6
I wish I never saw it. You know what I mean. “Hello Stranger: The Existential Musical” based on the life of Albert Camus.
Yeah, I’m one of the blue-haired older ladies you always see at the theatre. Sometimes we bring our doddering husbands, at least until they die. Dead or alive, they make us rich. So we go to the theatre and get the best seats. We see everything. We’ve got time.
I enjoy almost any show. Singing, dancing, what’s not to like? My dear departed hubby, also named Albert, was more discriminating. The last show he enjoyed was My Fair Lady. Rex Harrison made him laugh. It was okay, I suppose.
Just this year, I went to four revivals (and they’re mostly revivals nowadays), two giant new hopelessly derivative musicals, and one pretentious drama. All were enjoyable in a mildly diverting way. And who doesn’t like to be diverted?
It’s not only theatre. I used to read a lot, too. Mostly romance novels because the novelized version beats the hell out of the real thing. Sorry Albert, but it’s true. Sometimes I think my own life is based on a book, turned into a musical and soon to be a major motion picture.
About the blue hair. Admit it. You’re wondering. Why?
Most people think that people like me either have bad taste in hair or that old people’s hair dyes badly. Neither is true. It’s just an inside joke between us biddies. At my age, you can get away with almost anything. The blue hair isn’t bad taste. It’s an affectation with a wink and a nod. Now you know.
So, here’s the gist of that disturbing show.
Albert Camus grows up poor but somehow gets a scholarship to go to college. At the University of Algiers, he’s on the football club as goalie. He blocks shot after shot but becomes discouraged at the futility of his situation. At this point, he decides to contract TB and join the communist party, a movement he loves despite the fact he abhors its philosophy and tactics.
To clarify his thoughts, he becomes a writer and collects a Noble Prize, assuming this would be a good career move. It isn’t. His acceptance of the bourgeois award further alienates his former communist comrades. Discouraged, he goes for a drive with his publisher in hopes of dying heroically in an accident. He succeeds.
The music is absurdly catchy and who knew Camus could dance like that? The bottom line: it’s stuck in my head and doing what I fear is irreparable damage.
I used to sleep easily and well. Now, I dream I’m tumbling endlessly and falling without ever hitting solid ground, a mixed blessing if there ever was one. I understand Sartre’s impenetrable Being and Nothingness like it is my own first-hand experience. I’ve taken to chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
What the hell has happened to me?
Last night was a turning point. I washed the blue out of my hair, got dressed in a tasteful dark dress and went to church. Well, not exactly church. Actually, it was Godspell, the musical. That’s as close as I get. I’m just trying to drive the nihilism away.
