Wow. That's a loaded title, I know.
Disclaimer: if An American in Paris is on your wish list of Broadway plays to see and you don't want spoilers, you've been warned. I'm going to gripe a lot. In detail.
Maybe the movie is better, but I've not seen it. The play though, uggh. Let's begin my tear down of a beloved classic.
Jerry. Just, why? The hero I never liked. The American with the hokey, it's all about me attitude. The song where he changes Lise's name from Lise because it's too sad--aww, precious--to Liza. Like men on the street telling women with resting bitch face to smile. No, you smile.
Adam. In love with a figment of his imagination. Why, oh why, were you not the hero I wanted? At first I hoped Lise would turn the story upside down and choose you. But that changed when I learned you were content to love your version of Lise; the beautiful ballerina with a smile pasted on her face. You forget, to love a woman means to love the negative that comes along with the good. I'm someone who loves a tragic love story. But not yours.
Henri. The hero that should have been. Why weren't you the hero I needed. Where was your story? I got a taste of what could be, but it wasn't to be. Yours was the only story with heart, but were deemed nothing more than a secondary plot line. All you got was a wink, wink, don't you like girls? Where was the suspense regarding why you didn't fight? Where was the intrigue? Where was the grand reveal that no, you weren't in fact a coward but had protected Lise all along. Instead it was merely, meh.
Henri's parents. So not a factor I don't even remember your names. Where was your dignity in the end? You were merely a comedic device where all we got was a few lackluster laughs at your stodgy expense.
Milo. The McGuffin. def. An object or device in a movie or book or play that serves merely as a trigger for the plot. Gag.
The songs: Fidgety Feet and S'wonderful. So mind-numbingly stupid I want to rip their putrid melodies from existence as they continue to recycle through my brain.
Wow.
Now for what I liked.
The ballet dancing was beautiful.
I appreciate the artistry and the talent of the actors, but never again, An American in Paris. Never again.
Disclaimer: if An American in Paris is on your wish list of Broadway plays to see and you don't want spoilers, you've been warned. I'm going to gripe a lot. In detail.
 |
| The Mister and I before the crushing reality of An American in Paris destroyed my zest for life |
Jerry. Just, why? The hero I never liked. The American with the hokey, it's all about me attitude. The song where he changes Lise's name from Lise because it's too sad--aww, precious--to Liza. Like men on the street telling women with resting bitch face to smile. No, you smile.
Adam. In love with a figment of his imagination. Why, oh why, were you not the hero I wanted? At first I hoped Lise would turn the story upside down and choose you. But that changed when I learned you were content to love your version of Lise; the beautiful ballerina with a smile pasted on her face. You forget, to love a woman means to love the negative that comes along with the good. I'm someone who loves a tragic love story. But not yours.
Henri. The hero that should have been. Why weren't you the hero I needed. Where was your story? I got a taste of what could be, but it wasn't to be. Yours was the only story with heart, but were deemed nothing more than a secondary plot line. All you got was a wink, wink, don't you like girls? Where was the suspense regarding why you didn't fight? Where was the intrigue? Where was the grand reveal that no, you weren't in fact a coward but had protected Lise all along. Instead it was merely, meh.
Henri's parents. So not a factor I don't even remember your names. Where was your dignity in the end? You were merely a comedic device where all we got was a few lackluster laughs at your stodgy expense.
Milo. The McGuffin. def. An object or device in a movie or book or play that serves merely as a trigger for the plot. Gag.
The songs: Fidgety Feet and S'wonderful. So mind-numbingly stupid I want to rip their putrid melodies from existence as they continue to recycle through my brain.
Wow.
Now for what I liked.
The ballet dancing was beautiful.
I appreciate the artistry and the talent of the actors, but never again, An American in Paris. Never again.
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