A melancholy mood after enjoying wicked.  First of all a round of
applause for the cast and crew: great show!  I couldn’t help but feel
depressed after watching

Not to give away too many spoilers, wicked is about the witch of the
west and her past before Dorothy. It involes peeling back some of the
layers behind oz, and talks about her family life and relationships,
most notably with the good witch Glenda.

What follows is a tale that, although filled with multiple twists,
though I guess obvious to any read person of fiction, is so
breathtakingly simple and raw. Simple concepts, drilled down, with one
right and one wrong, twisting the audiences emotionally like a skilled
puppeteer, but with very little of the resentment and bitterness one
feels about being obviously manipulated.  A bit like a top shelf gin,
fragrant and complex, but with enough burn that you know it’s fucking
Alcohol.  It’s such a contrast to the tedium of everyday life. The
characters experience love, loathing, joy, conflict in such…
undiluted, crystal clear ways, like a Martini made by a bartender that
actually knows WTF he’s doing.  Don’t get me wrong, wicked certainly
has the twists and turns of any good story, but at it’s heart, its the
pure motivations behind its characters that are powerful.  The twists
are there only to make it interesting, like this stripe of orange peel
in this imaginary glass of mine (contrary to what my audience might
think, I’m actually riding the Muni home rather than at a bar.)

So why so emo? Many fold. One is the contrast to my own life. Missing
is the magic of youth, the clarity of love, the pursuit of pure joy.
Gone are the rose lenses that inexperience breeds. The world is a
place of concrete buildings and muddy colors. Part of me, a large part
in fact (there’s a bit too much of me to go around, but I did a mile
and a half today, honest!) misses that, and longs for the mystical
worlds of the faerie tale, the fantasy novel. Where hardship and
injustice are tempered with the hope of redemption and true love,
where the gods themselves will prostrate themselves against the
principles of fairness and pain is often chased with bliss. Where the
problems are clear (well to the reader at least) with simple solutions.

I miss that. Each day for me is to do the same task I did yesterday,
intersperced with other bits and pieces of routine.

To peel back the another layer of the onions, I’ve always been
facinated with the magic and power of theatre, and of the spectacle in
general. I always wanted to be a part of that, thinking that I could,
on some level, wielding the magics that my favorite heroes do in their
stories, swaying the hearts and minds of the consumers.  Having
studied theatre and stagecraft for a couple of years, I know that it’s
all smoke and mirrors.  Certain colors of light to evoke feelings,
musical cues, different keys, shapes, lines, and brightness to move
the focus and mood of the viewer like one moves and focuses a movie
lens <Spoiler alert!!> It doesn’t help that the obvious link is that
the wizard is the conman of wicked, duping the citizens of oz to
further his seemingly evil agenda.</spoiler>

Then, doing what philosophy majors do best, is the meta. By watching
the theatre, I’m reminded that I’m on the other side of the proceniun,
that security guards will tackle me if I go backstage. I’m the viewer
here, the mark, the John.  Sure I had the chance to be a part of the
harsh life of the Magicmakers, but I chose the safer life instead. I
missed the scrounging every dollar and working for nothing just to get
experience. The thrill and freedom of the road.

Then I think about the magic makers; the guys behind the curtain. For
them, this show IS their monotony. The job they come into. Their tie
to the real world. I get to come into Their illusion to escape, to
seek that orgasmic catharsis. What do they seek?

See why I’m depressed?

Written on my iPhone

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