Last October, knee-deep into the global pandemic, TikTok-er Emily Jacobsen posted a 10 second clip of a melody which would become the genesis of a new internet phenomenon: “Ratatouille: The TikTok Musical.”
Jacobsen’s video garnered over 150,000 likes and sparked a global internet obsession. In a moment when live theatre was, at best, compromised and, at worst, impossible, TikTok users from around the world were pitching in to create a collective theater experience, one short clip at a time. Videos of original choreography, solos, love duets, stage managers calling cues, set design, costume design, programed lighting and a mockup of a playbill all flooded Tik Tok until the mass creative spark could no longer go ignored.
The Actors Fund of America, a non-profit organization which provides financial assistance and counseling to thousands of theater artists each year, announced at the end of 2020 that they would be kicking off the new year with a streamed performance of “Ratatouille: The TikTok Musical,” available Jan. 1 – Jan. 4 and starring a plethora of Broadway and TV talent, and compiled from the thousands of TikTok contributions. The show streamed to 200,000 people on the first night and raised 2 million dollars for The Actors Fund over the following days.
Now that the show is not officially available online and the internet trend has mostly run its course, it is worth retrospectively considering where the Broadway industry currently sits, and how “Ratatouille” relates to that.
“Ratatouille” is a movie about how art and privilege communicate. Gusteau’s Restaurant is deeply integrated into the old guard of institutional dining. The only employee of color is “Lalo,” saucier chef, and the only woman is “Colette.” When “Linguini” begins to show promise after impressing food critic “Solene LeClaire,” he is immediately becoming the talk of the town, drawing media coverage and encouragement from his colleagues to rise from his station.
The person assigned to help him reach is potential is Colette. Despite being the most talented cook – and by far the most charismatic employee – her gender forces her into a supportive role. In the eye of the institution, Linguini’s identity as a white man and as Gusteau’s son correlates positively with his apparent potential as a cook, so he is rewarded for it. Colette’s identity doesn’t grant her that privilege, so she is forced to work twice as hard as everyone else in her kitchen to little avail.
Of course, the most obvious example of privilege in “Ratatouille” is the allegorical commentary behind hero “Remy” the rat. Remy is the farthest thing from what the restaurant industry would consider compatible with the needs of a kitchen. He is unclean, small and cannot speak French.
To make his dreams come true, Remy must use a white privileged man as a conduit for his own art. Remy brings the skill, and Linguini brings the privilege. It isn’t until Ego – a person with power within the industry – vouches for Remy, that Remy begins to receive the respect and equitable pay which he deserves.
“Ratatouille” uses an extraordinary circumstance to bring awareness to issues which have real implications about the relationship between privilege and oppression in art. These implications are ever-present in theater and particularly resonant on Broadway.
Before the pandemic, Broadway was under-fire for racial and sexist gatekeeping at every level. Diversity in casting was starting to take hold in a few of the bigger shows, but producers, writers, casting directors, technicians, agents and executives were – and still are – saturated with an old guard of predominantly white, upper-class men. Despite the campaigns and promises and pleas from community members, change seemed impossible.
There were rules in place about who got to make musicals. What you looked like, how many plane tickets could you afford and who your parents were made the difference between being on Broadway and not.
And then, months into a pandemic which brough the whole industry to a screeching halt, a bunch of normal people went online and made something. It didn’t matter who you were, or how much money you had. If you had a good idea for this show, it would pick up traction. Ideas inspired ideas, and the collective experience of thousands of unrelated people slowly pieced together a little Broadway show.
It may not have been the best musical ever written, or the most polished, but it meant something to the people who were a part of making it. It had the magic spark that only Broadway can make, yet so many shows fail to capture. “Ratatouille: The Tik Tok Musical” was great because it reminded us why it’s worth fighting for equity and diversity on and offstage. The idea of theater is not exclusionary, just like the idea of food is not exclusionary. It is the institutions and structures that make it that way. “Ratatouille: The TikTok Musical” proved that not anyone can make a great musical, but a great musical can come from anyone.
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