One Mo’ Time?

While waiting for a show to begin recently, I was sitting and reading when my buddy Adam Feldman from TimeOut worked his way into the row behind me and gave a little cry of delight. The reason: He saw in my hands a paperback of Caroline, or Change. I know from once sharing a panel discussion with Feldman that this was by far his favorite musical of the 2003-2004 season.

“Hey,” he said, “there’s a production of Caroline in Washington this season, and another in Boston.” To which I replied, “I imagine you’re going to both.” I was surprised when Adam shrugged and said, “Well, my memories and feelings about the original production are so strong, I don’t know if I want to take a chance on a new one.”

It’s a dilemma that fervent theatergoers often encounter. We’ve seen a show that made us bolt out of our seats at the final curtain and clap almost till our hands required medical attention. We then attended again (maybe again and again), and found ourselves crying “Bravo!” and/or “Brava!” Then our beloved show closed and was gone until another troupe decided to do it. Should we go to that play we loved at the Cort Theatre when it plays at a LORT theater? Will we be there when that musical we loved at the St. James is at the St. James Episcopal Church?

My little talk with Adam happened during the same week when many people asked me, “So, how was The Golden Apple at Bard College?” — automatically assuming that I’d attended. How often does one get to see one of the musical theater’s greatest masterpieces? But I didn’t go, and my official reason was: “In my nearly 7,000 trips to the theater, The Golden Apple that I saw at Boston University in 1974, directed by Word (The Fantasticks) Baker, is one of the 10 best shows I’ve ever seen. So I feel I saw it.” But the real answer is that I had a book due at a publisher’s and needed to finish it. Had I not been busy, I would have gone to Bard. After all, when The Golden Apple played the York Theatre in 1982, I certainly attended and didn’t worry that it wouldn’t be as good as the B.U. production. (It wasn’t — wonderful though it was.)

I usually do attend subsequent productions of shows I adored, even though I suspect they won’t be as good. You’d think I wouldn’t, considering what happened to me with the musical Two Gentlemen of Verona in 1976. I’d been such a fan of the original New York production that when my beloved Trinity Rep in Providence announced it was doing the show, I called all my fellow Bostonian friends and insisted that they not miss this great experience. The night came and 12 of us in three cars drove through a light snow the 40-plus miles from suburban Boston to downtown Rhode Island, where the program stated “additional music and lyrics by Robert Black, William Damkoehler, Vern Graham, Richard Cumming, and Queen Elizabeth I.” Yes, the director threw in some of the Queen’s utterances from way back when, and even made her a character in the show. As we left the theater and walked into what was now a blizzard, 11 people glared at me in fury. I sputtered that this wasn’t the real show and that we should blame the director. (Who was he? Word (The Fantasticks) Baker!)

Even when revivals are revivals, not revisals, I’ve often moaned at an inferior performance of a show I loved the first time out. I’m not alone: Kathy Najimy once told me she saw a Godspell that so infuriated her, she actually went backstage and started yelling, “No, no! You’re doing it all wrong!” (I’ve not gone that far.) But reacting in outrage is not the only way to go. In 1993, I saw a bus-and-truck of Cabaret that was a far cry from the thrilling 1966 Broadway production. It was terribly tacky, yet I enjoyed myself immensely, and not because the Berlin that Cabaret portrays is supposed to be tacky. No, I just enjoyed seeing that, decades later, someone thought enough of the show to do it again.

What’s more, seeing a play or musical revived — even under dire circumstances — is a way to keep the original production in your head. The first time I saw Me and My Girl, I was very impressed with Robert Lindsay as Bill Snibson, the poor relation who’s brought into a mansion where he’s to meet dukes, duchesses, et al. Lindsay’s Bill was terrified to be in that position; with his hat literally in his hand, he gave deferential nods and occasionally thrust a thumb up in a friendly manner, the way they did in his neighborhood. My heart broke for him, for we’ve all been in similar circumstances when meeting “important” people, wondering what they think of us or if we’re doing something wrong. But most of the subsequent Snibsons I’ve seen have entered like a house afire, slapping people on the back and so on. That sort of thing makes me not like Bill, for now I want this boor taken down a peg. So I keep going back to Me and My Girl because I find it’s a way to remember how wonderful Lindsay was and remind myself that no one else can ever touch him.

Of course, every now and then, there’s a delightful surprise in a new production of a show. I never thought I’d see a Daddy Warbucks who loved Little Orphan Annie more than Reid Shelton did in the original, but at the Bucks County Playhouse in 1991, Stephen Newport eclipsed him in that regard. So, Adam, I do hope you’ll go see Caroline, or Change in Washington and/or in Boston. I’ll bet you won’t be sorry, and maybe you’ll even be grateful.

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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@theatermania.com]