There are much much more important things happening in the world--not least that the Baltimore police arrested two of my comrades yesterday morning on frame-up charges designed to crush their activism--and the last thing I want to do is give props to the evil Fox Corp.--and this is a lit blog, not a TV blog. But. But. But. I am, as I believe I've confessed before, a musical theater dweeb. And I do watch TV. So.
Oh. My. God. Did you see Glee last night?
First, early on, the amazingly gifted Amber Riley finally got to step front and center. She delivered, and how! She belted out a fabulous version of "And I Am Telling You" from Dreamgirls. Those are some awe-inspiring shoes to step into, the two Jennifers', but I thought she did a smash-up job. Wow.
This show is in my opinion not all it's cracked up to be. It has many flaws, not least in its treatment of the national question, of which last night's episode was a prime example. But. The fact that there's now one hour of TV every week when I can tune in and, most weeks at least, be assured of watching and listening to a fresh new version of some Broadway standard, well, it just makes me happy.
So there I was, cocooned in a lovely glow, watching the rest of the episode unfurl. And then. Oh. My. God. To. The. Max. Three opening notes sound--three opening notes that I instantly recognize--a silly crazy scream of joy erupts out of my throat--goose bumps prickle up and down my arms--and the darling Lea Michele steps up and sings "Don't Rain On My Parade" from Funny Girl. Goddamn. She pulled it off, too. And then some.
This morning in the shower I found myself belting, "Hey Mr. Arnstein, here I am!" Um. Yes, yes I did. And wondering whether a Broadway revival of Funny Girl, until now inconceivable because Babs so owned the title role, might now be a possibility.