Fiddler on the Roof is a Jewish cultural staple - like Yentl, like kugel, like obscene Yiddish curses — that I managed to miss completely while growing up, one of those gaps that makes my husband say “Are you sure you’re actually Jewish?” when he finds out.
And I must admit that I felt nervous when the lights dimmed and Andy Nyman as Tevye strode onto the stage at the Playhouse Theatre last week, as Trevor Nunn’s acclaimed production of Fiddler transferred from the tiny Menier Chocolate Factory to the West End. Would I like it? Or would it be a sentimental dollop of schmaltz, harking back to a past that I feel lucky to have escaped?
As Tevye started his hymn to tradition, I felt little more than irritation. Ugh, the Mamas and the Papas and their smothering sexism. But that changed very quickly. The production pulls you into its heart, and asks questions that resonate long after the well-earned ovations fade away. I’ve rarely felt quite so moved by a musical.
It’s easy to put this feeling down to today’s troubled political times. As we see the villagers of Anatevka suffer the escalating threats of antisemitic violence, and watch their love for their home threatened by people who don’t think they belong there, then of course we join the dots to form today’s headlines about antisemitism. As the community breaks up, its residents leaving for various destinations, we think about generations of Jewish refugees, and also of refugees of all nationalities. It’s a universal story of forced migration, which we’re beginning to fear might be our future.
But that wasn’t my only, or even main, point of connection. Those came from the story of Tevye and Golda, the warm, familiar partnership of a couple who (like us) have been married for 25 years. Here we have a Jewish family centre stage who struggle to put food on the table — how much truer that is than the tired old trope of opulent wealth.
This couple (like us) have children on the cusp of adulthood, and are working out how much influence they can have over them. Issues like dowries aren’t part of modern life. But the questions that Fiddler frames about parents and children certainly haven’t gone away.
My kids aren’t yet at the stage of finding life partners (as far as I know, as the show demonstrates, the parents are often the last to find out). But several friends are slightly ahead of us. And the conversations we have are pretty similar to Golda and Tevye’s dilemmas, even though none of us would dream of approaching a matchmaker. (Well, to tell the truth, we might well dream of it, but we know it’d be pointless. Our lovely, independent, free-thinking kids have been brought up to make their own mistakes, possibly a foolish error on our part).
Some have children who — like eldest daughter Tzeitel —have fallen in love with delightful Jewish boys, who show respect for tradition and in-laws, but has no money. How much do you spend on a wedding, how much on a deposit for a flat — or should the young couple be encouraged to save up until they can afford to house themselves, even though they then may be in their fifties?
Others have children who are strongly Jewish, but challenge all the assumptions that their parents make about what that means. The parents, as with second daughter Hodel, must decide whether to move with the times, or alienate their child. A modern day Hodel might bring home another woman, or identify as gender neutral. Perhaps they fall in love with a Jew who campaigns against Israel or who wants Jeremy Corbyn to be our next Prime Minister. Like Tevye and Golda, modern day parents are often challenged to let their love overcome their preconceived assumptions.
And then there are the children who, like the third daughter, Chava, find non-Jewish partners. The expectation nowadays is that we’ll act more like loving Golda than unforgiving Tevye. Of course (we tell ourselves) we’d never cut off a Chava, or sit shiva for her. The genius of this production is that we can’t shrug off the pain that cuts Tevye like a knife, or condemn him as blinkered and ignorant. It uncovers the fears that in clumsier hands can look solely like prejudice.
At one point in this wonderful show the rabbi says the shechianu blessing over a sewing machine. In my seat in the stalls, I said it with him, although for the play, not the machine. We are blessed to have reached this (limited West End) season. Do see it if you can.
Fiddler on the Roof is running at Playhouse Theatre, until 28 September www.fiddlerwestend.com
