The Hamilton Review
In the bold hubris which defines young adulthood, I once made a mutual promise with a friend that neither of us would ever, under any circumstances, attend a performance of Lin Manuel-Miranda’s smash-hit-nationwide-phenomenon-musical-event Hamilton. Years later I’d shed this contrarian foolishness without a second thought as I sat myself in an opera house in Boston to intently watch the smash-hit-phenomenon Hamilton. Before I relate my experience with Hamilton any further I feel the responsibility to clarify - to avoid the possibility of anyone reading this as a serious review - that I am far, far removed from being an expert on musical theater. As a person who’s barely seen a handful of musicals, I understand the fundamentals of narrative performance, but only in a way that always prompts me to clarify by saying “well, I understand it as much as I understand anything, really”. Hamilton, and literally every other work of art, is truly only as understandable to me as the rest of my subjective reality in general. On the night I saw Hamilton, I was in no condition to understand much of anything. Exhausted, sleep deprived, and with my mind uncontrollably darting away from my present surroundings to the constant clutter of imagined futures and missed opportunities. There was no chance I could expect to absorb a modicum of Hamilton, let alone experience it fully and intellectually enough to write a review of the thing. Anyway, here’s a review of Hamilton. Kind of.
I was gifted my seat at Hamilton - if I can call it a gift. My mother had seen the performance in Boston just a few weeks before and became insistent that she take me and my father to see the show as well. I remembered my promise to never see Hamilton as she pitched the show to us, but it held little effect on my decision to attend. You see, despite my lack of interest in musical theater - I know better than to reject a shared experience with a loved one. We’ll all only get a finite number of opportunities to do such things with the people we care about - and that finite number is never as high as we’ll one day desperately wish it was. So I accepted my seat at Hamilton without a hint of delusional-contrarian quarrel. My seat - a gift indeed - was nigh-perfect. Yes, I value sharing things with my loved ones and all, but god was I relieved when I learned I’d be seated alone - that is with strangers - at the very end of a row off to the side of the theater. Sitting next to people I know comes with a perceived expectation to not slump far into my seat and drift into sleep deprived half-consciousness, which was all I wanted to do. I was ultimately ambivalent toward the show itself, but considering my exhaustion, you’d be hard pressed to find a less engaged audience member who wasn’t an actual infant.
My seat - though perfect for me - was not ideal for an immersive theater experience.. Seated near the very right side of the theater I could see a generous 80% of the stage, which I had been assured was decked out exactly as it had been in the original production of the show. Frequent conditioning by Hollywood films to expect fantastical setpieces caused a bit of shock upon seeing the seemingly low budget stage design. This small ramshackle assortment of wooden chairs and rustic backdrops was the same design used by the unforgettable peak-of-musical-theater sweeping the imagination of millions? Of course I, ever the layman, had no idea how they’d use it. Never would I expect that seemingly simple stage to spin like a giant clock face as the actors all effortlessly gilded around it, or how the varied lighting effects would sometimes make elements fade into the background then gloriously shoot alive with loud color. Still, I find myself in awe of how that innocuous stage was shocked into fleeting life as the giant clock-floor spun and spun. As the cast and crew resuscitated that unimpressive collection of chairs and tables which had seemed totally lifeless minutes ago I found a similar revitalization happening in myself. Jolted awake by a masterful production crew, I could hardly even think about collapsing into my exhaustion, and - by god - I was awake. Perhaps, with any luck, I could actually find myself connecting with this thing.
Though still physically exhausted, the crew had provided me with a mental second third fourth wind. I’d been brought back from the brink by the crew and without effort I found myself shockingly engaged with the narrative. As an unaccustomed theater-goer I quickly came to realize without the generous grace of the extreme close-ups found in cinema, I felt compelled - and obligated - to pay clear attention to everything a character was doing to define their place in the story. Clear attention, on this evening of all evenings, was something I had to ration carefully. Morsels of the mental energy I had left were constantly torn between the compelling story in front of me, and the story I was forming in my mind reflecting on the past 48 hours. By the time we came to a quick break in the first set of musical numbers, I felt the exhaustive scattering of my brain to have a new focus and direction.
As the song went on and the actors floated about their mechanical marvel of a stage, my mind floated between engagement and exhaustion. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the day, night, and morning I’d experienced before meeting up with my parents in Boston that day. It was a Sunday now, at Hamilton, and I had not slept since early Saturday morning. Yet in spite of my body, which yearned for bed, I felt electric. In between impressive rhyme schemes my mind would race away to something I’d said the night before that I regretted or the belated answer to some question I’d failed to answer the previous day. At the risk of further describing my exhaustion without context; I had maneuvered my way through an excruciatingly long and full day, rewarded by an excellent memorable night with a good friend. That kind of day wherein you can’t imagine enduring another moment of waking stimulus, and the night wherein you become desperately grateful you chose to go out instead of collapsing in bed for the rest of your life. Nobody ever regrets those nights. Creating unique memories, and talking about anything-and-everything for hours until suddenly the sunrise draws your miniature flow-state eternity of shared experience to a close. Those nights which, for me, always cause a swell of longing nostalgia when I remember how little I get to experience them. Of course, memorable times are defined in part by the fact that they don’t happen often, but even so, I didn’t have incredible times often. Every good time feels like it could be the last. I saw a deer get hit by a car for the first time that night. I also went to a Broadway themed rave. Two firsts which I am also cool with being two lasts. A graph in my mind appeared, a line representing new experiences stretched across an axis representing the timeline of my life. I dared not imagine which direction the line was trending. George Washington’s bombastic war-themed entrance started on stage. These two parallel tracks my mind ran on, one following the narrative, and one following the zigzagging path my mind took in processing the previous thirty-six hours, both coming together define my experience with Hamilton.
Memorable nights throw me uncontrollably into introspection. Live theater tends to do the same. Introspection, which can provide a foundation for that oh-so-important-yet-elusive personal growth, can also lead us into an overwhelming tapestry of directionless reflection. This introspective immersion into myself coupled with overwhelming exhaustion and overstimulation from the production in front of me caused every rhyme to hit like an emotional triumph, every quiet moment rang with an eternity of silence. The previous night had offered me so much to process - not just things I wish I hadn’t said, but energy, and motivation to pursue new curiosities and opportunities. Answers to serious questions I had tried and failed to answer in earnest would suddenly pop in my head while Alexander Hamltion petitioning Washington to let him lead a battalion of troops served as a backdrop. Sleep? What’s that? Good friends and good scripts have a way of waking us up. Without warning I’d found myself in the kind of introspective solitude that you can only find while surrounded by people who aren’t paying any attention to you. As all of my senses were immersed in the experience of theater, my mind started to construct a narrative from the random buckshot of experiences I’d had in the previous two days. New places and conversations I’d engaged in became an epic odyssey of self discovery. I didn’t just have a crazy day and a good night, I’d led myself on a winding path that ended with overwhelming self reflection at a musical I promised I’d never go to.
One of my favorite things about any kind of narrative performance is the way you can find yourself alarmingly close to characters. Not in the they’re-literally-me way, but in a way that conveys emotion so plainly that it can’t be ignored and thus feels close due to your own scrutiny of it. The unstoppable combination of excellent performers, an effective script, and masterful audiovisual effects allowed characters and themes to burrow in my head and lend a narrative framework through which I’d examine myself. As the blue lights flashed on stage I found myself sitting in my car the previous night being pulled over by a New Hampshire state trooper. What kind of self-importance had made me drive like a bat out of hell? Alexander Hamilton’s secrets and ambition were quickly catching up with him as I was reminded of my own ambition. That morning, I’d found myself in one of the what-are-you-doing-with-your-life conversations that must be so common for underachievers in their early twenties. Did I have any grand ambitions? Should I? I found my own answers as Hamilton persevered through adversity of his own making.
Blaine Krauss’ exceptional performance as Aaron Burr held the tightest grip on me. I’d never been a historical scholar, but I knew that in the story of Alexander Hamilton, Aaron Burr would be the bad guy. Consequently, I was shocked and touched by how much empathy was extended to Hamilton’s killer on behalf of the script. During the Burr-centric The Room Where it Happens I felt myself coming to a synthesis between myself and the production, as if the two parallel tracks my mind was focused on became one. As I reflected on my behavior over the past two days - all the actions I’d taken in response to the winding path I was on, I found myself relating with Burr - his jealousy, desire to be important mirrored the things I’d felt myself motivated by. Krauss burned his character's insecurity-driven fuel into glorious song and I felt myself finally able to make sense of the insecurity which had driven me to dance around important questions and half answers. The potent, not-so-subtle themes in the script of ambition, self-doubt and determination provided a shaky tightrope to emotionally travel on. Is my immunity to blind ambition as strong as I think it is? Why am I connecting so strongly with the jealous and petulant Aaron Burr? Did any of these characters feel love that was unburdened by pain and vice? Everything cracked me open with the thunder that only booms when so many environmental factors - both external and internal - are working in sync.
In any event, Hamilton drew - in a bit of an overlong putter - to a close. Actors took in stride the well-deserved-if-not-drawn-out standing ovation awarded to them. Initially I walked away from Hamilton in silence. I didn’t say a meaningful word for the rest of the night. Nothing was further from my mind than writing a “review”. Why would I? I spent half of the time focusing on my own thoughts, and I’d hardly seen any musical theater. However, over the weeks, the experience still gnawed at me. And, importantly, in my humble-yet-still-declarative opinion, any review of any work of art does more to reflect the reviewer's experience with the art than to provide an objective accounting of that art's value. Hamilton holds no meaning to me aside from the meaning I derive from it. This is not to say that the performances and technical skill was worthless, but to say that the meaning created by Hamilton in the minds of all the makers who make it possible is entirely different from the meaning it holds in my mind. In my mind, Hamilton reminds me of my exhausted slump into a theater seat breathing new energy into me. It reminds me of the previous day that led up to it which I can still remember in vivid detail. If I hadn’t gone to that show, and taken an early night in after a late night out, I doubt I’d remember any of it so clearly. The routes by which our subconscious can interact with narrative never cease to amaze me. You’d do well to purchase a ticket to Lin Manuel-Miranda's smash-hit-nationwide-phenomenon Hamilton. Do something new, as well, as much as you can. It’ll crack you open in ways nothing else is able to.
