BWW First Person: Dear Phil Connors- Finding Truth in GROUNDHOG DAY, A Musical For All of Us

I have trouble finding joy in life. I didn't plan this column intending to out myself as a curmudgeon right at the top, in fact, some people would discourage me from revealing such a damning truth at all- but let's go ahead and make this all about me right away and see where that takes us.

In so many words, I am a chronic human cocktail of awkwardness and depression with an anxiety chaser. Frequently mended by meds and other forms of self-care, on my best days the steady stream of negative thoughts can slide through my mind without so much as a passing glance. On my worst, well, it's a lot of crying, sighing, cynicism, resentment, pondering eternity at length, and Netflix.

As a teenager, I learned to manage my emotions through various modes of escapism, and musical theatre was chief among them. These stories comforted me. They kept me company through the often isolating experience of depression. They validated my experiences. For every dream, there was 'The Wizard and I' to indulge my fantasies, for every insurmountable challenge, a 'Midnight Radio' to fortify my confidence, and for every disappointment, a "Bitch of Living" to vent my frustrations. 

For nearly twenty years, musicals have aided me in the endless search for self. Myself, yourself, whoever; as a person who finds it difficult to relate to others, musicals are a necessary buttress for my humanity and a window through which I learn to navigate the world.

This season, a musical opened which would join this proud lineage. A show that, through its catchy rock score, charismatic leading man, and indispensable life lessons, and left me feeling heartened and understood: Groundhog Day. 

When the anxiety-ridden Evan Hansen arrived on our shores earlier this year, part of me perked up. "I can relate to this," I thought, queueing up the cast recording on Spotify. Yet, when it came to finding myself in the world of the show, a deeply personal connection to the material never materialized.

Sure, "Waving Through A Window" speaks to the isolation of mental illness, a topic with which I am undoubtedly familiar, but when it came to the resolution to that plight, the words, "You will be found." lacked the assurance at my current age that would have undoubtedly soothed my teenage soul.

When you're young, it's all about the platitudes. The inspirational quote. The relatable lyric. "You will be found.", "No day but today", "Defy gravity." Clear cut, simple, hopeful; these credos, concoted by masters, have served us well in navigating the long journey of being human, yet for all the comfort they bring, after a certain age, their simplicity leaves something to be desired.

Now, this is not to disparage the musical theatre truisms which many of us hold so dearly, (and believe me, I do) but merely to acknowledge that when it comes to the true ins and outs of adulthood, which continue to reveal themselves to me in increasingly befuddling ways, the resolution is sadly, never that simple. The choices are tougher,, the responsibilities more complex, and the consequences more dire. Problems can no longer be answered with a simple phrase. (That is, sadly, the last clear cut conclusion I may ever come to in my life.)

Having seen the film, I was well-versed in the story of Groundhog Day, (jerky cosmopolitan weatherman visits a small town on assignment, gets stuck living the same day on a loop due to mysterious circumstances, much hilarity ensues), but aside from a fabulous response on the West End and the master creative team behind it, I had no idea what to expect from the stage show.

As it began, with the show's energetic ensemble promising, "blue skies, my friend" things unraveled much in the way I had expected: a lively score, off-the-wall comedy, and a first-class performance from the show's leading man, Andy Karl. Yet, as it veered off into the true depths of Phil's ordeal, it became apparent very quickly that the team here was not interested in merely delivering a zany romantic comedy, but a full-hearted exploration of what it means to be human.

Tim Minchin's Twitter bio identifies him as, "a musician with a swollen sense of my ability to articulate my own insignificance." This ability, which in my eyes, makes him one of the great artists of our time, made itself wholly apparent when it comes to the metaphysical journey of Phil Connors. The literary lyricism, extroverted introspection, and wonderfully dark sense of humor which endeared him to audiences with his last Broadway outing, Matilda, took on new dimensions as he excavated the nuts and bolts of living through the arrogant weatherman.

In revealing deep truths about not only Phil, but the characters that surround him, we are afforded the opportunity to connect with folks we may not have noticed otherwise on stage, or in life.

In the song "One Day" I shared the perspective of a woman who lands outside of the prescribed standard of femininity and grapples with the fact, yet also found myself tearing up at the inner life of a woman confined to that standard in the ballad, "Playing Nancy".

As Phil spent a wild drunken night with two local dudes, bemoaning their lowly station in life in "Nobody Cares", I found a happy bit of camaraderie. As a person who makes a living based entirely in the assumption that my words have value, on an almost daily basis, I survey my lackluster Twitter presence, and think, "Nobody cares what I say."

As the citizens of Punxtawney revealed their innermost regrets and desires, in "If I Had My Time Again", I truly began to re-evaluate my own trajectory, wondering right along with them what it means to live life to the absolute fullest.

Who cannot in some way relate to the words, "There are some mornings you'll wake up utterly defeated" or Phil's struggle to continue on in the face of total hopelessness? Who has never flirted with the temptation of giving in when the mundanity of day to day life grinds you down, but found the perseverance to carry on?

The experience culminated with stifled sobs during, "Night Will Come" Minchin's poetic ode to the chaos and beauty of life, marked by the relentless forward march of time, placed delicately in the hands of daily annoyance, Ned Ryerson. It all felt so big, and I felt so small, to borrow a sentiment from our friend Evan.

I left the theatre feeling full of a new kind of wisdom, one that didn't come with a catchy tagline, but which imbued a newly raised consciousness that left me feeling closer to the strangers who shuffled out onto the street along with me.

When it comes to the true nuances of Groundhog Day, much like life, it is never as simple as it seems. Audiences are not merely invited to witness one man's wacky shenanigans in the time continuum, but the inherent needs, fears, regrets, and dreams that connect all of us. These revelations buoyed me in the exact way that I needed, yet offered no simple solutions, only the assurance that we are all fighting the same internal battle, regardless of any perceived differences.

My circumstances certainly don't apply to everyone and obviously no musical will fully cure me (some things are just better left to the medical profession), but if you're a person who has ever felt disconnected from humanity, if you're an arrogant weatherman, the hottest girl in town, or just a person who has ever wondered, "What's it all worth?" a ticket to Groundhog Day would be money well spent.

As for the platitudes, they can stay. They help people and I dig that. They helped me. But, sadly, the bloom is off that rose for the time being. Believe me, I would love nothing more than to "be found." I pay folks good money to get found. But what Groundhog Day teaches us, or at least reinforces, is that in life, it's no one's job to find you but yours and that if we are truly to live a life of meaning, the onus is on us. Those lessons don't come easy and take some self-awareness and hard work, but change is possible. In the meantime, pay attention to the world around you and the people in it, there's a lot to learn. 

There will be blue skies, my friend. If not tomorrow, perhaps the day after. No platitudes necessary.