It’s the week of the romantic comedy. We’ve touched on Ephron, SATC, Bock and Harnick. We’ve talked about Lubitsch and about Rodgers and Hammerstein. Now it’s time to look at a Platonic ideal: the Sky/Sarah story in “Guys and Dolls.”
A romantic comedy has to start with the two would-be lovers hating each other (or appearing to hate each other). Think of “The Taming of the Shrew.” At the start of “Dolls,” Sarah and Sky are at odds. We’ve had the tone-setting opener, “Fugue for Tinhorns,” which has established we’re in fast-moving, plain-talking, peppy Manhattan:
I got the horse right here.
The name is Paul Revere.
And here’s a guy that says if the weather’s clear.
Can do, can do. This guy says the horse can do.
If he says the horse can do? Can do. Can do.
Everyone loves Frank Loesser’s writing, and it’s because he makes characters so effortlessly. The deliberate un-grammatical flavor of “I got the horse right here,” “Here’s a guy that says if the weather’s clear,” “This guy says the horse can do.” You’re transported. The details: Naming a horse “Paul Revere,” not bothering to learn “this guy”’s name. And the absurd self-certainty: As if this gambler really can confirm that the horse “can do,” can win. We’re in a world where people are fools, and people do not recognize that they are fools. This insight will be part of the main love story, as well. (Love *is* gambling; the two ideas are united in the famous song “Luck, Be a Lady,” in which Sky addresses his “Fortuna" as if it/she were a sneaky, manipulative broad. “They call you Lady Luck, but there’s been room for doubt. Sometimes, you have a very unladylike way of running out...”)
Into the world of silly gamblers come Sarah and Sky, our two protagonists. Like Elphaba, in “Wicked,” these two have clearly defined “wants.” Sarah wants a man with “strong moral fiber” and “wisdom in his head.” She wants “the homey aroma of his pipe.” Sky wants an adventure: “I’ll know and I won’t ever ask, am I right, am I wise, am I smart? But I’ll stop, and I’ll stare at that face in the throng: Yes, I’ll know when my love comes along.” There’s friction between these two, but there’s also a surprise, an unplanned “Conditional Love” statement: The two find themselves singing in unison. “I’ll know when my love comes along.” Whom is Sarah looking at in this moment? Sky. And Sky? He’s looking at Sarah.
Sky pursues Sarah--because he secretly has money riding on their future, but also because, unwittingly, he has started to have romantic thoughts about Sarah. A transaction: If she’ll join him in Havana, he’ll round up some sinners for her “mission.” She needs the sinners; she’ll go to Havana. (Also, subconsciously: She *wants* to go to Havana.) Remember, in “Sex and the City,” Carrie is awakened to the (apparent) promise of Mr. Big’s great love only after wandering in the desert that is Paris. She has to be wrong-headed before she can have her happy ending. A stranger enters her world: Mr. Big’s warmth. And then she is “converted.” Something similar happens to Sarah Brown in Havana: The old way of life loses its appeal, and new sensuousness bubbles up within Sarah. “Ask me how do I feel: Ask me now that we’re fondly caressing. Well, if I were a salad? I know I’d be tossing my dressing.” There’s an obvious sexual undercurrent. Sarah is reborn.
Watching Sarah, Sky is charmed: He understands that he, too, is in love. And the two are united; they’re like Mr. Big and Carrie tumbling around the hallway of a Parisian hotel. “I’ve never been in love before. I thought my heart was safe. I thought I knew the score. But this is wine that’s all too strange and strong; I’m full of foolish song, and out my song must pour.” Masks are dropped. Curses and reverses abound. Enemies have become lovers. We have gone from point A to point B. This is a satisfying story.
Of course, the only constant is change, and right after Sarah announces her love, she discovers some of the details of Sky’s recent questionable financial transactions. She suspects she has been a simple pawn in Sky’s money-making endeavors. (Really, the truth isn’t that simple). A new bit of miscommunication: A new opportunity for laments and for silly behavior. And so we have a reason to come back for Act Two.
Sondheim holds Loesser high in the pantheon of great lyricists. “If I Were a Bell” became the title for the best “Transparent” episode to date, when we see Mort/Maura in childhood. I grew up with the Nathan Lane recording of “Guys and Dolls,” which had several perfect performances and a Tony-winning star turn by Faith Prince. People have said that the show is so strong, it can survive even the worst high-school revival. Even in the hands of listless, distracted teenagers, the show’s genius shines through. And why does all of this matter? Well, it’s something to think about in a few days, when you pull out your wallet for “Ant-Man and the Wasp.” Do you really believe that story won’t share some DNA with “Dolls,” despite dressing up in the disguise of a superhero movie? Let’s wait and see. We’re talking, here, about a tale as old as time....
A romantic comedy has to start with the two would-be lovers hating each other (or appearing to hate each other). Think of “The Taming of the Shrew.” At the start of “Dolls,” Sarah and Sky are at odds. We’ve had the tone-setting opener, “Fugue for Tinhorns,” which has established we’re in fast-moving, plain-talking, peppy Manhattan:
I got the horse right here.
The name is Paul Revere.
And here’s a guy that says if the weather’s clear.
Can do, can do. This guy says the horse can do.
If he says the horse can do? Can do. Can do.
Everyone loves Frank Loesser’s writing, and it’s because he makes characters so effortlessly. The deliberate un-grammatical flavor of “I got the horse right here,” “Here’s a guy that says if the weather’s clear,” “This guy says the horse can do.” You’re transported. The details: Naming a horse “Paul Revere,” not bothering to learn “this guy”’s name. And the absurd self-certainty: As if this gambler really can confirm that the horse “can do,” can win. We’re in a world where people are fools, and people do not recognize that they are fools. This insight will be part of the main love story, as well. (Love *is* gambling; the two ideas are united in the famous song “Luck, Be a Lady,” in which Sky addresses his “Fortuna" as if it/she were a sneaky, manipulative broad. “They call you Lady Luck, but there’s been room for doubt. Sometimes, you have a very unladylike way of running out...”)
Into the world of silly gamblers come Sarah and Sky, our two protagonists. Like Elphaba, in “Wicked,” these two have clearly defined “wants.” Sarah wants a man with “strong moral fiber” and “wisdom in his head.” She wants “the homey aroma of his pipe.” Sky wants an adventure: “I’ll know and I won’t ever ask, am I right, am I wise, am I smart? But I’ll stop, and I’ll stare at that face in the throng: Yes, I’ll know when my love comes along.” There’s friction between these two, but there’s also a surprise, an unplanned “Conditional Love” statement: The two find themselves singing in unison. “I’ll know when my love comes along.” Whom is Sarah looking at in this moment? Sky. And Sky? He’s looking at Sarah.
Sky pursues Sarah--because he secretly has money riding on their future, but also because, unwittingly, he has started to have romantic thoughts about Sarah. A transaction: If she’ll join him in Havana, he’ll round up some sinners for her “mission.” She needs the sinners; she’ll go to Havana. (Also, subconsciously: She *wants* to go to Havana.) Remember, in “Sex and the City,” Carrie is awakened to the (apparent) promise of Mr. Big’s great love only after wandering in the desert that is Paris. She has to be wrong-headed before she can have her happy ending. A stranger enters her world: Mr. Big’s warmth. And then she is “converted.” Something similar happens to Sarah Brown in Havana: The old way of life loses its appeal, and new sensuousness bubbles up within Sarah. “Ask me how do I feel: Ask me now that we’re fondly caressing. Well, if I were a salad? I know I’d be tossing my dressing.” There’s an obvious sexual undercurrent. Sarah is reborn.
Watching Sarah, Sky is charmed: He understands that he, too, is in love. And the two are united; they’re like Mr. Big and Carrie tumbling around the hallway of a Parisian hotel. “I’ve never been in love before. I thought my heart was safe. I thought I knew the score. But this is wine that’s all too strange and strong; I’m full of foolish song, and out my song must pour.” Masks are dropped. Curses and reverses abound. Enemies have become lovers. We have gone from point A to point B. This is a satisfying story.
Of course, the only constant is change, and right after Sarah announces her love, she discovers some of the details of Sky’s recent questionable financial transactions. She suspects she has been a simple pawn in Sky’s money-making endeavors. (Really, the truth isn’t that simple). A new bit of miscommunication: A new opportunity for laments and for silly behavior. And so we have a reason to come back for Act Two.
Sondheim holds Loesser high in the pantheon of great lyricists. “If I Were a Bell” became the title for the best “Transparent” episode to date, when we see Mort/Maura in childhood. I grew up with the Nathan Lane recording of “Guys and Dolls,” which had several perfect performances and a Tony-winning star turn by Faith Prince. People have said that the show is so strong, it can survive even the worst high-school revival. Even in the hands of listless, distracted teenagers, the show’s genius shines through. And why does all of this matter? Well, it’s something to think about in a few days, when you pull out your wallet for “Ant-Man and the Wasp.” Do you really believe that story won’t share some DNA with “Dolls,” despite dressing up in the disguise of a superhero movie? Let’s wait and see. We’re talking, here, about a tale as old as time....
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