Starring Coraline as Itself
By Cheree Franco • Dec 5th, 2009 • Category: Culture, The BlogIt’s not Wicked, which was my last musical theater experience in New York, the comfortably canonized show my mom and aunt were bubbling to catch when they came in May. It’s not Wicked, with its catchy tunes and overtly accessible characters that warrant hopeless and immediate emotional investment.
Since I did precariously little reading on Coraline the musical (and have basically no concept of the novel or movie), I think I expected something in the Wicked department—at the very least, I wanted a spunky, defiantly adorable hell-raiser of a (somewhat convincing) tween star that would reactivate my childhood cool-girl crush mentality for an hour or so and a deliciously sinister fantasy-land to “disappear here” into. What I got was 50-something Jayne Houdyshell in knickers and a tacky vest. It didn’t take me long to realize that Coraline
Coraline is an arthouse play. It meanders rather that jolts, requests rather than demands. Even in the most suspenseful scenes, there is room for your mind to wander, dissect and analyze. I enjoyed Coraline for the same reason I enjoy Bujalski films and albums like Ys, which is to say, for very different reasons than why I own copies of V for Vendetta and Oracular Spectacular.
It took ten minutes to adjust my expectations—another ten to realize how thrilled I am that theater like Coraline exists, is well-funded and held over for extended runs. As an audience member, participating in Coraline is like agreeing to a retrospective childhood game of pretend. Coraline declares, “I am asleep” or “I am outside.” She is not in a bed, the scenery hasn’t changed. Nothing suggests these possibilities except your own willingness to “play” along.
Everything is off-kilter, even in Coraline’s “real world.” The onstage Coraline is visibly older than her parents, played by January LaVoy and Francis Jue. These two actors also play the “very old” spinsters that live downstairs, which is only one example of the various role doubling and gender-blending in Coraline. Props are downsized—Coraline calls the cops on a telephone that could fit in your palm—and the scenery has a junk-shop aesthetic and an abundance of pianos. The play generally acknowledges its own absurdity and the inherent absurdity of theater. We are playing with a fantasy story, playing with the idea of “suspension of disbelief.” This suspension never truly occurs, but we’re play-pretending that it does. Self-conscious theatrical references throughout the dialogue underscore this objective, if you’re versed enough to catch them.
Coraline is a through-the-glass-darkly story, in the tradition of Wonderland and Narnia. A curious little Brit (aren’t they always?) whose workaholic parents have just moved to a big, creepy new house in the countryside, Coraline steps through the forbidden door. You could consider the story tired, or since we’re talking Neil Gaiman, perhaps archetypal, but in the stage production, somehow the story is the furthest thing from the point. In the New York Times review, Ben Brantly labeled Coraline “an intricately articulated skeleton…more like “the idea of a show.” He employs this as a metaphor for the “other world” that exists within the play, which is merely an idea of a world. The passageway functions as a portal to the imagination of Coraline’s Other Mother (who in no way resembles Coraline’s real mother, not that Coraline’s real parents are fleshed characters). Somehow, all the other characters can simultaneously exist in some form in both worlds, but Coraline and Cat seem to be singular entities, only existing in whatever world we happen to be witnessing. Although Coraline’s parents do get trapped inside the snow globe—so maybe they are singular entities as well—but after the fact, they seem to have no recollection of this experience.
Stephin Merrit’s minimalist compositions are perfect. Merrit (of Magnetic Fields and the Lemony Snicket fame) sets dark nursery rhymes to plinking toy pianos. It seems there are no plans to release a soundtrack, although I wish somebody would. As an adult is a child and a cat is a person, the “music” of this musical interrogates the very concept of “musical.” Rather than campy song-and-dance numbers, Merrit’s tunes are fragile (albeit occasionally jaunty) and understated.
David Greenspan, who adapted the musical’s script, delivers such a melodramatic performance as the Other Mother that it seems he is referencing, even mocking the traditional concept of Broadway musicals. My favorite character is Cat, played by Julian Fleisher. Cat yawns and stomps across piano keys, shoves his tail in Coraline’s face, and ultimately, in his self-possession and wisdom, helps Coraline get back to the “real” world. I also like the beady, red-eyed rats, who offer the only skin-crawlingly creepy moments of the play—the only time that I was truly absorbed into the on-stage fantasy. “We are small but we are many, we are many, we are small, we were here before you rose, we will be here when you fall,” they chant in nasally unison.
That’s kind of how I feel about “alternative” theater—a category for which Coraline undoubtedly qualifies. This play won’t open on Broadway, won’t experience Wicked
-style success anytime soon. I loved Wicked, and I’ve seen Rent more times that I can count—but alternative theater excites and challenges me in a way that Broadway never could, simply because Broadway is too pleasurable and escapist. Coraline is decidedly Coraline, and I’m grateful that it is.
Cheree Franco is a freelance writer and 2009 graduate of Columbia University's Journalism School. For more of her musings, visit her personal blog.
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Great post
When I saw the movie, I dismissed it as a not-particularly-subtle allegory for pedophelia. Was that true of the play? (They seem very different, and it sounds like the play is much more interesting).
Hmn…maybe I should see the movie? In the play I didn’t get a pedophelia vibe–but I felt the play was hardly focused on plot. It was more about staging, more about using your imagination to disbelieve your eyes. It was actually a bit overwrought in this way–but because I appreciated the attempt,I played along. To me, this play is less about what the production accomplishes rather than how willing you are to buy in. It’s successful on an individual level. I don’t even think it’s possible to objectively label Coraline a massive success…which is why it’s not the next Wicked!