The View from Row Q

As luck would have it, I was seated in the Uihlein Hall’s Row Q for the opening night of Avenue Q. But it actually wasn’t so lucky. The Marcus Center house was pretty full, so I’m guessing that at least 30 percent of the crowd had seats farther away than mine. And mine, frankly, were too far away.
But this isn’t about my luck of the draw when it comes to seats (I should note that I received the ticket free from the Marcus Center, which I truly appreciate—it’s the only way I could afford to do what I do). It’s about how the size of a theater can affect the experience of a play.
In New York, Avenue Q is playing at the Golden, one of the smallest houses on Broadway (it seats 800). It’s rarely used for musicals (it was the home of You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown and, in the early 90s, William Finn’s Falsettos). Instead, it generally hosts plays where an intimate connection between the stage and audience is important: ‘Night Mother; The Goat, or Who is Sylvia?; Master Class. While Avenue Q doesn’t call for psychological subtleties, its characters are puppets, and not big ones at that.
Which brings me to the Marcus Center performance, which was pretty much overwhelmed by the space of Uihlein Hall. I could see from Row Q; the show was “legible.” But seeing the play in a 2,300 seat house was a categorically different experience than what I might have had in New York (or in London, where the show has been playing in the 870-seat Noel Coward Theatre since June, 2006).
The conceit behind Avenue Q is juicy. Creators Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx (with help from book author Jeff Whitty) took Sesame Street-style puppets and had them tell an adult story. Humans and puppets occupy the same world. And the show’s irreverent, ironic tone draws more from the likes of South Park than South Pacific.
The main character, Princeton, arrives in New York, finding the only place he can afford is an apartment on Avenue Q, the lowest of the Lower East Side (where the real streets actually go up to Avenue D). Once there, he begins to search for his “purpose,” finding friendship and love among the curious denizens of his street. There’s Rod, the deeply closeted gay Republican; Gary Coleman, former child star who is now his apartment superintendent (played sans puppet by human actor Carla Renata); Trekkie Monster, a furry recluse with an affection for internet porn; and Kate Monster, a sweet assistant kindergarten teacher with whom Princeton falls in love.
The show takes the toddler-TV conventions and sweet talk to an extreme, with hilarious results. Digital-screen Sesame Street-style animations illustrate the definition of “one-night stand,” and the guardian angel-like “Bad Idea Bears” use their best sing-song voices when urging characters to buy beer, have sex, or order another Long Island iced tea.
So there is much pleasure in the way the show’s irreverent “adult” ideas are couched in the saccharine style of kiddie-vision. But the true magic of the show is in the performances—the way the cast can breath life into very simple constructions of felt and foam rubber. That’s the greatest loss in the Marcus Center production. From where I sat, you could see the way the vibrant Robert McClure gave Princeton his innocent edge, the way his dangly arm would swing wide when belting out a song. Or the way Kelli Sawyer made Kate Monster’s head inflect every swoop of her belt-‘em-out song phrasing. But you couldn’t feel it. Recognizing wonderful physical acting is not the same as having it work its magic on you. And while it was impossible not to enjoy the show’s arch take on Broadway conventions (its “happy ending” closing song is titled “For Now”), the venue kept it from completely working its magic.
All of which brings me to an interesting question. Musicals are either getting smaller—shows like Avenue Q or Springs Awakening that start either in small, Off-Broadway theaters or regional theaters. Or they’re very big—Disney blockbusters that require an extraordinary amount of stage technology. In either case, they present a challenge for road houses around the country. How do you make them fit? How to you wedge a huge show into a production that can be driven around the country and built and disassembled quickly? Or how do you take a small-venue musical and make it work in a large, multi-purpose theater? A good, good question.