If you sat through three hours of the Tony Award-taking, Pulitzer Prize-winning, mega-publicity-hyped musical that promised to change the face of Broadway forever, only to wonder, "Is that all there is?" -- read on. If you heard about the ballyhoo last week at Miami Beach's Jackie Gleason Theater (the touring production's two-week run closed May 3) but missed the show -- take heart. Here's one vote that says Rent does nothing to revolutionize theater. That is, it does nothing more than make the notion of heroin chic safe for the bridge-and-tunnel crowd.
By now the story of how 35-year-old Jonathan Larson updated Puccini's La Boheme and restaged it with a rock score in the East Village, only to die of an aortic aneurysm the night before the first preview, is theater history. Ever since the musical's 1996 Broadway debut -- which won almost every theater award possible, drew throngs of younger theatergoers to Broadway, and cured cancer (just kidding on that last one) -- Rent's legend has cast big shadows. Its characters -- a filmmaker whose girlfriend left him for a lesbian lawyer; a songwriter and the exotic dancer he loves; a yuppie landlord who seduces the dancer; a transvestite with AIDS and the HIV-infected philosophy professor who loves him; and a lesbian performance artist and the lawyer who loves her -- may not be household names. But they certainly aren't the usual bunch of middle-aged, angst-ridden, white-collar stockbrokers, perky gallery owners, or people in cat costumes who tend to show up on Broadway stages.
Or are they? Slightly older versions of the Rent folks have appeared in mainstream plays, albeit as secondary characters, for the past fifteen years, since the beginning of the AIDS epidemic, which decimated the theater community and refocused the visions of dozens of playwrights. As for those who can't, or don't, pay rent, let's not forget John Guare's Six Degrees of Separation, in which upper-middle-class parents, victimized by a penniless con artist, find out just how close they really are to the world of Those Who Have Less. Performance artists, bisexual and otherwise, hold court in New York theaters nightly, although most of them are off-off the Great White Way, where Rent barged in. The glory of Rent is that it romanticizes the low life, the choices made by those who aren't looking for a starter house in Westchester or a brownstone on Riverside Drive. The problem is that most of Rent's characters -- not to mention its White Plains-reared creator -- grew up in middle-class households, and it shows.
Who else but a suburban kid would -- as Larson does here -- insert, as a comic motif, sequences in which the characters' well-heeled parents leave them voice-mail messages begging them to come home for Christmas? And speaking of voice mail, since Roger (the songwriter) and Mark (the filmmaker) live in a squatter's loft, for which they steal electricity via an extra-long extension cord, just where do they get off having an answering machine in the first place? It's hard to think of a better example of poverty as posturing, even though that's pretty much what the entire show is about. Why don't these kids go home? Why don't they get jobs? It's hard to believe that kids living in the real-life East Village would find anything in common with the poseurs of Rent. Or consider its music -- ballads, anthems, production numbers played with rock 'n' roll instruments -- anything more than conventional theater fare dressed in new chords.
And where else but Broadway would the subject of drug addiction be handled without the appearance of a single syringe or track mark? In the case of Mimi, for example, there's only the fleeting mention of starvation and prostitution. Here's wagering that the allusive lyrics about snow in Larson's version of "Christmas Bells" go right over the heads of half the audience. OK, I know, Broadway is not the place to look for kitchen-sink realism (at least not unless a playwright in the league of August Wilson is in the playbill). And maybe Rent earned the hosannas it got three years ago, from audiences who were encountering it for the first time and had no expectations of witnessing the Second Coming. But I dare anyone to sit through three hours of this in mid-1998 and tell me that Roger, who speaks of his dreams of glory, is someone possessed of inimitable genius. Or that Mark is the next Andy Warhol. (I am, however, willing to get behind the career of Cary Shields, who in this touring production gives Roger a magnificent voice, painfully strong and sweet, an asset that even the Jackie Gleason's mediocre sound system could not weaken.)
Bohemians or slackers? Real artists or fakers? None of these qualms would matter if the show itself were emotionally engaging. Except through the dynamism of their performances, none of the characters emerge as anything more than stand-ins for types of people. Not one of them has a story line that rises above the generic. Thank God for Julia Santana, who infuses Mimi -- particularly in the explosive "Out Tonight" -- with equal parts exuberance and despair. A human slinky, her intelligent physicality has more going for it than anything Larson wrote for her. Mimi is likable and lovable, but she's a good object lesson in what's missing from Rent. As with other characters in the play, her shortcoming isn't that she's not larger than life; it's that she's not entirely life-size.