18/1/99

Les Miz, as only in Israel

    If youג€™ve seen Les Miserables, anywhere in the world, I guarantee it was nothing like the performance I saw on Wednesday.
    The kids of Beit Hillel were putting on a fine show at Hebrew University on Mount Scopus, when something happened.
    Itג€™s always interesting to see how performers react when things awry, and boy, things did. 
    We had just settled into the second act. The students, doing a story about students, were getting through the program very nicely, and the sold-out audience was lapping it up.
    They had just finished the song "Drink With Me." At that moment, according to the synopsis, "the students settle down for a night on the barricade," and the lights went out. Nice touch, I thought.
    But the director had nothing to do with it. Electric Corp did it, unaware that there were several hundred people in the hall.
    Oops ... and uh-oh. This sort of mistake can be deadly.
    At the very least, a night of entertainment aborted in the middle will usually send everyone home upset, or disappointed. But not tonight. Like I said, something happened.
    The cast suddenly started to sing, which is what theyג€™d been doing for a couple of hours until then, but they werenג€™t singing about Paris, 1832: they sang about Jerusalem 1967.
    It was perfect timing, actually: at that point in the play, 45 of the cast of 50 were on stage. The coffeehouse scene easily transformed into a kumzitz.
    For about 20 minutes, they burst into an utterly impromptu set of  Jewish favorites, and, naturally, the audience joined in, loud and lovingly.
    Thatג€™s Israel for you.
    "Huh. In New York, if this happened, thereג€™d be bedlam," said my companion, Andy Robinson, temporarily in Israel for medical treatment. His wife, Jill, was awed. "They went from singing  about ג€˜sweet Jesusג€™ in the play to songs about Hashem. It was beautiful, so spiritual."
    (Oddly, this was the second time I attended a Les Miz performance marked by an unusual Israeli theme. In 1995, in London, thatג€™s what I was doing when Rabin was assassinated.)
    The producer, Hannah Strasser, was sitting with the lighting technician when the switch was pulled. She lit into him ג€“ but then came a call from the cast room: "Is it dark up there too?" the stage manager asked sweetly. Hannah realized she had a big problem on her hands. As she frantically sought information about what happened, and what to do about it, the inexperienced student actors swiftly allayed any possibility of panic.
    There were many children in attendance ג€“ and at least one adult grappling with darkness anxiety ג€“ but there was complete calm as  voices rose up, in Hebrew:  "And the important thing, the important thing is not to fear, not to fear," they sang, rousingly, from the lilting melody "Gesher Tzar Meod" (A Very Narrow Bridge). Then a rollicking version of Adon Olam, Jerusalem of Gold, and a medley of Carlebach favorites. 
    Notably, these were mostly foreign students, and largely secular, and the songs were Israeli and traditional. That says something about the state of Judaism in the Diaspora. 
    Eerily, the students at that moment were scattered in front of, and upon, the barricades, that fateful symbol of the 1832 revolt, and too meaningful to us as well. Against this dramatic backdrop, they linked arm in arm, and swayed hypnotically while they sang. Several actors leapt up and, still in period dress, started dancing. The pianist easily switched from the planned program to the off-the-cuff one.  
    There werenג€™t even emergency lights to cut through the pitch-black. Just three candles, on stage, glowing just brightly enough to illuminate a few dozen faces, all of which were clearly enthralled by the unexpected experience.
    Victor Hugo would not have believed it. Though Iג€™m sure Carlebach would have.
    Hannah, who looks barely old enough to babysit (sheג€™ll be 21 on Thursday), had crowd control perfectly in hand. When it became clear the lights ג€“ and air conditioning ג€“ would not resume for quite some time (someone from the audience hollered "Weג€™ll wait!" and a good-natured cheer went up), she commanded everyone to stay seated; they would perform one more (scheduled) song, and then the hall would be evacuated row by row.
    The ensemble repeated "One Day More," passing the flickering candles back and forth to whoever was soloing. The effect was wonderful, and the separation between players and spectators seemed to disappear.
    And in a way, it did, some minutes later. Helping the crowd navigate through the dark were the actors weג€™d just been applauding. Valjean himself helped me down the stairs. 
    Outside, I heard humming. Thatג€™s normal after a bracing musical, but there was a distinct disharmony: there were Les Miz tunes like "Red and Black" mixed with what we call "Blue and White." A melange of stage and synagogue.
    My friend Andy was asked what he thought of the evening. He shook his head. "I dunno," he said drily. "The version I saw in London ended differently."