Fiddler

Last night was the long-awaited Fiddler on the Roof night. You'll recall this was supposed to be Topol's farewell tour, but he had to bail because of a shoulder injury. So our leading man was Harvey Fierstein, and, all things considered, he did not disappoint.

The funny thing is that prior to the show, my friend K and I were discussing what we knew of Harvey (nothing other than his bit part in Mrs. Doubtfire), and I couldn't help but ask the question: "You don't think that's his real voice, do you? That gay, scratchy voice?" We both laughed at ourselves for even thinking it. Of COURSE it wasn't his real voice. But as soon as the wild applause died down and he spoke his first lines, my eyes about bugged out of my head. Turns out it IS his real voice. A little less gay perhaps, but just as scratchy. Sort of how I would picture a monotone frog sounding. But really, he was a hoot, and I found myself enjoying the show, all three hours of it, more than I had expected to.

Because if you must know, Fiddler isn't one of my favorites. It's too slow, too long, too heavy in subject matter. At least that's what I think to myself between viewings. But then I see it again and get caught up in the emotional turmoil of change, in the simplicity of love, in the balance of religious duty and unconditional family acceptance. So while it might be more than I want to think about on a typical evening, it's a show that means something. And I can respect that. Even from a monotone frog.
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