I spend enough time procrastinating online that it seems rather inconceivable to me that I somehow missed this video, which manages to combine not just a few, but nearly all, of my favorite things: broadway, politics, CJ from the West Wing, and (last, but if you've been reading this blog, you know it's not least) Neil Patrick Harris!

Apparently Jack Black and various Hollywood friends got together to put on a little show about Prop 8 -- it's Godspell meets The Otto Titsling Story* (or whatever it's called) from Beaches:

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*Apologies for using a reference to a movie that likely dates back to before many of you were born (actually, apologies mostly to myself, because Monday is too early in the week to be feeling so OLD).  While it's a mostly mediocre movie -- albeit it one I've seen about 25 times -- I feel I now need to educate you to the horrifying awesomeness of Otto Titsling and the true history of the brassiere:


Yes. This is how some of us spent the 80s.

First of all, a big thanks to all the commenters over at westerblog who treated me like one of their own. If any of you guys have come to visit me here, welcome! Know that I'm still crying into my Cheerios that I don't get to hang out with you this week.

But now I'm back, with the story of my weekend and the explanation for why my hand shall remain unwashed. (Okay, metaphorically unwashed. I live in New York, and there's only so much filth a girl can take.)

Our story actually starts about twenty years ago, on the day my best friend and I went to go see The Princess Bride, never expecting it to be The Greatest Movie Ever Made.  We then spent the next week acting out these classic scenes on the playground (we were very good at the mock swordfights -- lots of cardboard tubes got broken over our heads):


I used to tell people I could quote almost every line from this movie, but maybe that's not such a feat, since 90% of them were "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die."

And was it not awesome each and every single time? (Sidenote here, if you haven't actually seen this movie -- and seriously? inconceivable! -- your time would be better spent watching it, immediately and repeatedly, rather than reading the rest of this post.)

So imagine my surprise and delight a few years later when Inigo Montoya himself showed up on the season's hot new hospital drama. (No, not the one you're thinking of.)  Which may explain why everyone else spent 1994 watching George Clooney prance around the ER, while my thursday nights were devoted to Chicago Hope.

(Okay, obviously youtube has failed me on this front, so I'm forced to resort to showing him in this scene from "Sunday in the Park With George," which is almost equally worship-worthy. Extra points if you can spot Jim from Murphy Brown and Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation in the background.)



I became just a little bit obsessed.

(I even started referring to him as Mandy Patinkin, rather than Inigo Montoya, and for someone as Princess Bride-crazed as I was, that was saying a lot.)

Which is all to help explain that while there are many famous people I would love to meet (Joss Whedon, Neil Patrick Harris, Anthony Rapp, John Irving, Stephen King), I'm not sure there are any others for whom I've nurtured an irrational, embarrassing, occasionally secret and always ridiculous adoration.  I was never that kid with a poster of Kirk Cameron in her locker (he looked a little like a monkey), and much as I loved Tom Cruise in Top Gun and Michael J Fox in Back to the Future (have I proven my child of the 80s cred yet, or do I need to drop some more names? I could just say "rubick's cube" and "hands across america" over and over again. I'm still waiting for that call from VH1. I DO love the 80s -- why won't they let me say it on TV?), I never really got that into any of them.

Don't ask me why Inigo Montoya, of all of them, managed to stick.  Suffice it to say that I've been waiting for my chance to see this guy face to face for more than half my life.

And this weekend? Mission accomplished.

Front row seats to the Tempest, starring Mandy Patinkin as Prospero.  Which would have been good enough -- and then, like a special gift to me (since I can't imagine the rest of the audience, made up mostly of middle aged ladies, particularly cared or noticed), in the final scenes, he donned a sword that looked remarkably like Inigo's special six fingered sword. Mandy Patinkin/Inigo Montoya live! In person! With a sword!

When the show ended, I debated being a mature adult, leaving the theater, going straight to the subway, politely discussing his interpretation of prospero with my fellow theater-goers.  Instead, I decided to channel the hysterical 17 year old I have within and lurk outside the stage door, potential embarrassment be damned.

And when he came out and I actually got to talk to him -- well, after chasing him down the street for a bit like we were starring in an extremely dinky and slow-motion version of that Beatles chase in A Hard Day's Night -- I only squeaked and trembled for a few seconds before choking out, all in one breath, a barely coherent "HiyoudidanamazingjobandI'manembarrassinglybigfanandit'ssuchanhonortomeetyou." And shaking his hand.

So here I am. Still a little giddy.  Moral of the story? I don't know. Maybe: Sometimes it's worth embarrassing yourself. (Given that I do so all the time, accidentally, it's nice to do it on purpose every once in a while.)

Anyone else want to share their bizarre secret celebrity crushes? I can't be the only one.

As far as I can tell, that's how many minutes there are left between now and the final performance of Rent. Which, if you're counting, has been on broadway for approximately 6,496,800 minutes.  Yes, I just did the math. (And if you don't understand why, you probably won't care about the rest of this post. Sorry!)



The show was supposed to close in May, on my 30th birthday, which would also have been the 11th anniversary of the day I saw it there for the first time, after spending the night of my birthday sleeping outside the theater with some friends, waiting in line to get front row seats. We thought we were rather daring. In retrospect, it realize it probably would have been more daring -- or at least more "cool" -- to stay out all night waiting for Pearl Jam tickets or something. But I don't particularly care.

And not just because it meant the chance to spend a miniscule amount of quality time with Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal.



Trust me when I say that compared to the community of obsessed Rent-heads, I'm barely even a fan. (This morning's NY Times profile talks to a guy who's seen the show 119 times, which as far as I can tell, he and his freinds consider about average.) But I was obsessed in my own way. And with good reason. The show opened just as I was graduating high school -- it was one of the last things I shared with my old friends, and one of the first things I shared with my new ones. At the time, it seemed like a guidebook to where life was going to take us, a manual to handling all the insanity and emotional overload, a safe and reliable refuge from daily torments.  And it was something singular, Broadway but not Broadway, something that seemed to belong to us, as if it had been made with us in mind.

It seemed like in only a few years we'd be graduating and moving to an east village artist's garret for our very own bohemian adventures. (Spoiler alert: it didn't quite turn out that way.)

It's one of the only things that I, cynical as I am (which is not nearly as cynical as most people seem to think) remain unabashedly sentimental about.

And before all the overblown hype, before it got old and cheesy and touristy and disdained by "real" theater people, before years of extremely unfortunate cast changes filled the stage with people who just didn't get it, it was something remarkable.

It was, according to the original review, "an electric current of emotion that is anything but morbid. Sparked by a young, intensely vibrant cast directed by Michael Greif and sustained by a glittering, inventive score, the work finds a transfixing brightness in characters living in the shadow of AIDS. Puccini's ravishingly melancholy work seemed, like many operas of its time, to romance death; Mr. Larson's spirited score and lyrics defy it."

What he said.

The beauty and tragedy of a live performance iis that you can't revisit it. Unlike a favorite novel or album or movie, you can't dip into it whenever you feel like it and bring it to life for yourself all over again.

As it's happening, it's more real than anything you could experience on the page or on screen. But when it's over?



It's over.

Whenever I come across a big Broadway fan, I always like to pin them down with the following question:
Which show do you most wish would return to Broadway?

For me, for many years, that was Assassins, which I first saw (and fell in love with) in a dinky local Princeton production when I was 16. But then I got my wish:



(You can't see his face, but fyi, that's object-of-my-affection Neil Patrick Harris sitting at center stage of the Assassins Broadway revival. This performance was what initially sparked the Love That Speaketh Its Name Way Too Often on This Blog.  And yes, this does mean I got there before the bandwagon.)

So I needed a new show to desperately wish for. (Aside from Oliver, that is, which I've been wanting to see on Broadway ever since I had an absurdly, soul-crushingly small part in a sort-of-if-you-squint-semi-professional production at age12. But it seems that show is never coming back.)

So I wished for Godspell.  I wished, and I wished, and finally, the universe delivered -- or so I thought.

Now it seems that the Broadway production of Godspell has been indefinitely postponed. Thanks to the flailing, failing economy.

Apparently, there's been a whole spate of postponements and cancellations this season (including "Nice Work if You Can Get It," which, as far as I can tell, is a bizarrely unnecessary remake of "Crazy for You" that's already been marred by some serious Broadway geek scandal -- feuding between star Harry Connick Jr's manager and agent, the latter of whom happened to be dating the now-former choreographer, and then there's former Amedeus star / current Broadway impresario, producer Tom Hulce, who -- no, no, don't go anywhere, I'll stop now, I promise!)

Anyway, my point: Godspell is no more. And I am sad.  Because it is awesome. (Except in movie form. Don't watch that. It's brain-scarring.)

Now I inevitably must ask: What do you (anyone out there who cares) wish would come back to Broadway? I need something new on which to pin my hopes.

...how embarrassed do you think I should be about my love for Mandy Patinkin?

In my defense, I would argue there was a time when we all loved him:

            


Then came Chicago Hope.  Now, some of you -- the ones that didn't boycott it altogether because it was on CBS and going head to head with ER -- might suggest that this show was over-written, over-acted, and (thanks to a pre-Ally McBeal David E. Kelly) over-quirkified.



Yeah, you're wrong.

As for the rest of his storied career, we've got (among other highlights):

The Good....                                       The Bad....          
                    

and The Ugly


I love it all. (Even the Ugly, Mandy. I swear. I'm no fair-weather fan. Though, seriously? Please shave.)

Which is why I'm doing my official dance of joy over the tickets I just purchased to see MP in The Tempest next month.

And not just any tickets, front row seats.

That's close enough to see the spit and sweat flying. (I suspect there will be plenty of both.)

Mandy's playing lunatic control freak Prospero, which means the scenery-chewing should be magnificent. 

You shall be getting my full report.

Whether you want it or not.



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Don't forget to enter the contest to win your signed copy of SKINNED! (A book you will not be embarrassed to love, I promise.)

At least it is if you've ever tried to create anything and been foiled by self-doubt, writer's block, underminers, paying the rent, sheer laziness, or the need to watch a General Hospital marathon just to dull the what-the-hell-do-I-write-next pain.

And now, courtesy of someone who I'm beginning to suspect may be the source of all things fabulous* (but who I will not name here because my current self-doubt goes by the name of "repeating private conversations on the internet or anywhere else without permission, even when they're innocuous, is a quick way to get yourself a nice fat black eye or at least a one-way ticket to social siberia"), I present to you the GREATEST SONG OF ALL TIME:


This show, [Title of Show], is on Broadway now and I plan to go see it ASAP. See you there?

While we're on the subject of musical theater (and really, when are we not), I feel it's necessary to once again raise the issue of my love for Neil Patrick Harris. Because, while I promise this blog is not turning into a 24/7 NPH love-athon (tempting as that may be), this picture requires comment:



And the comment is: NPH, I love you.

Also, I want that troll doll.

Have you guys done your duty and watched the shoe fairy video yet?

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*I don't think Fabulous Anonymous Lady actually reads this blog, but if she does, she should feel free to claim her latest fabulous find for herself. Because it is a good one.

Anyone else watch the Tony Awards last night? Judging from the ratings, there must be at least 11 or 12 of you out there...

I'll spare you the recap, except to say that it was marginally more entertaining than usual (aside from the sad but not unexpected fact that no one I was rooting for actually took home an award).  But here are the points I would be raising with friends around the watercooler today, if I had either a watercooler or any friends who'd deign to watch the show. Since I have neither, you're the lucky repository of my post-game analysis:

-Mandy Patinkin. More to the point, Mandy Patinkin's beard. Now, I've loved Mandy for a long time.  I've bought the albums, I've defended the crazy, I've even, on occasion, forced myself to watch Criminal Minds (don't judge me). But I cannot, will not, love or defend this:     

            
Why, Mandy? Why? Are you angling to get cast as Tevye in some traveling road show of Fiddler on the Roof? There must be a better way.

-In the Heights. I haven't seen this show. Clearly that's a huge mistake that must be remedied, stat. The amazing performance would have won me over immediately, if Lin-Manuel Miranda's awesome rapped acceptance speech hadn't already done the job. (The speech is worth watching, seriously.  Fast-forward to about 1 min 48.)


-Rent. Sigh. As I've mentioned before, Rent was the soundtrack of my youth (or at least my college years). So I was really looking forward to last night's original cast reunion tribute performance...and perhaps it was inevitable that I'd be disappointed.  But I couldn't have anticipated the specific nature of the disappointment. Yes, it was mildly depressing to see how much the cast had aged (all except for Taye Diggs and Idina Menzel, who are apparently the Mr. and Mrs. Dorian Gray of the Broadway stage). The brevity and general half-assedness of the so-called tribute was also disappointing, as was Jesse Martin's unexplained absence. But the true knife to my heart was the production number itself, as performed by the current cast.           

I don't know if it was the camera angles, the abridged song, the actors' weird vamping and spastic dancing, the very ill-advised decision to place the current cast side by side with the original one, which made me feel like I was watching  a Judy Garland drag queen impersonator while the real Judy Garland waited in the wings, or if I'm just swayed by my deep and abiding love for Anthony Rapp...but whatever it was, it was bad.  A faded, dispiriting imitation of what the show used to be, that makes me almost glad that it's closing in the  fall. This morning I thought I might have been imagining things, so I checked out a video of the original Tony performance from 12 years ago. See for yourself: then vs now. (Disclaimer: If you're not a fan, you probably shouldn't even bother watching, b/c you'll just think I'm insane.)


-Daniel Evans. (Or, Rent, point #2.) As far as I'm concerned, the best thing about the Rent performance was Sunday in the Park With George star Daniel Evans sitting in the audience with a goofily joyous grin on his face, singing along to "Seasons of Love" like he was at home in the shower rather than on national television.  I fell for Daniel Evans last month after reading this profile (how could you not love a West End star who pursues a PhD in philosophy in his spare time?) -- then saw him perform last week, which just sealed the deal.  But after last night, he has my heart forever.


-Sexism: I realized something as they were presenting the last few (and thus, by awards show convention, most important) awards.  The leading actor award is given out before the leading actress award. It made me think: Is this the only major awards show where they hand them out in that order?  Am I imagining things, or is it always actress before actor on the Emmy's and the Oscars?  Wouldn't it make sense to switch it up every year? Isn't keeping the order frozen in place a tacit acknowledgment that the male award is more important than the female one? (Just as the Tony ordering seems like a tacit acknowledgment that on stage, it's traditionally been the diva who made Broadway history?)

Bet you wish I had a watercooler.