Viva La Vie Boheme

Anthony Rapp’s Without You is a must-read for hardcore fans of the musical Rent, and a might-read for everyone else.

The memoir is a no-holds-barred account of the years during which he rose to Broadway superstardom as Mark in the controversial bohemian rock opera, and in which his mother died of cancer. His relationship with the other cast members and with Jonathan Larson, Rent's author, who died tragically during the previews of the show, is detailed, sometimes heartwarmingly, sometimes heartrendingly. Rapp also writes with openness about his discovery that he is bisexual, and his roller-coaster relationships with a series of boyfriends.

The extent to which Rapp's life parallels that of Mark is fascinating, at times even slightly spooky. His relationship with his brother, with whom he shared an apartment, was rocky but always loving, and struck me instantly as being very similar to Mark's relationship with his roommate Roger, and Rapp at one point makes the comparison himself. As Rapp struggled to deal with his mother's illness from afar--he had lived in New York for many years, far from the small town in which he grew up and his mother never left--he eventually ended up at a meeting of Friends In Deed, the organization on which Larson based Life Support while writing Rent.

Some of the anecdotes Rapp tells in the book are mesmerizing to fans of the musical and/or movie, like the preview show they held the night after Larson's death, flying in his friends and family. The plan was to simply sit at tables at the front of the stage and sing the songs, since they didn't want to deal with the still-problematic set and lighting changes on such a difficult night. At the end of act one during a normal show, Rapp, as Mark, climbs up on a restaurant table to sing the lighthearted but powerhouse anthem "La Vie Boheme." The energy in the room on that particular night was apparently electric, and Rapp, on a whim, pushed his chair back and got up onto the table, unwilling to sing that song docilely perched on his chair. By the end of the song, the entire cast was up on the tables, and they performed the second act as usual.

Stories like that comprise most of the Rent portion of the book, and wouldn't make much sense to someone who hasn't seen either the play or the movie. (If you haven't seen either the play or the movie, you should do it soon. The movie is fantastic, and now I'm trying to make plans to see the show.) As a fan, I loved the opportunity to peek into that world.

The parts dealing with his mother were mostly just spectacular shows of self-loathing. I seriously wonder why people write memoirs now, having read many of them recently. Yes, everyone does things that maybe they regret. Yes, it's important in a memoir to tell the truth and the whole truth, and no, that doesn't mean I don't still adore James Frey. But why put yourself out there to be berated--and that's after you finish berating yourself? Rapp felt guilty that he didn't spend more time with his mother, didn't help more, wasn't there. He felt guilty about his relationships with his boyfriends when they didn't work out. He did some things that were worth feeling guilty about, and wrote about some less-than-stellar behavior on his part. At least he didn't have to worry about his readers judging him, because he'd already ripped himself to pieces. I saw the same sort of thing in Sean Astin's book, where one got the impression he was much harder on himself than anyone else was on him. I almost think that if one member of a cast of something--a movie, a play, whatever--writes a book, the rest of them should have to as well. Then maybe you'd get the whole story. Or some interpretation, your own interpretation, at least.

The memoir is a form that has come into vogue lately, and for good reason. Truth is, in many cases, far stranger than fiction, with the added bonus of the author not needing to make anything up, one of the only potential pitfalls being salivating lawyers. Rapp doesn't need to worry about that, I don't think. But you never know, really.

Honestly, though, I'm sad to see the novel superseded by a form that is, in many ways, just as--if not more--sensational. My argument, my lament, was much more eloquently stated by Julia Glass in her New York times op-ed piece. So, for the first time in a while, I'm going to say: read this now.