The Saturday List: The Beginnings of Broadway

Musical theatre, as we know it today, is a fabulous hybrid form, one that grew out of many traditions rather than springing fully formed from a single moment. And yet, we tend to fall into the habit of simplifying Broadway’s origin story, partly because it’s so rich and complex, which ironically makes it all the more interesting! In many retellings of Broadway’s history, the 1866 premiere of The Black Crook has been held up as the first musical, comedy, or at least the first recognisably modern one. However, most contemporary scholars agree that this label doesn’t really hold. Earlier shows had already blended music and story, and stylistically, The Black Crook was more a patchwork of existing forms than a clean leap into the future, with little deliberate intention guiding its creation. Nonetheless, its impact was real. Its success helped establish a new culture of theatre-going on Broadway, one that bridged elite audiences who looked to Europe for cultural validation and the more worldly crowds who embraced popular entertainment in districts like the Bowery. So if The Black Crook wasn’t the sole birthplace of the Broadway musical, what else shaped the form we recognise today? This week’s Saturday List looks back at five theatrical traditions that did more to establish the conventions of the Broadway musical than The Black Crook did, even if traces of all of them can be found in that famously unwieldy nineteenth-century spectacle.

An illustration of the final scene of The Black Crook

If the Broadway musical has a basic engine, it’s this: dialogue gives way to song, which then returns us to the scene, a rhythm so familiar that we barely notice it or understand how difficult it can be to achieve well. That structure comes straight from ballad opera. Ballad operas were comic plays peppered with popular tunes, reset to new, often satirical lyrics. The most famous example remains The Beggar’s Opera, although Flora, or Hob in the Well just beat it to the American stage. The tone of many of our favourite musicals also found its first expression here, though the use of irony, the inclusion of social commentary, and the employment of a knowing wink at the audience. Crucially, ballad opera paved the way for early American musicals, which were essentially comic operas, which included original scores. Their influence didn’t vanish with the eighteenth century. You can hear it clearly in The Threepenny Opera, and later still in the work of Kander and Ebb, particularly Cabaret and Chicago, where popular musical styles are weaponised to critique the world they depict.

William Hogarth’s 1728 painting of a scene from The Beggar’s Opera

Before Broadway learned restraint, it learned spectacle. Extravaganzas emerged in the mid-nineteenth century, blending music, dance, burlesque and visual effects to create an elaborate evening of entertainment. Pretty much almost anything could be labelled an extravaganza, provided it dazzled the audience. Although French fairy spectacles helped shape the form, the American version quickly took on a flavour of its own. By 1855, shows like Pocahontas, a burlesque that was later picked up by blackface minstrel troupes, pointed the way forward. Burlesque extravaganzas like this one spoofed everything at once: history, literary classics, public figures political events. Another frequent inclusion in extravaganzas a transformation scene, in which the scenic design of the stage changed before the audience’s eyes. That expectation of this kind of miraculous transformation never really went away. From Boris Aronson’s jaw-dropping designs for Follies to the automated marvels of the megamusical era, extravaganza trained audiences to hope for this kind of coup de théâtre, a moment where theatre reminds us of its own magic.

The spectacular designs of megamusicals like Cats find deep inspiration in the extravaganzas of the 1800s.

Pantomime often began with contemporary characters who were magically transformed, frequently by a fairy, into stock commedia dell’arte figures, complete with masks and stylised movement. Around them existed a second set of performers, actors who spoke and sang normally, grounding the fantasy in something more recognisably real. Originally only forming part of a more extended programme, the plots of pantomimes were usually borrowed from nursery rhymes or fairy tales, although fidelity to source material was never the point. Pantomime existed to showcase the performers’ talents, including comic turns, singing, dancing and impersonation. Big-budget productions added scenic tricks and stage transformations that left audiences gasping, incorporating the influence of extravaganzas and burlesque. Full-length pantomimes followed. In 1868, Humpty Dumpty, ran for 483 performances, surpassing the popularity of The Black Crook. From there, the leap to Babes in Toyland, and eventually to Broadway’s modern family spectacles, from Beauty and the Beast onwards, feels remarkably small.

George Washington Lafayette Fox the eponymous egg in HUMPTY DUMPTY

There is no way around this: minstrel shows were racist and demeaning. Blackface performance is inseparable from their legacy. As such, minstrelsy occupies an uncomfortable but crucial place in musical theatre history. Minstrel shows were the first form of musical theatre that was entirely American-born. Black and white performers both performed in minstrel shows, which were supported by audiences of all races. Structurally, they were surprisingly sophisticated. The three-part format, including the introductory minstrel line with its stock characters, the variety acts that made up the olio, and the one-act musical burlesque that was presented as the afterpiece introduced patterns of musical storytelling that would endure for decades. Minstrelsy’s popularity faded as audiences demanded more aesthetically refined entertainment, although its influence lingered into the twentieth century, particularly in smaller towns, before cinema finally sealed its fate. Its legacy is troubling, but its structural imprint on American musical theatre is undeniable.

The Scottsboro Boys was a musical that used the minstrel show form to comment on racism in the United States of America. Here, Jared Joseph plays Mr Bones, Ron Holgate plays The Interlocutor and JC Montgomery plays Mr Tambo. (Photo credit: Henry DiRocco)

In muiscal theatre terms, variety paved the road to vaudeville. Early variety entertainment was scandalous. It thrived in saloons where so-called “respectable women” were forbidden to set foot and waiter-girls served drinks – and more – to their gentelmen patrons. Although police raids were frequent, this discouraged neither the saloons’ owners nor their patrons. Over time, variety evolved, shedding its shadier reputation and sharpening its entertainment value. Major musical stars like Lillian Russell turned up on variety bills, lending prestige to what had once been considered disreputable. Variety’s emphasis on star turns, pacing and audience pleasure fed directly into vaudeville, which would dominate American popular entertainment in the years following The Black Crook. The influence on musical theatre was enormous. Variety and vaudeville trained audiences to expect momentum, clarity and personality, qualities that Broadway musicals would increasingly prize as they moved into the twentieth century.

American actress and singer, Lillian Russell

Rethinking the Broadway Musical’s Origin Story

Revisiting these forms reminds us that the Broadway musical didn’t emerge overnight. It was built from many ingredients. Some were joyous and others, troubling. All were influential. The Black Crook may still mark a turning point, but it was never the whole story. The more interesting question might be this: which of today’s theatrical forms – immersive theatre, jukebox musicals, digital hybrids – will still be shaping musical theatre a century from now? History suggests that the answer may surprise us.

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Forgotten Musicals Friday: When the APPLAUSE Fades Away…

Some musicals are forgotten because they failed. Others are forgotten because time quietly moved on without them. Applause falls squarely into the latter category, which makes it one of the more curious entries in our Forgotten Musicals Friday canon. When it opened on Broadway in 1970, Applause was an undeniable success. It ran for 896 performances, won the Tony Award for Best Musical, and picked up three further awards from ten nominations. By any reasonable metric, it should be remembered today alongside other popular shows of its era. And yet, more than fifty years on, Applause has all but disappeared. It’s seldom discussed, largely absent from contemporary musical theatre conversations.

Lauren Bacall was the star at the centre of APPLAUSE on Broadway.

Based on Mary Orr’s 1946 short story, “The Wisdom of Eve,” Applause sits in an unusual adaptation limbo. While most audiences associate the story with the iconic 1950 film All About Eve, the stage rights initially extended only to the original short story. 20th Century Fox was unwilling to grant permission to adapt the movie’s screenplay, and by the time they eventually relented, the musical was already deep in development. The result was a compromise: a show rooted more firmly in the literary source than the cinematic brand, with only one late addition serving as a direct nod to the film in the number “Fasten Your Seat Belts,” which is built around its most famous line.

From a contemporary vantage point, the creative team behind Applause reads like a dream. The book was written by Betty Comden and Adolph Green, the legendary collaborators who helped create On the Town and Wonderful Town. Music and lyrics came from Charles Strouse and Lee Adams, whose Bye Bye Birdie had been heralded as a triumph. In hindsight, though, there may be a clue here as to why Applause never quite became a show for the ages. While Strouse and Adams enjoyed considerable success, their work as a team has not lingered in the repertoire in quite the same way as the creations of their contemporaries.

The musical itself is, in many ways, an entertaining and well-crafted piece of work. At its centre is Margo Channing, a great starring role brought vividly to life by Lauren Bacall in the original Broadway production. When she left the production, she was replaced by Anne Baxter, the actress who had played Eve Harrington in All About Eve, a serendipitous piece of theatrical symmetry. Penny Fuller took on the role of Eve on stage, while Len Cariou played Margo’s lover, Bill Sampson.

There are genuinely strong numbers in the score. “Welcome to the Theatre” and “But Alive” give Margo ample opportunity to command the stage, while the latter also introduces one of the show’s most historically significant characters: Duane Fox, Margo’s sharp-witted gay hair stylist, played by Lee Roy Reams. Duane takes Margo to a gay club in the first act, and his presence represents a notable moment of gay representation for the time: smart, savvy and unapologetically himself.

Strangely, some of the show’s most famous elements feel oddly underused. “Fasten Your Seat Belts,” despite its iconic lineage, underwhelms as a bitty number punctuating Margo’s drunken breakdown at her party late in Act I. It feels like a throwaway rather than a key musical moment in the show. More curious still is the title song. “Applause,” which went on to become the show’s biggest hit, is sung not by Margo or even Eve, but by a supporting character, Bonnie, played by Bonnie Franklin. The number was so dynamically staged that it became the production’s showcase moment at the Tony Awards, even though Bacall was granted a brief excerpt of “Welcome to the Theatre” to remind audiences who the star of the show was.

Lauren Bacall kicks up her heels in the original – and only – Broadway production of Applause.

So why didn’t Applause endure?

Part of the answer lies in shifting sensibilities. The show’s conclusion hinges on Margo’s decision to step away from her career and embrace domestic fulfilment, articulated in the song “Something Greater.” In today’s terms, the idea that true fulfilment lies in ‘being to your man what a woman should be’ lands uncomfortably. While the show’s narrative exposes the shallowness and cruelty of the theatrical world in which Margo has carved out her career, it doesn’t allow Margo to redefine herself on her own terms. Instead, she simply moves from one externally defined role to another, a resolution that reads less like transcendence and more like defeat.

There’s also the question of tone. Applause is one of the great melodramatic gaslighting stories of the twentieth century, but as a musical, it plays more like a romantic dramedy than a sharply incisive satire. It gestures toward critique without fully committing to it, leaving audiences entertained but perhaps unsure of what the show ultimately wants to say.

After Broadway, Applause remained closely associated with Bacall, whose presence seemed integral to the show’s success. She opened the show in London, where it was less popular, and later starred in a 1973 television adaptation opposite Larry Hagman as Bill Sampson. The musical has never returned to Broadway in a full revival, though New York City Center’s Encores! mounted a staged concert version in 2008, with Christine Ebersole taking on the role of Margo.

Would Applause work today as a major Broadway revival? I’m not convinced it would fly without a substantial rethinking of its ending. And yet, its success, its contradictions and its uneasy place between satire and sentiment make it fascinating to revisit. In the end, Applause isn’t forgotten because it failed, but because it belongs so precisely to its time that we’re not quite sure how to welcome it back today.

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Musical Theatre Hot Takes

Hot takes are all over the Internet these days – and hot takes on musicals are no exception. Often, they’re pretty tame. In the Heights is a better musical than Hamilton? That’s pretty low-hanging fruit. Much better are Sweaty Oracle-level hot takes, which are often interspersed in his scalding Broadway tea posts. A lot of the time, I think, “Facts.” All in all, my hot takes aren’t likely to be as earth-shattering – but then again, I suppose that musical theatre hot takes aren’t hot currency in the bigger scheme of things. Nonetheless, here’s my attempt at a few.

The original cast of Follies (Photo credit: Martha Swope)

The remixed Kritzerland reissue of the original Broadway cast recording of Follies makes it the best recording of the show; although it’s not as complete as other recordings, there’s no beating that original cast.

Legally Blonde deserved a nomination in the Best Musical category at the 61st Tony Awards.

David Yazbek is underappreciated as a contemporary musical theatre composer-lyricist.

Michael John LaChiusa is underrated as a contemporary musical theatre composer-lyricist.

Individual moments in The Colour Purple outshine the musical as a whole.

Maria Friedman and Michael Ball in The Woman in White (Photo credit: Paul Kolnik)

The Woman in White makes complete sense as a musical when you realise that it’s Andrew Lloyd Webber channelling Benjamin Britten.

Aida would have made a great rock opera, but it’s a mediocre book musical.

Cats has the same plot as A Chorus Line; criticising one but not the other is just, as the hip folk say, basic. (A Chorus Line will always be the greater of the two, but even so….)

My Fair Lady lost its social impact when it became a musical theatre piece. Lerner and Loewe transformed it into a love story, and that’s all the better for My Fair Lady.

The original Merrily We Roll Along didn’t fail because it was misunderstood by the audience; it failed because it was misunderstood by Harold Prince.

The Wild Party deserved to win Best Musical at the 54th Tony Awards, and one of the other three nomination spots in the category should have gone to Marie Christine.

Audra McDonald as Rose in Gypsy (Photo credit: Julieta Cervantes)

Jamie Lloyd’s re-interpretation of Sunset Boulevard won Nicole Scherzinger her Tony Award; Audra McDonald’s re-interpretation of Rose should have won her the Tony Award.

If we treat the Golden Age like a museum, it will soon become a morgue.

Rigorous craft matters more than conceptual novelty, but first-class theatricality can make a musical work in spite of itself.

Musicals should challenge audiences, but not punish them; opacity presented as rigorous craft is just as bad as something that has the depth of a teaspoon.

None of these are hills I’ll die on. All right, all right, some of them are. But generally they’re more like things I’d happily argue over a cocktail, halfway through an interval or three posts deep in a group chat that’s gone off the rails. Sure, some of them kind of contradict each other, and some of them probably contradict things I’ve written elsewhere too. Sounds about right….

At any rate, if there’s a throughline to be found here, it’s not contrarianism for its own sake. It’s a belief that musical theatre is worth thinking about. Hot takes are fun, but the most fun thing about them is that they often can make you think about something more interesting than the heat itself.

Feel free to disagree with anything I’ve said here today. In fact, I hope you do – and I hope you feel free to share your hot takes too. Musical theatre is far healthier when we keep it real, preferably with specificity, curiosity and a show tune blasting in the background.

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The Saturday List: Ranking Sondheim’s Post-Prince Shows

In the four decades since Merrily We Roll Along flopped on Broadway, effectively bringing Stephen Sondheim’s prolific collaboration with director-producer Harold Prince to a painful end, Sondheim wrote only six new musicals for the stage: Sunday in the Park with George, Into the Woods, Assassins, Passion, Road Show and Here We Are, the last of which premiered posthumously. Prince did, of course, collaborate with Sondheim on an earlier version of Road Show, then titled Bounce, but that project never quite found its footing. With a high-profile revival of Sunday in the Park with George starring Jonathan Bailey and Ariana Grande announced for 2027, this feels like a great moment to revisit and rank Sondheim’s post-Prince works. Each of these shows has something valuable to offer, even if they are not equally loved, equally understood or equally easy to embrace.

A decade in the making, Road Show finally arrived in 2008 after a long and complicated gestation, having been seen earlier as a workshop in 1999 and as Bounce in 2003. Created in collaboration with John Weidman, Road Show was inspired by the lives of brothers Addison Mizner and Wilson Mizner, a kind of modern American fable that took audiences from the Klondike gold rush of the 1890s to the Florida real estate boom of the 1920s. Expectations were high. Audiences hoped for another Company or Follies; what they got was something smaller, stranger, and far more elusive. For many, that was reason enough to write the show off entirely – myself included, for a time. But revisiting Road Show once the hype had faded revealed more than memory suggested. There is strong material here, including “Addison’s Trip,” “Talent” and the universally loved “The Best Thing That Ever Has Happened.” Its greatest weakness may be that it feels as though it has less to say than Sondheim’s towering achievements. Still, I wonder what a genuinely fresh production, one unburdened by expectation, might uncover. It is unlikely to climb much higher on this list, but it remains more intriguing than its reputation suggests. Its 2019 outing at New York City Centre seems to be evidence of just that.

Raúl Esparza and Brandon Uranowitz in Road Show. (Photo credit: Joan Marcus)

Here We Are, Stephen Sondheim’s final musical, with a book by David Ives based on the films The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and The Exterminating Angel by Luis Buñuel, arrived posthumously. It follows a group of wealthy, self-absorbed characters attempting to have brunch while society quietly collapses around them. Encountering the cast album made one thing immediately clear for me: despite early speculation, the score does not feel unfinished. As Ives and Joe Mantello, the director of the premiere production, explained, Sondheim stopped writing when the characters had nothing left to sing. Content dictated form. Musically, Here We Are belongs firmly to Sondheim’s later approach to integration, closer in structure to Passion and Sunday in the Park with George than to his earlier works. Its pleasures lie in its momentum and texture, and in exquisite lyrical detail rather than obvious set pieces. Numbers like “Waiter’s Song,” “It Is What It Is” and “Shine” balance wit with unease in the best tradition of Sondheim’s works. Considered alongside his other musicals, Here We Are can feel like a piece that is still finding its place. Time may yet reshape how we understand it, but even now it stands as a thoughtful, unsettling and unmistakably Sondheimian show.

The cast of the UK production of Here We Are in action (Photo credit: Marc Brenner)

Into the Woods, the fairy tale mashup Sondheim created with James Lapine, has become increasingly difficult for me to appreciate simply because of its ubiquity. Telling the story of a Baker and his wife, who cross paths with Cinderella, Jack and his beanstalk, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel and – of course – a wickedly glamorous witch, the show asks us to consider the importance of community and how we connect with one another. From the turn of the century onwards, it feels like this show has been everywhere, endlessly produced, reimagined, reinterpreted and reinvented. Child narrators, radical design concepts and revisionist framings abound. While it’s actually amazing to see the piece tackled with such love, diversity and vitality, it does make it a little more challenging to return to the show on your own terms. Nonetheless, I was certainly able to discover its pleasures again when I directed it for a local high school. My advice now is the same advice I gave myself back then: clear your mind, return to what was there at the beginning and let your imagination do the rest. The show’s popularity may sometimes obscure its precision, but its rewards remain intact for those willing to listen closely. “Children Will Listen,” indeed.

Haylea Hayns, Megan Rigby, Graeme Wicks and Kate Normington in a South African production of Into the Woods

Many people hate Passion with an intensity that borders on the visceral. Some even claim it is a bad show. It isn’t. Based on Ettore Scola’s film Passione d’Amore, Passion was the last of Sondheim’s three collaborations with James Lapine and holds the distinction of being the shortest-running Tony Award-winner for Best Musical ever. Set in nineteenth-century Italy, the show examines the obsessive love of Fosca for a young soldier, Giorgio, and the transformation this obsession affects in him. It is a work that demands emotional maturity, not in terms of age, but in terms of experience. What you bring to this show profoundly shapes what you take from it. Passion is intimate, uncomfortable and deeply personal. It cuts close to truths many people would rather not confront. In my opinion, this discomfort is precisely why some audiences struggle with it. As such, people need to approach Passion with openness and curiosity. If you still reject what it has to say, that’s fine, but recognise that dislike does not equate to poor craftsmanship. This is one of Sondheim’s most rigorously constructed and emotionally challenging scores – with some especially memorable highlights in songs like “I Read,” “I Wish I Could Forget You” and “Loving You.”

Michael Ball and Maria Friedman in Passion (Photo credit: Tristram Kenton)

I love Assassins. It is a brilliant show, though I will admit I preferred it before “Something Just Broke” was added to the score. To be honest, I’ve softened on that song over time, but my ambivalence remains. Using the macabre framing device of an all-American carnival game, Assassins, which Sondheim wrote with John Weidman, examines one of the darkest threads in American history: people who murdered, or attempted to murder, American presidents, and the distorted ideals that fuelled their actions. Many fans of the show recommend that newbies start off by listening to the Broadway cast recording. I’d argue instead for the earlier Off-Broadway album, which preserves a crucial scene from the show that wasn’t recorded for the revival. Both casts are excellent, but the earlier recording captures the piece in its most uncompromising form. With songs like “Everybody’s Got The Right” and “Another National Anthem,” Assassins remains provocative and incredibly unsettling. It is frighteningly relevant, perhaps more so now than when it first appeared.

The original Off-Broadway company of Assassins (Photo credit: Martha Swope)

The top four shows on this list are, in many ways, interchangeable. But Sunday in the Park with George feels like the most ambitious and arguably, the most fully realised. Created with James Lapine, the musical offers a fictionalised account of Georges Seurat painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, using the act of creation itself as its central subject. All the while, the show tracks his rocky relationship with Dot, whose image he preserves for all time through his painting. The second act shifts time and perspective, examining those same questions through the artist’s fictional great-grandson as he faces the gruelling task of “Putting It Together.” Few moments in musical theatre move me as profoundly as “Sunday,” the song that closes both Act I and the show itself. Seeing a preparatory study for La Grande Jatte at the Met last year – capturing Seurat in the middle of his process – with Sondheim’s music in my mind was quietly overwhelming. Art in conversation with art. Process illuminating process. It reminded me that Sunday in the Park with George is Sondheim at his most expansive, humane and searching.

Jake Gyllenhaal in Sunday in the Park with George (Photo credit: Matthew Murphy)

Passing Through Our Perfect Park

Even when you seem to have everything, you cannot always find what you want, a truth borne out repeatedly in Here We Are and across Sondheim’s canon. As his final musical suggests, we are often caught between forward motion and reflection, between certainty and doubt. Looking back across his post-Prince works, what emerges is not decline, but refinement, a lifelong pursuit of clarity, detail and truth in storytelling through song. As always, Sondheim leaves us not with the answer to life but with the tools to navigate it: passion, intellect and heart. Through what he has given us, we can find comfort and joy in the fact that everyone needs to face a blank page at some point in their life – and then try to finish a hat.

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Forgotten Musicals Friday: When Broadway Went ANIMAL CRACKERS

Some musicals are “forgotten” in the loosest sense of the word, not because they vanished entirely, but because we remember them for one thing and quietly overlook the rest. Animal Crackers is one such show. More often thought of as one of the Marx Brothers’ early screen comedies, it’s easy to forget that it began life as a Broadway musical comedy, one that helped to bookend their theatrical legacy.

The Marx Brothers in Animal Crackers

With a book by George S. Kaufman and Morrie Ryskind and a score by Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby, Animal Crackers premiered on Broadway in 1928. Designed as a vehicle for Chico, Groucho, Harpo and Zeppo, it followed hot on the heels of I’ll Say She Is and The Cocoanuts, marking their third – and ultimately final – Broadway outing.

Like many musical comedies of the late 1920s, the plot of Animal Crackers exists largely to facilitate mayhem. Set at the estate of the wealthy Mrs Rittenhouse, the action unfolds during a society party held in honour of the celebrated African explorer Captain Spaulding. When a priceless sculpture goes missing, the evening descends into a series of misunderstandings, wordplay, disguises and gleeful non-sequiturs. Narrative coherence is very much secondary to comic momentum, which is, of course, precisely the point.

What distinguishes Animal Crackers from other musicals of the period is the unmistakable comic language of the Marx Brothers. Their humour is quick and crazy, and defiantly disrespectful of authority, sentiment and social decorum. It’s a style that comes across vividly in the film’s soundtrack, where dialogue and song blur into a single comedic assault. The Broadway production would have relied heavily on that same kinetic energy, demanding the Marx Brothers’ impeccable timing and instinct for controlled chaos.

Musically, one song from the score has enjoyed an afterlife independent of the show itself. “Hooray for Captain Spaulding” is undoubtedly the best-known number, later repurposed as the theme song for Groucho Marx’s television quiz show, You Bet Your Life, becoming his signature musical calling card. Structurally, it’s less a traditional musical theatre song than a series of escalating gags, building towards a raucous chorus that repeatedly drowns out Spaulding’s attempts to speak, a joke that wears its audience down through sheer persistence. When we last revisited the soundtrack, my patient husband begged me to skip to the next track after a couple of verses. I responded by playing the rest of the song at full volume. It almost demands it!

My own favourite song from Animal Crackers, however, wasn’t part of the original stage production at all. Written for the film version, “Why Am I So Romantic?” is a charming slice of period musical comedy. It’s irresistibly tuneful and captures the kind of effortless delight that the best musicals of the era delivered without strain or self-importance.

Groucho Marx as Captain Spaulding in Animal Crackers

Animal Crackers has never truly disappeared and has resurfaced roughly once a decade in revivals since the 1980s, often augmented with interpolated songs, such as the always popular “I Wanna Be Loved by You.” Even so, its identity as a stage musical remains overshadowed by its cinematic incarnation. Seen through a contemporary lens, the show stands as a reminder of a Broadway era when musical comedy ruled the roost: when plots were optional, stars were paramount and laughs were the primary currency.

That said, recent developments invite a fresh look. The show’s songs entered the public domain in 2024, followed by the full script in 2025. For theatre-makers with imagination (and a tolerance for comic anarchy), the show is now open for reinvention. Perhaps this makes Animal Crackers overdue for reconsideration as a theatrical playground rather than a museum piece. And perhaps that’s the real invitation of this particular Forgotten Musicals Friday column: not simply to look back, but to ask what we might still do with shows like these now that they truly belong to everyone.

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The Magic of Musical Theatre Moments

Towards the end of my time as a student, I sat in a lecture on theatre-making that has stayed with me ever since. One of our lecturers, Professor Mark Fleishman, offered a deceptively simple breakdown of how theatre works. A play, he explained, is divided into acts, acts into scenes, scenes into beats and beats into moments. And it is those singular moments that an audience remembers. At the time, this felt like a neat structural observation. With the benefit of distance, teaching and two decades of making and watching theatre, I’ve come to realise that it goes much deeper than that. It speaks directly to the heart of what makes musical theatre magical, why so many of us fall in love with it so young and stay in love with it for life.

Susan Stroman breaks down how the many magical moments of Crazy for You were created.

A truly magical musical moment is never accidental. It emerges from a kind of collective intuition: music, movement, text, design, performance and timing all aligning so precisely that the audience stops analysing and simply feels. When it works, you don’t notice where one department’s contribution ends and another’s begins. You just know that something has landed. When I reflect on my own love of musical theatre, some of these moments have absolutely lodged themselves in my memory.

Some of my first magical moments were given to me by my grandmother. When I was a toddler, she would play cast albums while I was put down for naps, gently feeding my imagination with The Sound of Music, South Pacific and My Fair Lady. I was so young that the music simply offered a comforting presence and an endless source of wonder. There is even an old cassette recording of me earnestly singing “Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” proof, if any were needed, of how impressionable young minds can be.

Ask most people about the magic of The Sound of Music and they will point, quite rightly, to Julie Andrews spinning through the Alps at the start of the film. When I later directed the show myself, it became abundantly clear that the musical’s true emotional core lies elsewhere for me. The key moment, to my mind, is when the children sing “The Sound of Music” and Captain von Trapp joins in. In that instant, music restores something that was broken and a family begins to heal. That is the moment I always carry with me.

South Pacific offers a quieter moment of magic that is no less emotional. As the final curtain falls, Nellie and Emile clasp hands, a small gesture freighted with all the cost of what they have been through and the hope of what they might achieve as a new family, along with Ngana and Jerome. And in My Fair Lady, the sequence that builds towards “The Rain in Spain” is not just about phonetics or Eliza’s triumph: it’s the precise moment where effort, frustration and joy tip into transformation.

More recently, I watched Maybe Happy Ending, which delivered an instantly recognisable magical moment. Oliver and Claire, two obsolete Helperbots living in near-future Seoul, travel to Jeju Island so that Claire can see the fireflies before her imminent deactivation. As they walk into the forest, pinpricks of light begin to appear. Slowly, the stage fills with glowing fireflies in a final build and some of the production’s musicians are revealed as part of the landscape. Light, sound and movement coalesce into a sequence of breathtaking simplicity and beauty. It’s pure theatrical alchemy, the kind of thing that makes you hold your breath without realising it.

Helen J. Shen as Claire and Darren Criss as Oliver in Maybe Happy Ending (Photo credit: Evan Zimmerman)

I have been lucky enough to encounter many such moments over the years. When I was about ten, Peter and the Darlings soared through the air in Peter Pan and the boundary between the stage and my imagination dissolved entirely. Audra McDonald delivered several when I saw her in Gypsy last June. None of these is an isolated flourish that happens without a great deal of effort from everyone who plays a part in bringing it into being. Each is the product of meticulous collaboration and shared intention, moments where everything converges on stage.

Perhaps this is the miracle of musical theatre. It gives us a language for feeling before we have words for it. It can shape us long before we know we are being shaped. Our families, our teachers, directors, performers and collaborators help guide us, whether we know it or not, toward moments that stay with us.

Acts fade. Scenes blur. But moments endure. If we believe that this is true, then maybe the real measure of a musical’s impact is not how often it is revived or how lavishly it is produced, but how many moments it gives us to carry forward.

I’ll leave you with a question, one I keep returning to myself. What are your magical musical theatre moments? Head down to the comments and share them with us.

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The Saturday List: Five Underrated 1990s Musicals We Don’t Talk About Enough

Musicals from the 1990s have enjoyed something of a reappraisal in recent years. Major revivals have returned shows like Ragtime to the Broadway stage, while the 2017 revival of Once on This Island reminded audiences just how emotionally potent some of the decade’s work could be. Even the more uneven but much-lauded Parade staged a triumphant comeback, earning a fresh wave of admiration a generation after its debut. That said, the 1990s were a complicated time on Broadway. It was the tail end of the British invasion, and there was a growing sense that the creative well was beginning to run dry. Musical comedy, in particular, hit a low point, increasingly relying on stage adaptations of popular films – State Fair (which could really be an honourable mention in today’s list) and High Society among them – a trend that had already taken hold in the 1980s. Crazy for You, based on an older musical comedy rather than a film, proved a rare exception. Then, of course, Rent arrived and jolted the genre back to life. But in between the mega-hits, adaptations and popular revivals like The King and I, some genuinely adventurous, entertaining and artistically rich shows slipped through the cracks. Today’s Saturday List celebrates five underrated musicals from the 1990s that deserve to be talked about far more than they are.

Politically daring and still deeply uncomfortable to experience, Assassins is often respected more than it is enjoyed, which makes it perfect for this “people don’t talk about it enough” list. With music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim and a book by John Weidman, the show explores the lives of people who attempted to assassinate some of the Presidents of the United States. History tells us that some of them succeeded, and the show explores the inherent flaws of the American Dream through their stories. The score draws on popular music styles from different eras, giving us unforgettable numbers like “Everybody’s Got the Right,” “Unworthy of Your Love,” “The Ballad of Czolgosz” and “How I Saved Roosevelt.” When it opened Off-Broadway in 1990, the response was mixed and often hostile. A 2004 Broadway revival was far more warmly received, winning five Tony Awards, including Best Revival of a Musical, a rare redemption arc for a musical like this. Still, Assassins remains a show that fuels discontent rather than comfort. In a fractured world, it feels more relevant than ever. Wouldn’t it be instructive than ever to revisit moments in time when “Something Just Broke”?

The original Off-Broadway company of Assassins (Photo credit: Martha Swope)

Sneaking in at the very end of the decade, Marie Christine ran for a limited run of just 42 performances, but its ambition far exceeded its lifespan. With music, lyrics and book by Michael John LaChiusa, the show transplants the Greek myth of Medea to the nineteenth century, creating a work that sits boldly on the edge of opera and musical theatre. Written for Audra McDonald and her glorious soprano, Marie Christine boasts an exquisitely sophisticated score that makes it a tough sell today. There are no obvious “boppy” numbers here, but it is beautifully composed and narratively compelling. Songs like Marie’s manifesto, “Way Back to Paradise,” and the lush, aching “I Don’t Hear the Ocean” reward repeated listening. Any hope that a longer Broadway run for the original production might follow was quashed when the Lincoln Center Theatre producers opted to run with the more commercially appealing Contact, effectively leaving Marie Christine stranded at the end of the 1990s. Sure, it was the smarter business move, but even so, Marie Christine remains one of the decade’s most fascinating near-misses, one that richly deserves another outing.

Vivian Reed as Marie Christine’s Mother and Audra McDonald as Marie Christine in Marie Christine (Photo credit: Joan Marcus)

Based on Arthur Schnitzler’s 1897 play La Ronde, Hello Again (with music, lyrics and book by Michael John LaChiusa) premiered Off-Broadway in 1993 and has since accrued cult status. It even has a film version. And yet, it remains strangely under-recognised. Structured as a chain of romantic and sexual encounters between ten characters across ten scenes, moving fluidly through time and space, the show feels increasingly modern in its frankness. Its explorations of sexuality, gender, intimacy and power resonate more strongly now than they did three decades ago. “Tom” became the show’s breakout number, enjoying a life on several musical theatre performers’ solo albums, but other delights, including the wickedly sharp “Mistress of the Senator,” deserve equal attention. More accessible than Marie Christine, Hello Again has travelled widely, but it still awaits a revival that firmly places it where it belongs at the forefront of late twentieth-century musical theatre.

Audra McDonald as Sally (The Actress) and Martha Plimpton as Ruth (The Senator) in the film adaptation of Hello Again

Probably Cy Coleman’s last great score, with some of the finest lyrics David Zippel ever wrote and a razor-sharp book by Larry Gelbart, City of Angels is an affectionate and incisive homage to classic film noir. It ran for an impressive 879 performances on Broadway and then pretty much vanished from everything but the musical theatre history books. City of Angels unfolds along two parallel storylines: one following Stine, a novelist struggling to adapt his latest book for Hollywood, and the other set within the hard-boiled world of that novel, where private eye Stone navigates a shadowy Los Angeles of betrayal and desire. Coleman’s score is a fabulous mix of jazz, pop and traditional Broadway sounds, delivering gems like “Lost and Found” and “With Every Breath I Take.” When conversations turn to shows that should be revived, City of Angels is frequently cited near the top of the list. The only question is: when will Broadway finally listen?

James Naughton in City of Angels (Photo credit: Martha Swope)

Debuting Off-Broadway at the Public Theater in 1995 before transferring to Broadway in 1996, Bring in ’da Noise, Bring in ’da Funk remains one of the most singular works of musical theatre the decade produced. Conceived and directed by George C. Wolfe, with choreography by Savion Glover, the show tells the story of Black American history, from slavery through to the present, through tap, rap, music, movement and commentary. With music by Daryl Waters, Zane Mark and Ann Duquesnay, lyrics by Reg E. Gaines, George C. Wolfe and Ann Duquesnay, and a book by Gaines, its impact far outstripped its only run on Broadway to date. Presented with projected images and relentless theatrical momentum, it was overstimulating in the best possible way, all the while taking a satirical, cutting and unapologetically confrontational approach. Essentially one of a kind, Bring in ’da Noise, Bring in ’da Funk deserves a prominent place in our musical theatre consciousness. It has never been more necessary.

Paula Scher’s posters for Bring in ’da Noise, Bring in ’da Funk

Which Ones Would You Revive?

Honourable mentions on this list could easily include The Secret Garden, When Pigs Fly and even Sondheim’s most divisive work, Passion, a Tony winner that remains, paradoxically, underrated. The decade closed with a creative upswing that carried Broadway into the 2000s with shows like The Lion King and Titanic as well as those mentioned at the beginning of this article . Perhaps we’re in a similar lull now, this season’s original musicals burning low and slow. Even so, one of today’s overlooked works may yet become tomorrow’s rediscovery. Which 1990s musicals do you think were egregiously overlooked? (Yes, Victor/Victoria, that’s a nod to you!) What do you think deserves a comeback? Head to the comments and join the conversation.

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Forgotten Musicals Friday: Broadway Meets Britain in ANDRÉ CHARLOT’S REVUE OF 1924

Broadway has often looked across the Atlantic for creative renewal, and just over a century ago, it found something of the kind in André Charlot’s Revue of 1924, a sophisticated import refreshingly unlike anything American audiences were used to seeing. The revue was a compilation of newly written material alongside audience favourites from Charlot’s London productions, offering Broadway a distinctly British brand of theatrical wit at a moment when American revues were becoming ever bigger, brasher and more extravagant.

An advertisement for Andre Charlot's Revue of 1924, with Nelson Keys (who replaced Jack Buchanan) on the bill
An advertisement for André Charlot’s Revue of 1924, with Nelson Keys (who replaced Jack Buchanan after his return to London) on the bill

In scale, Charlot’s revue was noticeably smaller than its American counterparts. Notably absent were the sprawling staircases and mass choruses and in their place was something leaner and more intimate, essentially a drop that could be atmospherically lit to suggest mood rather than spectacle. What the production lacked in size, however, it made up for in polish, personality and a sharply observed sense of humour that felt unmistakably British.

Central to the revue’s success were its three leading performers: Beatrice Lillie, Gertrude Lawrence and Jack Buchanan, all of whom were greeted with enormous enthusiasm by New York audiences. Lillie’s formidable comic gifts were fully on display. She skewered theatrical pretension as a concert diva whose self-belief vastly outstripped her vocal ability, delivered dryly savage comedy as a tea-shop waitress and mined unexpected laughs from the persona of a faded ingénue clinging to past glamour.

Lawrence offered the kind of theatrical alchemy that would become her trademark: pathos gently entwined with sentiment. She also revealed her comic range in a skit as a razor-sharp Mayfair wife. Less comfortably, from a contemporary perspective, she also appeared in material portraying a Limehouse Chinese girl, a reminder that even the most elegant revues of the period were shaped by attitudes that now sit uneasily with modern audiences.

Buchanan completed the trio with suave assurance. A stylish song-and-dance man, he partnered both women with ease, proving himself an adaptable and charismatic presence. His ability to glide between charm, comedy and romance made him an ideal anchor for a revue that relied on personality rather than spectacle.

Mary Martin in André Charlot's Revue of 1924
Mary Martin in “Limehouse Blues” from André Charlot’s Revue of 1924

Musically, André Charlot’s Revue of 1924 was a rich showcase of London songwriting talent, with a particularly strong showing from Noël Coward, for whom the revue marked a significant breakthrough in the States. Songs such as “There’s Life in the Old Girl Yet” and “Parisian Pierrot” announced Coward as a writer with a witty, urbane and emotionally astute voice. Alongside Coward’s contributions were songs by Ivor Novello, including “March with Me” and “Night May Have Its Sadness”, as well as work by Philip Braham, Ronald Jeans and Douglas Furber. The revue also included material by the American team of Noble Sissle and Eubie Blake, notably “I Was Meant for You”, creating a genuinely transatlantic musical conversation.

The result was a critical and popular triumph. André Charlot’s Revue of 1924 ran for 298 performances, an impressive achievement for a production so understated in its physical trappings. More importantly, it established a template for a new kind of revue: intimate, performer-driven, witty rather than bombastic and rooted in sharp observation. Its success led to a second edition of the revue and opened the door to American careers for both Lillie and Lawrence, who would go on to become enduring figures on the Broadway stage.

Seen from today’s vantage point, André Charlot’s Revue of 1924 feels less like a curiosity and more like a reminder of what revues once did so well. They were incubators: places where writers, performers and styles could be tested, refined and celebrated in front of an audience without the weight of a fully fledged book musical.

It’s hard not to wonder whether there’s room again for this kind of show. In an era dominated by large-scale commercial spectacles, it could be glorious to see a revival of the intimate, intelligent revue, a space where emerging writers and performers can sharpen their craft, take risks and let personality, wit and musicality do the heavy lifting.

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“Hal, It’s About Cats”: Who Decides What Musicals Mean?

Towards the end of last year, I dipped into What Would Barbra Do? by Emma Brockes, a novelty book that proposes that few situations in life aren’t made better by showtunes. At the end of the introduction, Brockes references a conversation between famed Broadway producer and director Harold Prince and Andrew Lloyd Webber about Cats, which was Lloyd Webber’s next big project. Prince, who had directed Lloyd Webber’s political rock opera Evita, asked the composer whether the show was a metaphor for life in the United Kingdom, with some cats representing figures like Queen Victoria and Benjamin Disraeli and others the general populace. Lloyd Webber replied, “Hal, it’s about cats.” In the end, Prince passed on Cats, and Trevor Nunn would direct what would go on to be one of the longest-running shows both on Broadway and in the West End.

Although Brockes misattributes Lloyd Webber’s words to Cameron Mackintosh, who produced the show, recalling the anecdote reminded me once again of questions we keep on revisiting at a time when revivals of classic shows are more popular than ever – and in fact, when choices made in current productions even end up debated ad nauseam on social media. Who holds the final say when it comes to making meaning in musicals? Do audiences have to believe what the writers say the show is about? Where does the director fit in? What does it actually mean to honour the vision of the creators? And do we actually have to agree about this?

Harold Prince in a checked shirt and blazer, looking thoughtful against a dark, starry background. A large block of text appears beside him quoting his conversation with Andrew Lloyd Webber about interpreting Cats, ending with Lloyd Webber’s line, “Hal, it’s about cats.” The design is framed with a pink band featuring Prince’s name.
Harold Prince on Cats

When I – like Princeton from Avenue Q – was studying a BA in English, at one point, I announced to a friend of mine that I thought I was a structuralist. The memory of this somewhat precocious outburst resurfaced as I was considering whether it mattered that Lloyd Webber is on record as saying the show is simply about cats. Such a readerly take on the material seems ironic, given the writerly fandom that has sprung up around Cats, which has layers and layers of sometimes impenetrable interpretation.

That said, if I’m honest, I had to go back and see what structuralism was all about. I unshelved my copy of A Glossary of Literary Terms, the indispensable M. H. Abrams handbook on literary theory, to refresh my memory. Am I, after all these years, a structuralist after all? I’ve certainly dallied with other literary movements over the years. And if I am, how does such an approach help or hinder my reading of musicals? Crisis. Either way, revisiting the theory of structuralist criticism revealed that there are certainly aspects of this movement that resonate with me.

The sense of objectivity it pursues is certainly something that I’ve always espoused. I fully appreciate the idea that, as Stephen Sondheim put it in Into The Woods, ‘nice is different than good.’ I like its focus on semiotics in this pursuit; consequently, I love the idea that for musical theatre lovers, there are underlying signs and symbols that help us make sense of musicals, principles established and refined by all the great musical theatre practitioners from John Gay onwards. I’m excited by the language this gives us to discuss the form, and the power this language affords us to grapple with the idea of why musicals are significant, when so many people write them off as trivial cultural expressions. And I’m excited that there is something relational about all of this, even if it is just to dispel the contemporary misperception that objectivity is purely factual.

If we accept that musicals are an expression of a set of underlying conventions, something that I find very exciting about the performative nature of the genre over time, is how we, as contemporary audiences, sometimes have to negotiate several sets of underlying conventions at once, especially given the rising prominence of revivals over the last half-century. Part and parcel of this is the fact that a musical, like all theatre, is at once multiple things: there is the text itself, and then there are performances of the text. All too often, these are assumed to be the same thing, which is why many “purists” struggle with revivals that treat text like raw material and take things from there, sometimes arriving at a very different expression of the musical’s meaning than what was seen in the original production. This is not to say that every new iteration of a musical is successful in interrogating what it sets out to explore. Consider the 2018-2019 Broadway season as an example: for every Oklahoma!, there’s a Kiss Me, Kate.

Rebecca Naomi Jones and Damon Daunno in the 2019 revival of Oklahoma! seated at a simple wooden table on stage. Jones wears a plaid shirt and jeans, looking toward Daunno, who sits beside her in a blue Western-style vest and embroidered shirt. The lighting is warm and minimal, reflecting the production’s stripped-back aesthetic.
Rebecca Naomi Jones and Damon Daunno in Oklahoma! Photo credit: Little Fang

Even before I finished typing up that last sentence, I could hear the gasps from people who thought that Daniel Fish’s revival of Oklahoma! was an atrocity or those who prized the noble propositions of that same season’s Kiss Me, Kate over the way were executed. This brings us to one of the clinchers of the deal. You see, dear reader, it’s all right. We don’t have to agree, because we can all thrash out what we think makes these shows and their productions work or not from our positions as interpreters of these texts. We can all consciously and purposefully engage ourselves with scripts, songs, choreography, direction and performance in a way that is at once emotional and impersonal. The designs of the creators don’t need to intrude on those of the theatre-makers, and those of the theatre-makers don’t need to intrude on ours. Maybe Oscar Hammerstein II would have enjoyed debating whether Jud Fry is an incel over chili and cornbread. Maybe he wouldn’t have – but maybe that’s all right. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

I’m really enthusiastic about the opportunities 2026 will offer to revisit musical theatre classics and experience new shows. I’m also pleased to have clarified some of the things that matter to me when I make meaning out of what I’m consuming in this age of consumable content. In that light, I’d like to think that a production of Cats that finds a way to delve deeply into T.S. Eliot’s yearning for cultural and spiritual renewal has the right to exist in the same world as one that is, as Lloyd Webber proclaims it to be, just about cats.

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The Saturday List: Five Best Musical Tony Winners That Have Aged the Worst

Although the Tony Awards represent the pinnacle of each Broadway season’s theatrical presentations, some recipients of the award for Best Musical haven’t stood the test of time. Sometimes, an undeserving musical edges out a show that is otherwise recognised as being absolutely brilliant; at other times, an older show is out of step with the way we see the world today. There are even cases where the craft of creating musical theatre has just developed so much that a past winner seems to lack the nuance of one of its contemporaries. In today’s Saturday List, we’re taking a look at a selection of musicals that may have been representative of their time, but which perhaps aren’t classics for all time.

There was an audience for Kismet in the 1950s, but it is virtually unrevivable now. A Middle Eastern fantasy set in the time of The Arabian Nights, the show tells a tale of stereotypical characters in caricatured settings, an approach that clashes sharply with our modern sensibilities about representation. Kismet follows the exploits of a clever poet, Hajj, and his beautiful daughter, Marsinah, who become caught up in a series of palace intrigues involving mistaken identities and arranged marriages, all under the guiding hand of fate. The show opened to no reviews due to a newspaper strike and received mixed reviews a week into its run once the strike ended. Still, its pseudo-classical score adapted from the works of Alexander Borodin by Robert Wright and George Forrest, the glorious pageantry of Lemuel Ayers’s designs and a distinguished central performance by Alfred Drake as Hajj won over both audiences and members of The American Theatre Wing. The only other show that might have given Kismet a run for its money was the second biggest winner of that season, Can-Can, which also drew lukewarm reviews from critics, although it was popular enough with audiences to sustain a run of 892 performances.

Alfred Drake as Hajj and Joan Diener as Lalume in the original Broadway production of KISMET, wearing ornate, jewel-toned costumes in a lavish Middle Eastern fantasy setting.
Alfred Drake as Hajj and Joan Diener sa Lalume in Kismet

“The show was a turkey,” Arthur Laurents said about Hallelujah, Baby! “I don’t think it had much to say.” Following the life of Georgina, an African American woman, across several decades, in an attempt to explore the dynamics of race and racism in the twentieth century, some might argue that this kind of show actually has a lot to say. Despite its admirable intent, the more likely problem faced by Hallelujah, Baby! was the white lens through which the show’s narrative was filtered. All of its creators, including Laurents himself as well as Jule Styne, Betty Comden and Adolph Green, have several undisputed hits on their respective résumés, but what is conspicuously absent from this creative team is an authentic Black voice. Through its simplification of structural oppression into a sequence of personal triumphs for Georgina, Hallelujah, Baby! ends up embodying a worldview that reads as naïve at best and patronising at worst. Hallelujah, Baby! is rarely revived, and its obscurity limits its impact today. Laurents revised the show in 2004, helming a production that had its eye on Broadway. The show still lacked the bite it needed, confirming that what held it back all along was ideological, not just aesthetic. As such, it remains a fascinating failure rather than a timeless triumph.

Alan Weeks, Leslie Uggams and Winston DeWitt Hemsley in the Broadway production of HALLELUJAH, BABY!, posed mid-performance in period costumes reflecting the show’s shifting historical eras.
Alan Weeks as Tap, Leslie Uggams as Georgina and Winston DeWitt Hemsley as Tip in Hallelujah, Baby!

Is Two Gentlemen of Verona the Tony Awards’ most infamous misjudgement? This rock adaptation of Shakespeare’s early comedy somehow beat Follies and Grease to the Best Musical prize. Did its chaotic, countercultural energy simply overwhelm all of the voters? There’s very little in John Guare and Mel Shapiro’s book, in which young Proteus and Valentine put their friendship to the test as they journey through romance, betrayal and reconciliation, that can be played today without any sense of irony. And while I’m sure that the audiences of 1971 thought that numbers like “Thurio’s Samba,” “What Does a Lover Pack?” and “Don’t Have the Baby” were a bop, nothing from the score (with Guare’s lyrics set to music by Galt MacDermot) had a significant impact on the canon. With no traction for modern productions – The New York Times critic Ben Brantley called a 2005 revival ‘festive,’ while noting that it opted for ‘nonsense over sensibility’ and that the songs were ‘clunky’ – it’s little more than a relic of its time. With its amateurish exuberance laid bare, it’s little wonder that Two Gentlemen of Verona is often cited as one of the baffling Best Musical wins.

Raúl Juliá, Clifton Davis and José Ferrer in the Broadway production of TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, dressed in 1970s-inspired costumes during a rock-inflected reinterpretation of Shakespeare’s comedy.
Raul Julia as Proteus, Clifton Davis as Valentine and Jose Parez as Speed in Two Gentlemen of Verona

There was one big problem with Contact being named the first “Best Musical” of the twenty-first century – it’s not a musical. With no live singing, this was a modern ballet, and it had no business being nominated in the category, let alone winning it. Is there anything wrong with the show itself? Not at all. In fact, it’s quite a good dance production, and it was certainly worthy of all the praise it received and its triumphant 1 010-performance run. So why complain? For one thing, it stripped the true best musical of the season – The Wild Party – of a title it deserved and a legacy to which it was entitled. Written by George C. Wolfe and Michael John LaChiusa, The Wild Party was a dark and complex musical that managed to simultaneously capture the neurosis of the world’s Y2K shift as well as the spirit of its 1920s setting and its source material, Joseph Moncure March’s eponymous poem. Contact’s win signalled something troubling, albeit not something we haven’t seen before or since: a moment when Tony voters appeared uncertain about what, exactly, the awards were recognising. In that sense, Contact stands less as a triumph of innovation than as an early warning sign of an awards culture increasingly willing to blur its own definitions in pursuit of marketing potential.

Scott Taylor, Seán Martin Hingston and Stephanie Michels performing an expressive dance sequence in CONTACT, staged against a minimalist set emphasising movement and physical storytelling.
Scott Taylor, Seán Martin Hingston and Stephanie Michels in Contact (Photo credit: Paul Kolnik)

Despite two undeniably committed central performances from Chad Kimball and Montego Glover, Memphis is a curiously dull show. David Bryan and Joe DiPietro crafted an oversimplified take on race, music and rebellion that already feels dated less than two decades after its Tony win. Framing the birth of rock ’n’ roll through the familiar lens of a white male liberator makes it feel like the show exists in a world where Willie Mae “Big Mama” Thornton was never overshadowed by Elvis Presley in the 1950s. The racial politics of Memphis are blunt rather than interrogative, offering reassurance instead of challenge, while its derivative score and glossy staging prioritise momentum over depth. What stings more is the context of its victory: the following season saw the arrival of The Scottsboro Boys, a daring and politically urgent work that grappled directly with American racial injustice, only for it to be largely sidelined while Broadway’s attention shifted to the juggernaut that was The Book of Mormon. In retrospect, Memphis is less a bold statement about cultural change than an emblem of 2010s Broadway populism, a reductive tale of racism in the music industry that is as tone-deaf as it is inert.

Chad Kimball as Huey Calhoun and Montego Glover as Felicia Farrell performing on stage in MEMPHIS, with live musicians and vibrant lighting evoking the energy of 1950s rock ’n’ roll.
Chad Kimball as Huey Calhoun and Montego Glover as Felicia Farrell in Memphis

Looking Back to Find the Way Forward

Reflections about which musicals have aged well or not always involve a degree of subjectivity, but it’s not merely a matter of personal taste. Awards like the Tonys are institutional endorsements, reflecting what Broadway chooses to celebrate, legitimise and canonise at a given moment in time. Revisiting these decisions allows us to see how theatrical styles change as well as the way attitudes toward representation, authorship, form and power either evolve or fail to keep pace. To interrogate these winners is not to diminish the artists involved, but to better understand the blind spots of the industry that rewarded them, especially when we view them in the light of our contemporary values and developing theatrical practices. Which Best Musical winners do you feel haven’t aged as well as we’d like to think? Head to the comments section below and let us know!

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