Comment on Review: ‘Hamilton’ makes San Francisco believe

[...] the show’s Thursday, March 23 press opening at SHN’s Orpheum Theatre demonstrated that in the Trump era, Lin-Manuel Miranda’s musical about the nation’s first Secretary of the Treasury has still more to teach us — and more to make us shudder. Equally important, the show lives up to its hype, with apologies to would-be audiences thwarted by astronomical ticket prices or a thousands-deep queue on SHN’s ticketing site. Nor is it just the effortless cool of Thomas Kail’s direction; devilishly clever rhymes (“pissed ‘em” and “two-party system”); a score that hops, within moments, from banjo twang to jazzy show tune to rap; or melodies that drive toward fiendish accidentals without compromising their catchiness. In one moment, garish pockets of violet and jungle green seem to come from no lighting source but emanate their own, incandescent clouds; the shading casts an already mournful scene — it’s the first tumble from grace for Alexander Hamilton (Michael Luwoye) — into a sickly memory, cementing a rash act into the irretrievable past. With moves that range from snappy to serpentine to gymnastic, this ensemble energizes and reenergizes every scene with the heady spirit of the Revolutionary era; in their rendering, every moment is a whirlwind moment, even, or especially, if it takes place in a cabinet meeting (which Miranda distills to a rap battle). History is happening in Manhattan, and we just happen to be in the greatest city in the world, make you start to wonder, in spite of yourself, how the American Revolution will end. In the show’s early performances (it premiered at New York’s Public Theater in February 2015, before transferring to Broadway and winning 11 Tony Awards), it might have been easy to overlook the character of George Washington (Isaiah Johnson) in favor of some of the flashier ones, like Thomas Jefferson, who in Jordan Donica’s charismatic rendering is both a frou-frou dandy and the impossibly badass kid from your high school. Solea Pfeiffer develops Eliza Hamilton from a stereotypical epitome of feminine goodness (see the unfortunate song “Helpless”) to a devastating pillar of strength; her excellent pitch and nuanced texturing offer some of the show’s chief musical pleasures. While Hamilton is always just plugging away at being Hamilton, writing ceaselessly, speaking imprudently, his ideas static throughout his decades-long career, Burr gets to realize who he is and what he wants, and Henry charges each appearance with so many different feelings that even Burr’s seemingly vacant stare offers layers of joy and despair.