What on earth was I thinking, you may ask. Well, I have been asking myself the same question and haven’t a clue. The fact is that, on a nice Fall evening in New York (actually a special one: 11/11/11!), I found myself walking on W 50th street toward Radio City, tickets in hand.
As I approached, I noticed well-guarded barricades, saying “do not cross” as on a crime scene. It appeared they were only there to control the crowd pressing to get in, but little did I know that, in fact, a crime was about to be perpetrated – a crime against good taste.
After queuing meekly, we (yes, Oboe was there too) were ushered into this huge hall, a lavishly lit hangar-like structure. The lights were brilliant, not only literally, but also figuratively. I don’t know who deserves the most praise, the Rockettes or the lighting technicians. Both groups do a spectacular job, a true waste of talent. The lights, as we went in, spelled the name of the sponsor a myriad times.
But as soon as the show began, they became the heart of the spectacle, as all sorts of elaborate Christmas themes and images were projected on the ceiling and walls, toy trains choochooing in acrobatic loops, Santas elves and reindeer prancing along, snowflakes descending, Christmas trees blazing, snowmen smoking – I really can’t remember it all, but it was awe-inspiring (I refuse to say awesome!) and, why not say it, definitely uplifting.
But then, the producers and designers and set directors and scriptwriters, or whoever is responsible, kicked in (no allusion to the show’s stars!), and made it their special job to produce the kitchiest show on Earth. An insufferable belly-shaking, hohohoing Santa Claus arrived on his sled, first in the light version (great) and then live on stage (not so great). He remained there throughout the show to explain what was going on and to interact with a silly lady and her bewildered child who were trying to find Macy’s (nobody told them Herald Square was only a few blocks away?) or something like that, I really did not pay much attention to the story, and dozed off a few times, not really missing much of the thrilling plot.
So there were 14 tableaux (I am checking in my program, of course, I did not count them) some with Rockettes, some without Rockettes. The Rockettes, just as the lighting technicians, deserve a big cheer. How those ladies manage to kick, tap and twirl in perfect synchrony is a mystery to me – and all by heart! Is there someone giving cues in the wings, a prompter of sorts? It seems impossible. At the theater or at the opera, the prompter whispers a word or a line to a forgetful performer to set him or her back on track, but for the Rockettes, you would need to have a trained centipede kicking offstage.
Nevertheless, they are very impressive, in their strange robot-like manner. The enormous technical demands of their performance hardly leave any space for expression, but that is totally beside the point. They deliver precisely what they advertise, a millimetrically, metronomically and acrobatically perfectly synchronized presentation, up to the frozen smiles and blank stares.
Thus, with the help of lighting and Rockettes, the stentorian Santa bellowed out his comments on sleigh rides and nutcrackers, wooden soldiers and New York at Christmas, toy shops, departments stores and elves, the North Pole and Christmas carols, all up to the Grand Finale, a Nativity the likes of which you have never seen, Bethlehem on Broadway, garishly clad Mary, Joseph and the Magi, and a parade of well-wishers complete with donkey and camel probably borrowed from the same place where ther Met gets the elephants for Aida, something that could be called the Show-Biz Ménagerie. The poor animals always look completely forlorn and the humans tending them utterly miserable. So much for the festive spirit.
And yet, and yet – this said, I still think children can enjoy the show, but I have doubts on the wisdom of encouraging the pursuit of kitsch as an aesthetic goal. This could open up a whole new discussion, as I do wonder what show and movie producers are thinking of when they come up with these concoctions. I recently took my granddaughters to a movie called Puss in Boots, an explosion of hissing, screaching, double-crossing, stealing, swindling and generalized banditry under Grimm disguise (although the author is actually Charles Perrault), with Humpty-Dumpty thrown in out of the blue, which has no redeeming value whatsoever and scares small children out of their tender wits rather than entertaining them. Next time, I will stick to the Nutcracker.