Open Stage opened their 2000-2001 Crystal Season with a bang Friday, October 6. Though the pun seems obvious, I believe it appropriate, especially in the context of the darkly comedic, sometimes satiric musical "Assassins."

Before I get too far into this review, let me make it clear that I am not a fan of musicals. Though I appreciate their entertainment value and respect their place in theatre history, I generally leave such hopelessly emotional escape fests feeling that I have been either emotionally manipulated or cheated. After watching my first musical in years, I can honestly say that I felt neither of those things. Instead, I felt deeply disturbed. Now you might say, "well isn’t that what Stephen Sondheim, who wrote the music and the lyrics, and John Weidman, the author of the book (accompanying text) intended? Haven’t you, in part, been manipulated?" My answer quite simply would be ‘yes.’ But the manipulation only helped encouraged another response: a response that is positive and uncommon in most musical theatre. Simply put, I was intellectually challenged.

"Assasins" takes on the whole idea of violent crime and turns it on its ear. The musical carefully examines the lives and motivations of nine assassins, some successful, some not, and puts their collective crimes into a larger context.

Every assassin is given his or her moment in the spotlight. And with each scene — some individual, some group — we slowly develop a sense of each character from the widely known John Wilkes Booth and John Hinkley to the lesser known Charles Guiteau and Samuel Byck. But greater than the peculiarities of each character, is the sense the musical gives us of their connectedness. No thought is given to chronological or situational reality. While the scenes between John Hinkley and Lynette "Squeaky" Frohme never happened, they help connect the historically disparate group psychologically. The acts themselves, though individually motivated — for John Hinkley it was the love of Jodie Foster that made him attempt to kill Ronald Reagan; for Leon Czolgosz it was the respect of Emma Goldman and the plight of the immigrant worker — are somehow connected. Sondheim and Weidman, through a series of scenes, intertwined with music and song, chronicle the development of a full-fledged American phenomena.

This phenomena, defined by David Robertson as the "Theatricality of Violence" or by the French as "Le Grande Guignol" is at the heart of Sondheim’s musical. Violence has become a spectator sport, generating the greatest ratings and worldwide attention. The absurdity of knowing that the greatest show on earth is the ultimate act of violence is preposterous and Sondheim knows it. He mocks it. He laughs at it, but in the end, he accepts it. Respect and acceptance, however, are two different things. He continually mocks the absurdity of people and their willingness to participate in and revel at acts of violence. The Ensemble is a butt of many of the jabs in the show. They are constantly singing the "I was there when…" song, like they had witnessed opening night of "CATS". The humor is biting — I often found myself looking around and wondering why the audience was laughing — and the music disharmonic. Sondheim is continually making fun of theatre and musical theatre in particular. In his lengthy monologues, the character of Samuel Byck, played by Richard Rininsland, continually talks about love songs, the mainstay of most Broadway musicals. In fact, in his taped monologue to be given to Frank Sinatra, Byck tells us how important and ultimately useless love songs are. But, at the same time, he uses the grand gesture and devices of musical theatre to bring his point home. Not exactly the kind of words that you would expect to hear from the man who wrote the music for "West Side Story".

The closing production numbers "Another National Anthem, November 22, 1963" and the reprise of "Everybody’s Got the Right" could have been taken from almost any show. But they are somehow different. I realized that the National Anthem to which they were referring was warped and insane. The age of technology has accomplished one thing. It has given frustrated Americans the desire to kill and the rest of the world an excuse to never forget them. We live in world that thrives on catastrophe. How many people watched CNN in the hope of seeing one new moment of footage from Columbine? The sense of suffering and loss is extracted and acts of violence are transformed into voyeuristic productions. How many times have you seen the Zabruder film? History as theatre — cultural theatre. Hey, what better way to get a review. Kill a president or kill a kid. Rave reviews and some of the best photo ops imaginable.

The production helped support the importance of these themes. Though I am certain that a grander show with all the frills and high tech would have helped support the absurdity, the Open Stage set was simple, never taking away from the action. The size of the stage and the closeness of the audience only encouraged the intense moments and drew the audience into the humor. The performances, with one notable exception, were strong. The acting was amazing from top to bottom. The characterization was well thought out, carefully directed. The blocking included all of the audience: very few dark areas where I felt left out of the action. The singers were strong, especially Ann Alsedek as Sara Jane Moore. The only weak moment in the whole show came from the Proprietor. His opening musical number lacked leadership. The kind of leadership that helps to define a show and brings the audience right in, right away. Fortunately, the show bounced back quickly. As soon as Frederic entered the stage and began, all that flatness was forgotten. The show found its leader and moved quickly. Even without an intermission, I never felt bored. My mind worked from beginning to end. And when I left, I was changed. It was an experience that I will not soon forget.