Little House on The Prairie: The Musical: Canon Theatre

Little House on the Prairie: The Musical, playing at the Canon Theatre, is the biggest piece of counter-revolutionary drivel I have ever seen.  Everyone involved with it should be lined up against a wall, stripped bare-ass naked and shot in the back of the head.

Even the audience should be punished for attending.  We should all be forced to sit through it without laughing or throwing anything at the actors.

Oh wait, we were.

Some long-time readers of this blog might recall that I’m a dedicated LHOP fan.  It would come as no surprise that I had no press pass for this. It was just something that I wanted to see.  Not to say that I expected much.

Musicals are the very lowest form of entertainment.  They stretch out a tiny amount of material by having people sing during parts that would usually be edited out.  Someone has to walk to the shed — have them sing a five minute song on the way.  Someone has a thought or feeling, let’s have another song.

The form is for people too stupid to understand anything they see.  If they see a frown, they do not know that means the character is sad.  For people that stupid, a voice-over will usually suffice.  Not for fans of musicals.

These people are so incredibly stupid that a voice-over is not enough.  They can’t just see a frown and be then told what the character is feeling.  That sort of explanation will just confuse them.  These morons need their explanation to rhyme and be set to catchy music, lest they forget what is happening.

Musicals make dog fights look like Shakespeare.

But I knew all that going in.  My expectations were  low.   I just hoped for a few catchy tunes and something mildly in keeping with the the themes and spirit of Little House on the Prairie.  Perhaps a decent performance and a few laughs.

What I did not know was that the writers of this musical have an even greater contempt for the intelligence of their audience than I.

This was, without doubt, a huge, steaming pile of shit: One sure to disappoint fans, bore the uninitiated and confuse both.  Even the rubes and hicks at The Canon Theatre, formerly The Pantages, who give everything a standing ovation, only saw fit to give this a round of polite applause while they ran towards the door, mocking the actors as they went.  This overheard mocking was more entertaining than anything in the play.

Most of their vitriol was directed at Melissa Gilbert, who played Laura in the television series. Before seeing the musical, I had proclaimed that no matter what she did and no matter how bad she was I would still give her a standing ovation. Just as a thank you for the years of enjoyment she provided me as both a child and an adult.  Not that I expected her to be bad.  I expected her to be okay.

Here, for example, I’m happily pointing at her name, thrilled to be seeing her in real life.  “Take a picture with me and Melissa Gilbert,” I asked.

And here I’m forming an M with my hands to show that I’m firmly on her side; that if she had a gang, I’d be a member:

All this was before I knew how bad she could be.

I’m pained by everything I am about to write.  I could not feel worse if I kicked the The Littlest Hobo in his furry ribs.  But it must be done and the people must be warned.  If The Littlest Hobo went rabid, I would tell you before taking him out to the shed to Old Yeller him.  Ms. Gilbert has gone rabid.

It’s not just that she can’t sing. I expected that.   She only learned to sing for this show.  Her voice is flat, weak and, sometimes, a bark.

Much worse than her voice is her face.  Ms. Gilbert has had a lot of work done.  She looks something like a cross between Joan Rivers and Cher. To see this lifeless mask, caked in makeup was a disturbing distraction.  When she stepped into the spotlight, “singing”, my date and I actually flinched.

Had she been playing the Phantom of the Opera, this would have been fine.  But she was not playing the Phantom of the Opera.  She was playing Ma and it was just wrong.  As was her whole tone.

Fans of the show will remember the shrill and offensive Mrs. Olsen. That’s how Ms. Gilbert sounds, looks and acts. In the role of Ma, a role that call for quiet kindness, we have a plastic surgery monster who is about as good of an actress as she is a singer.  One that somehow manages to radiate prima-donna cruelty.

Say what you want about The Littlest Hobo but he knew when to leave town.  That dog was not one to overstay his welcome.    Ms. Gilbert has.  And even that I could forgive but, dear reader, it gets worse.  Oh god, how it gets worse!

There was a moment when daughter Carrie delivered a funny line that actually made the audience laugh. Ms. Gilbert stood on the stage, stopping the entire play while she noisily stifled her own “laughter.”

Whether this was just gross unprofessionalism or an jealous attempt by an ageing actress to steal the spotlight back from a ten year child who had just upstaged her, is your guess. I have mine. And my guess is neither flattering to Ms. Gilbert’s character nor to her ability as an actress.  I will allow you to guess what my guess is.  And let me assure you, my guess is as accurate as yours.

Aside from the caterwauling disaster of Ms. Gilbert, this whole play misses the simple beauty and appeal of the Little House books and show. The independent spirit of these pioneers is perverted into them needing help during a blizzard and singing a song about “Where Are You Uncle Sam?”.

I cannot imagine Charles Ingalls, the very picture of self-reliance, ever bellowing these words. Not out of bitterness. Not out of begging. Their society did not abandon the  Ingalls. They abandoned it.  Probably because of  musicals like this.

Instead of limiting the scope of the play, this musical tries to squeeze the whole series into two hours and suffers for it.  If people unfamiliar with the books could even figure out what was happening, they would lack any emotional involvement.

The prairie fire that destroys everything  only lasts a single scene.  And what does it matter?  The only work involved in building the house was thirty seconds of moving walls on rollers to a housebuilding song.  Why even care that Mary went blind?   Within two minutes she’s come to terms with her affliction.

The romance between Almanzo and Laura is perverted into the most trite and idiotic of boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back formulas.  And there’s not even any reason for him to lose her!  There’s no comical miscommunication, no tragic parting of ways.  It just happens.

For no reason.

Same reason he gets her back.

God-damn, it’s stupid!

I would like to know how the writers of this musical could fuck up such a simple formula as that.  Because, honestly, I’m amazed.

And don’t even get me started on the songs.  You cannot rhyme good with good five times straight.  Throw in a “wood” or a “should” or something.  And when they had a song, the lines of which ended in an “eee” sound, I could practically hear the composers sigh with relief as they wrote it:  “This will be,  very easy, for me.”

I know twits are running the world but do they also need to write the soundtrack?

Someone needs to sit down with these hacks and explain that westerns all share a simple theme, enacted in different ways:  Civilization corrupts the virtuous and empowers the corrupt. A good man is driven to murder, a bad man becomes mayor.  It’s fucking simple!

Here’s how you write a LHOP musical:  The first half is them building the house.  There’s a lot of work, a lot memories and a lot of joy in the simple things.  The second half involves a government agent of some kind trying to wreck things and being outsmarted before being sent away by the wily townspeople.

You celebrate love, liberty and small town American values.  The end.

Instead these assholes have decided for a message that has something to do with “racing the sun.” The solitude and toil of the prairies is gone. The danger is as toothless as the work is sweatless. The music is stupid sentimental nonsense, the best characters are either ruined or entirely gone and the only half-decent thing about any of it is Nellie Olsen.  And even she is made nice.

That right: Even Nellie Olsen, that perfect bourgeois villain, is really just a big softie. Think about that. Perhaps you can accept it. I cannot.

Little House on the Prairie the Musical has no guts, no soul and I hope it has no success. If you’re a fan of the series avoid this play like Mr. Edwards should have avoided the Gem Saloon in Deadwood. If not, find your introduction to the series  elsewhere. This thing is not worthy of the name.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 1st, 2010 at 1:11 am and is filed under Life, Reviews, little house on the prairie. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.