I enjoy filmed performances like those from the National Theatre or wherever, so watching this version of Hamilton fits in well among them--though I better enjoy those with sets (Singin' in the Rain is the best ever). Perhaps that taste is derived from never having been able to afford to see live performances, and so the film format is what I'm more accustomed to. I don't think I would have preferred a proper film adaptation of Hamilton to this stage performance though.
The mutual themes of time and ambition are finely juxtaposed between Hamilton and Burr. As representatives of the themes, they are each other's foils--that's a great concept around which the narrative is constructed.
It also means that the first few songs immediately heroicize Hamilton.The first sentence of the first number, "Alexander Hamilton," plainly establishes Hamilton as "a hero and a scholar." As the play's avatar of ambition, bootstrapping, and overcoming odds, the audience is meant to admire that character more than the other who opts for cleverness or passivity, as represented in Burr.
As a historical play, it is difficult to avoid the questions of accuracy and moralization. I mentioned earlier that I find the play very complicated, but it's not because I demand accuracy. I don't approach art valuing one more highly than the other. Generally, if a narrative pursues accuracy, it will often lean away from moralization (unless it is built into the accuracy); if it elects morality, accuracy is less important. But in Hamilton the two are closely intertwined in a way that sabotages its meaning. The "inaccuracies" of the play, from broad, purposeful ones like casting and musical styles to loose characterizations like that of King George, are confronted by its appeals to accuracy elsewhere. Its satire and critique, obviously playful, are obstructed when Miranda/Hamilton pipes in during "A Winter's Ball" to say "That's true!," which implies veracity to the rest of the story even while those other components move away from it. The subtitle of the play, "An American Musical," functions similarly. In "The World Was Wide Enough," Burr states, "They won't teach you this in your classes / But look it up / He was wearing his glasses." Again, its claims to truthfulness are framed pedagogically--that this is a history lesson, and a fun one at that--but with a strange sense of selectivity that is elsewhere set aside. In terms of characterization, the resolute use of satire in its portrayal of King George is split from the attempted satire of Americans, particularly Jefferson and Madison, who are later allowed to speak with sincerity of their admiration for Hamilton. These elements don't fit together very neatly and make for a very shaky relationship between history and story.
The consequence of this relationship is that its ultimate question of legacy is obstructed. Some have suggested that Hamilton remains with that question, allowing it to be left open. But it doesn't; the play answers this question in several ways. While it sometimes enjoys the gray areas of moralization, it is ultimately focused on this question of legacy and provides it with a clear answer. Incorrectly, it suggests that legacies are immovably derived from the truths of history. In "The World Was Wide Enough," Burr, after shooting Hamilton, states that "Now I'm the villain in your history," his legacy cemented. The final number lyrics, "Who lives / Who dies / Who tells your story?" are fulfilled by other characters, with Eliza given the most space to detail the formulation of Hamilton's legacy. And the play does lionize Hamilton because Eliza lionizes him, and she is given the last word: she establishes an orphanage, sees Hamilton in the children's eyes, interviews his soldiers, collects his writings, and campaigns against slavery as if on his behalf. These good and admirable things are presented in a way that casts Hamilton as their inspiration, as if Eliza has the time that Hamilton doesn't and uses her time the way that Hamilton might have. The good actions of Eliza are meant to solidify the goodness of Hamilton.
And because the play ends this way, it ultimately confronts and competes against itself. It overrides the gray areas of historical figures by giving weight to "legacy" as a finality. The existence of Hamilton as a play participates in the construction of legacy--"Who tells your story?" is answered by the play itself. Hamilton is therefore not about interrogating legacy but subscribing to it, even if the play inspires people's interest in history. As a result, the question of accuracy is minimized, not for the sake of innovative casting or musical styles, but because "legacy" is materialized by those who come after, and because the play is telling us how to think of Hamilton and the other characters. By asking it, the play sounds as though it is embracing the question of legacy, but is stating and maintaining an established answer.
As I said before, though, Anthony Ramos is wonderful.