Come on, Broadway. When we said we wanted fresh perspectives and appeal to a wider demographic, we didn’t mean it like this. Not like this. But maybe we’re just being bitter—maybe this staged reinterpretation of Max’s bawdy prose will echo strongly in the tradition of the early, raunchier days of Greek comedy (as in actual Greeks, not the Greek system) and be presented in a manner where it is a radical satire of the life of the American Douche as opposed to some kind of celebration, which it often feels like (whether that’s how Max means it or not).
And it’s certainly not a bad thing that Broadway is trying to appeal to bros—the theatre should be for everyone. But surely there was another way than bringing I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell to the stage. Surely. Hell, rewrite some Andrew Lloyd Webber lyrics and give us some “Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Frats!” Do a boozy, collegiate take on Tom Stoppard and call it Brosencrantz and Chilldenstern Are Dead.