Let's take "Lucy X and Jessie Y" moment by moment. The first line is telling. Sondheim wants to make a pastiche or parody of Cole Porter. Porter had a habit of writing blithely--"insouciantly"--abou
So we're thrown off guard by Phyllis's cheery: "Here's a little story that should make you cry about two unhappy dames!"
Then there's the plot of the song. A big reason that Sondheim has such potency--and such universal appeal--is that he writes about ambivalence. Ambivalence is the human condition; it's what we all experience, on a daily basis. In youth, Phyllis may have enjoyed her juiciness but longed for worldly wisdom. In wise middle age, Phyllis wants just to recover the warmth of youth. "Sometimes, I stand in the middle of the floor, not going left, not going right." An inability to be "present," to feel uncomplicated contentment with your circumstances--this is what Sondheim is dramatizing, over and over.
Another Cole Porter-ish feature: internal rhyme. Porter did this constantly. "At words poetic I'm so pathetic that I always have found it best, instead of getting them off my chest, to let them rest, unexpressed." "Some get a kick from cocaine; I'm sure that if I took even one sniff it would bore me terrifically, too. But I get a kick out of you." Sondheim tears up the internal rhyme game here. "Lucy is juicy but terribly drab. Jessie is dressy but cold as a slab." "Souls--itching to be switching roles!" "If you see Jessie Y--faded, jaded Jessie Y--tell 'er that she's sweller than apple pie! And then all the consonance: "Lucy wants to be Lassie." "Jessie wants to be juicy." "Sad souls."
Finally- this song earns props for rhyming "precis" with "lacy." Only in the world of Sondheim.
The crime novelist PD James says restrictions can be liberating (paradoxically). The strict rules--of, e.g., a mystery novel, or a sestina--can set a mind on fire. I believe that Sondheim--a mystery fan--follows that rule. And I think the Cole Porter-ish strictures he adopted, in "Follies," set him aloft. My two cents!
***
A stranger comes to town. The Primm family moves to a home on E. 88th St., but they hear mysterious sounds: "Swish! Splash! Swash!" It's a crocodile! Perhaps the Primms could flee via open window, but--special indignity of NYC living--all the windows seem to have been painted shut. Just then: A note from Hector P. Valenti, Star of Stage and Screen, explaining that Lyle is a pet. He's harmless. And indeed he is; he hops out of the bathroom and begins performing somersaults, making beds, folding napkins. (Part of the job of a children's book is to introduce the reader to the world. Putting a crocodile in various domestic scenes encourages a sense of wonder: What a joy it is to have Italian ice! And a mail carrier! And Fifth Avenue parades!)
Lyle and the Primms get on famously--so famously, the world does actually take notice. Lyle becomes a star. Vile, opportunistic Hector Valenti returns: "I couldn't afford to keep Lyle," he says, "but now that Lyle has a reputation, I can live off his stardom." The weirdly accommodating Primms seem to understand. Miserable with the loveless Hector, Lyle refuses to perform. And so, again, he is pawned off on the Primms. And so everyone lives happily ever after, except, of course, for the self-absorbed Hector, who is without love in his heart.
A few things. This seems to be an allegory about Bernard Waber's artistic talent. Waber came back from the war and he was a respectable man, primed to live a conventional life, but this urge to draw crocodiles kept announcing itself. And so the crocodile stands in for all that is playful and childlike in Waber's soul; though half of Waber may be a rule-following Primm, half is a gallivanting crocodile, always. Then: notice Waber's fun with words. In "Ira Sleeps Over," the two little boys dance around the subject of their fear with evasions, half-formed sentences, irrelevant stories about scary, scary ghosts. In "88th St," Hector Valenti sends a brusque note: "This is just a note. It's to say I'm stopping by. Cordially: Hector, Star of Stage/Screen. P.S. I'm coming to fetch something. The something is my crocodile." (Loathsome hypocrisy! That "cordially!" Waber is telling us something about the ugliness in the world, the bullying that sometimes wears a mask of civility.)
Bernard Waber is missing entirely from Bruce Handy's kids'-lit survey, "Wild Things"--one of the best books of the year--and so consider this a correction. And pick up "Wild Things." It won't disappoint you!
https://www.google.com/search?q=donna+murphy+lucy+and+jessie&oq=donna+murphy+lucy+and+jessie&aqs=chrome..69i57.3554j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8
***
A stranger comes to town. The Primm family moves to a home on E. 88th St., but they hear mysterious sounds: "Swish! Splash! Swash!" It's a crocodile! Perhaps the Primms could flee via open window, but--special indignity of NYC living--all the windows seem to have been painted shut. Just then: A note from Hector P. Valenti, Star of Stage and Screen, explaining that Lyle is a pet. He's harmless. And indeed he is; he hops out of the bathroom and begins performing somersaults, making beds, folding napkins. (Part of the job of a children's book is to introduce the reader to the world. Putting a crocodile in various domestic scenes encourages a sense of wonder: What a joy it is to have Italian ice! And a mail carrier! And Fifth Avenue parades!)
Lyle and the Primms get on famously--so famously, the world does actually take notice. Lyle becomes a star. Vile, opportunistic Hector Valenti returns: "I couldn't afford to keep Lyle," he says, "but now that Lyle has a reputation, I can live off his stardom." The weirdly accommodating Primms seem to understand. Miserable with the loveless Hector, Lyle refuses to perform. And so, again, he is pawned off on the Primms. And so everyone lives happily ever after, except, of course, for the self-absorbed Hector, who is without love in his heart.
A few things. This seems to be an allegory about Bernard Waber's artistic talent. Waber came back from the war and he was a respectable man, primed to live a conventional life, but this urge to draw crocodiles kept announcing itself. And so the crocodile stands in for all that is playful and childlike in Waber's soul; though half of Waber may be a rule-following Primm, half is a gallivanting crocodile, always. Then: notice Waber's fun with words. In "Ira Sleeps Over," the two little boys dance around the subject of their fear with evasions, half-formed sentences, irrelevant stories about scary, scary ghosts. In "88th St," Hector Valenti sends a brusque note: "This is just a note. It's to say I'm stopping by. Cordially: Hector, Star of Stage/Screen. P.S. I'm coming to fetch something. The something is my crocodile." (Loathsome hypocrisy! That "cordially!" Waber is telling us something about the ugliness in the world, the bullying that sometimes wears a mask of civility.)
Bernard Waber is missing entirely from Bruce Handy's kids'-lit survey, "Wild Things"--one of the best books of the year--and so consider this a correction. And pick up "Wild Things." It won't disappoint you!
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