Skip to main content

"Fiddler on the Roof" at Paper Mill

 "Fiddler on the Roof" isn't aging well. The book is dusty; too many laughs feel dutiful rather than earned. Yente will steal your apples! Motel has a new "birth," but it's a sewing machine, not a human! Sometimes I just don't know, am I talking about a dowry or the sale of a milk cow?


In truth, "Fiddler" was not universally dazzling even in its first run. Famously, Philip Roth called it "shtetl kitsch," and Cynthia Ozick said it was an "emptied out, prettified romantic vulgarization" of Sholom Aleichem's work.

One problem is with the character of Tevye. Too often, he is seen reacting; he doesn't have a strong wish, and so he bounces from one child to the other, until the curtain call. (His wish for money is presented as a joke; we aren't meant to take this very seriously.) The Tevye in the show's final number could easily be the Tevye in the show's opening number; he greets news of his eviction with an unfunny quip ("This is why I always wear my hat!") -- and the curtain falls. (The song "Anatevka" is especially distasteful to me, and on Friday, one member of the audience began loudly singing along. I suspect this is because she was no longer absorbed in the events that were happening on the stage.)

It seems to me that Bock and Harnick strike gold with Hodel, who maybe deserves to be the protagonist. Hodel risks everything--abandoning home for a prison camp, in Siberia--in the name of love. Wisely, the writers allow Hodel to articulate what she is thinking:

Oh, what a melancholy choice this is--
Wanting home, wanting him....
Closing my heart to every hope but his--
Leaving the home I love.
There where my heart has settled long ago--
I must go.
I must go.
Who could imagine I'd be wandering so
Far from the home I love?

In my view, the show is never more intelligent than it is in Hodel's three minutes of prominence. I have to tell it as I see it.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla

Susie at Three

 In the "Ramona Quimby" books, Ramona copes with existential horror; she is wearing a costume, for Halloween, and she entertains the thought that *no one* in her world might recognize her. If no one sees her as Ramona, then who is she? I tried to play a game with my daughter; I asked, "Are you my cinnamon donut?" To my surprise, Susie was sort of furious. "I am *not* your cinnamon donut. I am Susie." "Are you my berry lollipop?" "I am *not* your berry lollipop. I am Susie." I understand that I myself am impetuous, but it's a new experience to see this same behavior in a tiny human. Susie will not accept any help, when approaching her carseat, but, also, she lacks a plan; she just hurls herself at the seat, then gets distracted. She throws a look over her shoulder, to give me new instructions: "Papa, do NOT help me. Do NOT carry me right now." Except that she has heard the question, "Carry you?" many, many times,