Can musical theatre help younger audiences connect more deeply with written media?

 Ask Alice is an online column written by our former Secretary, Dr Alice Boer-Endacott, who has published several young adult fantasy novels and a non-fiction mini, under ‘A B Endacott’.

It feels like musical theatre has been enjoying a revival of late. Perhaps this can be attributed to the absolute smash success of Hamilton, or the film adaptation of Wicked. Whatever the reason, I seem to keep seeing ads for shows (The Book of Mormon has a run in Melbourne; I’m keen to see it but prevented by not being able to wrangle the logistics of who will mind the small child ruling my home).

Interestingly, I’ve seen a lot of musical adaptations popping up from films (Groundhog Day, Matilda, Heathers, Mean Girls which was then made back into a film) as well as books (The Color Purple, Percy Jackson, The Great Gatsby, The Outsiders and of course, who could forget that Wicked was initially a book by Gregory Maguire). This speaks to an interesting interplay between the narrative formats. However, it also makes me curious about the enduring appeal of musical theatre. Given one of the big cultural moments of my adolescence was Glee, I’ve been reflecting on what appeal Musical Theatre has for teenagers.

As a format, it seems to have perfect appeal for the TikTok generation – the narrative is interspersed with singing and dancing which reinvigorates the interest of those whose attention spans have been shot by the shortform endless-scroll format pushed of social media. However, this conclusion feels superficial and trite. I feel there’s more to musical theatre’s appeal than simply ‘hey it keeps you paying attention.’ Moreover, I wonder how musical theatre speaks to other narrative forms, and what that can mean for younger readers.

To help answer this month’s question, Can musical theatre help younger audiences connect more deeply with written media? I reached out to the musical theatre trove of knowledge and all-round delightful human being that is Edelweiss, a former student of mine whose Instagram page, Broadelways has over 150 thousand followers.

Edelweiss knows way more about this subject than me, so in the interest of getting out of her way, the below is formatted like a Q&A with my occasional interjections. Her content is in italics.

Let’s start with a rundown on the format of Musical Theatre – how is the story structurally told?

On a structural level, musical theatre follows a strict format. It starts with an overture that gives the audience the gist of the musical theme that will appear throughout the show — establishing familiarity, albeit subconsciously. The opening number will then follow, introducing the characters and a brief background story for each of them. Some shows do this more subtly or even deceitfully, like Wicked, and others do it gloriously plain (see: Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1918). Either way, to extract the essence of each character and put it together in a 5-minute opening is an extraordinary feat every single time.  

However, the essence of the main character is always found in the “I Want” song. This is where the audience gets to understand the deepest fears, anxieties, dreams, and desires of the main characters, in addition to how they see themselves. In Hamilton’s “My Shot”, we see how Alexander Hamilton sees himself as someone young, scrappy, and hungry. In Dear Evan Hansen’s “Waving Through a Window”, we learn that Evan Hansen sees himself as an outsider. In In the Heights’ “Breathe”, we learn that Nina sees herself as someone with a wasted potential. Here, the characters say out loud the things regular people don’t usually verbalise in real life (or acknowledge to themselves in an internal monologue). This alone gives a sense of liberation—that someone else is brave enough to put their feelings into words and does not try to make it small out of fear of taking up too much space. The audience therefore feels seen, can empathise with a character, and be motivated to root for the protagonist . As Pink said in her Tony’s speech: the purpose of Musical Theatre is to hold a mirror up to society – which extends to the audience feeling ‘seen’ within the characters. Once the character’s identity is established, what usually follows is a sequence of songs that move the plot forward. By the end of the song the characters come to a decision that determines their next challenge and establishes the consequence of previous decisions. All these twists and turns build into an exhilarating climax in the showstopping ‘11 o’clock number’, where a character is typically at their lowest low, or highest high, or both at the same time (No Good Deed! Rose’s Turn! Being Alive! She Used to be Mine!).  

So, in other words, the music allows the characters to voice experiences and emotions they wouldn’t in any other narrative format. Moreover, the songs push the narrative forward by articulating the points of decision-making, whilst also flagging consequences arising from those decisions. What jumps out to me from this is that the emotional narrative arc of the characters seems to be absolutely front and centre, moreso than other narrative forms. Does that seem right?

Here to confirm that Director Michael Greif (RENT, Next to Normal, Dear Evan Hansen) agrees: “ The thing that is particularly special about musicals is the way it immerses the audience in a character’s emotional world on a level that transcends words and images.”

Ok; what does that mean for audiences? 

There is something cathartic about watching bigger-than-life characters be who they are, wholly and unapologetically. They gesticulate largely, they dance freely, they belt highly and loudly. These are all the things we don’t get to see or do outside the four walls of a theatre space.  

As progress on human rights—especially for marginalised groups—is experiencing a rollback globally, seeing someone else resist against external efforts to keep them small can evoke a cathartic feeling of secondhand liberation.  

Let me nerd out on Wicked a little bit more here —there’s a reason Defying Gravity is the most powerful number. It’s bigger than just the character — it’s also the way it resonates with the audience, especially those who come from marginalised backgrounds.

Defying Gravity encapsulates the culmination of Elphaba’s struggles: to find acceptance, to fight for what she believes in, to part with her newfound (and only) friend, and to give up her lifelong dream of working alongside the Wizard. Everything she knows to be true (the Wizard will de-greenify her and save the Animals! Once she’s with the Wizard her family will love her!) is shattered in an instant and she’s under this immense pressure to make a lifechanging decision in that moment.

Stressful as it is to be emotionally invested in a character’s arc, the audience is rewarded for bearing with Elphaba’s journey. They get to witness this character they’re rooting for choosing her own truth—unlocking a new independence as she soars up high while belting a war cry as the soldiers who are trying to capture her are left powerless on the ground. For the length of an intermission, the audience roams the theatre on a high—from the clean resolution, from the protagonist stepping into their power, from believing that goodness will prevail, and from witnessing a fellow mortal human belt a high Eb while being suspended in the air in green makeup.

Would you also say that there’s something important about the liveness of the experience? Is there something transcendent about seeing someone inhabit this character and experience and knowing that it’s a performance? I wonder if audiences are empowered seeing someone inhabiting this character and her journey, because it promises that they can unlock a sliver of that for themselves?  

Watching theatre arguably requires the audience to work harder on suspending their disbelief, compared to, say, TV and movies. There’s also this awareness in the back of our minds that the people who make the show happen are doing this for a living, eight times a week. As for the people we see on stage, they overcome two challenges at once: the tribulation of the character they embody, and performing for a different audience time after time.  Cynthia Erivo in an episode of Marc Maron’s ‘WTF’ podcast  said about her experience playing Celie in The Color Purple on Broadway: “I said to someone, after time 400 or something, you get called ‘ugly’ onstage, the line between you and reality and the character […] is already kind of gone because your body starts to do whatever it needs to to get where it needs to faster […] the veil becomes really, really thin, and so it stops being the character is being called this and it starts being you are. And you start feeling it, and you start believing it, and it’s really hard every day to do that.”

If the audience chooses to be aware of this, it could invoke such empathy, yes, but also a kind of empowerment. We can not only appreciate, but also be inspired by the tenacity, the mental and physical strength it takes to do keep showing up again and again, to stay committed to both the character’s and your own journeys until your time is up and it’s time to do another challenge—similar yet starkly different as they are… It can be something we aspire to do in our own lives.

Moreover, sharing this experience with a group of fellow theatregoers increases the vibration of collective effervescence. Knowing that other people are witnessing the same thing as you at the same time, knowing that to a certain degree everyone shares a similar belief, and to all be in the same place at the same time… some would argue that it’s the closest thing to spirituality they’ve ever experienced.

And with respect to younger audiences…?

For teenagers, especially those who feel like an outsider, struggling to find their identity, and unsure about how and where to channel their emotions, musical theatre provides a safe space. For some, it might be the first time they not only find the words to describe what they’re feeling, but also see a vessel that expands as someone’s emotions grow bigger without collapsing. The largeness of the characters’ feelings is not only contained, but also celebrated.

Without wishing to be unnecessarily simplistic, but this was something Glee really articulated, right?

ABSOLUTELY. As messy as the plot line is, it’s undeniable that those high schoolers in Glee found an outlet to process and channel their emotions in musical theatre. For some of them, it’s also where they found their identity and a sense of belonging for the first time in their life.

Through musical theatre, young people learn that their feelings have a place to live instead of being repressed, shrunk, or ignored. On top of that, emotions are packaged in a way that does not look as messy as the feelings can be. It’s aesthetically and auditorily pleasing, with a sprinkle of magic every time someone does a quick change, hits a particular high note, or does a high kick. It dresses emotional struggles and the quest of identity finding as a spectacle worth watching. It  makes them excited to go on their own journey in real life. The main characters don’t always win — they don’t even make good decisions sometimes (hi Evan Hansen)— but their journey is still worth rooting for… or learning from. Or humming along to long after leaving the theatre.

Something we discuss a lot in the lit space is how books help readers – especially younger readers – feel seen, albeit in a different way. Is there an interplay between books and musical theatre with respect to younger audiences, or are they for different audiences?

The interesting thing about the aftermath of watching a musical that I feel isn’t talked about enough is how it reinvigorates interest in the source material. The recent musical adaptations of The Great Gatsby and The Outsiders, for example—both popular among younger theatre audiences, and bound for Melbourne transfer eventually—have become a gateway for young people to seek the original source material: the novels. This can be attributed to the emotional investment in the characters established through larger than-life songs and dances. This new generation discovering the original material might have polarised feelings and opinions—favoring either the novel or the musical over the other, as they naturally should—but the most important thing is they engage with both materials in a deep and meaningful way, driven by pure interest, as opposed to obligated assignments that they see as just another chore to get through.  

I love the way this paints the various formats as complementary rather than mutually exclusive. Musical theatre centres the emotional experiences of the characters, which empowers audiences to take up space, and to acknowledge and respect their emotional experiences. Moreover, in thinking about what this means for younger audiences and younger readers, it provides an additional way for young people to feel seen and heard. Musical Theatre is thus an additional in for those of us trying to connect with this demographic of readers. At its most reified, this could come in the form of the very effective book format ‘if you liked X try Y,’ with ‘X’ being popular musical theatre productions. However, if we consider narrative formats as intertwining and interplaying, it gives us a richer way to consider how people of all ages can feel seen. That come be in the pages of a book, but it can also be on the stage of a theatre. An appreciation for where Musical Theatre does something a book can’t gives us greater chance to connect, but also to know when a book can further the journey initiated by watching a woman in green war paint, suspended high above an audience, belt out Defying Gravity.

A huge thank you to Edelweiss for her generous contributions and saint-like patience during the co-authoring process!