“I think, being a child of the ’80s, those big Cameron Mackintosh shows where you would go see a musical and it would be a whole world you would enter… nothing’s cooler.”
Four days before the opening of The Lost Boys on Broadway, director Michael Arden recalls the wonder he felt on first encountering The Phantom of the Opera or Les Misérables—musicals that took audience experience as seriously as artistic quality. His work on Lost Boys, for which he is also a co-producer and lighting co-designer, certainly follows in those giants’ footsteps; it is also, somehow, an even more thrilling sensorial spectacle than Maybe Happy Ending, the innovatively tech-heavy musical that earned him his second Tony Award last season.
Over a midweek martini at Julius’ bar in the West Village, he shares that he designed the lighting for his high school’s production of Jesus Christ Superstar. “Get ready,” he teases of the spectacle to come.
The Lost Boy is yet another high-profile project for the extremely busy director, who this season also opened another high-profile musical, The Queen of Versailles. That latter production had its share of controversy, which has recently become a familiar element of Arden’s career; the beloved Maybe Happy Ending, which led with an all-Asian cast, came under scrutiny over the recasting of a main part last year. And Arden’s Parade, which transferred from a two-week concert production to win Arden his first Tony in 2023, was picketed by white supremacists.
While none of these extra-textual situations are remotely comparable, what connects the shows at their core is the superlative artfulness and human touch that the cinematically minded Arden brings to each of his productions. Speaking of cinema: the director will soon adapt Happy Feet for the stage, with renowned tap choreographer Ayodele Casel and legendary puppeteer Basil Twist on his creative team.
This month, Arden sat down with Vogue to discuss his latest show, navigating controversy, and what projects are still to come.
Vogue: How did The Lost Boys come to you?
Michael Arden: I got an email saying, “Patrick Wilson, James Carpinello, and Marcus Chait are producing a stage adaptation of The Lost Boys—we’d love to talk to you about directing.” And I was like, what’s that? I guess I’d heard of the movie, but I had never seen it, so we got it on Apple TV. It’s Joel Schumacher—it’s always kind of gay. That appealed to me, and I liked that it was, tonally, so weird. It’s an adventure comedy but also a horror, coming-of-age teen love story. It’s every movie at once, and I was interested in how that could work. It’s about sexy teen vampires trying to figure their shit out.
Did you tell the producers, “I hate this, but let’s see what happens”?
No—and I didn’t hate it. I was just—I was more of the Anne Rice variety of vampire lover. I’m obsessed with Interview with the Vampire; even as a kid, I was really into vampires in a weird way. But I felt like vampires on motorbikes—I don’t know. But then I thought: oh, they could be a band. And ultimately, if we could bring out the family story, which the film doesn’t really delve into, it could be something. There’s a mom, an angsty teenage son, a younger, queer-coded little brother—it could bring a lot of different audiences together, and there’s kind of a character for everybody. I felt it’s a great story to do onstage for that reason.
You’re doing the lighting design here, too. Are you getting more Wagnerian in your control of the stage?
[Laughs.] It’s not really control. I’m probably a lighting designer’s worst nightmare. Light is how we perceive the world, so in my mind it goes hand in hand with direction. When I started making theater in my garage—rigging curtain systems and doing dry ice and fog—that was what I was obsessed with. I went to Home Depot every day, bought light bulbs, and put them in tubes—almost burned the house down. So it’s always been of interest to me. I think it’s one of, if not the most important element in theater. You can do theater without costumes, you could do theater without a set, but you can’t do theater without lights.
You brought The Rescues in to compose the score. What was that process like?
The main reason I wanted to work with that group of producers is because I thought they were so lovely, and they had all been actors. A lot of producers don’t really produce or take into consideration other people in the industry, so I was impressed by their kindness and rigor—and that they were, you know, under 60. They really care; they want to make the coolest show that’s ever been.
When it came to who should write this, there were a bunch of very famous pop stars and musical theater writers you’d imagine being asked. I thought it should be The Rescues, this band I’ve been obsessed with because I’ve been stalking them and trying to work with them forever. I invited one of them, Gabe, to see my Christmas Carol in LA just so I could meet him. They happened to be playing a show there; I begged the producers to go, and they offered them the job on the spot. They’d never seen a musical before and really put in the time, doing the homework. I sent them every Sondheim DVD I own. They’re so unprecious—they’ve written like 50 songs. We’ve cut half of them, and they keep writing. They wrote a new song last week.
Were you aware that another one of your jobs here would be shaping musicians into score composers?
That was exciting for me because it meant offering what I know, but also recognizing that the reason they’re writing this is because their sound is uniquely theirs. I don’t want you to sound like Sondheim, but these are the things he thinks about when writing for dramatic storytelling. That was part of the fun. Anytime I have to articulate something to someone, I understand it better, so it’s helpful for me and my process. They’re showing up with things I never thought could be a thing. Like: okay, what can we do with this? This is a tone poem—what are we going to do? Okay, let’s make a nightmare sequence.
Is there a character you’re most tapped into?
I love the character of Michael. It’s funny—I’ve never done a show with a character named Michael, and they say his name a million times. His character is dealing with an absent father, and I never knew my dad. I had a mom and family struggles. I also relate to Sam, who, in my mind, is queer. It isn’t a story about a gay kid, but about a kid realizing, “I am different, I have unique abilities,” and feeling ashamed of that until he realizes that’s his superpower. The family story is the one I see reverberating in my own life. I lived in Phoenix as a kid—they’re leaving Phoenix at the start. There are some weird parallels there, and I hadn’t even thought about that because I’ve been so in the story.
In your Tony acceptance speech for Parade [notably not available on YouTube], you said you’d been called “the F-word” throughout your childhood, and then said, “Now I’m a faggot with the Tony.” Does that kind of thing have repercussions nowadays?
I guess I wouldn’t know. They would just be closed doors I walked past, I guess. I mean, probably—maybe? I don’t know. But those aren’t doors I want to go through anyway. I’m in, like, the gayest industry ever, you know what I mean? Maybe that’s why I’m not a Hollywood director right now and I would be otherwise. But also, I’ve been in a rehearsal room every day of my life since then. If anything, I’ve noticed that it’s meant something to a lot of people—it’s made them feel empowered to reclaim that shame.
How far out do you plan things?
I’m actively working on projects now that are set for 2029, which is actually not that far away. I often describe my career as preparing a big meal—some dishes take longer than others. Happy Feet has been a long time in the works because it’s like, how do you stage dancing penguins and an ice world? Some things you want to give time to develop. I’ve been working on something called West, which I think will happen in 2027–28, that I started in 2020. It’s really exciting—a kind of sequel to Huckleberry Finn, loosely based on a book by Robert Coover. It’s Huck grown up. He goes west during the Gold Rush with Tom Sawyer, and they end up involved in the American Indian Wars and Custer’s Last Stand. We’ve been working with Native writers, and it’s about how these characters grapple with the truth about America—what they’ve been taught and what they’ve perpetuated.
You made your Broadway debut as Tom Sawyer in Big River. Is this a sort of response to any problematic aspects of that story?
The first musical I ever saw was Big River. Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn have haunted me my whole life. I think it’s more a response to being a white kid raised in Texas, taught Texas history first and American history as written by white authors, taught by white teachers to a primarily white audience. The play says anyone can tell a story, but it takes everyone to tell the truth. It takes the Black experience, the Native experience, the white experience—even the animals’ experience. There are horses in this—it’s really cool. Can you picture this as a musical? The book is just a jumping-off point; we used about a tenth of it. The rest is new. It’s huge, it’s epic, but not technically overwhelming.
In trying to identify what runs through your work, I think it’s a certain tenderness.
If I had to find a through line, I think it’s an earnestness that’s key to what I do. It all believes itself—I fully believe the world I’m in. I’m not commenting on it. As much as I want to, I don’t know if I’d do a great production of Urinetown. I want to give people hope, I don’t want to bum people out. Even though Leo Frank is hanged at the end of Parade, I want people to leave knowing there were good people who tried. There is goodness in the world—not necessarily faith or God, but in other people. “Earnest” is kind of a rough word, but yeah. I was in school with Oscar Isaac, and he once said, “I hate earnestness.” And I was always like, yeah—that’s cool.
Parade was a game-changer for you.
And I didn’t know I was doing it until a month before. That was a crazy, last-minute thing—I put it together in a week.
How did you assemble all of these extremely high-profile productions before this thing that, publicly, seemed to lead to everything else?
After Once on This Island, I was sent the Maybe Happy Ending script because the writers had seen it with the producer. They asked if I wanted to direct, and I was like, what the fuck? Robots? Terrible idea. Then I read it, sobbed, and thought, okay—I have to do this. Versailles I started while doing Spring Awakening. I met Lindsey Ferrentino at a dinner, and we started talking about crazy musical ideas. She asked if I’d seen the documentary—I had. That one took a long time. And Lost Boys happened before I even knew Parade was a thing. It just takes time. Sometimes the lentils are ready quickly—you just heat the peas—but the pot roast takes a while.
Tell me about the preview period for Maybe Happy Ending. There were rumors it might not make it to opening night.
It was scary. Tech was hell. It’s like a tightly wound watch, that show. Luckily, we had done it before. The Atlanta production was bigger, and we reused many ideas. We were lucky—we had figured out how it functioned. In previews, the script and score didn’t change. We had done a workshop a year prior, and it stayed largely the same. We were just trying to make the machine work. Whereas Lost Boys—we’ve been rewriting every night. But with Maybe Happy Ending, I knew: if people see it, they’ll love it. There’s no way you walk in—unless you’re a horrible person—and don’t find it beautiful. So I thought, I just can’t mess up the writing.
And it got what it rightfully earned—but that’s not entirely up to you. What was the process of “please, please fund this one more week”?
Yeah, I raised money—we called people. It almost didn’t happen. It was really scary. But I believed in it so much that I thought, if we only make it to opening night, the people who saw it will never forget it. It was a walk-the-plank moment of faith in humanity, and it became completely word-of-mouth. No one knew what it was; people thought it sounded stupid. Then they saw it and said, “You have to see this.” The audience saved the show. But we all loved it from the start. Everyone involved—we knew.
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I’d forgotten about the Parade protests, and I wouldn’t even call that a controversy—but your profile has certainly been elevated. What has navigating that been like?
You just say thank you and keep working. I want to make good things. People might love them or hate them—that’s okay. I try to do it in a way that treats people well. I’m a theater director—who cares? I just want to uplift other artists and create stories that let people escape the horrors of the world. I’m not interested in fame. It’s terrifying to me.
Is there anything you learned from the Maybe Happy Ending casting controversy?
I think fandom—the sense of ownership people feel—is very real, and just as real as authorial intent. So it’s about acknowledging that, making the best decisions you can, and moving forward. We just recast the show for Broadway, and our standby for Claire is a Black actor who’s amazing. It’s a balance between response and intent—recognizing that the show means a lot to people, but also making it inclusive rather than exclusive.
Does that situation feel resolved in your head?
Of course it bothered me, but I trust the work. Everyone involved believes in what we’re doing—we want to make a story for everyone and create opportunities by running as long as we can. Theater lets us see ourselves in people who are like us—and unlike us. Sometimes seeing someone unlike you builds more empathy.
What about Versailles? Do you have a final word on that?
I think it was so good. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m proud of it. We made something strange—an entire musical about money, which is hard to talk about. I don’t think people gave it a fair chance; controversy clouded it. But it was fascinating, and I’m proud of the artists, the actors, the design, the staging. I think Kristin [Chenoweth] was amazing, Sherie [Rene Scott] was amazing, the book was interesting. It was about something—and that matters.
Can you anticipate how you might feel if there’s a Versailles revival in 20 years and people say, “Wow, this revealed the gem that was always there”?
I’d be thrilled. I think it’s strange people thought it was a MAGA musical—it absolutely isn’t. If you really listen, it’s a subversive, entertaining look at a troubled part of America, echoing a doomed French aristocracy. Some of Stephen [Schwartz]’s lyrics—especially the French material—are amazing. Given where we are now politically, I think it’s actually quite smart. I hope it’s revived someday. I can’t wait to see someone else’s take on it.
This conversation has been edited and condensed.