The Wild Party On the Stage
When I heard that The Public Theatre had decided to have its entire musical production of The Wild Party take place in one act, I was overjoyed. Perhaps they would be able to retain the slow burn of the original version. And again, it started out well, with a bawdy little opening number called (guess what) “Queenie Was a Blonde.” But The Public couldn't even wait as long as the Manhattan Theatre Club to begin its alterations. You should have seen the blood fall from my face (and the air which was sucked out of the audience) when Burrs, who March described as “A Clown / Of renown” came on stage in black face! March's Burrs was the guy you loved to hate, not the guy you just hate! And that was only the beginning.
Queenie was stupid! Burrs was an intolerable man, prone to making racist, homophobic and anti-Semitic humor! Kate, who March wrote as a venom-tongued sexpot companion for Queenie, suddenly became a sensitive singer who was concerned that her friend was suffering from domestic abuse! And Black was a gigolo!! I was expecting March's ghost to stroll out on stage, and exclaim “Yes, yes, it was quite funny the first time, but really, if you are going to use my characters and my name, I would really like it to at least somewhat resemble something I would write!”
No such luck. Instead, I followed the cast through the same mishaps as in the first production. Of course, Queenie and Black have to kiss immediately. Sexual what? Tension? Huh? Listen, lady, if we wanted to respect March's work we would have read the friggin' poem! And of course, we will take March's brilliant characters, minus the clever writing, and butcher them too! The plot! The characters! The writing! Is there anything else left? We've plied the script with racial epithets. We, duh, took out the cops at the end (why ruin a happy ending?). They should have just finished the job, and taken March's name off the production. (It is already the smallest fonted name on the entire poster, making him visually less important than the hair designer.)
Perhaps I am being harsh, but you have to understand how much I loved this poem. It is a gem: funny, brash, boundless. The lines are unforgettably playful, and the characters, indelible. It is fierceness incarnate. And sure, I had high expectations of the stage versions, especially from The Public Theater, which first brought When Colored Girls. . . to the stage -- but I don't think it is too much to ask for them to at least stick with the story, to at least to respect the characters the way that March respected them. March's writing is a gift, not a hindrance, and it should not be shelved by the lyricist, but showcased.
In the end, I realize, though, how lucky I am even to have seen these productions. After all, it is not theater's role to promote poetry; it is the poets' role to support their own art. And I would like to take the time now to personally thank both the Manhattan Theatre Club and the Public Theater for even attempting the challenge of bringing this poem to the stage, and for at the very least bringing The Wild Party to a higher level of public consciosness. More people will read his work because of you, and that is all that we poets can ask. The success of the productions at this point is moot. After all, March did not write the poem for the stage; he wrote it for the page.
With that in mind, I will issue this plea: please, please, please, I am begging you, go out and read the book. Make the four hours that I spent watching these musicals, hours that I will never ever get back, that are gone forever, make them add up to something. Buy the book and read it. I guarantee, you will not regret it. And that is something I cannot say about seeing the musicals.
Cristin is New York correspondent for the About.com Poetry Museletter & the author of two previous features here: Extreme Poetry in the North Woods & 60 Minutes: The Poets Slam Back!.
