Why Does Art That Challenges Us Often Feel So Uncomfortable?
There’s a moment in Midnight at the Never Get—a musical set in 1965 New York, now premiering in London—that stops the show cold. Two men, Trevor and Arthur, share a kiss in the shadows of a clandestine nightclub. It’s a gesture of defiance, love, and terror, all at once. Critics have called this scene ‘stunning’ and ‘achingly human,’ but also ‘problematic’ and ‘overly sentimental.’ And that tension, I’d argue, is exactly why this musical matters. Art that forces us to confront history’s shadows—and our own complicity in them—should make us uneasy. Yet here we are, watching Ben Platt, the show’s megawatt star, navigate the same cultural crossfire that’s defined his career. Let’s unpack why.
Ben Platt’s Star Power: A Double-Edged Sword
Ben Platt’s casting feels like a Rorschach test for modern theater. His voice—a trembling, raw instrument—is unmatched in its ability to channel vulnerability. But does that make him the right choice to portray a queer romance in 1965? Personally, I think Platt’s casting is both a masterstroke and a missed opportunity. On one hand, his fame guarantees attention for a story that deserves it; on the other, his post-Dear Evan Hansen persona risks overshadowing the era-specific stakes of the role. Platt’s characters often feel like modern souls trapped in period costumes, and while that’s a valid artistic choice, it risks diluting the brutal reality of 1960s queer life. What many people don’t realize is that this dissonance isn’t a flaw—it’s a feature. The discomfort mirrors our own struggle to reconcile historical truth with contemporary storytelling.
The Perils of Period Pieces in a Polarized World
Set in 1965, Midnight wrestles with a question all historical art must face: Who is this story for? The musical’s creators, Mark Sonnenblick and David Cromer, clearly want to honor a marginalized past, but their approach has divided critics. Some praise its ‘unapologetic tenderness,’ while others dismiss it as ‘sanitized nostalgia.’ From my perspective, this divide reveals a deeper cultural anxiety. We live in an era where audiences demand both authenticity and moral clarity from historical narratives—two ideals that rarely coexist. A detail that stands out is how the show’s score blends jazz-age flair with modern pop sensibilities. It’s a clever metaphor for the production itself: a hybrid that refuses to fully commit to either era, leaving purists and progressives alike squirming in their seats.
Why Queer Histories Matter Now More Than Ever
Let’s zoom out. Why does a musical about 1960s queer love feel urgent in 2026? The answer lies in the parallels between past and present. While Trevor and Arthur’s romance was illegal 60 years ago, today’s LGBTQ+ communities face different—but equally insidious—threats, from drag bans to anti-trans legislation. Midnight’s critics often miss this subtext: The show isn’t just about looking back; it’s a mirror. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the musical weaponizes nostalgia to critique complacency. By romanticizing a ‘forbidden’ love, it forces audiences to ask: Are we celebrating progress, or using it to avoid confronting new forms of repression?
The Hidden Cost of Critical Consensus
The mixed reviews for Midnight reveal something uncomfortable about theater criticism itself. Publications like The Guardian and The Times praise Platt’s ‘emotional ferocity’ but dismiss the plot as ‘predictable.’ Meanwhile, niche outlets celebrate its ‘bold intimacy.’ This split isn’t about quality—it’s about power. Critics who dismiss the show often come from institutions that treat art as a commodity, not a catalyst. In my opinion, this dynamic reflects a broader crisis in cultural journalism: When critics prioritize ‘originality’ over emotional resonance, they risk sidelining stories that speak to marginalized audiences. The real tragedy here isn’t a poorly written plot twist—it’s the gatekeeping of whose pain gets to be called ‘timeless.’
Final Thoughts: Theater as a Radical Act
If you take a step back and think about it, Midnight at the Never Get is less about 1965 and more about 2026. It’s a plea to recognize that love has always been political, and that art’s greatest role is to make us uncomfortable with the status quo. Ben Platt’s performance—flawed, magnetic, and undeniably human—embodies that paradox. The show’s real triumph isn’t in its music or choreography (though both are stellar), but in its refusal to let us off the hook. As audiences, we leave humming the songs but wrestling with the questions: How far have we really come? And what stories will we fight to tell next?
