![Every conversation went one of two ways.
“I’m seeing Rent tonight.”“AMAZING. I WANT TO HEAR ALL ABOUT IT.”
“I’m seeing Rent tonight.”“Uh, okay. Why? I mean, have fun.”
Look, what am I going to do, apologize? Pretend that Rent was not a defining element of my teenage cultural history? I mean, yeah, absolutely, I would also love to now report to you that it was something much cooler, something a little less, I don’t know. Something overall less ludicrous, more sensible, more complex, more rock and roll. Something with fewer dancing homeless people. But I didn’t know from—! Just, one day, barely a teenager, I went to Record Town, and I purchased the Original Broadway Cast Recording, and I brought it home and I put it on and I sat hovering over the libretto, trying to figure out what was going on, who the hell these people were, what age, sex, suffering. Was Angel a lady or a gentleman, what was a Squeegie Man. Sorting through the lyrics of “La Vie Boheme,” I only caught about a tenth of the references: Absolut, yogurt, Maya Angelou, Sondheim, turpentine. I scrawled the lyrics in notebooks and on book covers, I subscribed to the most gossipy of the Rent listservs, I traded for cassette tape bootlegs and video compilations (the cast singing at the White House, press b-roll, the grainy so-called “Opening Night” video that was actually shot during previews). Was anyone cooler than me, the girl who sat backstage during rehearsals for her high school’s production of Crazy For You, legs folded underneath, Walkman in hand, listening to audio of the 1/4/98 performance (Anthony Rapp’s [First] Last Show [with Norbert Leo Butz as Roger and Wilson Cruz as Angel])? Doubtful.
Eventually yes I also saw the show, first on tour (twice) and then on Broadway (more), and that was good, that was so good, that was everything and everything. Then I moved to New York and moved on to other things and realized slowly that the thing that had taught me things was considered, by many, to be terrible. And terrible. Was it terrible? It was too late for me to know the difference. Rent wasn’t Rent to me, anymore, Rent was a collection of in-jokes and passionate declarations and road trips chaperoned by my mother. Were those things terrible? There was an expression that the listserv used to have, an eye-rolling assessment of the people who left the fandom in snit fits: OVER Rent. She’s so OVER Rent. She’s too cool to try lotto anymore, she no longer cares to write painstakingly throrough assessments of the latest Mr. Grey and Others, she says she’s solely a fan of Aida now but honestly Adam Pascal is on thin ice. OVERRent. I didn’t want to be that. So I released the fandom, but not the fondness. And sometimes now at karaoke my friend Andrea and I will sing “Out Tonight” & “Another Day.” She sings Mimi and I sing Roger. Turns out, I am a really great Roger.
Which should be the end. But this spring, this summer? This spring/summer, a new production opened Off-Broadway, directed again by Michael Grief but now in a smaller space, in a different decade. I wanted to see it, so I saw it. On Friday. And I thought maybe time would have roughed down those fangirl habits, maybe I’d watch with my grown-up brain, the critic. But instead the show started and immediately I was tracking the show with the breathless glee of the girl who has listened to international bootlegs and knows her Christian Mena from her Manley Pope. For whom seeing the show again is like rolling through her hometown. And:
Everyone looks so young, because they are. (It helps. They weren’t always, before.) Everyone can dance. The band is in the back and the blocking is heavy on the vertical, heavy on grabbing hold of things and swinging yourself around and scaring me half to death. Things are different but they aren’t really. They added one cell phone, and it makes sense (Benny always had one; now Joanne has one as well). They added two joints. They added a lot of video. They took away the sheet in “Contact” and replaced it with some truly horrible video. “La Vie Boheme” is still sung on a table. “What You Own” is now sung in a spinning box and backed by a montage of current affairs c. 1992 sorry did I briefly flash back to American Idiot ugh. “One Song Glory” is mostly clear of deep-knee bends. The costumes are new except for the pieces that aren’t, the second act callbacks: Mimi’s pink dress with the belt and the leopard-print mic pack; Collins’ Papi shirt. There’s still glitter in Mimi’s hair when she shakes it out during “Out Tonight.” Angel doesn’t jump on a table anymore during “Today For You” but now she’s a damn fine drummer. “Tango: Maureen” remains a delight. Mark uses a camcorder, now, not a super 8. The riot cops look less authentic than ever. I cried silently and fully during Angel’s funeral. And for the first time, “Over the Moon” made me laugh.
It’s a quick show. Something I suppose I always knew. The speed keeps it entertaining, curtain to curtain, but it must be a drag to follow if you’re not already familiar. Details are lost in lines between lyrics, actors rush themselves to grab hold of the tempos and the best ones are able to hide that effort. Do they rush to whisk you past the silliest bits, about what’s a Cyber-Studio anyway and really, seriously, everyone’s beepers go off at once? And where do they stay during the week before Christmas and New Year’s and why does it take Benny’s wife so long to catch on and when does Collins have time to teach classes and why does Alexi Darling keep after Mark for so long. Who cares, who cares. I DON’T OWN EMOTION, I RE-EH-EH-EH-EH-ENT!
After the show you can slide up to the bar and buy a Mango: Maureen or a t-shirt that says THIS DIVA NEEDS HER STAGE and I got to thinking I hope there’s a new cast recording, soon, I hope, because there’s a fourteen-year-old girl out there and there are things in this show that she needs. It’ll be awhile before she figures out what those things are, were, but in the meantime, she’ll have fun.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ltxsrv5mBf1qz8tdso1_500.jpg)
Every conversation went one of two ways.
“I’m seeing Rent tonight.”
“AMAZING. I WANT TO HEAR ALL ABOUT IT.”
“I’m seeing Rent tonight.”
“Uh, okay. Why? I mean, have fun.”
Look, what am I going to do, apologize? Pretend that Rent was not a defining element of my teenage cultural history? I mean, yeah, absolutely, I would also love to now report to you that it was something much cooler, something a little less, I don’t know. Something overall less ludicrous, more sensible, more complex, more rock and roll. Something with fewer dancing homeless people. But I didn’t know from—! Just, one day, barely a teenager, I went to Record Town, and I purchased the Original Broadway Cast Recording, and I brought it home and I put it on and I sat hovering over the libretto, trying to figure out what was going on, who the hell these people were, what age, sex, suffering. Was Angel a lady or a gentleman, what was a Squeegie Man. Sorting through the lyrics of “La Vie Boheme,” I only caught about a tenth of the references: Absolut, yogurt, Maya Angelou, Sondheim, turpentine. I scrawled the lyrics in notebooks and on book covers, I subscribed to the most gossipy of the Rent listservs, I traded for cassette tape bootlegs and video compilations (the cast singing at the White House, press b-roll, the grainy so-called “Opening Night” video that was actually shot during previews). Was anyone cooler than me, the girl who sat backstage during rehearsals for her high school’s production of Crazy For You, legs folded underneath, Walkman in hand, listening to audio of the 1/4/98 performance (Anthony Rapp’s [First] Last Show [with Norbert Leo Butz as Roger and Wilson Cruz as Angel])? Doubtful.
Eventually yes I also saw the show, first on tour (twice) and then on Broadway (more), and that was good, that was so good, that was everything and everything. Then I moved to New York and moved on to other things and realized slowly that the thing that had taught me things was considered, by many, to be terrible. And terrible. Was it terrible? It was too late for me to know the difference. Rent wasn’t Rent to me, anymore, Rent was a collection of in-jokes and passionate declarations and road trips chaperoned by my mother. Were those things terrible? There was an expression that the listserv used to have, an eye-rolling assessment of the people who left the fandom in snit fits: OVER Rent. She’s so OVER Rent. She’s too cool to try lotto anymore, she no longer cares to write painstakingly throrough assessments of the latest Mr. Grey and Others, she says she’s solely a fan of Aida now but honestly Adam Pascal is on thin ice. OVERRent. I didn’t want to be that. So I released the fandom, but not the fondness. And sometimes now at karaoke my friend Andrea and I will sing “Out Tonight” & “Another Day.” She sings Mimi and I sing Roger. Turns out, I am a really great Roger.
Which should be the end. But this spring, this summer? This spring/summer, a new production opened Off-Broadway, directed again by Michael Grief but now in a smaller space, in a different decade. I wanted to see it, so I saw it. On Friday. And I thought maybe time would have roughed down those fangirl habits, maybe I’d watch with my grown-up brain, the critic. But instead the show started and immediately I was tracking the show with the breathless glee of the girl who has listened to international bootlegs and knows her Christian Mena from her Manley Pope. For whom seeing the show again is like rolling through her hometown. And:
Everyone looks so young, because they are. (It helps. They weren’t always, before.) Everyone can dance. The band is in the back and the blocking is heavy on the vertical, heavy on grabbing hold of things and swinging yourself around and scaring me half to death. Things are different but they aren’t really. They added one cell phone, and it makes sense (Benny always had one; now Joanne has one as well). They added two joints. They added a lot of video. They took away the sheet in “Contact” and replaced it with some truly horrible video. “La Vie Boheme” is still sung on a table. “What You Own” is now sung in a spinning box and backed by a montage of current affairs c. 1992 sorry did I briefly flash back to American Idiot ugh. “One Song Glory” is mostly clear of deep-knee bends. The costumes are new except for the pieces that aren’t, the second act callbacks: Mimi’s pink dress with the belt and the leopard-print mic pack; Collins’ Papi shirt. There’s still glitter in Mimi’s hair when she shakes it out during “Out Tonight.” Angel doesn’t jump on a table anymore during “Today For You” but now she’s a damn fine drummer. “Tango: Maureen” remains a delight. Mark uses a camcorder, now, not a super 8. The riot cops look less authentic than ever. I cried silently and fully during Angel’s funeral. And for the first time, “Over the Moon” made me laugh.
It’s a quick show. Something I suppose I always knew. The speed keeps it entertaining, curtain to curtain, but it must be a drag to follow if you’re not already familiar. Details are lost in lines between lyrics, actors rush themselves to grab hold of the tempos and the best ones are able to hide that effort. Do they rush to whisk you past the silliest bits, about what’s a Cyber-Studio anyway and really, seriously, everyone’s beepers go off at once? And where do they stay during the week before Christmas and New Year’s and why does it take Benny’s wife so long to catch on and when does Collins have time to teach classes and why does Alexi Darling keep after Mark for so long. Who cares, who cares. I DON’T OWN EMOTION, I RE-EH-EH-EH-EH-ENT!
After the show you can slide up to the bar and buy a Mango: Maureen or a t-shirt that says THIS DIVA NEEDS HER STAGE and I got to thinking I hope there’s a new cast recording, soon, I hope, because there’s a fourteen-year-old girl out there and there are things in this show that she needs. It’ll be awhile before she figures out what those things are, were, but in the meantime, she’ll have fun.
