A year ago, I stood on the corner of 52nd St. and 8th Ave., waiting to go inside for a free first preview of a new Broadway show. I generally prefer to wait until a show officially opens, partly so I can judge a final product, but mostly because a former friend attends early previews and I go out of my way to avoid her. But who can say no to free theatre tickets? (If she was there that night, I didn't see her, so crisis averted.) As always, I was excited to see a new show, but I had some concerns. Did we really need another adaptation of a movie, especially one so beloved by many? I had only seen the movie once, but I still knew it was iconic and completely understood why. Would it live up to the original source material, or would it be as offensively bad as some other adaptations I won't publicly name? I remained cautiously optimistic and eager to find out.
The opening number set the scene with just the right amount of exposition, and the following number was making me laugh, until all of a sudden they had to stop the show. Understandable. It was a first preview, and I figured they were still working some technical kinks out. Then forty-five minutes passed and free drinks were offered. I even considered not waiting at the stage door. At this point, I would already get home late, and I had to be up early for work the following day. The composer, book writer, and director got up on stage and reassured their audience that this never happened in rehearsals. They told us that despite the turntable refusing to cooperate, they would resume the first act concert-style, and then perform five songs from the second act. They also said they would give us all vouchers to come back to a later preview so we could see it the way they wanted us to. The actors had to sit in chairs and couldn't change out of their costumes, but they still gave it their all. Their ability to laugh through the stress and perform as if they were using the full set and choreography blew my mind. I think, "There you are" got the biggest laugh of the night, since all someone did was get up out of a chair. When the lead actor burst into laughter, I knew I was going to wait and congratulate everyone. It would be worth being tired the next day. When I went back a few weeks later, there was another technical stop, but this time it only lasted ten minutes. And I got to see/hear half of one of my favorite songs in the show twice. Still the best car chase I've ever seen, and probably ever will see.
Four months went by before I would see it again, but in that time I listened to the cast recording constantly and memorized the score. It was the show I recommended to friends without hesitation. I even sang the act two opener in acting class with the "Hope" (see what I did there?) that it would encourage people to buy tickets. But it wasn't enough. A week and a half after my third trip to Punxsutawney, the show posted its closing notice, and it hurt way more than I was expecting it to. I went back a lot during its final month, made friends both on the Internet and in real life, and cried with them through the final performance. I managed to see it eight times during its six-month-and-one-day run, and I wish I could have gone more.
This beautiful gem of a show deserved to run as long as Phil was stuck in that time loop. No. It deserved to run even longer than that. The care and detail that team put into every line, every movement, every...everything...continues to amaze me. It's been gone six months (minus one day) now, and I'm still picking up on new details when I listen to it or when my mind happens to wander back to its time on Broadway. A tragedy occurred in Barcelona, and the next day, they changed a line from, "It always makes me think of Barcelona" to, "It always makes me think of Machu Picchu." Something a certain other show I won't publicly name could have learned from. I'm not bitter. It enhanced the original source material, and cast a large, diverse group of kind people who deserve nothing but happiness and success. I will never stop missing it, but I'm forever grateful for the time we had together, even if it was cut far too short.
Revive Groundhog Day.
