by Chris Peterson, OnStage Blog Founder

Every once in a while, a show sneaks up on you years after it’s come and gone, and you find yourself wondering: wait...was that actually kind of great?

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Big Fish, the 2013 Broadway musical based on Daniel Wallace’s novel (and the Tim Burton movie that turned a lot of us into puddles). When it opened, Big Fish didn’t really catch on. It had a heartfelt score by Andrew Lippa, a terrific cast, some beautiful design work — but it closed after just 98 performances. No Tony nominations. Barely a blip. Broadway moved on.

And yet somehow, just over a decade after it premiered, Big Fish hasn’t disappeared. In fact, it's quietly built this second life — in regional theaters, high schools, colleges — where new audiences are discovering it and falling in love. You hear people say, almost sheepishly, "I just listened to Big Fish for the first time...and I can’t stop crying."

It’s made me wonder: did we sleep on Big Fish?

Because here’s the thing: there’s so much about this show that works. Lippa’s score is big and emotional without feeling manipulative — not an easy thing to pull off. “Time Stops” is a stunning love song. “Fight the Dragons” captures the way parents want to shield their kids from the hard parts of the world without crushing their spirit — and full disclosure, I can barely get through that song without turning into a puddle of tears. And “I Don’t Need a Roof” — well, if that song doesn’t break your heart into a thousand pieces, I don’t know what to tell you.

More than anything, Big Fish is about the stories we tell — to our children, to ourselves — and how those stories get tangled up with the reality of who we are.

The first time I encountered Big Fish was the movie version, which I saw just a few days after my grandfather passed away. Sitting there in that dark theater, already carrying so much grief, the final scenes absolutely wrecked me. I don’t think I’ve ever cried harder at a movie — it was one of those full-body, can’t-catch-your-breath kinds of cries. That story about a son trying to understand a father he thought he’d already figured out hit me like a freight train. It still does.

And maybe that's why Big Fish is hitting me even harder now, as a dad myself.

I spend a lot of time on the road for work, about 100 nights a year. My son is still little, but even now, I think about all the stories I tell him — some real, some a little bigger than real — and I wonder what he’ll remember. I wonder what parts of me he’ll carry with him, and what parts he’ll have to imagine. Watching Big Fish again, or even just listening to it, reminds me how much of parenting is about trying — trying to be larger than life in your kid’s eyes, trying to be the hero even when you're just a tired human being with a suitcase and a plane ticket.

When Big Fish first came out, Broadway wasn’t really in the mood for that kind of show. It was the era of shows that were either dazzlingly theatrical or laser-focused on modern, sharp storytelling. Big Fish showed up with a wide-open heart and said, "Here’s a story about love and memory and letting go." And maybe we weren’t ready for that yet.

But now? In a world where sincerity is making a comeback, Big Fish feels like it’s right on time.

If you haven’t revisited it in a while, it’s worth it. Listen to the album. Find a local production. Let yourself be pulled into its magic. Let it make you think about the stories you’re telling — and the ones you hope your kids will carry with them long after you’re gone.

I know I think about it now — every time I kiss my son goodbye at the airport, every time I promise him another adventure when I get back. Maybe Big Fish wasn’t just a story waiting for the right moment.

Maybe it was a reminder: that the real magic isn’t in the stories we tell. It’s in the way they live on in the people who love us most.

Did We Sleep on 'Big Fish'?

Subscribe