Since the day I sat through it, Sweeney Todd stands as the worst musical I have ever seen. But now with this new production, that ne plus ultra of snobs' and critics' darlings entitled Sunday in the Park With George is sinking ever closer to rock bottom. I never could have thought it possible, but this experience was even more painful, more torturous than when I suffered through it the first time. It's not that the music is any more headache-inducing, that the book is any more drab, boring, and pretentious, that it moves at any more of a snail's pace. What has heightened here is the hallowed "we-are-a- masterpiece" reverence it has conferred upon itself. It's not only pleased with itself, it's in awe of itself. Not only is every member of the audience expected to bow and scrape before it --- no dissent allowed, of course --- it bows and scrapes before itself all evening long.
You know how you have to eat a peppermint to get a sour taste out of your mouth? Similarly, I felt obliged to play La Cage aux Folles immediately upon returning home as an antidote to all this. Happily, it worked! Thank you, real music!
Updated On: 2/17/17 at 07:11 AM