Naked people sell tickets. Naked emotions sell shows

This was a pretty theatre-packed weekend for me. Happy Now? was closing at the Yale Rep, a friend of mine was playing the title role in a untranslated production of Racine's Britannicus, and all Yale was abuzz about the musical being staged by the Dramat, which featured naked boys singing (but not Naked Boys Singing!).

I'd already seen The Full Monty on Broadway, and my opinion of the show was pretty much unchanged by the Dramat's production. The songs are instantly forgettable, and the plot does not progress except by sudden starts and improbably out of character shifts. Certainly, on the basis of the written script, it was the least thought-provoking of the three shows I saw.

But the last time I saw The Full Monty, it wasn't during a recession.

The six leading men (and particularly Miles Jacoby as protagonist Jerry Lukowski and Matthew McCollum as his best friend) managed to bring real, wrenching emotional depth to the cardboard cutouts of characters they were handed by the script. Jacoby was most affecting before the stripping plot really gets moving, when he and his fellow laid-off steelworkers feel trapped by their sudden misfortune.

Jacoby and the other men don't just miss their paychecks after the layoffs. Losing their jobs means losing part of their identity and part of their purpose. Their despair and desperation are palpable. The show shifts tone when Jacoby's character decides that he and his friends can regain their dignity by becoming strippers, but by the time my eyes had recovered from the strategic backlighting in the final scene, I kept thinking about the downtrodden men from the first act.

Secluded at college, my experience with the economic meltdown has mostly been limited to following policy arguments among the blognoroti. I really hadn't thought about how the effects of these decisions were being felt across the country until I saw those brilliant boys playing men leading lives of quiet desperation. And after having watched Jacoby stand alone on the stage, pinned down by a spotlight and keening in shame and grief, I only wish that kitschy, underwritten songs could solve their problems.