This is Drama Masks, a Bay Area performing arts column (full of mad ramblings, Oxford commas, and “theatre” with an “r-e”) from a born San Franciscan and longtime theatre artist in an N95 mask. I talk venue safety and dramatic substance, or the lack thereof.
I’m neither the first nor the last to point this out, but Hamilton (through January 5, 2025 at the Orpheum Theatre, SF) may be the quintessential “Obama-era piece of pop culture.” Interpret that how you will. Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Pulitzer- and Tony-winning musical historical bio is a celebration of the glorious eight-year period when white liberals convinced themselves they were in a “post-racial America” (despite all evidence to the contrary), so they celebrated a musical where the white Founding Fathers are all played by PoC performers. It’s a story where the US isn’t a land stolen from indigenous tribes, but rather just a former British colony that is only allowed to thrive when proud immigrants take the reins. It’s a story that introduces its few female leads with a “Yaaas, kween!” banger, only for those same women (sisters, mind you) to be reduced to two women fighting over the same guy.
Based on that summary, you may be surprised to know that I do still enjoy the show. Don’t get me wrong: All the above is true, with the show essentially being a hip-hop-infused take on Aaron Sorkin-esque American mythologizing, though it’s slightly less misogynist than Sorkin’s work. Nevertheless, it’s still a damned entertaining musical. Like a great many zeitgeist-capturing works, it retains some enduring entertainment quality, even as it receives well-deserved scrutiny. That doesn’t change the fact that several tracks appear on my workout and dance playlists (in those pre-eviction days when I used to actually work out). Like Amadeus, its blatant historical license doesn’t take away from a compelling story about all-too-human frenemies who wound up changing the world, even if they didn’t live to see all of those changes.
Of particular note when looking at Hamilton in hindsight is the fact that its hip-hop-scored and PoC-led success was used as a mainstream liberal rallying cry against the then-incoming first Trump era. Whilst actual leftists and progressives were listening to Kendrick Lamar and taking to the streets, hashtag “activists” were applauding the cast of Hamilton for lashing out at then-incoming-VP Mike Pence to his face. Whereas white, liberal Gen-Xers clung to reruns of The West Wing (created by aforementioned Sorkin) through eight dark years of Dubya, white liberal Millennials clung to pink knit caps and the Hamilton soundtrack during their anti-Trump dreams of waiting for a Democratic savior. In a way, it was confirmation of their “post-racial” delusion, since there was now a nearly-all-PoC work to unite center-lefties in the idea of American exceptionalism.
Again, I do enjoy the hell outta the show. But as an artist, art critic, and unabashedly-leftist activist, its flaws stare me right in the face. I still sing along with the songs, but it was never my favorite musical. (That’s Passing Strange, in case you’re curious.) And sing along I did during opening night of its post-election San Francisco tour stop. No matter what hypocritical rules are attached to film screenings of Wicked, it’s ridiculous to ask musical fans to do nothing when seeing their favorite show—so long as they aren’t disruptive.
Incidentally, much like this year’s earlier revival of Wicked, I once again found myself back at the Orpheum to rewatch a show I’d enjoyed in that very theatre years earlier. Whereas I first saw Hamilton just wanting to know what all the fuss was about (I knew the original version starred by my former onstage kissing partner, Daveed Diggs) and emerged a convert, I went in this time armed with a Flo Mask, an Aranet4, and an additional eight years of skepticism.
Still, I sang along. The persistent belief about critics is that we go into every work ready to hate it. That’s never been true of proper critics: We go in with context. That context can be strengthened or tempered by the face value of the work itself, but that context will color everything. It was no great feat for me to roll my eyes at some of the creative choices in this production as I simultaneously grinned (behind my Flo Mask) at the sight of kids in the audience falling in love with the musical as a format. In fact, it may be that latter fact that made this production’s flaws all the more pronounced.
In short: Nearly all the men in this roster are wrong for their roles. Opening night featured the “Philip” cast (who alternate with an “Angelica” cast, depending on the date), and all the central men—including Blaine Alden Krauss as the eponymous lead, Simon Longnight as Lafayette and Jefferson, Eddie Ortega as Hercules Mulligan—all seemed to deliver half-energy performances. Oh, they hit each and every one of Miranda’s rapid-fire lyrics at the right moment, but it never rose above mere recitation.
Deon’te Goodman at least puts effort into his turn as Aaron Burr, and Paul Louis Lessard devours all the wooden scenery as King George, but Hamilton and his confidantes come off more as karaoke cosplay. Kameron Richardson seems particularly lost as George Washington. Not only is he at least a foot shorter than Krauss-as-Hamilton, but Richardson never finds the gravitas needed to portray “the dollar bill guy.” In fact, he seems confused most of the time, as if looking around for a cue on what to do next.
Yet, if the men of the cast are merely embers, the women are an inferno. With Lencia Kebede as Angelica Schuyler, Kendyl Sayuri Yokoyama as Eliza Schuyler-Hamilton, and Milika Cherée as Peggy Schuyler and Maria Reynolds, the ladies showed up understanding the assignment and not happy with any grade less than an “A+.” Not only is each an excellent singer, they’re all expressive actors who personify the joy and heartbreak of their respective characters. Miranda’s script infamously fails the Bechdel Test, but watching these ladies give their gut-wrenching takes on “Satisfied” and “Best of Wives, Best of Women” is worth the price of admission alone. The three of them are so good that most of the men acting with them can’t help but pale by comparison. Given that said men are supposed to be carrying the show, that’s a bit of a disappointment.
It’s also disappointing to know that we’re still in the midst of a pandemic that began months after I first saw the show. Sadly, I’ve gotten used to mine being one-of-the-few masked faces in a crowd. Fortunately, that disappointment was tempered by the knowledge of a strong HVAC working in the Orpheum. During the three-hour show, the CO² readings on my Aranet4 peaked around 1,054ppm during the second act, hovering in the mid-900s most of the show and dropping to 903ppm during the final bow.
That pandemic was in full force some four years after the Broadway cast of Hamilton lambasted Mike Pence to his face, resulting in Trump coming to his defense. Yet, after those four years, when Trump attempted to overthrow the government, he replied to news of Pence’s life being in danger with the callous reaction of “So what?”. Four years after that and Kendrick Lamar has gone from hip-hop activist to upcoming Super Bowl headliner.
We also have another goddamned Trump term coming up. It’s times like this when I’m reminded that although Hamilton was the quintessential Obama-era work, there was another particular work created during the Obama admin that wound up justifying its existence simply by being released when Trump took office: Jordan Peele’s Get Out.
Peele—who got a lot of mileage out of portraying the 44th POTUS on his sketch show Key & Peele—wrote Get Out as a direct rebuke to the “post-racial” pretense of the Obama era, which included the murders of Trayvon Martin and Mike Brown, among many others. It was a kick in the ass for complacent white liberals happy to rest on their laurels about how far we’ve progressed, rather than actually move further. (I’m tempted to make a comparison to Joe Biden’s unearned “victory lap” over COVID, but this piece is already pretty damn long.) Whereas hindsight has us raising eyebrows at the Pulitzer- and Tony-winning Hamilton, the Oscar-winning Get Out has somehow become even more timely in the near-decade since its original release—which may be scarier than the film itself.
Still, if you’re looking for liberal musical comfort food, the current production of Hamilton may be the sweet treat to sustain you ‘til January. Between now and then, folks may need the security only found in their favorite songs.
HAMILTON runs through January 5, 2025 at the Orpheum Theatre, SF. Tickets and further info here.
