Here lies representation
New York City—Every Broadway show is a retelling of the American story; a reimagining of the American dream. Whether it’s Elphaba defying gravity or Evan Hansen trying to find himself, there is something very American and “very New York” about those shows, not just in terms of the plot, with references to places like Ohio and Orlando and allusion to people like O.J. Simpson and (what can be more American than) the Kennedys.
And for the most part, I love it. The songs, the lights, the live music, the costumes, the masquerade ball in Phantom; Aladdin and Jasmine floating on stage in their magic carpet ride. While, as I just said, the touchstones are very American, there is something archetypal and universal in most of the stories, and in an unashamedly shallow way, I’ve drawn inspiration from the countless shows I’ve watched through the years, from the boundless enthusiasm of “Wicked” to the sober reflection on success in “Merrily We Roll Along.”
But Broadway—both the musical genre and its very idea—is more than a show; it is a cultural touchstone with far-reaching influence. Just like Hollywood, to be part of Broadway is to be included in the global cultural stage; to be represented thus is to amplify the representation of certain ideas, groups, and entire cultures.
I was reminded of the above while watching “Book of Mormon,” the Tony Award-winning musical about Mormon missionaries who are assigned to evangelize a village in Uganda. As this musical was from the creators of “South Park,” I already knew that it will be mightily irreverent, especially toward religion and the Latter Day Saint movement. I was shocked, however, to see that the irreverence was aimed not so much toward the Mormons but toward people in Africa, in ways that were, quite frankly, racist, portraying Uganda as a dangerous land of brutal warlords, AIDS-infected doctors, and ignorant villagers.
Broadway, of course, makes fun of everyone and some might claim this to be an “ironic racism”—i.e., making fun of racism itself to challenge it—such as Elder Cunningham imagining Africa to be “like ‘Lion King’.” However, in the words of the writer Jason Osamede Okundaye, “the idea that it’s OK to be racist to mock racism is naive and dangerous,” and I left the theater somewhat disturbed—all the more so since few in the audience seemed bothered by the jokes.
Perhaps I was primed to be more critical than usual, having attended, days prior, a lecture by Christine Bacareza Balance, a Cornell scholar of Asian-American studies, at Harvard’s Asia Center. Provocatively offering “a feminist killjoy perspective” of “Here Lies Love”—the Broadway rock musical about Imelda Marcos, Balance pointed out that the play unwittingly reenacted elements of martial law and in doing so detracted attention from its violent and corrupt aspects—while also whitewashing the United States’ own role in the Marcos dictatorship.
In the ensuing conversation, it dawned on me that there are two ways to view “Here Lies Love,” depending on one’s positionality. For those whose lifeworld is the US, the musical meant, above all, representation as “Broadway’s first all-Filipino cast,” in the same way that Lea Salonga meant so much for Filipino—and Asian—visibility, from her Tony-winning performance as Kim in “Miss Saigon” to her involvement—as producer and erstwhile actress—in “Here Lies Love.” At stake in representation is whether people can feel seen and heard; like they belong to the country they live in. Next to this all-important aspiration, Philippine politics can be less of a concern.
For Filipinos whose lifeworld is the Philippines, on the other hand, the very premise of “Here Lies Love” meant distorting a reality that is very much present: the Marcoses, after all, are not just on Broadway, they are back in Malacañang. Held in this light, the musical is seen, above all, as part of historical revisionism, and the representational aspiration—while also welcomed—is secondary to this concern, especially since most Filipinos back home don’t share the lived experience of being underrepresented in their own country.
This bifurcation of concerns can also help explain the divergent reactions to other controversies in different sides of the Pacific, and those who navigate both worlds—like Balance—can help reconcile these differences by promoting mutual understanding.
To end on an optimistic note, it is encouraging to see how theater itself is evolving in ways that are ahead of the rest of America and the world, as “Rent” exemplified with its representation of people living with HIV. “Hamilton,” “The Lion King,” and “The Book of Mormon” have been revised in the wake of murder of George Floyd; the version I saw of the latter was apparently already a toned down version, one where the Ugandan villagers are portrayed as having more agency.
Such changes did not seem to be enough at least in the case of the musical, but they give me some hope that Broadway, too, may be decolonized and democratized in ways that advance not just representation, but justice.
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