Skip to main content

The Lost Boys

 "The Lost Boys" is a musical about Ronald Reagan. He appears on a TV screen, giving a lecture about family values; later, he takes the shape of Broadway star Paul Nolan, a nerdy guy in a suit who talks about what happens when the country is "overrun" with single moms. (You might think, why does Paul Nolan have such an apparently small role? Just you wait.)


Pitted against Paul Nolan is Shoshana Bean, who just wants a job, a romance, an intact family, and a sense of instant community. Bean's desperation leads her to make questionable choices--should she really agree to work at a video rental outlet without anything like a basic "candidate interview"? If a new friend makes approving remarks about Goldwater, should Bean stick around?

Bean becomes aware of her mistakes; before it's too late, she grabs a stake and murders a trickster vampire. This raises questions. Bean may have eliminated Ronald Reagan--but is she any closer to a job, a romance, an intact family, a sense of community? The show wants us to think she has achieved at least some of her goals--goals mentioned in a kind of watery, vague choral finale--but it's not clear to me that she has really grown or learned a valuable lesson. It doesn't seem difficult for her to kill her vampire. There isn't much of an inner struggle in the minutes leading up to the big confrontation.

That's sort of OK--because this show tosses aerial stunts, and firecracker tricks, and beautifully flickering lights onto the stage. But I was reminded of "Shucked"--where a gifted director tried to distract viewers from weak material by way of excessive jokiness. You can dress up a pig in sequins. You're still looking at a pig.

I'm curious to see if this one will run for a full year.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

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...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more