Sondheim: "The Ladies who Lunch"

Here's to the ladies who lunch—/
Everybody laugh./

Lounging in their caftans/

And planning a brunch/

On their own behalf./

Off to the gym,/

Then to a fitting/,

Claiming they're fat./

And looking grim,/

'Cause they've been sitting/

Choosing a hat./

Does anyone still wear a hat?/

I'll drink to that.

These lines make me think of my years on the Upper East Side: a particular artificial blonde coif, anxious eyes, flats with little gold buckles. These moms were my clients. What problems can Sondheim invent for these lunching ladies? Well, in his character's view, the "ladies who lunch" believe, or claim to believe, that they are fat. Also, they "look grim" because the hat selection on Madison is inadequate. (These are subtly brilliant lines: A problem is a problem for you if you decide that it is. Who's to say that the inability to find a great hat doesn't count as a problem? Of course, the underlying problem is a gnawing sense of emptiness. Sondheim, and his speaker, have compassion for these ladies, even if they (Sondheim and his speaker) use mockery. The tension between the compassion and the mockery is enjoyable.)

And here's to the girls who stay smart—

Aren't they a gas?

Rushing to their classes

In optical art,

Wishing it would pass.

Another long exhausting day,

Another thousand dollars,

A matinee, a Pinter play,

Perhaps a piece of Mahler's.

I'll drink to that.

And one for Mahler!

I remember one mom, at my first job, who would talk a bit too loudly about the new show at the Guggenheim, or about something she had read in "The New Yorker." She did not have the blonde coif; her hair was un-dyed and un-styled, and the aura of something tribal you'd feel in the hallways grew more pronounced when she was there, because she was not quite part of the tribe. (At least, that's how things seemed in my feverish imagination.) The bookish ladies are as embattled as the ladies who lunch; they must feign interest in optical art and in Mahler, but really they wish "it" would pass. (The "it" seems deliberately vague. Of course it refers to the art class, but it also seems to refer to life itself. There's a hum of existential panic in this song. It makes us recall "Sorry-Grateful": "Good things get better; bad get worse. Wait. I think I meant that in reverse.")

And here's to the girls who play wife—

Aren't they too much?

Keeping house but clutching

A copy of LIFE,

Just to keep in touch.

The ones who follow the rules,

And meet themselves at the schools,

Too busy to know that they're fools.

Aren't they a gem?

I'll drink to them!

Let's all drink to them!

Now, Sondheim's game is clear. He's providing a kind of taxonomic guide to the Upper East Side. You can cope with despair by being a party girl, by being a faux-intellectual, or by being a rule-follower. The lines above have one of the best moments in all of Sondheim: The ladies "keep house and clutch a copy of LIFE--just to keep in touch." They are keeping in touch with the magazine, of course, but they are also keeping in touch with the idea of life, of experience; living, being alive, is a far-off planet, and they can visit that planet only through the photos of a magazine. Recently, I was at a restaurant on Central Park West, and I watched as a young mom had something like a nervous breakdown, trying to bully her three-year-old into eating a carrot. The thuggish father remained almost fully silent for the duration of the meal. The mother's anxious voice became louder and louder--"Do you need to go to the bathroom? Do you need to? Mommy's going to go; do you want to come? Do you want to sit here? Stay here? You're sure? OK, it will just be a minute, and then you'll see Mommy!"--and the members of the wait staff began to smirk at one another. "Too busy to know that they're fools"--this is the ideal state for anyone, whether you're lunching, studying, or following commandments. At least: So sayeth Elaine Stritch. (You might also think of Sondheim's "I'm Still Here," in which the ability to let time pass becomes something like a heroic act. "Good times and bum times: I've seen 'em all, and my dear, I'm still here.")

And here's to the girls who just watch—

Aren't they the best?

When they get depressed,

It's a bottle of Scotch,

Plus a little jest.

Another chance to disapprove,

Another brilliant zinger,

Another reason not to move,

Another vodka stinger.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

I'll drink to that.

Here's the pivot of the song. Stritch acknowledges that snarkiness is its own defense mechanism; as an approach to life, it's just as hollow as rule-following or lunching. The hypercritical artist uses knowing disapproval as an excuse "not to move," "not to create." Self-awareness does not add up to an ability to change. In a thrilling kind of collapse, words desert the verbally dexterous Stritch, and she simply screams for several seconds. "I'll drink to that." (There's a joke built into "drink to that," as well. Stritch has been drinking to anything and everything, for the duration of the song. The toasts aren't actually celebratory; they're a parody of celebration. You could say, "There's an ant on the sidewalk," and Stritch's alcoholic character would say, "I'll drink to that.")

So here's to the girls on the go—

Everybody tries.

Look into their eyes,

And you'll see what they know:

Everybody dies.

A toast to that invincible bunch,

The dinosaurs surviving the crunch.

Let's hear it for the ladies who lunch--

Everybody rise!

Rise!

Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise! Rise!

Rise!

What do we all have in common? We're fighting our own awareness of death. We're dinosaurs "surviving the crunch"--regardless of our choice of means of survival. Stritch screams, "Rise!" at the audience--and the audience does not rise. She doubts herself; does she actually want anyone to rise? Does she want to continue to survive the crunch? Finally, the syllable becomes meaningless; it's just a sound to throw out at people. Like the hero of "The Lost Weekend," Stritch's speaker will be right back in this place tomorrow, and the day after that. This is a great Sondheim song--and Stritch's performance is iconic--but I actually like LuPone's best, so I'll include it below. It's Thursday, and I'm writing about nihilism. Do you wonder if I'm in a good mood? I'm not. But: persist! Survive the crunch! Rise! Rise! Rise!

https://www.google.com/search?q=lupone+ladies+who+lunch&oq=lupone+ladies+who+lunch&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.2913j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8