Spiderman: Turn off the Dark, a Lesson in ‘Less is More’
Where does creativity find its roots? You could argue that creativity happens when we create Something that is more than the sum of its parts. In order for that Something to be created, you need resources and materials. But it is the use, not the amassing, of those resources and materials that makes the Something creative. All of this esoteric language is partly what we mean when we say ‘less is more.’
Let me start by stating that this is not a piece about the new musical Spiderman: Turn off the Dark, but rather, a story about their story; a story about the conceit behind the production, which by my estimation has garnered more criticism than any musical in history. So, to be clear, I have not seen Spiderman, nor do I really care to. If by some miracle I were given a ticket by some, ahem, kind readers (I know you’re all secretly millionaires), then of course I would attend, as I’m sure the spectacle is fun if not amazing. But the conceit behind the musical is what has made it impossible to justify purchasing their average $150 ticket. This piece is therefore merely an examination of how a musical’s offstage drama has taken center stage.
The press surrounding the production is unprecedented; You’ve likely heard something of its major gaffs. We all know the story: several actors hospitalized, out of control costs, continual delays, astronomical ticket prices, acrobatic spider-people awkwardly dangling above audience members while the performance paused due to technical difficulties.
The public outrage over the musical began with the budget and increased with the lack of execution. To say a $65 million musical in this economic climate seemed pompous is an understatement. It was the artistic equivalent of corporate executives flying to Washington on private jets. The 2010 Broadway season saw the tragically short runs of critically acclaimed musicals like the The Scotsboro Boys and Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson. Broadway was losing its identity, and more seats were empty.
Before the show even began performances, the foundering theatre community largely felt, “hey producers, why not create ten really good new musicals and plays for a lot less and employ ten times more people? Why not practice a bit of fiscal responsibility by investing in the future of your theatrical market and ensuring higher returns over longer amounts of time? Why not assume less risk by spreading out your investment and in doing so create competition, reasonable ticket prices, more artistic jobs, and therein make more money?” What producers and investors were practicing was not reasonable, wise, or responsible.
Then performances began. Critics generally panned the show. The New York Times called it “one of the worst musicals ever.” Theatergoers slammed the production for its horrible story, incoherent plotlines that had to do with strange Greek mythology and songs about shoes, and poorly drawn characters that found no depth. Negative press accompanied public outrage that has taken the form of pile-ons in social networks, late-night television mockery, and flat out general contempt for the show.
To be fair, critics violated the theatrical code of conduct that agrees not to review a show until its official opening. The musical was reviewed in mid-February when the show was scheduled to open in March. Broadway shows, particularly musicals, go through massive changes all the way up until opening, but they usually premiere in a different city. Most Broadway shows have an out-of-town run, where they test the material with audiences and make changes before putting it on Broadway. Amidst all its extravagance, Spiderman did not have the luxury of an out-of-town tryout, and was held to a higher level of scrutiny over their three-year development process.
But how could you do so little with so much money?
The problem – or perhaps intentional oversight – is that the team behind Spiderman has not reckoned with one major group, to which they belong, that serves as the true circle of influence in their industry: the artist community. (Here I’m including critics, because like it or not, critics wield artistic power. Albeit alienated from artists, critics are public barometers for the work that is produced.)
Ultimately, it is fellow artists who will evaluate the work and determine its credibility, not tourists. The producers of Spiderman are trying to sell their artistic colleagues the equivalent of a tricked out Hummer, when what they really want is a really good pair of walking shoes. Julie Taymor has been quoted a number of times as saying, “No one wants to see a $30 million Spiderman musical. They want to see the $65 million Spiderman musical.” That might be true, but that’s the same logic behind Vegas buffets. “I don’t just want crab legs and shrimp. I want crab legs and shrimp AND steak AND tapioca.” That kind of beast will never be satisfied.
It could be that the team behind Spiderman saw the potential of Broadway’s sizable tourist market and made the choice to toss their theatre colleagues to the wind, or rather (forgive me), to the hospital. But that is a costly risk to take. It’s like sending a gambling addict to manage a hedge fund. The tricks of the trade are there for a reason, and, time and again, Broadway is being slapped on the wrist for forgetting that its roots are not in pocketbooks but in powerful narratives.
Spiderman has gone against the grain with a hubris that looks like a rogue improv comedian commandeering the stage for standup. It is not the quality of the show that people are angry about (after all, we have plenty of flops on Broadway every year), it is that Spiderman is performing an artistic community mutiny. And they are using that elusive weapon so many power-hungry artists have been tempted to wield: mountains of cash. In the end, we’ve seen that Spiderman’s budget has overshadowed the superhero production, with outcomes more devastating than heroic.
When the hoopla dies down, I’m sure Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark will be just fine. After its scheduled opening on March 15th (which has been repeatedly pushed back), the logical outcome is that the musical will be improved a little, making it better than what critics made it out to be, yet worse than devoted fans want to believe. Moreover, Spiderman probably has a good chance of running for a few years (in order to break even it needs to make about $1 million a week for close to 2 years). And from a business perspective, that’s fine.
But when commercializing art, the business perspective only gets you so far. The theatre is built on thankless love, something Julie Taymor is well aware of from her beginnings with the storied Bread and Puppet Theatre whose name is derived from a community-oriented company that believed art was as vital to life as bread. This all translates into the fact that the theatre is not something you can buy. If the execution is truly as lacking as critics claim, then Spiderman belongs in Vegas, where tourists hyped up on the fantasy of free drinks and free money can overdose on a sensory overload that is far from the rich traditions of the Great White Way.
If there is a lesson here, I believe it’s an encouraging one: throwing money at art won’t make it better. Spiderman has tossed both cash and creativity into the smoldering caldron and shown us that the latter is far more substantive.