Dispatches from the Musical: The Finale

Legally Blonde was a success— what a shock. In fact, the seismic shock of how excellent the performance was so profound that it caused Stage Crew to break all of their prop glasses in genius amazement at the marvel that was our school musical. 

Legally Blonde is a hard show to do. It requires an awful lot of cuts and fairly complicated choreography for middle schoolers. It also contains far more complicated themes than Shrek the Musical, Annie, and Pippin cared to touch (well, Pippin cared to but only through the largely undemonstrative medium of bongos and a guitar solo). The score requires the orchestra to play physically impossible notes and the online recordings are all in the wrong keys. But it worked out, just like the dogs1 and the ten-thousand impeccable wardrobe changes. The opportunity to screw up presented itself again and again but this somehow (in yet another oversight?) was overlooked. Instead of passing out, we passed go and collected the proceeds night after night. Each show was packed— Dr. Tony Watlington himself came and disappeared after intermission (but long enough to give Azeyeh White an exceptionally strong handshake). 

In lieu of disaster, Legally Blonde took on big ideas and bigger conceptions through the outsize yet strangely relatable character of Elle Woods, who frankly should just be heretofore known as Gwen Kapusinski. No other person in living Masterman musical memory has done so much and yet so little to command the stage. By taking up the previously-downplayed cardboard cutout role of Elle Woods and molding her into a “kind genius,” by effortlessly transforming herself into the role and finding personal meaning in it, she truly merited her place as star of the show. It is telling that the dress rehearsal, hiccups and all, convinced the middle-school audience that she was truly in love with Emmett. It is also telling that the middle schoolers gasped when it was revealed to them that it was, indeed, not true. 

While it was, for me, a show of ten thousand highlights (and not merely the abnormal highlights on the wig), some in particular still stand out and merit overindulgent praise. Francis Jurlando (Emmett), Liam Silverberg (Callahan), and Jenna Makuen (Vivian) made the most out of their roles, turning them from predictable to dynamic despite the limited material given. Francis’ awkward warmth made the character seem fuller, as did Jenna’s irascible chill. Liam’s Callahan, appropriately and sneeringly peevish, filled the role of august hip teacher, who has learned to replace misplaced sympathy with misanthropic sarcasm, in addition to learning how to effortlessly glide across a stage. Other stand-outs: Windega Baker-Tarpaga and her effortless (but seemingly impossible) 80s dance workout, Max Shallapi’s ill-tempered Dewey, and the hilarious Harvard Deans of Admissions. “Ireland,” performed flawlessly by the talented Maeve McNichol, was quite obviously the best song (though it sequentially mattered the least), despite the exceptionally rendered whaling and grating groan of Kayla right before the climax. My independent research cannot confirm the legality of kneecapping by jilted Irish women, though generally this suggests involvement with republican terrorists and/or pill pushers. The worst earworm of all was “Chip On My Shoulder,” which, despite its execrable orchestration and flat lyrics, has managed to remain in my head without fail since February. 

The biggest surprise of the show (besides the fan-favorite Progress Pride flag during the narratively confusing parade) was without a doubt the outlandish success of Noah Eggerts’ Kyle. I do not understand how a gangly man in khaki shorts who does not sing could win the hearts of so many impressionable small children and grown adults merely by pointing at them. Perhaps, just like Elle, we all desire to be seen for who we are and the right pair of eyes is Kyle’s (which I suspect are UPS brown). I have not seen someone scream so much for someone so bemused since I saw the Beatles’ American tour documentary– now imagine if they wore shorts and visors! Despite the false rumors of his “w rizz,” Eggerts proved so captivating that he is, despite his cumulative five minutes loping around onstage like a three-legged dog, still the most popular cast member in the building. Strange things succeed in strange ways, and in the stilted, stuffy halls of Masterman, who would have thought that the UPS man would come out on top? 

No production, however spectacular, is beyond improvement. The “singing, dancing, and TikTok movements” of “What You Want Pt. 2” went on a bit too long, to the point of becoming an unwanted discombobulation (Why the yellow costumes? Why the lackluster cheering? Why a samba?). Another low point was the wrangling of middle schoolers for Irish clogging, which proved to be more of an Irish stew (a bit too early for St. Patrick’s Day), featuring significantly salty beef on the part of a certain performer whose jig was obviously not looking up. Despite the vividly engaging dancing, the orchestra was a bit too livid to play a good 9/8 to save their life. The courtroom scenes overall needed a little work. The daughter’s thick tantrum-addled acrid accent, while fittingly cloying, did not fit in with the scene, and Nikos/Freud/Pool Cleaner seemed haphazardly planned out to where no one seemed to know what to call him. Of course, this lends doubt to whether Carlos was his best friend or boyfriend after all or if Carlos’ name was actually Carlos or if it was all just a DeSantis witch-hunt simulation. The choreography on “Gay or European” was also somewhat poor, as the whack-a-mole dancing did not seem to have much rhyme or reason to it besides a general concept of ‘up and down’ at various different intervals. The instruction was obviously a wave and some people heard sine and others cosine and the graph seemed quite strangely inflected, leaving some critical points on my end. Joe Faranda’s Warner, meanwhile, experienced a solidly upward trajectory, peaking on the last night. Despite the obvious need to be flat and unlikeable, there was a nipping hesitation, a banality in Warner’s evil, especially when trying to be villainous. While those two roles (bland and vile) are hard to reconcile, the performance there on the first nights could have been stronger, especially when paired with Jenna Makuen’s exceptionally strong Vivian and the sallow yet successful Warner of the last night. I also do not understand why there was a violinist in the restaurant scene but not everything can be of value, while the whole show certainly was.

I cannot commend higher our production of Legally Blonde (any higher and it would be Hair and who knows what a field day that would be– complete with frolicking!) and anyone among us who made the decision not to see it deserves to be cut off and shunned. Congratulations to everyone for doing so well and keeping all of the speeches short and dry-eyed and making my job easier. Good work, everyone, you have given me nothing to complain about and for that I am grateful. It is always good to leave on a high note, and while I would have liked some higher ones, I am glad that my low notes will be buried in the mix. Legally Blonde was a pleasure and so was reviewing it– despite my dear editor’s best intent. My time has come to be put out to pasture and in the end, in the words of Berthe from yesteryear, there is no better cure for criticism than a chance to take some hell and no greater joy in criticism than raising it.

Signing off,

Brady Santoro, 12-3.

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1. At another school, the performance was ruined by the dogs barking at squirrels running around in the ceiling. Thank goodness we merely have a ceiling that is collapsing.