Hamilton fever swept America, and now the world. To say its wide release is timely would be an understatement. Hamilton plays a deliberately political hand, if not provocative, by casting non-white actors to re-create an era where minorities were kept in chains. Its music, whilst brimming with tributes to classics of musical theatre, riffs mostly on hip-hop, a genre that whose origins lie in the fusion of African-Americans and Caribbean immigrants (with a dash of soulful R&B). And in releasing the recording on Disney+, the story is no longer an exclusively upper-class experience for the highly cultured, finally readily available for the masses to consume and experience. Viva la revolución!
Most have accepted Hamilton's premise, but some have realised that its show of representation may be skin-deep rather than truly progressive. We watch a Puerto Rican actor spitting rhymes about the formation of a nation founded by white men; does this constitute a valid thesis? Is colour-blind casting enough to justify turning a blind eye on how black citizens were actually treated during these historical rap battles? I'm not sure it's an easy, straightforward answer. Consider two of the most prominent, show-stopping lines: Hamilton and Lafayette's dual cry of "Immigrants, we get the job done!", and Anjelica Schuyler's proclamation "I'mma compel him to include women in the sequel!" Both are manufactured as obvious crowd-pleasers, practically ripping apart the fourth wall. Werk it! It doesn't help that the definition of an immigrant in Alexander Hamilton's case is so far removed from what a 21st century audience cheers for (Miranda specifically wrote in two bars after the line to account for their rapturous applause).
Listening to Lin-Manuel Miranda rap to himself in 'Cabinet Battle #3' (which was eventually cut from the show) is to witness a creator's internal conflict as he treads a tenuous line: how beholden does art need to be towards historical fidelity? If it's a story of America then told by America now, why leave out such a messy and unmistakably large piece of the puzzle? Perhaps for narrative purposes, then. Miranda knows that this moral quandary clashes with his overall arc of the scrappy underdog. While the musical lionizes its titular hero from the very beginning (Burr is the "damn fool who shot him", and trembles with jealousy at his every achievement, in a magnetic performance from Leslie Odom Jr.), it isn't exactly afraid to spotlight his failings, either. More musically-inclined critics have noted that of the original cast, Miranda is the least vocally proficient. But far from this detracting from his performance, it adds a tender fold. He's as close to an everyman in this narrative as we can get, the little guy standing amongst historical giants. Watch as Christopher Jackson's Washington is introduced as if he's the final act at Wrestlemania, a larger-than-life showstopper with unmatchable stage presence. Every other actor treats him with such reverence that it's nigh impossible to engage with him as a person rather than a founding father. Listen to him croon about the nation he's forged, and about noble aspirations like hope and justice and liberty via lines we have read in history textbooks. And then listen to Miranda strain as he sits in the eye of a hurricane, fifteen years old again. Listen to him plead and wrest with his conscience in his final frozen moments as the hip-hop beat drops out and he stares down the gaze of a bullet, alone.
I returned to Hamilton a second time after the initial hype had died down to see if it held its own as a pure narrative, and discovered more and more to appreciate. Knowing the tragic close makes each hint and set-up hit harder, as we chart the dual arcs of Hamilton and Burr creating their own history. Listening to 'Non-Stop' as just another track on the original recording, I found it catchy enough, but seeing it in the context of the rises and falls of his early life and as the climax of Act 1, Hamilton's frenzied re-commitment to his life's work as foolish crushes and trivial rivalries are brushed aside, it becomes the show's musical centre. I can track and hear the leitmotifs that criss-cross and converge in its core and as the characters do themselves throughout the story; Aaron and Alexander, after jostling for their spotlight on the centre stage, sit side by side as they serenade their newborns. Their words shape an idea of a country not yet in existence, and they pledge a common goal for it to come to life. Yet while Hamilton seizes every opportunity that arises, Burr laments his own reputation as a footnote in the founding father's story, watching his fortunes stumble at every step. We've all wanted to be in that room at one point or another, and we've all felt what Burr feels. If 'Dear Theodosia' humanises the former vice president through the common goal of raising a daughter and a nation, 'Wait For It' establishes him as the perfect foil for Hamilton, piano arpeggios that begin with a secret affair and explode into a fatalistic confessional about how his own restraint will ultimately reward him with what he deserves. The final confrontation turns the pair's lifelong mantras onto themselves: Hamilton throws away his shot, while Burr finally seizes his, and in a twist of cruel irony, neither end up with what they desired.
Thomas Kail, the show's director, declares that hip-hop has always been the "soundtrack of defiance" and the "music of ambition", and thus that Hamilton's reclamation of the Founding Father's mythos transforms these figures and stories from tools of oppression to liberation. Again I wrest with the idea of the play as pure rebellion, and wonder how truly transformative its narrative appropriation is, and if releasing it on a day of celebrating independence while Americans march in the streets protesting for that same notion constitutes real change. You can see these tangled knots and contradictions throughout: Daveed Diggs makes his flamboyant (re)entry as Jefferson waxing lyrical about liberty, while members of the chorus scrub the floors and fetch his luggage. Hip-hop might be the medium for rebellion, but theatre's class exclusion works in direct opposition to this. I see how predominantly white its admirers are, and wonder about Hamilton's long-term cultural legacy, whether it will endure as a piece of art or simply as a feel-good narrative designed to assuage guilt from an audience viewing comfortably from a position of privilege. The show is used as a punchline designed to expose this phony righteousness in Knives Out, and in a way it reflects a similar comment from Jordan Peele's Get Out; it is the manifestation of 'I would have watched Hamilton for a third time if I could'.
And yet, I also ponder if this story needs to be the one to single-handedly shoulder this radical burden. While it's true that Miranda sidesteps several contentious issues rather than acknowledging them ("We know who's really doing the planting" is a mic-drop moment that is then quickly waved aside), re-writing the history of America to conform to our modern sensibilities isn't a solution either. The story takes some liberties with historical accuracy that results in some dramatisation, but that hasn't stopped us from excusing this in the past for storytelling's sake. The one-two punch of 'Helpless' and 'Satisfied', aside from being an intricately orchestrated set piece, lays bare the angst of an intellectual woman trapped in a time where she does not have the agency to express this, and while this love triangle never really existed, the song can easily be interpreted as a universal struggle. I don't see anyone lining up to poke holes in the fidelity of the award-winning Amadeus, with a premise rooted in exaggeration that heaps praise on far more prominent historical giant. These misgivings seem to continue a recent trend of holding representation of minorities to an unreasonably high standard simply because it is scarce; we saw this with Black Panther, and Crazy Rich Asians, and more immediately when a black man needs to be a saint for us to rule his death an injustice. We can celebrate Hamilton for spotlighting performers of colour whilst also being conscious of our historical faults.
Miranda's most significant oversight, then, isn't failing to address the story's lurking racial politics, but rather succumbing to the hype of his own historical appraisals. He pens the musical as a tribute to the first Treasury Secretary, foregrounding legacy as the primary motif, but neglects to live up to its most important adage: death doesn't discriminate. It isn't Burr or Hamilton who receive the final word, but Eliza, who, having erased herself from his life in fury at his affair in 'Burn', inserts herself back into the narrative for the sole, selfless act of preserving her husband's legacy, ensuring that his story can be told today. If Miranda wanted to be a true advocate for the forgotten and downtrodden, what greater story is there than that of Elizabeth Schuyler's? Contrary to the bravado of the men around her, she is never one to "try and grab the spotlight". For all the talk of legacy and greatness and leaving your mark on the story of America's founding, Eliza is content to stand to the side, raise a family, and work towards bettering the future. As Emily VanDerWerff puts it, there is immense value in greatness, but even more in goodness. There won't be a hit musical written about her life; she's just a supporting character. But like so many Elizas of the world, she knows what she has left behind is more than enough.
Most have accepted Hamilton's premise, but some have realised that its show of representation may be skin-deep rather than truly progressive. We watch a Puerto Rican actor spitting rhymes about the formation of a nation founded by white men; does this constitute a valid thesis? Is colour-blind casting enough to justify turning a blind eye on how black citizens were actually treated during these historical rap battles? I'm not sure it's an easy, straightforward answer. Consider two of the most prominent, show-stopping lines: Hamilton and Lafayette's dual cry of "Immigrants, we get the job done!", and Anjelica Schuyler's proclamation "I'mma compel him to include women in the sequel!" Both are manufactured as obvious crowd-pleasers, practically ripping apart the fourth wall. Werk it! It doesn't help that the definition of an immigrant in Alexander Hamilton's case is so far removed from what a 21st century audience cheers for (Miranda specifically wrote in two bars after the line to account for their rapturous applause).
Listening to Lin-Manuel Miranda rap to himself in 'Cabinet Battle #3' (which was eventually cut from the show) is to witness a creator's internal conflict as he treads a tenuous line: how beholden does art need to be towards historical fidelity? If it's a story of America then told by America now, why leave out such a messy and unmistakably large piece of the puzzle? Perhaps for narrative purposes, then. Miranda knows that this moral quandary clashes with his overall arc of the scrappy underdog. While the musical lionizes its titular hero from the very beginning (Burr is the "damn fool who shot him", and trembles with jealousy at his every achievement, in a magnetic performance from Leslie Odom Jr.), it isn't exactly afraid to spotlight his failings, either. More musically-inclined critics have noted that of the original cast, Miranda is the least vocally proficient. But far from this detracting from his performance, it adds a tender fold. He's as close to an everyman in this narrative as we can get, the little guy standing amongst historical giants. Watch as Christopher Jackson's Washington is introduced as if he's the final act at Wrestlemania, a larger-than-life showstopper with unmatchable stage presence. Every other actor treats him with such reverence that it's nigh impossible to engage with him as a person rather than a founding father. Listen to him croon about the nation he's forged, and about noble aspirations like hope and justice and liberty via lines we have read in history textbooks. And then listen to Miranda strain as he sits in the eye of a hurricane, fifteen years old again. Listen to him plead and wrest with his conscience in his final frozen moments as the hip-hop beat drops out and he stares down the gaze of a bullet, alone.
I returned to Hamilton a second time after the initial hype had died down to see if it held its own as a pure narrative, and discovered more and more to appreciate. Knowing the tragic close makes each hint and set-up hit harder, as we chart the dual arcs of Hamilton and Burr creating their own history. Listening to 'Non-Stop' as just another track on the original recording, I found it catchy enough, but seeing it in the context of the rises and falls of his early life and as the climax of Act 1, Hamilton's frenzied re-commitment to his life's work as foolish crushes and trivial rivalries are brushed aside, it becomes the show's musical centre. I can track and hear the leitmotifs that criss-cross and converge in its core and as the characters do themselves throughout the story; Aaron and Alexander, after jostling for their spotlight on the centre stage, sit side by side as they serenade their newborns. Their words shape an idea of a country not yet in existence, and they pledge a common goal for it to come to life. Yet while Hamilton seizes every opportunity that arises, Burr laments his own reputation as a footnote in the founding father's story, watching his fortunes stumble at every step. We've all wanted to be in that room at one point or another, and we've all felt what Burr feels. If 'Dear Theodosia' humanises the former vice president through the common goal of raising a daughter and a nation, 'Wait For It' establishes him as the perfect foil for Hamilton, piano arpeggios that begin with a secret affair and explode into a fatalistic confessional about how his own restraint will ultimately reward him with what he deserves. The final confrontation turns the pair's lifelong mantras onto themselves: Hamilton throws away his shot, while Burr finally seizes his, and in a twist of cruel irony, neither end up with what they desired.
Thomas Kail, the show's director, declares that hip-hop has always been the "soundtrack of defiance" and the "music of ambition", and thus that Hamilton's reclamation of the Founding Father's mythos transforms these figures and stories from tools of oppression to liberation. Again I wrest with the idea of the play as pure rebellion, and wonder how truly transformative its narrative appropriation is, and if releasing it on a day of celebrating independence while Americans march in the streets protesting for that same notion constitutes real change. You can see these tangled knots and contradictions throughout: Daveed Diggs makes his flamboyant (re)entry as Jefferson waxing lyrical about liberty, while members of the chorus scrub the floors and fetch his luggage. Hip-hop might be the medium for rebellion, but theatre's class exclusion works in direct opposition to this. I see how predominantly white its admirers are, and wonder about Hamilton's long-term cultural legacy, whether it will endure as a piece of art or simply as a feel-good narrative designed to assuage guilt from an audience viewing comfortably from a position of privilege. The show is used as a punchline designed to expose this phony righteousness in Knives Out, and in a way it reflects a similar comment from Jordan Peele's Get Out; it is the manifestation of 'I would have watched Hamilton for a third time if I could'.
And yet, I also ponder if this story needs to be the one to single-handedly shoulder this radical burden. While it's true that Miranda sidesteps several contentious issues rather than acknowledging them ("We know who's really doing the planting" is a mic-drop moment that is then quickly waved aside), re-writing the history of America to conform to our modern sensibilities isn't a solution either. The story takes some liberties with historical accuracy that results in some dramatisation, but that hasn't stopped us from excusing this in the past for storytelling's sake. The one-two punch of 'Helpless' and 'Satisfied', aside from being an intricately orchestrated set piece, lays bare the angst of an intellectual woman trapped in a time where she does not have the agency to express this, and while this love triangle never really existed, the song can easily be interpreted as a universal struggle. I don't see anyone lining up to poke holes in the fidelity of the award-winning Amadeus, with a premise rooted in exaggeration that heaps praise on far more prominent historical giant. These misgivings seem to continue a recent trend of holding representation of minorities to an unreasonably high standard simply because it is scarce; we saw this with Black Panther, and Crazy Rich Asians, and more immediately when a black man needs to be a saint for us to rule his death an injustice. We can celebrate Hamilton for spotlighting performers of colour whilst also being conscious of our historical faults.
Miranda's most significant oversight, then, isn't failing to address the story's lurking racial politics, but rather succumbing to the hype of his own historical appraisals. He pens the musical as a tribute to the first Treasury Secretary, foregrounding legacy as the primary motif, but neglects to live up to its most important adage: death doesn't discriminate. It isn't Burr or Hamilton who receive the final word, but Eliza, who, having erased herself from his life in fury at his affair in 'Burn', inserts herself back into the narrative for the sole, selfless act of preserving her husband's legacy, ensuring that his story can be told today. If Miranda wanted to be a true advocate for the forgotten and downtrodden, what greater story is there than that of Elizabeth Schuyler's? Contrary to the bravado of the men around her, she is never one to "try and grab the spotlight". For all the talk of legacy and greatness and leaving your mark on the story of America's founding, Eliza is content to stand to the side, raise a family, and work towards bettering the future. As Emily VanDerWerff puts it, there is immense value in greatness, but even more in goodness. There won't be a hit musical written about her life; she's just a supporting character. But like so many Elizas of the world, she knows what she has left behind is more than enough.