Billy Elliot: The Musical

As opposed to Billy Elliot: The Movie, which is something I barely remember seeing in 2000. It was a big crowd pleasing hit on the silver screen, but I think I used it to sleep off a heavy pasta dinner as I have virtually no recollection of any of it. So, how I ended up at the Imperial Theater last night to see the stage version of the movie is beyond me. Perhaps, it was the chance to see a Broadway show and have a fun night out with a friend. Or maybe I was still trying to wash out the bitter taste of my last Great White Way experience: that sinus infection with a full orchestra known as Young Frankenstein. Perhaps I was hoping that theater's positive attributes would be restored a bit.

Actually, I check "all of the above." And, for the most part, Billy Elliot: The Musical really did bring Broadway back to me in a grand way. Although I still left with one nagging question.

How does a movie that ran 110 minutes become an almost three hour production on stage?

Let's face it. All Broadway legit houses are now a tough sit. The leg room in the aisles is better suited for actress Linda Hunt. You wind up sitting in a crouching position and you feel like the Mets' Jerry Grote after catching a Sunday doubleheader. And, all around you, there are the new breed of Broadway theatergoers. Half are Euro-trash with accents that are hard to place, although they give you plenty of opportunity to do so. The two broads next to me kept up a running commentary through the show as if this was an episode of Mystery Science Theater. The other 50% of the crowd are the dreaded out-of-town tourists fresh from "all you can eat" at the Olive Garden with asses to prove it. If I had trouble sitting in these 1920 width seats, I can't imagine how Two Ton Tessie from Tennessee was dealing with Row F, Seat 111. Whatever happened to the days when Broadway audiences sported the likes of Dorothy Kilgallen and the other ritzy hoi polloi straight from a stool at Sardi's? The only soupcon of class in the audience last night was Angela Lansbury who provoked countless rubbernecks at the intermission. Her presence to me simply signaled that perhaps the oboe player would be found dead in the orchestra pit.

Despite the jerks all afoot, the show was a great reminder to me of just how good a Broadway musical can be. The plot is pretty simple: a young poor kid in England likes to dance ballet while the rest of his family is on strike from the coal mines. They give you a little newsreel history lesson at the beginning if you are, like me, totally unaware of the big battle between Margaret Thatcher and the coal miners in 1984. Frankly, I never paid any attention to this situation when it was happening, probably because I always had electric heat. But, nevertheless, fans of Mrs. Thatcher need not see this production. There are evil puppets and gigantic Mummers' heads depicting her throughout the show, and she comes off about as well as George W. Bush would in Iraq. Who knew a smart hair style and simple strains of pearls could be so scary?

Elton John wrote the music for this production, which started originally in England. And it's quite infectious. Naturally, the dancing is amazing: a weird combination of ballet and tap depending upon the number. Apparently, there are three different kid actors who alternate in the lead role and you can see why. The character never stops moving and, at one point, is harnessed so he can fly all around like Cathy Rigby in Peter Pan. The boy we saw was the Russian kid as opposed to the American kid and the Hispanic kid who also play the role. Our Billy Elliot, while a great dancer, did have a habit of telegraphing his lines as if his acting coach was Mindy Cohn from The Facts of Life. You know what I mean. "I've got a great line to read. Here it comes. It's a profound line. Wait for it. Here it comes. Here it comes. I'm going to say something important." Overall, it didn't distract me as much as the two fressers alongside me, who kept having a problem with the British accents. "What did he say? What did she say? It's so confusing."

A terrific first act gave way to a second act which started to feel a little long. Once the conflict between Billy and his dance-hating dad is resolved, the plot is over. Except the show goes on for another 45 minutes. When the writer put the final script through for one last spellcheck, he should also have tried to cut a few moments as well. The show seemed to end about two dozen times. And, of course, when Billy hops off the stage with suitcase in hand and exits up the aisle, you just know that such a wonderful poignant moment can't be the end. Because today's Broadway audiences from Arkansas and Germany need to have the big Vegas finale. It's almost required of all musicals these days. Out comes the entire cast in tutus and taps for a rousing number straight from A Chorus Line. Overkill that had Miss Jessica Fletcher dusting off her magnifying glass several rows over.

Despite the 10PM bedsores, Billy Elliot: The Musical worked tremendously. It was fun and entertaining and oddly nostalgic for what Broadway used to be. Crowd pleasing when the crowd was smarter and tougher to please. These days, Fannie Flagg reading the phone book on stage gets a standing ovation from Mort and Marge who drove in from Hohokus, New Jersey. When the crowd stood at the end of Billy Elliot, it was truly warranted. But, in these days of overpraising mediocrity, the accolades merely get lost in the shuffle.

I stood up, too. Once I got some blood circulating back into the legs that were wedged up against my chin. At 125 smackers per ticket, can I just get one inch more please?

Dinner last night: Pre-theater dinner of grilled pork chop at Il Melograno.