At the end of “Hedwig And The Angry Inch”, Neil Patrick Harris as transgendered rock star Hedwig, takes off the wig and drag accoutrements and in skin tight trunks and sneakers sings centerstage. Man, he looks good. Slim, compact but muscular with a six pack, the man looks like a rock and roll star and he looks like something else: a star star. Ever since coming out of the closet in 2006 at the age of 33 years, he has proven himself the poster boy for sexual normalcy and multi-media actor as rock star. Whether it be sitcom or the superb self parody of the “Harold And Kumar” movies, Harris is a special sort of star.
But he overreached with the Broadway musical “Hedwig And The Angry Inch”. I didn’t dislike John Cameron Mitchell and lyricist and composer Stephen Trask’s original production of “Hedwig”. Incubated in New York’s rock clubs and drag clubs, Mitchell took a rock band and built a monologue around the songs they sang about “Hedwig”, a gay boy in East Berlin, molested by his GI father (“I can’t wait to grow up daddy so I can kill you”) who leaves his mother and their son. Hedwig lives his life obsessed with pop music on the radio till a US Soldier plans to take him away from East Berlin if he goes through a gender change because only a marriage will get Hedwig out of the country. The angry inch is what his left of Hedwig’s penis after the botched operation.
With me so far? Hedwig has a sexual relationship with a 17 year old boy with whom he writes songs, the boy leaves him to become a rock star and Hedwig, who equates Tommy with his other half in a half-reading of a Plato play.
The songs are OK glam rock, sometimes a little better, often a little worse. The stage designer is minor and unnecessary, not unlike the $75 cost for the cheap seats. And Neil is not a natural rockstar. Though in his myriad of wigs, and with a wicked, stage commanding presence, he is way too arch. His singing isn’t good enough and he can’t pull off the songs with the mix of power and fragility they really need.
As for the monologues. I found myself falling asleep here and there. It is hard to perform a series of monologues unless the words and the acting explode of stage and, while I realize opinions may differ, Neil doesn’t do that. Whether simulating fellatio (time after time and after time), warbling 70s MOR hits, breaking down when the man she loves leaves her, leading her band through rough house rocker songs, or lap dancing with audience members, Harris gives it a lot of stick, but he can’t save a misguided show.
Grade: C+
