Dictator Discoteque

David Bryne premiers his Marcos disco musical on Broadway.

Imelda Marcos (Arielle Jacobs) dances amidst the audience.

Here Lies Love defies convention, weaving a vibrant tapestry of disco, Broadway, and the life of Imelda Marcos. Written by David Bryne and Fatboy Slim, the show follows the life of the Philippines’ most notorious First Lady. Best known for her greed and husband’s cruelty in the 20th century, Marcos’ story is chronicled from her childhood until her husband’s fall in the People Power Revolution, all through a dazzling whirlwind of pop anthems and her 3,000 pairs of shoes. Only one man can stop her: her husband’s political enemy, her first love – the martyr, Ninoy Aquino.

As a three-time attendee to the show, I was initially motivated to purchase mezzanine tickets this summer to see Broadway legend Lea Salonga. Best known as Kim in Miss Saigon and as the voice actress for Mulan and Princess Jasmine, I attended as soon as I learned she’d be portraying Aquino’s mother. I realized the musical was different the second I stepped into the theater. I wasn’t walking into a Broadway musical – I was walking into a 70s discotheque. A light show and disco ball lit up the room; a DJ stood on a platform to the left of me; and a revolving stage was in the middle of a dance floor. Awestruck and blown away, I returned the following week. While traveling to NYC for Cornell’s fall break, I purchased tickets again, this time opting for the dance floor. The experience was completely unlike any of my previous encounters with the show.

Upon scanning my ticket, an usher led me through a corridor in the basement-level of the theater. I emerged through a plastic strip curtain door in the center of the dance floor. Anticipating an oncoming battle with the crowd, I arrived early to secure a spot in front of the center stage. My guess was correct; within minutes, the stage was engulfed by a tight circle of audience members. The increasingly oppressive crowd’s movement was halted by the DJ’s booming announcement: “Welcome to Club Millennium!” As he led the pre-show announcements, he warned dance floor audience members that the stage would move throughout the performance. He directed us to follow pink-jumpsuited, light-stick wielding cast members during the stage’s revolutions, then returned to his soundboard to begin the first song.

Dancers materialized on platforms spread throughout the mezzanine and dance floor, engulfing audiences in all sections of the theater. Though the energy was impeccable, the dancing itself was not particularly memorable. Throughout the show, most of the ensemble’s performance consisted of waving their arms while standing in place, with a pinch of footwork sprinkled here and there. Although no choreographer would enjoy that aspect of the show, the dancing still created a uniquely immersive experience. What discotheque has Chicago-level choreography? I felt as though I could dance along to every number. The layout of the theater furthered this effect. No matter where you sat or stood, you had a front-row view. The audience’s proximity to the dancers filled the theater with a singularly electric energy. My prior experiences were incomparable to what I felt on the dance floor. Free from the constraints of traditional seating, I was dancing with the ensemble, who were mere feet above me.

The effects of proximity were even greater when the main cast took the stage. It would be near-impossible to find better actors than Arielle Jacobs to portray Imelda Marcos, Jose Llana as Ferdinand Marcos, and Conrad Ricamora as Ninoy Aquino. But it would be wrong to discuss them without first discussing their costume designers. As I had secured a spot at the front of the crowd, I was close enough to see every seam in their clothes and every crease in their shoes. Jacobs’ outfits underwent a drastic evolution throughout the show, one that mirrored and highlighted that of her character. Her character began as an innocent, lovesick teenager and ended as a cruel, heartless dictator. As Jacob’s Imelda saw her innocence corrupt into arrogance, charming floral dresses and petticoats gave way to imposingly straight, dark dresses with tall, angular sleeves. Llana’s unchanging black suits allowed his co-lead’s outfits to stand out – and hinted at his character’s everpresent dark nature. In contrast, Aquino’s wardrobe reflected his unflinching commitment to justice. Almost never without a white suit, white converse, and his iconic thick, black-rimmed glasses, his outfit highlighted his character’s personality as a spunky, fearless idealist set in opposition to the black-clad Marcos. 

Unfortunately, the vocal performance did not inspire the same amazement as the costume design. While talented, there have been better singers than the three of them. But the characters’ vocal requirements are not nearly as difficult as most Broadway shows. Instead, the producers focused on actors who brought much more to the table than their voices: their portrayals of the historical figures could be rivaled by none. Although I knew how the show would play out, Jacobs once again forced me to root for the impoverished Imelda, heartbroken by the “cruel” Ninoy. Llana convinced me that no other man had the chutzpah to succeed as the Philippine president. As the second half of the show began and the plucky “heroes” became the cold monsters of Philippine history, I was once again shocked by the sudden, jarring transformation.

While their performances were stirring, Ricamora was undoubtedly the highlight of the show. From his introduction to his death, his appearances never failed to make the audience erupt in cheers. He begins the show as a passionate, confident populist, one madly in love with Imelda Marcos. He ends the show as an messianic figure in exile. 

Purchasing a dance floor ticket didn’t just allow me to see the actors closer: it allowed me to directly interact with the cast. Actors walked through the dance floor to talk to audience members; they led us in political chants; during a rally, I even shook hands with Ferdinand Marcos. The audience involvement culminated with Aquino’s death, upon which his mother, once played by Lea Salonga and now by Vina Morales, led the audience onto the stage during his funeral procession, leading up to the emotional climax of the People Power Revolution.

When the show ended and I waited in line to leave the theater, I began talking to a woman standing behind me. Like me, she had fallen in love with the show. I loved it because of the music. She loved it because she saw herself in the story. A native oof Brazil, she spent her childhood under military rule. Both dictatorships shared a timeframe and a primary supporter: the American government. She described to me the horror she felt when she realized how easily a country that supposedly treasures its freedom could be swayed towards autocracy in the wake of the Trump presidency. 

I was certainly surprised to hear such a sentiment, but if there’s anything I learned from Here Lies Love, it is that a society which ignores the signs of democratic decline is doomed to suffer. The corruption of Marcos and his regime was preceded by his populist rhetoric and forewarned by visionaries like Aquino, yet the country did not take heed until far too late. With an experience like hers, who am I to dismiss her?