By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
By Morgan Golumbuk
By Ciara LaVelle
By Carolina del Busto
By Michael E. Miller
If you sat through three hours of the Tony Award- and Pulitzer Prize-winning, mega-publicity-hyped musical that promised to change the face of Broadway forever only to wonder, "Is that all there is?" -- read on. If you heard about the ballyhoo last week at Miami Beach's Jackie Gleason Theater of the Performing Arts (the touring production's two-week run closed May 3) but missed the show -- take heart. Here's one vote that says Rent does nothing to revolutionize theater. That is, it does nothing more than make the notion of heroin chic safe for the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.
By now the story of how 35-year-old Jonathan Larson updated Puccini's La Boheme and restaged it with a rock score in the East Village only to die of an aortic aneurysm the night before the first preview is theater history. Ever since the musical's 1996 Broadway debut -- which won almost every theater award possible, drew throngs of younger theatergoers, and cured cancer (just kidding on that last one) -- Rent's legend has cast big shadows. Its characters -- a filmmaker whose girlfriend left him for a lesbian lawyer; a songwriter and the exotic dancer he loves; a yuppie landlord who seduces the dancer; a transvestite with AIDS and the HIV-infected philosophy professor who loves him; and a lesbian performance artist and the lawyer who loves her -- may not be household names. But they certainly aren't the usual bunch of middle-aged, angst-ridden, white-collar stockbrokers, perky gallery owners, or people in cat costumes who tend to show up on Broadway stages.
Or are they? Slightly older versions of the Rent folks have appeared in mainstream plays (albeit as secondary characters) for the past fifteen years, ever since the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, which blighted the theater community and refocused the visions of dozens of playwrights. As for those who can't, or don't, pay rent, let's not forget John Guare's Six Degrees of Separation, in which upper-middle-class parents, victimized by a penniless con artist, find out just how close they really are to the world of Those Who Have Less. Performance artists, bisexual and otherwise, hold court in New York theaters nightly, although most of them are off-off the Great White Way, where Rent barged in. The glory of Rent is that it romanticizes the low life, the choices made by those who aren't looking for a starter house in Westchester or a brownstone on Riverside Drive. The problem is that most of Rent's characters -- not to mention its White Plains-reared creator -- grew up in middle-class households, and it shows.
Who else but a suburban kid would -- as Larson does here -- insert comic sequences in which well-heeled parents leave answering-machine messages begging their offspring to come home for Christmas? And since Roger (the songwriter) and Mark (the filmmaker) live in a squatter's loft for which they steal electricity via an extralong extension cord, just where do they get off having an answering machine in the first place? It's hard to think of a better example of poverty as posturing, even though that's pretty much what the entire show is about. Why don't these kids go home? Why don't they get jobs? It's hard to believe that kids living in the real-life East Village would have anything in common with the poseurs of Rent. Or that they would consider its music -- ballads, anthems, production numbers played with rock and roll instruments -- anything more than conventional theater fare dressed in new chords.
And where else but Broadway would the subject of drug addiction be handled without the appearance of a single syringe or needle mark? In the case of Mimi, for example, there's only the fleeting mention of starvation and prostitution. Here's wagering that the allusive lyrics about snow in Larson's version of "Christmas Bells" go right over the heads of half the audience. Okay, I know, Broadway is not the place to look for kitchen-sink realism (unless a playwright in the league of August Wilson is in the playbill). And maybe Rent earned the hosannas it got three years ago from audiences who were encountering it for the first time and had no expectations of witnessing the Second Coming. But I dare anyone to sit through three hours of this, in mid-1998, and tell me that Roger, who speaks of his dreams of glory, is possessed of inimitable genius. Or that Mark is the next Andy Warhol. (I am, however, willing to get behind the career of Cary Shields, who in this touring production gives Roger a magnificent voice, painfully strong and sweet, an asset that even the Jackie Gleason's mediocre sound system could not weaken.)
Bohemians or slackers? Real artists or fakers? None of these qualms would matter if the show itself were emotionally engaging. Despite the dynamism of the actors' performances, none of the characters emerges as anything more than stand-ins for types of people. Not one of them has a story line that rises above the generic. Thank God for Julia Santana, who infuses Mimi -- particularly in the explosive "Out Tonight" -- with equal parts exuberance and despair. A human Slinky, her intelligent physicality transcends anything Larson wrote for her. Mimi is likable and lovable, but she's a good object lesson in what's missing from Rent. As with other characters, her shortcoming isn't that she's not larger than life; it's that she's not entirely lifesize.