Carriageworks, July 19
8/10
There’s no Hedwig and the Angry Inch without a star. No, not just a star: a supernova. iOTA first burst into our lives playing Hedwig, and 19 years later it’s Seann Miley Moore’s turn to dazzle us.
Hedwig is role in which performers can unleash their all, from tempestuous rock songs that let their voices strip the paint from the walls, to raucous comedy – whether innuendo-laden or very black – that brings the house down. There are moments of pathos, chances to ad lib, and endless scope for sexual provocation. Directed by Shane Anthony and Dino Dimitriadis, Moore amply ticks all the boxes.
Devised by John Cameron Mitchell (text) and Stephen Trask (music and lyrics), Hedwig tells how Hansel Schmidt grew up in a dysfunctional family in East Berlin (where his mother taught sculpture to limbless children). He opts to have gender reassignment surgery to marry a US soldier, Luther. Alas, the surgery is botched, leaving an angry inch. Hansel, now Hedwig in a fright-wig, is dumped, leaving her to pick up the pieces with Tommy Gnosis, who becomes a rock star, while Hedwig trails around in his wake in dive bars with her band The Angry Inch.
It’s one of the most stripped-down musicals imaginable, having only two characters: Hedwig and her new husband, Yitzhak (Adam Noviello), plus a four-piece rock band. Cunningly, playing live is part of a story, which, in turn, is fleshed out by the songs.
Poor Yitzhak is treated as abominably by Hedwig as she was by everyone else in her life. In fact, Yitzhak would be a pretty thankless role were it not for The Long Grift, a song in which he reveals his repressed talent, and Noviello certainly makes this the show-stealer it’s supposed to be.
The set and costumes largely sustain the stripped-down theme, and this restraint allows Geoff Cobham’s lighting to co-star with Moore, its impact amplified by the enormity of Carriageworks’ Bay 17 venue. The venue also suits the story’s conceit that Tommy is playing next door, with Hedwig intermittently opening a door to hear the songs she wrote with or for him.
The band is led by Victoria Falconer at the keyboards and, to vivid effect, a theremin. The sound is compromised, however. So much of the story’s mythology is embedded in rock music, and while there’s a vast bass end, the tops and mid-range have been miniaturised, presumably to leave ample room for us to hear the lyrics. But this means we miss the crunch, especially from the guitar, for which the music cries out.
The one lame song, Wicked Little Town, makes the show feel it has a flat tyre for a few minutes, but otherwise this is a killer production of an utterly unique musical, with Moore in swaggering, pouting, winning form. Don’t miss it. It may be another 19 years before it returns.
Until August 3.