Euan Morton as Hedwig (Joan Marcus)
By DCist contributor Peter Tabakis
Early into Hedwig and the Angry Inch, the title character says of the circumstances that have brought her to the Kennedy Center stage, “I laugh, because I will cry if I don’t.” When later describing a low point in her story, she corrects herself, “I cry, because I will laugh if I don’t.” This inversion mirrors the show’s tone, a rollicking rock concert that becomes an increasingly naked soliloquy.
Hedwig (Euan Morton), who treats the audience as a friend or foe depending on her mood, poses a rhetorical question upfront: “How did some slip of a girlyboy from communist East Berlin become the internationally ignored song stylist barely standing before you?” During the electrifying performance that follows, we get her answer. It’s devastating. And it’s wonderful.
Created by John Cameron Mitchell and Stephen Trask, Hedwig and the Angry Inch has traced an improbable path from its scrappy beginnings in Soho in 1998 to a fabulous (if not commercially successful) cinematic adaptation in 2001, to a celebrated Broadway revival starring Neil Patrick Harris in 2014.
The latter, Tony-sweeping sensation, directed by Michael Mayer (American Idiot, Spring Awakening), is now on tour and has landed at the Kennedy Center along with plenty of polish. But Hedwig’s exuberant, bawdy DNA remains intact. Its outsider grime, drag-revue glitter, and speaker-damaging decibels crash into the esteemed venue with relish. (An older couple in front of me bailed after the opening number.) If anything, the material’s off-kilter, Borscht Belt sensibility is amplified when plopped into such a classic auditorium.
This incarnation of Hedwig anticipates our disbelief regarding its lavish production values and the protagonist’s lowly status. Hedwig is quick to point out that she’s borrowing the set of Hurt Locker: The Musical, a spectacle so awful that it closed on opening night (during intermission). Mock Playbill pamphlets for the non-show are littered on the Eisenhower theater’s floor, adding an extra layer of absurdity to the evening’s already bonkers proceedings. Hedwig vamps and whirls on a stage strewn with the wreckage of military adventure, a snapshot of war that’s a canny backdrop for a heroine who finds herself besieged by enemies from all corners.
While a botched sex-change operation defines Hedwig’s body, the show’s heart has always been an immigrant’s tale, an outcast’s narrative. It unfolds as a chatty and catty monologue, peppered with rocking numbers that cross glam, punk, country, and even a bit of musical theater with ear-splitting bombast. Hedwig’s quieter, folky efforts provide a stark contrast to its steady, dramatic mayhem. During these moments of repose, we realize Hedwig means serious business, that she contains an aching emotional center encased in a candied, campy shell.
The songs (penned by Trask) are uniformly marvelous, but none of this would work if Hedwig, Atlas-like, couldn’t carry the material on her shoulders. In this production, the trapezius muscles in question are no strangers to the gym. Morton brings a beefy athleticism to a role usually played by a lithe figure, first defined by Mitchell and the Hedwigs that followed.
Morton’s vocal instrument matches his physical stature, full and commanding, particularly in its middle register. But his speaking voice can sometimes be hard to understand, its delivery a little too soft and clipped, and the culprit isn’t auditorium acoustics. I caught this tour in Philadelphia a few months ago and found myself missing lines of dialogue, an experience repeated at the Kennedy Center.
Minor quibbles aside, the cast—which in full comprises Morton, the fine Hannah Corneau as Hedwig’s beleaguered stagehand and husband Yitzhak, and the various members of her onstage band—is excellent. Few Broadway productions could shift venues to, say, the 9:30 club and play equally well, if not better; Hedwig is the rare exception.
As is the tradition with the play, banter is tailored to location, with D.C.-specific zingers about the H Street corridor, the current occupants of the White House, and even Dupont Circle traffic patterns. But Hedwig doesn’t need blunt instruments to get our attention. Her gags and calamities, which culminate in redemption, leave us rapt, willing captives deep in the pocket of her denim hotpants.
Hedwig and the Angry Inch runs through July 2 at the Kennedy Center’s Eisenhower Theatre. $59-159. Buy tickets here.
