When it comes to musicals, we’re conditioned to expect spectacle—glittering costumes, soaring anthems, and high-energy choreography. So, when a show like Once dares to strip all that away, it’s not just a departure; it’s a rebellion. Personally, I think this is what makes Once so fascinating. It’s the anti-musical, a quiet defiance in a world that thrives on razzmatazz. What many people don’t realize is that this minimalism isn’t just a stylistic choice—it’s a statement. By forgoing the typical Broadway flash, Once forces us to focus on the raw, unadorned humanity of its characters.
What immediately stands out is the setting. A barroom stage with scuffed mirrors and wooden paneling? It’s almost anti-theatrical. But here’s the thing: this isn’t a backdrop; it’s a character in itself. The gloominess of the space mirrors the emotional landscape of the story—a tale of two lost souls, a Dublin busker and a Czech immigrant, who find each other but never quite find resolution. From my perspective, this is where Once truly shines. It doesn’t promise happy endings or grand declarations of love. Instead, it offers something far more real: the messy, incomplete nature of human connection.
One detail that I find especially interesting is the music. The songs, written by Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová, are folksy and melancholic, more like whispers than shouts. They don’t build to showstoppers; they linger, hauntingly. This raises a deeper question: why do we crave spectacle in art? Is it because we’re uncomfortable with stillness? Once challenges that craving, inviting us to sit with its quiet moments. The preshow singalong, the actor-musicians playing their own instruments—these aren’t just gimmicks. They’re reminders that art doesn’t need to be grandiose to be profound.
But here’s where it gets tricky. The story, while emotionally true, is short on stakes. The busker’s journey from disillusionment to tentative hope is subtle, almost imperceptible. Personally, I think this is both the show’s strength and its weakness. On one hand, it feels authentic—life rarely delivers dramatic climaxes. On the other, it risks leaving audiences unmoved. If you take a step back and think about it, this is the tension at the heart of Once: it’s a musical that doesn’t want to be a musical, a love story that doesn’t want to be a romance.
What this really suggests is that Once isn’t just a show; it’s a philosophy. It’s about finding beauty in the mundane, meaning in the unfinished. In a world that constantly demands more—more noise, more drama, more resolution—Once dares to say, ‘Enough.’ It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful stories are the ones that don’t try too hard.
As I reflect on its revival, particularly in the context of Alan Cumming’s debut season as Pitlochry’s artistic director, I can’t help but wonder: is Once a relic of a bygone era, or is it ahead of its time? Its slickness and economy of means feel modern, yet its emotional restraint feels almost nostalgic. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it defies categorization. It’s not just a musical; it’s a meditation on art, love, and the spaces in between.
In my opinion, Once is a show that asks more questions than it answers. And maybe that’s the point. In a world obsessed with closure, it dares to leave us hanging—not in frustration, but in contemplation. What many people don’t realize is that this ambiguity is its greatest gift. It’s not a show you ‘get’; it’s a show you sit with. And in that sitting, perhaps, lies its magic.
