First off, I'd like everyone to know that what I'm about to say comes sincerely from the heart. Some of you may take it with a grain of salt, and that's fine, but there is no level of irony or mocking superiority intended in this post.
Onward...
I ventured into the Old Globe to see THE FIRST WIVES CLUB one cool, sunny afternoon this past July. The show hadn't been reviewed yet, I hadn't seen the promo video online, and the only reason I went is because I happened to be in San Diego and was looking for something to do. I had seriously considered skipping the show, assuming that it probably wouldn't be very good. To think what I would have missed out on...
I saw the show, a Sunday matinee. It was wretched. Abysmal. Atrocious. Soul-crushing. An Armageddon-like creative catastrophe. A bottomless black hole of lazily offensive (or offensively lazy) tripe. Worthless. Bankrupt. I was personally shocked at the authors, director, and choreographer responsible for such a talentless mess (most of the actors, however, were very talented and worthy of the audience's sympathy). It was a low point in a lifetime of theatergoing and I wondered if our beloved, bewitching art form had choked out its last gasp of air, a fair assumption if this musical was indeed "Broadway bound" as advertised.
As soon as I got home, I sought solace on BWW. I saw the promo video. I scoured threads where some eviscerated the show and others delighted in its giddy incompetence. I felt relieved. Surely there were others in the world who knew my pain.
About a month later, I did something I never could have imagined... I saw the show again.
I'm sure you're asking yourselves, why would I further expose myself to something that had awakened such foul, seething rage the first time? Well, part of me had to see it again just to confirm that the first time was real. Had the show actually been that bad? Were the lyrics really that nonsensical? Was the staging that dopey? Were the one-liners that limp? I had to know. For my sanity, I had to prove to myself that THE FIRST WIVES CLUB wasn't some kind of fever dream, a shiny off-white hallucination brought forth by shifting panels of frosted glass.
Another side of me hoped I might be entertained. If the show was as bad as I remembered, there would be no surprises, no false hopes of quality. I would sit through it as before but with full knowledge of what I was getting myself into. Its juvenile tricks wouldn't ambush me like they did the first time. Maybe then I could, bizarrely, enjoy the show. Besides, who doesn't like to see a good train wreck every once in a while?
For some reason, I found myself excited to see THE FIRST WIVES CLUB again. Why? I couldn't put my finger on it. The show had awakened emotions in me, however negative, unlike any I had felt for any piece of theater in years. My strong feelings indicated that I had to see it again. I was obsessed. Finding my way back to the show became like a mission. I didn't know what would happen when the opening notes of "Wedding Belles" signaled the beginning of the first act, but I knew one thing. I was RED-DAY.
The show that afternoon was more or less the same as the one I'd seen a month earlier. A few bits of business in the staging were tightened, some performers were more sure of themselves (although not their material) this time out. Book/lyric changes were minimal to nonexistent. But something very significant HAD changed at that performance. Me.
Seeing that cast up there, busting their asses for a script that couldn't give them the time of day if it took place at a watch factory, was inspiring. I'm sure they knew at this point in the run what the show really was, they had to. Bad buzz was all over the chat boards. Reviews were out. Nothing could be done to fix the mess they'd gotten themselves into, but there they were. Committed and smiling and making a gas of it.
Mind you, the show was not funnier, more insightful, or more interesting this time around. A mountain had not been made from a molehill, the material was too far gone for that. But the energy onstage was palpable, and certain things that annoyed me the first time I now accepted with a head-shrugging recognition that felt refreshing. It became a comfort to me, a relief, quaint in the simplest and most affecting of interpretations. Tidal waves could flood the Earth, the stock market could crash, Satan could rise from the bowels of Hell and torture mankind for all eternity, but one thing would still be certain: THE FIRST WIVES CLUB is the lamest, dumbest, crappiest musical ever written.
Leaving the Old Globe that afternoon, I was euphoric. My faith in the power of theater had been restored. Just as positive experiences and good shows had been there for me in the past, this NEGATIVE experience, this BAD show had snuck up and charmed me with its dopey, hollow-eyed grin.
THE FIRST WIVES CLUB is like a retarded puppy that pisses all over your carpet but after it does, it jumps in your lap, licks your face, and in that absurd, imperfect moment, cheeks covered in thick saliva and jeans soggy with piss, you know the eternal meaning of joy.
Before this show I had never been exposed to that sort of peace with the world. Well, friends, that was me then. This is me now.
"To Cynthia!"
Updated On: 1/3/10 at 07:24 PM
xoxo
