Hedwig and the Angry Inch

The Iron Curtain is a fitting venue for the Prague premiere of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Not only does the glam-rock musical kick off in communist Germany, but the subterranean dive vibe complements the show's heady mix of live rock and lewd cabaret. This is rough-around-the-edges theater and plenty of fun. 

The angry inch in question belongs to transgender diva Hedwig (Jeff Fritz) - the result of a botched sex-change operation, performed in an elaborate bid to flee East Berlin with her new beau, a U.S. solider named Luther. Successful in escaping, Hedwig falls victim to disillusionment, soon finding herself a divorcee sat in a caravan, watching the Wall come down on TV. It's only when she meets reclusive Christian boy Tommy Speck that Hedwig discovers who she really is. Forming a band with him, the singer finally finds the adulation she craves. That is, until Tommy deserts her for solo fame and fortune.

Unlike most musicals, Hedwig is a discernibly static affair, a hybrid of live gig, stand-up comedy and soapbox rant. Choreography notably absent, the only dancing is Hedwig's often agitated (she overturns a stool at least twice) gyrations.

The closest thing to scenery changes, meanwhile, are the shifting projections on the back wall, sometimes gentle sketch animations reflecting the singer's traumatic life story; at others, crude mock-ups including "proof" of Stalin's homosexuality and a none-too-witty Starf**ks logo.

Absence of the usual musical trimmings make the lead role all that more pressurized: With no real stage production to hide behind, Hedwig's story takes the form of extended monologue, a no holds barred account of her thus far futile quest to find her "missing half."

In this demanding part, Fritz is commanding and genuinely captivating. Though there's the definite cattiness of drag-show revue here, Hedwig's life has been a proper rollercoaster, and from among ribald descriptions of sexual conquests emerges the tragic tale of an unloved boy trying to find himself (which he eventually does, as a woman).

Though Fritz's dialogues can sometimes be a little overbearing, this is evened out with audience-silencing moments of stark drama. Hedwig's account of listening to the likes of Iggy Pop and Bowie from the inside of an oven, for example, is particularly poignant.

Yet Hedwig never wallows in her misery for long. As soon as a sad anecdote has been recounted, she picks herself up again, launching into another number. It's this doggedness that has earned the character of Hedwig fans (Hedheads as they affectionately brand themselves) around the world.

Then there's the music itself. Unashamedly filched from the back catalog of 1970s glam rock, cheesy ballads (Origin of Love) meet with ballsy rock 'n' roll numbers (show opener Tear Me Down), resulting in a catchy if sometimes clichéd setlist. The band in the show (also named The Angry Inch), is a crossbreed of Prague bands Broken Glass Extet and Tristram Trio, their raw rock thrashings giving the show its vital edge (Hedwig just wouldn't work with a backing track). There's a welcome use of keytar too.

Not only does Fritz have the gift of the gab, he's got a strong pair of lungs on him, his singing voice recalling the guttural outpourings of Elvis Costello. Uliana Elina as Hedwig's browbeaten husband Yitzhak (a former Yugoslav drag queen), exhibits a stunning rock-chick delivery when given the chance: It's a shame more of this isn't put to use.

As if getting a little carried away with itself, Hedwig becomes a little song-heavy toward the end, with three or four numbers bunching up and taking the sting out of the story's climax. Still, if you mentioned this to Hedwig herself, she'd probably slap you across the face and carry on singing through the night.

Akanda's Hedwig comes from the heart but is much more than a self-indulgent sing-along. Although still far from Broadway standard (in fact, the original was Off-Broadway, anyway), Hedwig and the Angry Inch is a strangely touching and raucously enjoyable evening for anyone who wants to let their hair down.

Will Noble can be reached at
wnoble@praguepost.com