Ratatouille the Ratatoosical, the Rata tat tat TikTok Musical We Need Ratatata

     Like most people, I would pay crazy amounts of money to see those fine two knights, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen, just talk to each other and be adorable, as they are. I’d be happy pay to hear them go over their grocery lists with each other. I’d be happy to see them perform nonsense that I don’t really understand or even like. So I guess you can say I’m happy, because I saw them perform nonsense that I didn’t really understand or even like. 
     The Two Sirs recently delighted Broadway audiences by performing together in Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting For Godot” and Harold Pinter’s “No Man’s Land” in repertory. Performing shows in repertory seemed to be a hot trend this season (with the amazing Shakespeare’s Globe productions of “Richard III” and “Twelfth Night”). And the chance to see the Two Sirs, the cutest old-man-BFFs ever to exist, onstage together was too good to pass up. But “No Man’s Land” is legit the strangest play. 

     I think that no matter how hard I try I just am not a Pinter fan. (If you want to persuade me otherwise, please feel free to make suggestions and/or offer critical analyses to assist in my literary edification.) “No Man’s Land” opens with McKellen, seemingly a rambunctious, slightly offputting sort-of-scallywag of an Englishman, in the well-appointed (or we are meant to think it’s nice, but the set is sparse) home of Patrick Stewart’s character, a wealthier man who says very little and seems kind of out of it before he gets reeeally out of it and starts falling and crawling. For the first oh, twenty minutes, the two men pretty much just drink, toast to each others’ health, sit in silence, then drink more after more toasts.

     When they did actually say words, I had trouble understanding what they were saying (was is the pretend drunkenness or the terrible acoustics?), so when Billy Crudup and Schuyler Hensley entered as Stewart’s henchmen/assistants, I was excited. But then poor Billy opened his mouth. I don’t know what kind of ‘English’ accent he was doing, but it sounded like the dog from ‘Up’ with the broken voice collar after having done crystal meth in Courtney Love’s bathroom and then drinking lemon juice. Like what in the everlasting tuck. How did the director, or anyone on set before opening night, fail to address the issue of this accent? It threw me off at first, but then it just pissed me off. Billy is so much better than that. 

     So Ian and Pat were drinking, acting aloof, saying random ass things to each other, and Billy and Schuyler were alternating between hospitably tending to the guest and threatening to beat him and throw him out. There was little to no pattern evident in the attitude changes. But then in the second act, Pat opened up and shared his life story, and we learn that these two characters are not strangers as it appeared in the first act. No, they went to school together, had the same group of friends, and Pat even had an affair with Ian’s wife, which he was not in the least bit ashamed of talking freely about. It was totally awk. And then Pat talked about how he was all afraid of this dream he has where he’s by the lake or something and that place he nightmares about is his no man’s land or some weird shit like that. I was just worried the whole time that someone was going to beat up Ian McKellen and he would actually get hurt because he’s old but no one would realize that he wasn’t faking his injuries. 

     The second act’s change in dynamics didn’t really help move the story. There really wasn’t a story. In fact, I could not tell you want the show was about, more than I have above, even for a million dollars. I mean it’s more about the existential dwellings and commiserations and reminiscences about the two old men who once upon a time were acquaintances. It’s not really about things happening. 

     The one thing that struck me was that it was just like the Bunuel movie mentioned in “Midnight in Paris” where the characters are unable to leave the room, no matter how much they want to. I love how in “Midnight”, Bunuel himself is like “That’s the worst idea for a movie ever; why couldn’t they just leave? Why couldn’t they just leave!!!” So that’s what Ian’s role and the play in general made me think of. I was ready to scream after 4 minutes in, “Ian! My dear! Why don’t you just leeeave!!! Ian! Go! Get out of there!” But frustratingly not only does he not leave, he ends up begging to stay indefinitely! INDEFINITELY. Whaaat kind of masochist! Oh Pinter. I just don’t get you! 

     Despite my complaints, this production was amazing. Why? Because I got to see Stewart and McKellen on stage together, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. This show was worth seeing and paying full price five times over for, because this pairing will likely never happen again outside of X-Men movies. I would have loved spending a few hours in the Cort Theatre even if the Two Sirs just read the phone book. Which actually would have made more sense than this play. Oh Pinter. Someone explain him to me.

“Someone tell the story, someone sing the song. Every now and then the country goes a little wrong. Every now and then a madman’s bound to come along! Doesn’t stop the story – story’s pretty strong. Doesn’t change the song.” Stephen Sondheim’s brilliant, dark, and often funny look at what drives certain people to commit atrocities, “Assassins” is an exceptional and provocative show. Its current production at London’s Menier Chocolate Factory is one of the most well-done shows I have yet seen in London. If you are a frequent reader, you may be thinking, well that doesn’t say much. However, I could say right now that I found not a single fault with it…but then you’d have little reason to keep reading, so I won’t. 

These above-quoted opening lines of the show (the true opening of the story, after a crazy sort-of prologue) reflect what our main characters seek: for their story to be added to history, to become part of the main story, be sung of. To gain fame as part of history’s need to always mention them in the same breath as the great men they assassinated. And that’s what this story brilliantly tells – how Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Reagan, Ford, all these important presidents, were killed or almost killed, but by barely mentioning their names. The names that matter here are the assassins – Booth, Guiteau, Czolgosz, Hinckley, Fromme – as we see things from their perspectives. To make things even more twisted and frightening, this is staged in a sort of abandoned carnival, with each assassination attempt treated as a carnival game and lit-up “Hit!” or “Miss!” signs accompanying each gunshot. Like carnivals weren’t scary before.

First, the central character: “Johnny Booth was a handsome devil!” These lyrics are hella true in this production. Broadway’s Aaron Tveit is adoooorable. More importantly, he handles the vital role of John Wilkes Booth sublimely, being a charming and debonair Southerner who clearly conveys a base desire for ill-gained notoriety. Although his main action (killing Abraham Lincoln, obviously) is done early on, he hangs around to support the others, because, as the Balladeer sings early on, “Damn you, Johnny! You paved the way for other madmen to make us pay!” Booth pretty much started a trend in America, and so his presence is required throughout the show. 

Despite his inherent evil, Booth seems the most stable of all the characters, and probably is. The most unstable is also my favorite. “Look on the bright side, not on the sad side…I am going to the Lordy”, sings Charles J. Guiteau, the most weirdly likable character in this production, probably because the actor, Andy Nyman, is so damn good in this role, petrifying but kind of lovable. Guiteau was executed for killing President Garfield, after being denied the ambassadorship to France, which he had long assumed would be given him when he requested it. Some of the lyrics to his big song actually came from the poem he wrote the day of his execution and recited on the gallows as he laughed and danced, before hanging. The poem was called “I am going to the Lordy”. Sondheim turned this into the most catchy, horrifyingly optimistic song that captures Guiteau’s, well, gallows humor and clear insanity. Here, Guiteau also sings and dances on the gallows, performing a cakewalk and an ever-intensifying song before swinging from the noose in front of us. It’s so disturbing and so powerful. Also, Nyman does the best American accent by a Brit that I’ve heard so far in London theatre. 

Before deciding to kill the president, Guiteau writes books that don’t sell and he convinces himself and others that he’s the future Ambassador to France. By seeing our characters’ failures and blown ambitions, you start to feel for them. You think, this poor guy couldn’t catch a break, and yes obviously needs mental healthcare that no one is going to provide. The music and the stories lead you on a path to almost commiseration, and then hopefully you snap out of it and realize how f-ed up you have to be to consider making this turn. But that’s the genius of “Assassins”, showing history from their perspectives and forcing you to recognize their humanity.

Personal failures as well as professional failures take blame for coaxing some down this path. “I am unworthy of your love” is a duet between two strangers, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme (Carly Bawden) and John Hinckley Jr. (Harry Morrison), the failed assassins of Gerald Ford and Ronald Reagan, respectively. The memorable and pretty lovely song shows how some are led towards awful deeds in trying to impress others. The show’s Hinckley is an odd man who can’t find love, in the all-too-familiar sense of men like the Santa Barbara killer who get angry and frustrated when women, whom they were told their whole lives that they as men were entitled to, rebuffed them. Our society’s continued view of women as playthings and pretty things that men should have a say over is creepily reflected in this character, as he decides to kill a president in order to impress a movie star enough that she’d actually know he existed (as opposed to, say, the modern version of men killing the women who threaten their world view).

Fromme, on the other hand, tries to assassinate Ford in order to impress her lover, Charles Manson, whom she believed was Jesus reincarnated. And if Jesus wishes for you to kill the president, you do that! (No, seriously, don’t, even if it’s really Jesus.) Luckily, she and Hinckley failed. In this production, Fromme’s failure is shown as mostly due to her ridiculosity of a partner in crime, played by British favorite Catherine Tate as Sara Jane Moore. It’s a smallish role but she’s hilarious. A lot of people think Tate plays it too over the top, but I found her antics necessary to brighten up all the dark psychology of the show. (Except when she accidentally shoots her dog. Not funny. Luckily a stuffed dog was used, so sort of funny.) Her best bits include her shooting practice on a bucket of KFC, after which she eats the chicken. But nothing is funnier than when Moore and Squeaky botch their assassination attempt so freaking badly that, in their mad rush to complete it in a crazy moving crowd, they are unable to reload and instead throw bullets at Ford while shouting ‘Bang!’ Amaaaazing.

The real brilliance of the show is demonstrating how a person’s disappointment in living a small life can lead to such a path, just to make some kind of name for himself. And we know this so well. Mental instability of all sorts leads many to commit mass atrocities because, as we know, our media will make perpetrators famous. Whenever the awful story of a school shooting or of President Lincoln’s final days is told, so too will the name of the murderers, or of Booth. 

No one explains this better than Booth himself, who uses it as a selling point when trying to persuade our narrator, the Balladeer, whose identity becomes a beyond genius twist (that was added in the revival, and I can’t see the musical being as poignant without it).  In the recording I know best, my balladeer was Neil Patrick Harris, so my favorite songs had a pop-star clarity and zest to them. Here, the Balladeer is sung like a twangy country singer by Jamie Parker, but it totally works and won me over. So the Balladeer has been on the sidelines all night, telling the tales of others most judgmentally – in the above-quoted “Ballad of Booth”, he reinforces that those madmen who have made us pay “have had their say, but only for a day….Angry men don’t write the rules and guns don’t right the wrongs. Hurts a while but soon the country’s back where it belongs.” But as things come to an end, the Balladeer is not so convinced that the country bounces back so easily, if ever, and he’s more open to discussion about leaving his moral high ground, not wanting to end things as a simple narrator strumming his guitar, but as someone who, like his subjects, will live forever in infamy as long as his target lives forever in fame. Booth tells him that their names will always go hand in hand, that just as Lincoln’s great life and deeds will never be studied without Booth’s being studied and remembered as well, so too will the next great Assassin in this way share the triumphs of his victim. It’s incredibly disturbing and true, that a killer can so easily usurp the greatness of his victim. (I wish so strongly for the media should stop reporting the names of people who commit mass shootings and the like, somehow, if it would make sense. Gaining such immediate fame is often the only goal, and I wish there was a way to not give these awful people the satisfaction of being remembered. (It would also be great if we had legit mental healthcare systems but that’s maybe more farfetched.))

All of this is demonstrated pretty remarkably by The Proprietor, the gun salesman and carnival runner, played hauntingly by Simon Lipkin, who represents a sort of universal id. He lures our characters into the darkness by reminding them of the show’s eerie twisted theme, that “Everybody’s got the right to be happy”. He opens the show with lines like, “Hey kid, failed your test? Dream girl unimpressed? Show her you’re the best – if you can shoot a president”, chillingly blunt lyrics that immediately set the disturbing and blackly humorous tone for the show.

That Sondheim makes you think all of this, makes you laugh and feel heartbroken at the world, all in a 100 or so minute musical is a testament to his genius. That this extremely difficult show is such a rousing success is a testament to the Menier, to this spectacular cast, and to this faultless production, which is now completely sold out, and rightly so. With any luck, it’ll transfer to mainstem West End so more people can appreciate how freaking great this show is.