Diary of a Tap Dancer
Diary of a Tap Dancer
American Repertory Theater
December 12 2024 thru January 4, 2025
Diary of a Tap Dancer showcases everything that makes A.R.T. shine, and where it all too often overshoots the mark. I let my A.R.T. subscription lapse years ago, when its push to raise consciousness superseded their renown theatrical effects and pointed story telling. But hey, I love tap, so I purchased myself a holiday gift and looked forward to some spiffy dance.
Artistic Director Diane Paulus’ opening night remarks gave me great hope. “Tap is a language of its own. Listen to the stories told by the feet.”
The stories these feet tell are awesome, phenomenal, jaw-dropping. The energy of the excellent cast of eight female dancers fills A.R.T. immense main stage. The set projections are effective, though too many stage level changes sometimes challenge fluid movement. And despite a few missed spots, the lighting is fabulous; alternately casting mystery and glory.
The show, written directed, choreographed, and starring Ayodele Casel is, as described, a diary of her life. When that diary is written by feet, whether in sand dancing, soft shoe, hip hop or frenzied tap, it is thought provoking and inspiring. Unfortunately, when the diary is delivered as spoken word, the play falls flat.
Act One focuses on Ms. Casel’s journey from The Bronx to NYU and into the hallowed clubs of all-male tap dance. Ms. Casel has risen above many challenges that could thwart a less determined spirit: a favorite cousin who died too young from addition, a mother who exported her to Puerto Rice for six years, a father absent until she turned seventeen. Her talent and determination is inspirational, but I was confounded by the gentle glow she showers over these people who didn’t step up to their adult responsibilities. At the very least, smoothing over whatever anger, fear, or rejection she felt makes for tepid drama.
Act Two reels us back to the origins of tap. The most moving — and chilling — scene in the show is the dance of slaves who have been forbidden to communicate across plantations with drums, and thus communicate with their feet. It’s an amazing piece of theater. The history continues onto a celebration of female tap dancers. When the present-day ensemble assembles in cream-colored tuxedos, to voice these women, they express their talent, determination, and woe across time.
Anyone who has seen A Chorus Line knows that, once the dance line arrives in tuxedos, we’re at the finale.
Unfortunately, Ms. Casel was still a child in The Bronx when A Chorus Line broke all box office records, so I guess she missed it. For after an amazing number, she returns, alone, to deliver a too-long monologue about the trials of female tap dancers, past and present. Preaching to the audience about lunch counters and back-entrances deflates the powerful emotion, and empathy, of the dance tribute. Why did anyone connected with this large-scale theatrical effort think it was a good idea to tack on this limp coda?
Instead of leaving the theater exalted and thankful for the long line of female tap dancers, and savoring their contribution to this world, I left feeling that once again, I am being shamed for the sins of my fathers.
Any objective comparison of the life of Adeloye Casel and her forebears must reveal that conditions are not the same. Was the historical treatment acceptable? Absolutely not. Was it more difficult for Ms. Casel to open doors than for men of equivalent talent? Probably. Do we have further to go? For sure.
But the A.R.T. needs to lighten up. Instead of berating an audience of mostly white, mostly liberal Cantabridgians about how much more there is to be done, celebrate that Ms. Casel is able to lead a fuller, more open life than her tap-dancing predecessors. And end a holiday show that celebrates tap: with tap!
