By Chris Rohmann
The Hartford Advocate
May 21, 1998

It wasn't the usual Broadway-at-the-Bushnell opening night, and it wasn't quite the usual middle-aged, middle-of-the-road crowd. True, as the auditorium filled, most of the ticket holders were smoothing their suits and glancing apprehensively at the jungle-gym of scruffy steel scaffolding that filled the stage, the banks of loudspeakers flanking it, and the five-piece onstage rock band casually gearing up.

But down in the front rows, in the $20 day-ticket seats, and high in the balcony were the Gen-Xers for whom this show meant more than just another night at the theater; who already knew the score's pulsating tunes and impassioned lyrics by heart; who cheered before a single note was struck when the youthful cast of 15 ambled onstage to begin the performance.

Mind you, those comfortable fifty-somethings in the expensive seats weren't exactly rock-opera novices. They came of age in the era of Hair and Tommy and Jesus Christ Superstar. And despite its nods to punk and grunge, Jonathan Larson's 1996 Pulitzer- and Tony-winning score for Rent owes at least as much to Stephen Sondheim as it does to Pete Townsend or Kurt Cobain.

Or, for that matter, to Giacomo Puccini, whose 100-year-old opera La Bohme is updated in Rent. Puccini's Parisian garret-dwellers are now struggling artists on New York's Lower East Side. They are straight and queer, black and white, and Latino and Asian, and the initials that spell death for these modern bohemians are not TB but AIDS. The occasionally murky plot interweaves their ambitions, struggles and turbulent romances.

Roger, an HIV-positive ex-addict, wants to write just one great song before the virus claims him. Mark is a documentary filmmaker under pressure to sell out to network infotainment. Benny, their former roommate and now their nouveau-riche landlord, plans to evict them and the homeless squatters in the empty lot next door. Mimi, a seductive teenage junkie, earns her smack money dancing in an S&M club. Maureen, a self-styled performance artist and Mark's ex-girlfriend, is now dating Joanne, a Legal Aid lawyer. Collins, the philosopher-cyberwhiz, also has a new lover, Angel, a sweetly outrageous drag queen, both of them HIV-infected, too. (In view of the show's self-conscious diversity, it's interesting that both of the central figures, Mark and Roger, are male, white and straight.)

Rent is driven not only by the exuberant energy of its music and cast, but also by its raw emotions and wry ironies. The former include the extremes of anger and heartbreak expressed in the songs and the author's palpable grief over the toll on young lives taken by the AIDS pandemic. On the ironic side is the fact that neither Maureen's self-indulgent performance art nor the song Roger eventually produces are very good.

This touring production doesn't just copy the New York version; it clones it--not just the sets, lights and sound, not just the staging and even the line readings, but right down to the casting of a redhead as Mark and a petite, breathy Latina as Mimi. Most of the cast, however, transcend their rubber-stamp assignments and, even after a year on the road, bring a spunky enthusiasm to their performances.

Many of them, all unknowns, have little or no formal training; some are singers with no previous stage experience and some are performing in their first professional show. The lack of polish, though, when evident at all, simply makes for a more authentic spontaneity.

As the show's anthem of hope, "No Day But Today," ended the opening-night performance, the kids in the cheap seats jumped to their feet, followed quickly by the rest of the house. In my neighborhood, the reviews were mixed.

"It was awful, just awful," spat a tweedy gent, to which his soft-spoken wife responded, "Oh, no, dear, I liked it quite a lot."

"Not bad," agreed a blue-rinsed matron, "but I'd rather hear La Boheme."