A Night at the "Moulin Rouge" AKA: The Al Hirschfeld Theatre

Attempting to wring the last drop of bohemian romance from our lingering Parisian enchantment, we went to see our favorite musical. But it didn't go as we'd anticipated...

Journal Entry:
January 25th, 2024
Hell’s Kitchen, New York, NY

Of all the Broadway theatres named after a famous cartoonist, the Al Hirschfeld has to be in my top ten.

Since flinging open its doors a hundred years ago as the Martin Beck, it’s hosted shows like Dracula, Death of a Salesman, and My Fair Lady. But in 2003, when the most iconic New York caricaturist of the 20th century died a few months shy of his own 100th birthday, they renamed the theatre after him. And it’s where Sophie and I decided to go for Spaghetti Wednesdays* this week.

*Date night. Where we inevitably end up eating spaghetti.

I realize Hirschfeld never referred to himself as a cartoonist, much less a caricaturist. He preferred the term “characterist”, which, of course …isn’t a word.

I’ll be diving waist-deep into Hirchfeld’s career, style, and process in my new Substack called Process Junkie, which launches in February, but suffice it to say he has had an outsized influence on my own style and process— and that of probably every caricaturist who has laid eyes on his perfectly contoured linework, which was slowly scratched out millimeters at a time.

But I digress…

In an attempt to squeeze every ounce of bohemian romance from our Parisian hangover, we were there to see our favorite Musical, Moulin Rouge.

Sophie and I met under the awning —which hosts a giant neon caricature of Hirschfeld drawing himself— right as a torrential downfall drowned the peak-hour pedestrians in puddles. We squelched our way through the security checkpoint into the warm lobby.

As far as being immortalized in neon goes, this is pretty good.

The only theatre where the Lobby is more entertaining than the show:

At the top of the ornate staircase, we found damp punters lined up for $26 sippy cups of sauvignon blanc, oblivious to the gallery of incredible art behind them— all from Hirschfeld’s famous weekly Arts & Leisure illustrations. He drew these for the New York Times. It was an era when cartoonists could actually get paid by a newspaper, and subscribers could enjoy their work. What a bonkers concept!

Finding Nina

Avid readers would search for the hidden Ninas in his work, marveling at the hand-drawn depictions of that week’s buzziest show.

For an actor, to have your portrait drawn by Hirschfeld was to be immortalized in liquid gold. Not only did he nail your likeness, but he’d distill your depiction of the character in a pose that did more work than a Hamilton understudy. I could go on about his use of negative space, but I’m here to write about Moulin Rouge. Allegedly.

Chita Rivera, in a show that opened the year I was born…

A grand old theater and a great set

`We `eventually took our seats with a few minutes to spare. I took in the view: a grand old theatre and a great set. As the lights came down and the music swelled, the ensemble cast began to crawl from the shadows and take their place around the theatre. It’s a slow burn to get you immersed into the fantasy world of the Moulin Rouge: an absynthe-riddled fever dream of Truth, Beauty, Freedom, and Love and— Oop! There’s another smartphone. Aaaand another one. Oh, and look— an iPad!

“But I paid for my ticket!”

the young lady in the next row obnoxiously belched at the usher. “Ma’am, there are strictly no photos or videos— this is your last warning.”

This same little exchange played out about sixty-one times in the interval between taking our seats and the first song. A small battalion of ushers were darting down the aisles to castigate anyone who whipped out their screens.

There were signs plastered everywhere prohibiting the use of cameras or phones in the theatre, and three separate spoken announcements over the speakers for the stubborn or dyslexic. In the era of everyone being their own freelance paparazzi, this doesn’t matter— The same way people wear pajamas to the airport, audiences no longer respect the sanctity of the theatre. It’s no longer somewhere they can just be.

“What’s the big deal!?”

I heard the Scottish tourist to my right snap, “We just want to remember the show!” he said this with zero irony. He also had two Playbills tucked under his armpit.

Look, I’m not one to be all “Phones ruined everything, Why can’t these dummies get off their devices!” I use my phone to snap photos all the time— especially things I might draw later. But when I saw the guy next to me reach for his Samsung Galaxy during Act 2 of Hamilton last year, I swear to God I started wondering whether I could survive in prison.

There’s just something about an adult not being able to sit and watch a bright, loud, entertaining live performance for any stretch of time without grasping for the black mirror that makes my leg tremble. And don’t get me started on comedy audiences…

“Because we Can Can Can!”
…Kind of.

The show was, as expected, an over-the-top immersive visual and musical smorgasbord. It opens with a spectacular performance of Lady Marmalade replete with Can-Can dancers and exploding streamer cannons. There isn’t a moment that isn’t filled to the brim with vivid colour and sound. There is, however, something that irked me, knowing every line of the original version of the show from when it first premiered (eep) 20 years ago, landing Baz Luhrmann “Australian National Treasure” status:

The producers of this latest iteration of the show have replaced the original classics with trending hits by singers like Sia, Adele, and Lady Gaga. As someone intimately familiar with having to inject modern references into a decades-old property to keep it relevant, I can sympathize. But… it did kind of make it impossible to invest in the show. Some of it actually worked well— the Britney cover got a standing O. But, some of it just made me feel like I’d eaten a bad prawn.

I looked over to see Sophie’s contorted face during one pivotal moment: It’s the scene where Satine, alone in her dressing room vanishes into denial about the inexorable progression of her terminal illness. Instead of launching into the iconic “Some Day I’ll Fly Away…” she stares earnestly into the mirror and begins…

“Do you ever feel…

…like a plastic bag.”