Finian’s Rainbow

I have a crush on a leprechaun.  No, no I didn’t spot some tremendously hunky stranger in costume while wandering Hell’s Kitchen on Halloween.  I’m swooning from spending two and half hours with his chartreuse little ass last Thursday night.

I knew it would be a fantastic night before we even found our seats.  It was opening night for Finian’s Rainbow and the excitement was palpable.  I got to attend with one of my all time favorite people who just happened to be in town from the West Coast.  We scored free tickets and I didn’t even have to sleep with anybody…unless you count Rocco.  David Hasselhoff had just passed us on the red carpet and my favorite cable public access host was positively resplendent in head to toe Tory Burch.

I was completely dumbfounded as I realized how many of the songs I knew.  It’s an old school musical with big musical numbers, cheesy romances, and leaping chorus girls…right up my alley.  I’m always telling Rocco, “If we’re shelling out $100+ for tickets, I want to see some jazz hands, damnit!”  This had everything a girl could want – complete with an elaborate set and a strong cast.

I won’t go into all the nitty gritties.  After all, the NYTimes is sort of “known” for their theater reviews – better to let the professionals handle that.  I have to disagree with their review on just one little point, however – Cheyenne Jackson.  Yes, he’s awfully pretty.  Yes, I like his voice.  Yes, he and Kate Baldwin have lovely chemistry.  Somehow though, every time he was on stage something just seemed a little…off.

My companion elbowed me after a big number and said, “Do you get the feeling he’d rather be performing at Feinstein’s?”

“Oh my god, TOTALLY!” I whispered/screamed in agreement.

Granted the roll called for quite a bit of bravado, but somehow it all seemed a bit over the top.  That’s not something you say much in musical theater, I know.  But I said it, DAMNIT and I’m stickin’ by it.

In my eyes, the star of the show was the pocket-sized pixie played by Christopher Fitzgerald.  I haven’t laughed so hard and so consistently at a Broadway show since…well… Dance of the Vampires (or as I preferred to call it – Meatloaf the Musical).  This time I was SUPPOSED to be laughing, though.  That itty-bitty imp had me howling with his portrayal of Og.  Each and every time he appeared on stage I found myself grinning from ear to ear.  I noticed I’d scoot to the edge of my seat (not an easy feat with these long legs) and lean forward each time he spoke.  He was by far the most energetic and captivating actor on that stage, even if he was one of the shortest.

Normally I hate it when short guys think they can step to tall girls.  If I was a nice person (which clearly you’ve noticed by now that I’m not), I’d give them kudos for having the bravery and confidence to ignore their shortcomings (pun intended) and approach we gals of above average height.  Instead I embrace my petty tendencies and I generally frown upon their Napoleonic advances.  I’d make an exception for that wee pot o’ gold, though.