The Unexpected Burn

A friend of mine recently went to see a new production of Rent. She’s in her early 50s and has always adored the show since it first came out. She’s an awesome singer and said that in her 20s she had auditioned for the first Aussie production in Sydney. She even has a tattoo that reads ‘525,600 minutes’. So, she really likes it. A lot.

But she came out of the ‘new’ production bitterly disappointed. Not because the singers were bad or the acting was sub-par, no. They were faultless and worked their hearts out. Not because the production had been changed and updated to blend into the age of cancel free wokeness and it awkwardly didn’t work. Nothing had actually been changed. Which was nice. A 1990s piece presented as a 1990s piece. Contextually comfortable in its own skin. Sticking up the middle finger to those who question its relevance today.

No. It wasn’t that. But something was brewing. In her. Something was slowly being tossed around a greasy frypan and browning too much. The beginnings of burning - the edge of smoke.

She didn’t connect. She didn’t feel. Anything. Well, she did, but it was something uninvited. The simmering of disdain. The idea of a bunch of kids trying to make it but not caring about the world, others or even themselves was boiling over. “Get a Job!” “Pay the fucking rent!” She wanted to yell. “Don’t waste time taking drugs!”

She was shocked at herself. Her age. Her inability to empathise. This woman had a TATTOO of a lyric from this show, yet was sitting there on fire!

What had happened in 30 years? Had she really changed that much? Had she grown that old?... Had Rent changed? 

She asked me these questions as I listened in wonder. 

I think shows do change. Not the sets, costumes or lyrics necessarily, but the sentiment shifts. Our world moves forward and we travel with it, whether we want to or not. We all have favourite shows. We all have that one musical we still dance to and we recite the lyrics blindly. But more than the song list and characters, we have our memories of when we first heard those tunes and really knew those characters; when we could see ourselves on that stage, living those moments, grinding through those very same difficult and phenomenally human happenings. 

It does, however, become a memory. A treasured one that we can pack up in a box and keep safe. We can still visit. When someone comments on that tattoo in the Ladies Room mirror with mutual understanding, we can go there. 

But, like anything in life, we can never truly return. If we try, it can be strange and it can burn. 

Old shows are always going to attract new audiences. 

And maybe that’s the way it should be.