The cast of one of the touring productions of “Hamilton.” (Photo by Joan Marcus)
Well it’s about time. Hamilton has arrived at last, a bullet fired from Midtown Manhattan toward the banks of the Potomac. Three years after a historic debut on Broadway, the blockbuster finally had its official opening Thursday night at the Kennedy Center in the District, a natural new home.
By comparison, other marquee touring productions—The Lion King, The Producers, and The Book of Mormon—came and went with a relative yawn. No show has caused such a commotion, with locals overwhelming the Kennedy Center’s website in search of tickets.
Lin-Manuel Miranda’s beloved rap-and-dance reimagining of the life of Alexander Hamilton—from his humble beginnings, through the American Revolution, to his position as the nation’s first treasury secretary—stands as a rare musical that exploded popular culture.
Face-value tickets are still available for Hamilton’s three-month run …. if you’re willing to drop four figures on a pair of orchestra seats. I wonder what the man himself, ever concerned with fiscal responsibility, would have to say about these eye-popping prices. He’d likely raise a forefinger and ask: Is this show really worth it? Does this musical warrant an early withdrawal from your 401(k)? Or the loss of your left kidney?
The answer is yes: Liquidate every last asset. Get the best seat you can grab. And hurry up about it. At the very least, take a shot at the show’s daily $10 lottery.
Hamilton is a singular and electrifying live experience, one that the cast soundtrack, at best, only approximates. Imagine watching a DVD of Casablanca projected in a neighbor’s backyard, versus a 70mm print screened in an Art Deco theater. You’re watching an immortal film either way, but the former pales in comparison. Hamilton, likewise, transforms from a fine simulacrum in your earbuds into a blood-pumping, wall-shaking masterpiece onstage.
Miranda’s songs—with their myriad lyrical somersaults and indelible choruses—soar higher when sung live, by actors who also thrill in their vitality and brilliance. Both sides of the house share an equal enthusiasm. Joy abounds. And it fuels a well-oiled machine.
The cast is, unsurprisingly, first-rate. Austin Scott’s Hamilton has a constant twinkle in his eye and charm to spare. When the show requires pathos, his heartache is heartbreaking. Scott meets his match with Sabrina Sloan as Angelica Schuyler, Hamilton’s sister-in-law and confidante, whose tongue-twisting showstopper “Satisfied” nearly imploded the Kennedy Center’s opera house. All stand in the shadow of Nicholas Christopher, who doubles as Hamilton’s emcee and tragic figure. His simpering and feckless Aaron Burr is our de facto villain (After all—200-year-old spoiler approaching—he’s the man who kills Hamilton in a duel.) And yet, he’s elevated by Miranda’s most gorgeous and emotionally naked number, “Wait For It.” That song suggests an inverted version of Hamilton, one where Burr is our true hero.
Hamilton unfolds on a spare set fraught with big ideas. Its wooden scaffolding and turntable floor recall Rent and Les Misérables. Perfect bodies glide to and fro with choreography that mixes drag-ball culture and Bob Fosse. A slice of history, one that includes D.C.’s birth, is presented with reverence and revisionism. Maybe that’s why last night’s performance felt more like a homecoming than a debut.
