In “The Heart” and “I Became We,” the Rise of the Hive-Mind Musical
The New Yorker · Emily Nussbaum ·
Emily Nussbaum writes about a new kind of show, in which an ensemble tells an individual’s story in unison, sometimes down to the thoughts inside her head.
And, in a flash, Simon is no longer the show’s protagonist—instead, his heart is. As bright grids fill up screens that frame the stage, the musical—smartly directed by the Roundabout’s new artistic director, Christopher Ashley, with lighting by Amanda Zieve, immersive video design by Lucy Mackinnon, and subtly gliding choreography by Mandy Moore (the auteur behind Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour)—becomes a thrilling, thrumming twenty-four-hour countdown to an organ transplant, tracing the path from one person’s tragedy to another’s miracle. We meet Simon’s powerhouse mother, Marianne (a moving Joaquina Kalukango, belting in denial by her son’s bedside); her prickly ex-husband, Sean (Jason Tam); Simon’s girlfriend, a d.j. named Juliette (Max McKenna); and also the medical team, including a warm, no-filter nurse (a fab Bre Jackson) and a cocksure surgeon (Drew Gehling, who, after playing doctors in “Waitress” and “Little Shop of Horrors,” may qualify for a medical degree). Later, we meet the recipient of Simon’s heart, portrayed with rueful glamour by Heidi Blickenstaff. These characters are distinct individuals, but there’s a fungibility to the whole enterprise: we meet each of them briefly but intensely, in passing, the way you do in a hospital. The cast juggles minor roles, so a patient might reappear as a doctor; Simon’s surfboard becomes an operating table.
The central concept, adapted by Kait Kerrigan from a poetic French novel, could easily go gooey or gimmicky, like a musical episode of “Grey’s Anatomy.” At first, there’s an almost bludgeoning pathos to what we witness, as Marianne resists the news that her son—brain-dead, but still with a beating heart—is gone. But, just as her grief becomes unbearable, a jarring image intervenes. At center stage, a fey stranger appears, warbling in a high operatic voice, with bright-blue gel patches under his eyes and a white towel wrapped around his head, diva style. Only after his phone rings do we learn who this person is: Thomas (Lincoln Klauss), the hospital professional assigned to persuade Marianne and Sean to donate Simon’s organs. “They might be divorced?” a colleague tells Thomas, filling him in on the case. “The divorce’ll be fun,” he responds, tartly.
It’s a tonic splash of detachment before Thomas’s mask of professionalism slides back up. Some of the production’s strongest moments feature this sort of tricky tonal pivot, as when a punkish gamer (a terrific Wren Rivera) is unveiled as the gleeful consultant who selects organ recipients using an algorithm. The show’s lyrics are often literal-minded, with rare outliers, such as a wry joke about Juliette becoming “a side piece to his nine-foot slab of fibreglass.” But did that blunt sincerity deliver emotionally? It sure did. Before long, my eyes stung; my chest got tight. If the critical part of my brain sometimes resisted an obvious turn of phrase—“You are my heartbeat,” say—the rest of my body was all in.
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