you saw Instagram posts of every celebrity ever with Lin Manuel Miranda brandishing a Hamilton program, knowing that you would basically have to take out second and third mortgages to maybe get nosebleed seats. (This is a whole other issue that I'm not going to get into, but will instead redirect you to this awesome YouTube video about the issues with another, once-inaccessible musical, Rent). Good theater is transformative, immersive, and, often times, over the top. And as such, it makes some sense that some of the best productions will be the most expensive and/or the most high brow. Quality takes money. Especially on Broadway. I get that.

I grew up with the privilege of having a dad who always took me to see touring productions. And local productions. And came to see my school productions. Growing up, my family wasn't rich, but some of the best gifts I received were theater tickets. The first show I ever saw was a mediocre community production of Grease, where I fell in love instantly. I was eight years old. About a year later, I opened an envelope in my stocking on Christmas Eve and found tickets to Beauty and the Beast. My first professional touring production. It was captivating and I was transformed. And this became a pattern over the years. Theater tickets were  a priority and that's the reason why at the age of 27, I still love absolutely nothing more than sitting in a dubiously comfortable foldout seat, watching a performer in sequined costume belt their face off. I love theater because I had exposure. And because I had exposure, I learned theater appreciation. I took classes on theater in high school. I've done self study. I have an entire bookshelf of plays, musicals, and books about production, directing, and theater history. Because I had exposure as a kid.

I love me some theater-snob-sanctioned high brow theater. The first time I saw The Fantasticks, I literally cried. I can sing all of the parts of Cell Block Tango from Chicago, probably with choreography. Once on This Island gave me a full range of emotions that I still haven't untangled months after seeing it. Fiddler on the Roof has been one of my favorite shows (and movies) since I was in high school. But again...I'm saying this as a 27-year-old adult with a sell-out corporate job, who sees between one and four shows per month. Eight-year-old Rebecca would not have understood most of the shows I see now. Fun Home would have gone right over her head (and also, she wouldn't have gone to see it because it's a little mature for her what with the sexual awakenings and suicide). Same with Spring Awakening (sexual awakenings and suicide, again). Or Miss Saigon (.....do I see too many shows about sex and suicide? Don't answer that.) But I appreciate them now because when I was a kid, people took the time to make theater accessible to me. My dad, buying me tickets that I couldn't afford on my allowance, for sure. But also the people who actually put the time and effort into making shows that kids could and would want to see. And my life, and the lives of a million other theater nerds, were forever changed because of that.

Which brings me to an unlikely source of anger for me here lately.

Spongebob Squarepants.

Most of you know, if you follow theater or pop culture or watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, that a few years ago, a production team started development on a musical based off of the Nickelodeon cartoon, Spongebob Squarepants. It rolled out in late 2017 to great skepticism from many proud theater nerds, myself included. My sister, 14 at at the time, and I listened to two songs from the soundtrack back in November and were shocked to find that they were...in fact...pretty dang good. So when we made plans to go to New York in March of this year, one of the top things on our agenda was to acquire tickets to see this show. We bought our tickets, which were expensive because New York, but relatively affordable because...Spongebob (and it was before Tony Award season), and expected a cute show with cheap laughs because, after all, this is a Nickelodeon cartoon. How good could it be?

Very, actually.

The show was filled with bright colors. Ridiculous sound effects. Squidward tap dancing with extra legs (will never be over this fact, by the way. Gavin Lee was robbed of that Tony Award and you all can fight me.) It was an experience that took my skeptical, theater snob heart, and punched it in the face. It was clever. It was fun. It was loud.

And it was GOOD.

Also worth pointing out, it was my sister's first time to see a show on Broadway. (And second. We went twice. Don't @ us.) 

On my end, there was a hefty amount of mockery and skepticism from people around me. One of my best friends, for example, sent me text messages taunting me throughout my New York trip after I, admittedly went a little fan girl ham on my Instagram feed, having been able to take selfies with some of the cast and freaking out. One of the theater nerds at work, who actually produces shows, admitted that he "didn't get" the show. It came to light after this conversation that he hadn't ever actually watched the cartoon, so like, that made sense, but then, bruh, you're not the audience. I expressed this to him, being younger and having grown up watching the show, I had an appreciation for what this did with regards to accessibility. I expressed that I liked that there was a big, flashy, semi-affordable show on Broadway that catered to kids for once. And he said something painfully annoying.

"Yeah, but kids aren't the ones who pay to keep a show in business."

The other thing worth noting is that I follow an excessive number of people in the theater business on social media and the vast majority of them were raving about the production too. I was converted. This all had to be a good sign. I was ready for them to sweep the awards. I was an instant fan girl and I was ready for award season to come and validate all of the good feelings that I had, while simultaneously converting the hold-out theater snobs who would see an underdog show getting the credit it so fiercely deserved.

And that....kind of happened.

Spongebob ended up being the most nominated show on Broadway this year. Drama Desk. Critics' Circle. Tony Awards. Stacks of well-deserved nominations, which I cheered on as they rolled out. Ethan Slater and Gavin Lee won Drama Desk awards for their roles and I was giddy. The show received Best New Musical for Critics' Circle and Drama Desk and I started to get more excited. It was happening. A kids' show was getting the recognition it deserved. This was the proof that you could be goofy and silly and still be good theater. How freaking cool for baby theater nerds.

And then came Tony Award night. I had a mini-party at my house with pizza, lots of wine, and close, equally theatrically inclined, friends, who yelled and cheered at the TV with such force that I think I now kind of understand why people get so hyped about the Super Bowl. So we sat there, watching a collection of "low-brow" shows: Mean Girls, Spongebob, Frozen (it may be Disney, but you can't make me like it), go up against The Band's Visit, a more traditionally-focused production in that it contains substance, meaning, and beautiful orchestrations rather than, as I understand it (not having seen or read the show yet) gags and fun, flashy numbers. The Band's Visit is more contemplative, and necessarily so. It's incredibly important as it focuses on Middle Eastern culture and casted Middle Eastern actors in a time where it is, in many circles, very, very hard to be a person of Middle Eastern descent. I love what the show has done for visibility and I knew deep down in my heart that it was going to win Best Musical. And I was honestly fine with that. I love the music. What I know of the premise, I like. And as someone who can't sing well with perfect posture, watching Katrina Lenk belt while lounging in a bistro chair is basically as close as I will get to watching an actual, hand to God MIRACLE on this earth. But I've read reviews and know it had some places that it lacked. And so I was, nonetheless, shocked when it swept up every award. Best Book, I thought, was a surefire win for Tina Fey and Mean Girls. I really thought that Ethan Slater had a shot at the win for Best Actor in a Musical. But I watched as even things like sound design snubbed my beloved baby show, and I got confused. And a little annoyed because I had literally sat directly next to the sound booth and watched a man single-handedly craft a cartoon-reminiscent experience using things like xylophones, squeak toys, and bicycle horns.

It felt like an obvious choice. A "necessary" choice. An actual choice to refuse giving recognition to shows with lesser source material because they didn't meet the standards of traditional theater. And that made me so sad and disappointed, but I was overall unsurprised. I watched as Spongebob continued to sell well. I watched as my ability to buy tickets to see Mean Girls when I go back to New York in July slip away (or rather, to be subject to INSANE resell prices). And I was sated. They may not have got the recognition they deserved, but goshdarnit, people liked them. And maybe that was okay. The important thing was, after all, that they were providing accessible exposure for kids who would go on and come to love the theater for a lifetime.

And then the story from BroadwayWorld showed up on my newsfeed. Developers had been granted permission to renovate and raise the Palace Theater to create more retail space in Times Square (which, as anyone who's been to Times Square knows, is in very short supply. I know that when I'm looking for a Statue of Liberty paperweight, I often shake my fist to the gods and shout "IF ONLY THERE WERE ONE MORE KIOSK HERE, I WOULD BE SATISFIED"). The Palace Theater....where Spongebob is playing. It seemed counterintuitive. Shows close because of lack of public interest, because the money dries up. That wasn't happening here. Maybe it was just saying that once the show closed, they would break ground.

Unfortunately, no. Word broke this weekend that the show is closing in early September and I was HEATED.

You see, I will admit that I have a deep love for this show that many others do not share. And that's fine. The great thing about the theater community is that it is so dang innovative that there will always be something new. Something that will appeal to pretty much everyone. No two people will have the exact same theatrical palate and that's so very fine. But what I'm seeing is something that goes beyond one show being snubbed in favor of commercialism and high brow sensibilities. It gives me concern for the future of accessible theater, of kids' theater, in general.

If you dive into the theater edge of social media, you'll see a gaggle of teenagers who have found their community in musicals. They've picked up on messages and allowed them to help them through the identity crises that are so common for that age range. When I was 13, Wicked burst onto the scene (also not winning the Best Musical Tony, for what it's worth), giving a quiet, bullied kid who felt all too visible and invisible at once a voice through Elphaba. My sister, at the same age, saw herself in Dear Evan Hansen and the various coping mechanisms displayed through the show's characters. My brother, not a huge theater fan overall, fell in LOVE with Hamilton and it's one of maybe two or three soundtracks that he'll sing along with my sister and I to. And I want kids to keep being able to see themselves and their interests in theater. Things like this make me worry for shows like Be More Chill, a show that is coming to New York because of enthusiastic, persistent, and, for the majority, teenage fans who saw themselves in Michael's panic attacks, Jeremy's struggle for acceptance, Brooke's and Chloe's self-esteem and insecurities, and Christine's love of theater. I'm worried because I've already heard the critiques.

"It's a juvenile show."

"It lacks substance."

"The fandom is made up of teenage girls."

I'm concerned that high brow sensibility will get in the way of a great show that means so much to so many people. Theater is an amazing means to help people find themselves and their passions. And sometimes those people are kids and teenagers. Sometimes, they're eight-year-old girls watching community productions where the lyrics to Grease Lightning are censored who will go on to love theater almost twenty years later so much that they dream of producing shows themselves.

Please don't sell these shows short. Juvenile does not equal bad theater. Not every show has to make you rethink your life. Not every show needs to represent you, your demographic, or your social interests. What shows do need, though, is the opportunity to do well and provide that magic.

That's what I want to do someday. I want to make shows that make people love theater as much as I do. To find an escape in it like I do. To find themselves in it like I have, my sister has, and a million other drama nerds have.

I just hope that the system gives me that chance.

In the meantime, you have 10 more weeks to see a really cool show at the Palace Theater in Times Square before it succumbs to corporate greed and nonsense. If you have the chance, do it. See it. 

I'm pretty sure you'll be both as delighted as I was and angry as I am.