Despite having had a terribly inefficient dinner, my mother, daughter and I managed to get to the theater in time for the opening curtain of Miss Saigon. Indeed, we had arrived with sufficient spare time to allow for the purchase of a before-musical cocktail just minutes before the lights started blinking, ordering all with tickets to get to their seats, or else.

Upon finding our row I discovered Mom had bought seats smack in the middle of the row, meaning our trek would include climbing over a goodly number of theater goers who, considering the fact they had already taken their seats, must have had a quicker dinner service than we. Heads hung in shame, we crawled over patrons young and old, doing our best not to step on toes or fall into anyone’s lap. As an apology I silently promised I would not get up to pee before half time.

The musical started just as we settled in, almost as if there was a “start” button on our seats being triggered by the sudden presence of our asses, and the curtain came up on a representation of a bustling, 1960’s era Saigon street scene, replete with barkers, GI’s, shoppers and, of course, a whore house. You see, what I didn’t know at the time was that Miss Saigon is just a rip off of Madame Butterfly, another musical/opera I had never seen. But though I’ve never seen Madame Butterfly, I do know the story. It’s the age-old tale of a soldier falling in love with a whore, who then bears him a child (that he doesn’t know about for years,) and then the whore commits suicide. Pretty standard stuff, really. So, replace the English Officer and Chinese prostitute in Madame Butterfly with an American soldier and Vietnamese hooker and, hiddeldy-diddeldy, you’ve got Miss Saigon. Side Note: Perhaps as an attempt to explain the title of the musical, one of the opening numbers was a song about who amongst the whores in the whorehouse would be Miss Saigon, a reference to, as far as I could tell, some sort of elected position, although as of this writing I still don’t understand the process by which one would be voted in as “Miss Saigon” or why any would treasure the title.

So, you’re probably asking yourself, “so did this guy enjoy the musical or what?” To that I answer, “mostly not.” Admittedly, I’m not generally a fan of musicals, and Miss Saigon turned out to be more of a musical than any musical I’ve had the misfortune to happen upon, and here’s why: None of the cast had any spoken lines. All of them sang EVERYTHING, all the time. For God’s sake, even the characters in Les Miserables got to speak a few lines, you know, just to fill in the blanks, so to speak.

The biggest problem I had with the constant singing was that I couldn’t understand at least half of what was being said, or sung, so there was a good chance I would be walking out of the theater three hours later in the same lingering fog of ignorance in which I found myself in the first twenty minutes. And it wasn’t a volume problem. Trust me, they were all plenty loud. Too loud. They were so loud I’d be surprised if the performers hadn’t all been wearing ear plugs.

Did I mention they sang about EVERYTHING? They sang about buying fish. They sang about the war. The sang about shoes. EVERYTHING. Did you get tricked into becoming a prostitute? Well, then let’s sing about it. Are you nervous about your first John? There’s definitely a song there. Going shopping for hats? More singing. The pimp can’t wait to migrate to the U.S. after the war? Not only is there a song for that, but the song took up at least half an hour of everyone’s time. Indeed, that particular song was so long that after five minutes I didn’t care if the pimp even made it to America anymore. So much singing. So much inanity.

Have I mentioned the kid? The poor kid who is born of the illicit love of the GI and the Vietnamese hooker?

Ok – so there’s the half-breed, bastard-child. He’s the spawn of the two main characters of the story. Cute kid, actually, and he deserved sympathy. The kid’s only job during his scenes, as far as I could tell (and I really was paying attention,) was to run back and forth between the adults on stage. Once in the clutches of said adult, the kid would invariably get whipped around like he was trapped on the business end of a twirling carnival ride, hanging on for dear life. Worse than the swinging was the singing. You see, despite the swinging the kid’s torso was still trapped against the body of the adult, even while his legs were flailing about. And because his torso was trapped against the adult, the kid’s head usually ended up being smooshed against the head of the actor, who was, most likely, singing. Singing loudly. Singing loudly right into the little kid’s ear holes. I was sure there had to be some OSHA regulation against this sort of workplace violence, not to mention some glaringly unenforced child labor laws. But I couldn’t NOT watch. I became obsessed with the plight of this poor child, even assuming at one point that he must be one half of a pair of twins. How could just one little toddler put up with so much. My assumption was proven wrong at the curtain call, where only one kid came out on stage to receive applause. (Maybe his brother was asleep?) Considering the inevitable, hopefully short-term, deafness that was the inescapable result of having your ear holes screamed into for nearly three hours, I was fairly sure the kid had to be coaxed onstage at curtain call by a stagehand whose only assignment was to get the deaf kid onstage at curtain call. I was also fairly sure his (most certainly) obsessive parents were quite proud of his “acting” ability, which as I pointed out earlier mostly involved running back and forth between screaming adults and looking frightened. But, honestly, what toddler wouldn’t be frightened by the prospect of running around on stage in front of thousands of people? That poor kid wasn’t “acting” frightened at all, and his parents probably took their cut of his wages as a “manager’s fee” and are quite sure that someday he’ll be a big star, as long as he can avoid rehab until he’s at least sixteen. No worries there, though. There’s little chance his hearing will recover to the point he will ever again get a part that will be anything more than a walk-on as the deaf friend of the main character in a movie about a group of nerd-friends succeeding in the harsh world of the hearing. Or maybe something about deaf vampires. We’ll see. And did I mention he had no lines? He didn’t. Probably because he couldn’t sing loudly enough.

Whew! Enough about the kid already. Other than the constant singing the most ridiculous part of the show was the prostitute’s suicide by gunshot. She shoots herself on purpose because the father of the bastard-child got married to another woman after he got sent back to the States.  She just couldn’t go on knowing they would never again be together as a couple. That part was all well and good, but then she started singing about her suicide. And then she sang about her suicide as she  lay dying from the gunshot. Seriously. For my part, I was unable to suspend disbelief long enough to prevent a number of giggles from escaping. I mean, the actress seemed earnest enough, but she must have come back to life, I don’t know, say, three times before she actually died. It seemed every time she was close to death she found she had just a little more to say before she was ready to escape this mortal coil. It was hilarious.

Finally – The Standing Ovation.

The end came mercifully enough, after the 30-minute song about moving to America.  And then, as is the tradition, the whole cast showed up for curtain call, each to receive deserved accolades from the beloved audience. The audience clapped enthusiastically for the costumed players, and then it started. The Cincinnati Standing Ovation. Now, even when a play, or in this case a musical, is pretty good but not quite good enough for a standing ovation, the crowds here in Cin City will just sit and clap vigorously. After all, we’re not animals. But there’s always an element in the audience who thinks the show was better than everyone else thinks it is and those people, who are often in the most expensive seats, stand up to clap, probably to show their appreciation or perhaps just to show off. The people around them, quite naturally, become confused. “Was the play, or in this case musical, really that good?” they ask themselves. Unsure of the answer, and not wanting to look foolish or unappreciative, they go ahead and stand up too, and that’s when group-think becomes the guiding principal of the whole undertaking. Before long EVERYONE is standing and clapping, though many still aren’t sure why and, voila, a standing ovation is rendered. I got caught up in it too, but for my part it just felt good to stand up and see the stage again, instead of staring at the rump of the old, flatulent (I assume) guy sitting (now standing) in the row in front of me. Plus, I really had to pee, and standing felt like it put me just a little closer to getting to the bathroom.

Looking back, I’ve decided the whole experience was just good family fun. I mean, how often do you get to watch a play, or musical, about a suicidal, Asian prostitute? And let’s not forget about all the singing. When I could actually understand the words, it was exactly like being at a real play, and that’s something all three generations could enjoy. We’ll just skip dinner next time.