The Ford Theater (a.k.a. Oriental Theater), a Broadway in Chicago theater, is a very entertaining building to be inside of. It was built as a movie theater in 1926 and is said to have been inspired by the temples of India. Its lushly gilt-edged art-deco interiors are a riot of South Indian temple architectural motifs: lattices, peacocks, swans, the south Indian version of the dragon called the Yali (I read somewhere that it was inspired by the sphinx of Egypt), lotuses, and decorative columns.
But what amuse me most are the statues, which clearly represent a western interpretation of “native” Gods. The designers must have gotten their inspiration from the paintings of condescending Raj painters, some of whose work are on display at the Victoria Memorial in Kolkata.
So, right above the stage on the roof is a sexually indeterminate divine who sits in the most unnatural pose, kind of squatting while bending his/her arms out, all of which look pretty uncomfortable. And at his/her sides are two abjectly praying men with rippling muscles, wearing garbs that look like a cross between an Egyptian robe and Roman toga. There are two Hinayana Budhas on the two front corners. As we move along, past the prominent Yalis who sadly have beards instead of terrible fangs their Indian counterparts have, and latticed walls, we come to the main dancing girl pieces on both the side walls.
These girls are hilarious—firstly, they look Amazonian: none of the Indian diminutive heavy breasted-narrow waisted-wide hipped look for these. Secondly they are wearing elaborate Egypto-Greco-Roman costumes that imply nudity but modestly cover their bodies.
It’s like wandering into a red velvet and gold world of Tintin. Have you noticed how Herge never gets the appearance of coconuts that fall from the trees and hit Captain Haddock on the head right (they look like pineapples)? Also, have you paused to think that in the “Prisoners of Sun,” the denouement hinges on a solar eclipse which only the learned white people know of, while the sun worshiping Incas have no inkling?
But as a post post-colonialist, I look at these displays of colonial anally-retentive cultural insensitivity and patronizing with indulgent humor. Oh you poor ignorant sods! Thanks for your industrial revolution, age of invention, railroads and climate change, but your time’s up. Please move over. We are itching to misrepresent your culture. Heck, we have already started—just come and see the Hiranandani complex in Mumbai—you can see how we have converted Roman architecture into a farce. Elsewhere, in our films, the Helens of the world have for decades successfully caricatured the degenerate western morality and paid for it with their lives.
Be that as it may, the Ford Theater is a magnificent place to catch a lavish Broadway production. The semi-circular hall has a capacity of 2,253. While the décor is old world, the lighting and sound are absolutely state of the art.
It is my experience that Broadway productions and concerts are a predominantly brahminical white pursuit. I have very rarely seen brown/black/any other color skins in such places, be it NYC or Chicago. Or it could be that afternoon shows are especially popular with the baby boomers.
Yesterday, the ushers greeted us with, “Welcome to the Ford Theater. You need to enter through the door on the left. Bathrooms are down the hall.” Yeah, that was the demographics of the audience.
The show in question was “Billy Elliot—The Musical.” It has been playing in Chicago since April 2010 as part of the multi-city national tour of the Tony award (10 awards) winning Broadway production. It is based on the 2000 film.
While I balked at the ticket prices, I was seduced by the "musical of the decade" moniker. So I gritted my teeth and took the plunge. I am glad I did, because the show is foockin’ brilliant!
It is as big as a Broadway show can get—47 artists are credited in the playbill! Music is by Sir Elton John, choreography is by Peter Darling, book and lyrics are by Lee Hall and direction is by Stephen Daldry.
In the musical, the 1984/85 miners strike in the UK is as much a main story as that of a little boy from a miner’s village in Durham daring to want to dance and going after his dream. (I understand that this was not the case of the movie, in which the strike was just a background.) The defeat of the strike allegedly rang the death knell to state owned industries, trade unions, and mining jobs.
The thing that most excited me about the musical was where its sympathies clearly lay—with the striking miners. Isn’t it clever, or rather insidious, for a show with strong socialist leanings to be such a success in capitalist environs? Here are some samples of the lyrics which prove my point.
The following is from one of my favorite numbers in the show, which captivated me mainly because of the choreography, followed by music and lyrics. In the number “Solidarity,” police are facing off with the picketing miners while little girls in tutu swirl between them, all singing “Solidarity forever,” and meaning whatever it does to them.
POLICE
You fucking worms
You fucking moles
You fucking Geordie shits
We're here to kick your Geordie arse
You little Geordie gits
MINERS
Solidarity, solidarity,
Solidarity forever
We're proud to be working class
Solidarity forever.
And here’s my second most favorite number, called “Merry Christmas Maggie Thatcher,” which rips into Mrs. Thatcher and her free market philosophy. The number is set at the soup kitchen (the year-long strike apparently sent most of the miners into great poverty), with a humongous balloon effigy of the lady in the background.
And they've brought their fascist bootboys
And they've brought the boys in blue
And the whole Trade Union Congress
will be at the party too
And they'll all hold hands together
All standing in a line
Cos they're privatising Santa
This merry Christmas time
This number ends in a parody.
Oh my darling, Oh my darling,
Oh my darling Heseltine
You're a tosser, you're a wanker
And you're just a Tory Swine.
All others were of yeah-blah variety. Find all the 15 numbers here.
As one of the reviewers puts it, the show is “energy incarnate.” With at least 20 – 25 people on stage singing and dancing at any given time, there is no dearth of energy definitely. But there are numbers when the 11-year old lead actor (four of them take turns as Billy Elliot) is alone on stage. JP Viernes, who played Billy in yesterday’s show, was so confident, surefooted and talented that he brought the house down. The entire ensemble of supporting cast also does a great job.
The choreography is fantastic. It brings together a sense of exuberant chaos and wit. It is difficult not to be charmed and mesmerized. There are dreamy pieces like the Swan Lake rendition in which Billy literally soars and flies, as well as an old 50’s style dancing in “We’d go dancing.”
Art direction is great too, with sets of the village square, Billy’s house, the Royal Academy, the giant dancing dresses, and the gym where Billy learns to dance. There is a set of the gym’s toilets which impressed me very much. Obviously no expense has been spared in creating the sets.
Once you get past the hurdle of understanding northern England accent, the dialogues are quite colorful, witty and warm.
The letter from Royal Academy is in. Billy’s dad, brother, and grand mom are waiting for Billy to come back from school to open it, with barely contained excitement. Billy comes home, sees the letter from afar, and strains to read the envelope: “Billy… Elliot…Queer.”
“ESQUIRE!” dad bellows.
But what amuse me most are the statues, which clearly represent a western interpretation of “native” Gods. The designers must have gotten their inspiration from the paintings of condescending Raj painters, some of whose work are on display at the Victoria Memorial in Kolkata.
So, right above the stage on the roof is a sexually indeterminate divine who sits in the most unnatural pose, kind of squatting while bending his/her arms out, all of which look pretty uncomfortable. And at his/her sides are two abjectly praying men with rippling muscles, wearing garbs that look like a cross between an Egyptian robe and Roman toga. There are two Hinayana Budhas on the two front corners. As we move along, past the prominent Yalis who sadly have beards instead of terrible fangs their Indian counterparts have, and latticed walls, we come to the main dancing girl pieces on both the side walls.
These girls are hilarious—firstly, they look Amazonian: none of the Indian diminutive heavy breasted-narrow waisted-wide hipped look for these. Secondly they are wearing elaborate Egypto-Greco-Roman costumes that imply nudity but modestly cover their bodies.
It’s like wandering into a red velvet and gold world of Tintin. Have you noticed how Herge never gets the appearance of coconuts that fall from the trees and hit Captain Haddock on the head right (they look like pineapples)? Also, have you paused to think that in the “Prisoners of Sun,” the denouement hinges on a solar eclipse which only the learned white people know of, while the sun worshiping Incas have no inkling?
But as a post post-colonialist, I look at these displays of colonial anally-retentive cultural insensitivity and patronizing with indulgent humor. Oh you poor ignorant sods! Thanks for your industrial revolution, age of invention, railroads and climate change, but your time’s up. Please move over. We are itching to misrepresent your culture. Heck, we have already started—just come and see the Hiranandani complex in Mumbai—you can see how we have converted Roman architecture into a farce. Elsewhere, in our films, the Helens of the world have for decades successfully caricatured the degenerate western morality and paid for it with their lives.
Be that as it may, the Ford Theater is a magnificent place to catch a lavish Broadway production. The semi-circular hall has a capacity of 2,253. While the décor is old world, the lighting and sound are absolutely state of the art.
It is my experience that Broadway productions and concerts are a predominantly brahminical white pursuit. I have very rarely seen brown/black/any other color skins in such places, be it NYC or Chicago. Or it could be that afternoon shows are especially popular with the baby boomers.
Yesterday, the ushers greeted us with, “Welcome to the Ford Theater. You need to enter through the door on the left. Bathrooms are down the hall.” Yeah, that was the demographics of the audience.
The show in question was “Billy Elliot—The Musical.” It has been playing in Chicago since April 2010 as part of the multi-city national tour of the Tony award (10 awards) winning Broadway production. It is based on the 2000 film.
While I balked at the ticket prices, I was seduced by the "musical of the decade" moniker. So I gritted my teeth and took the plunge. I am glad I did, because the show is foockin’ brilliant!
It is as big as a Broadway show can get—47 artists are credited in the playbill! Music is by Sir Elton John, choreography is by Peter Darling, book and lyrics are by Lee Hall and direction is by Stephen Daldry.
In the musical, the 1984/85 miners strike in the UK is as much a main story as that of a little boy from a miner’s village in Durham daring to want to dance and going after his dream. (I understand that this was not the case of the movie, in which the strike was just a background.) The defeat of the strike allegedly rang the death knell to state owned industries, trade unions, and mining jobs.
The thing that most excited me about the musical was where its sympathies clearly lay—with the striking miners. Isn’t it clever, or rather insidious, for a show with strong socialist leanings to be such a success in capitalist environs? Here are some samples of the lyrics which prove my point.
The following is from one of my favorite numbers in the show, which captivated me mainly because of the choreography, followed by music and lyrics. In the number “Solidarity,” police are facing off with the picketing miners while little girls in tutu swirl between them, all singing “Solidarity forever,” and meaning whatever it does to them.
POLICE
You fucking worms
You fucking moles
You fucking Geordie shits
We're here to kick your Geordie arse
You little Geordie gits
MINERS
Solidarity, solidarity,
Solidarity forever
We're proud to be working class
Solidarity forever.
And here’s my second most favorite number, called “Merry Christmas Maggie Thatcher,” which rips into Mrs. Thatcher and her free market philosophy. The number is set at the soup kitchen (the year-long strike apparently sent most of the miners into great poverty), with a humongous balloon effigy of the lady in the background.
And they've brought their fascist bootboys
And they've brought the boys in blue
And the whole Trade Union Congress
will be at the party too
And they'll all hold hands together
All standing in a line
Cos they're privatising Santa
This merry Christmas time
This number ends in a parody.
Oh my darling, Oh my darling,
Oh my darling Heseltine
You're a tosser, you're a wanker
And you're just a Tory Swine.
All others were of yeah-blah variety. Find all the 15 numbers here.
As one of the reviewers puts it, the show is “energy incarnate.” With at least 20 – 25 people on stage singing and dancing at any given time, there is no dearth of energy definitely. But there are numbers when the 11-year old lead actor (four of them take turns as Billy Elliot) is alone on stage. JP Viernes, who played Billy in yesterday’s show, was so confident, surefooted and talented that he brought the house down. The entire ensemble of supporting cast also does a great job.
The choreography is fantastic. It brings together a sense of exuberant chaos and wit. It is difficult not to be charmed and mesmerized. There are dreamy pieces like the Swan Lake rendition in which Billy literally soars and flies, as well as an old 50’s style dancing in “We’d go dancing.”
Art direction is great too, with sets of the village square, Billy’s house, the Royal Academy, the giant dancing dresses, and the gym where Billy learns to dance. There is a set of the gym’s toilets which impressed me very much. Obviously no expense has been spared in creating the sets.
Once you get past the hurdle of understanding northern England accent, the dialogues are quite colorful, witty and warm.
The letter from Royal Academy is in. Billy’s dad, brother, and grand mom are waiting for Billy to come back from school to open it, with barely contained excitement. Billy comes home, sees the letter from afar, and strains to read the envelope: “Billy… Elliot…Queer.”
“ESQUIRE!” dad bellows.
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