In 1967, I graduated from high school and went off to make my voice heard in college. I went to a state school, Arizona State University. Although it was only 45 minutes away from my home, I chose to live in a dorm on campus for the first two years. Then my friends and I rented an apartment close to the university in the area known as Sin City, which was just a way to lure students to apartment-only living. ASU was considered a party school, and Sin City kept that mystique alive for decades. I decided I would not visit home unless it was a holiday and the school shut down. I wanted the feel of being away, on my own, with the added advantage of not paying out-of-state tuition. I had a tuition scholarship, a grant, and work study. I could afford my education if I maintained my job for all four years.
The 60s and early 70s were a wild time to be young and evolving into adulthood. I remember the night I literally burned my bra. It was a crazy way to protest the confines of our outdated society. I threw my bras out the window of my dorm room, where very accommodating frat boys were helping the female students get rid of unnecessary clothing. They had small, controlled fires in trash containers lit up everywhere. From there, I never looked back. Well, at least until I began student teaching my senior year and was forced to go out and purchase those dreaded body contraptions. I had no choice. At least, that’s what my student advisor told me.
Throughout my years at ASU, I protested and marched against the Vietnam War and the dreaded draft of innocent young men. I looked like any hippie would in those days. I lived in my leather, handmade sandals. I wore bell-bottom, hip-hugging jeans, torn and patched in all the right places. T-shirts or flowered blouses, beads around my neck, floppy hats, rose-colored sunglasses, and leather bracelets completed my daily wardrobe. We strove to look different, but in the end, we all looked very similar. My pride and joy was my suede, rust-colored vest with fringe that reached down to my knees. It was my identity. It was how I wanted to look and be accepted. ASU complied.
In between classes, most of us attended marches, rallies, and sit-ins. I remember once, my roommate and I were at a sit-in at Old Main, at the center of campus. We held our ground and wouldn’t budge until the really radical groups showed up, followed by campus security. I can’t for the life of me remember why we were protesting, but at the time, it all seemed so important to show up and be seen. Everything was larger-than-life. Each issue was imperative. Those were such turbulent times…the same as today, yet different. My generation had something to say, and, damn it, our country better listen. We believed we were in sync with the universe, and during the summer of 1968, my friends and I traveled up and down the Pacific Coast Highway in a brightly painted VW van to meet and talk with whoever we encountered. It was covered in peace signs, so wherever we stopped, people would know what we stood for and who we were. It was glorious to be young and believe we knew everything.
In 1969, a national Broadway touring company brought the rock musical HAIR to Grady Gammage Auditorium at ASU. Everyone wanted to attend. Tickets sold out quickly, and scalpers were everywhere. I was one of the lucky ones. My friends and I had tickets. Who wouldn’t want to go and hear AQUARIUS/LET THE SUNSHINE IN, EASY TO BE HARD, GOOD MORNING STARSHINE, HAIR, and the most controversial, BE-IN, where everyone danced on stage totally nude? It was mind-blowing, and for me, as a theatre major, I couldn’t wait to experience every second. It did not disappoint. I witnessed my first nude play with several thousand strangers, but in that moment, we all were one, as we stood in spontaneous unity, dancing to the beat of every powerful lyric and melody. When I close my eyes today, the image is still etched and cherished forever in my memory box. Peace…love…harmony…understanding.
The film version was released in 1979. It was a decade too late to relate to and too soon to be relevant and real. Everything had changed again. History had moved on, but this does not diminish the scope, strength, creativity, and dimension of the film, HAIR.
HAIR was a phenomenon in its heyday. The stage version ran for over 1,700 performances on Broadway. Although the movie came to life from the stage to the screen, it was like watching two distinct versions of a similar story. The production numbers were woven in unique, dissimilar ways. Some songs from the play were cut from the movie. The original screenplay draft was entirely thrown out. The rights to produce the film cost a million dollars, and the entire budget reached only $11 million. It took over a year to cast the necessary voices for the movie. One of the leads, Treat Williams, who played the long-haired Berger, is said to have auditioned and been called back a dozen times before receiving the part.
HAIR was directed by Milos Forman (ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO’S NEST), who was a brilliant visionary. He was able to create huge scenes using thousands of extras. Central Park was shot with over 20,000 local, jubilant young men and women. At the army base, 10,000 soldiers volunteered to be themselves on film. Roger Ebert said in one of his reviews that these are two of his favorite all-time production numbers because they both encapsulated the spirit and soul of the times, and it was all brought together by the magical, brilliant choreographer Twyla Tharp, known for her innovative, stylistic dance moves. It was like watching a piece of American history caught on film for posterity.
There was star power among this young cast. John Savage (THE DEER HUNTER, THE THIN RED LINE) took on the shy, bottled-up Claude, who came to grips with seeing the world in an authentic light. His gut was constantly in agony over choosing to do what was expected of him vs. how he truly felt. It was intense watching him try to make sense of his perceived duty. Savage is a consummate, talented actor. It showed in every frame. Williams (THE PHANTOM, DEEP RISING) was an excellent antagonist to Claude at every turn. Their chemistry onscreen made viewers believe their dilemma and pain. At times, it was difficult to know whom to root for. Most fans wanted both to succeed.
Cheryl Barnes brought the studio to tears when she auditioned for the role of Hud’s fiancée. When she sang the words, “What a piece of work is man…”, there wasn’t a dry eye among the crew. She was offered the role on the spot and instructed not to change a thing.
Hud, Sheila, Jeannie, and Woof were outstanding. They pulled at our heartstrings until we didn’t know what to think. There were times I wanted to scream at the screen for them to wake up, grow up, and mature, but that was what decades do: change and broaden viewpoints on the world. Time had passed for me, and on celluloid, their time was immortalized and frozen. This is the beauty of filmmaking.
HAIR was not the perfect film. It had holes in its story, leaving out layers of emotional arcs audiences could dream of exploring. Even with its flaws, HAIR is a generational, musical, rock classic that placed our society in the eye of the storm that was simmering and brewing. It spoke words and phrases most of us had not uttered aloud to ourselves for fear of blushing. It gave young people a peek at what it was like to fight for their beliefs, and, more often than not, to die for those same beliefs. It was a reality check for those who came before us. “The draft is white people sending black people to make war on the yellow people to defend the land we stole from the red people.” May we never forget, especially “…when the moon is in the seventh house…” After all, our planet is so overdue for the age of Aquarius. I still have my rose-colored glasses safely tucked away in a drawer.
HAIR is available on Amazon Prime.
