With Sondheim, sound often re-enforces sense. In other words, you get the impression he has chosen particular words specifically because they have a dead or dull sound (or the opposite). That sound re-enforces the atmosphere Sondheim is trying to create.
Here's an example. It's a middle-aged man who has tried to hang on to virility by marrying a virginal adolescent wife. (And how many other writers would use this worldly scenario on the Broadway musical stage?)
The problem is that the man--let's call him E--has never wondered whether he is compatible with his new wife, Anne. And Anne is such a child, she refuses any kind of physical intimacy. So E, a horny old lawyer, asks himself how he can get his rocks off. (Sondheim says that humor more often comes from an absurd situation than from a well-crafted line, and this is an inherently funny situation.)
E thinks aloud--and, because he is a lawyer, he labels his daydreams:
"(A) I could ravish her, (B) I could nap."
Notice that line. The difference between "ravish her" and "nap." "Ravish her" is three syllables and it's fancy, latinate; the drama and romance of the scenario seem somehow captured by a bit of verbal filigree. By contrast: "Nap." Not latinate. Not polysyllabic. A bit of verbal mud. A lump, ending abruptly with an -AP. The blandness of napping seems re-enforced by the word itself, especially when paired with "ravish her."
I think you see the same artistry at work in "The Glamorous Life," with the deliberate blandness of "make," "bake," "mend," "tend." And especially in the following soliloquy, as E thinks further about what he could read to his childish wife:
De Maupassant's candor would cause her dismay.
The Brontes are grander but not very gay.
Her tastes are much blander, I'm sorry to say:
But is Hans Christian Andersen ever risque?
....Which eliminates (A)....
The content of the lines drives home the notion that E is book-smart--but the sounds themselves also do that work. The way the "Ander" of "Andersen" rhymes with "candor" and "grander." The racing, propulsive rhythm: This is a man who thinks too much. (It's fun, too, to notice how E is deliberately making use of the process of elimination, as if he were taking the SAT. And to notice how Sondheim's capsule summaries of these classic writers are all accurate: Everything he says about Bronte, et al. is, indeed, the truth.)
One last example of sound matching sense--an example I love, and it's not from Sondheim. It's from Audra McDonald's album, "Happy Songs." She is extolling the virtues of hedonism. She notes:
Life is short, short, brother...
Ain't it de truth?
And there is no other...
Ain't it de truth?
Cleopatra and Delilah had it WAY over Ruth...
The point is that it's more fun to be sinful (Cleopatra) than virtuous (Ruth). A smart historical allusion! Imagine popular music today becoming so witty (hard to picture). But what I especially love is the use of syllables. "Cleopatra" and "Delilah" are both polysyllabic and flowery: They allow Audra to do some trills, to spin out a kind of mini-aria. "Ruth," by contrast, is blunt and less-than-fun. THE SOUND OF THE WORD ITSELF CAPTURES THE POINT AUDRA IS TRYING TO MAKE. "Ruth" is like a short exhalation of gas at the end of the sentence--nothing flowery there.
(OK, one other thing. Writing about Faith Prince's emotional and brilliant performance in "Guys and Dolls," Frank Rich observed, "Prince can turn the word SUBSEQUENTLY into a one-act play." And it's true. Listen to her delivery of that word. It's in "Marry the Man Today." An artist injects thoughtfulness and lived experience into the tiniest detail. If the artist is good at her work.)
Anyway: Check out "A Little Night Music"! Bergman transferred to the musical stage--and the thing I seem to have been placed on this Earth for. The thing I seem meant to write about. Sondheim: Doing something no one else had done--or even thought to attempt--before.
Here's an example. It's a middle-aged man who has tried to hang on to virility by marrying a virginal adolescent wife. (And how many other writers would use this worldly scenario on the Broadway musical stage?)
The problem is that the man--let's call him E--has never wondered whether he is compatible with his new wife, Anne. And Anne is such a child, she refuses any kind of physical intimacy. So E, a horny old lawyer, asks himself how he can get his rocks off. (Sondheim says that humor more often comes from an absurd situation than from a well-crafted line, and this is an inherently funny situation.)
E thinks aloud--and, because he is a lawyer, he labels his daydreams:
"(A) I could ravish her, (B) I could nap."
Notice that line. The difference between "ravish her" and "nap." "Ravish her" is three syllables and it's fancy, latinate; the drama and romance of the scenario seem somehow captured by a bit of verbal filigree. By contrast: "Nap." Not latinate. Not polysyllabic. A bit of verbal mud. A lump, ending abruptly with an -AP. The blandness of napping seems re-enforced by the word itself, especially when paired with "ravish her."
I think you see the same artistry at work in "The Glamorous Life," with the deliberate blandness of "make," "bake," "mend," "tend." And especially in the following soliloquy, as E thinks further about what he could read to his childish wife:
De Maupassant's candor would cause her dismay.
The Brontes are grander but not very gay.
Her tastes are much blander, I'm sorry to say:
But is Hans Christian Andersen ever risque?
....Which eliminates (A)....
The content of the lines drives home the notion that E is book-smart--but the sounds themselves also do that work. The way the "Ander" of "Andersen" rhymes with "candor" and "grander." The racing, propulsive rhythm: This is a man who thinks too much. (It's fun, too, to notice how E is deliberately making use of the process of elimination, as if he were taking the SAT. And to notice how Sondheim's capsule summaries of these classic writers are all accurate: Everything he says about Bronte, et al. is, indeed, the truth.)
One last example of sound matching sense--an example I love, and it's not from Sondheim. It's from Audra McDonald's album, "Happy Songs." She is extolling the virtues of hedonism. She notes:
Life is short, short, brother...
Ain't it de truth?
And there is no other...
Ain't it de truth?
Cleopatra and Delilah had it WAY over Ruth...
The point is that it's more fun to be sinful (Cleopatra) than virtuous (Ruth). A smart historical allusion! Imagine popular music today becoming so witty (hard to picture). But what I especially love is the use of syllables. "Cleopatra" and "Delilah" are both polysyllabic and flowery: They allow Audra to do some trills, to spin out a kind of mini-aria. "Ruth," by contrast, is blunt and less-than-fun. THE SOUND OF THE WORD ITSELF CAPTURES THE POINT AUDRA IS TRYING TO MAKE. "Ruth" is like a short exhalation of gas at the end of the sentence--nothing flowery there.
(OK, one other thing. Writing about Faith Prince's emotional and brilliant performance in "Guys and Dolls," Frank Rich observed, "Prince can turn the word SUBSEQUENTLY into a one-act play." And it's true. Listen to her delivery of that word. It's in "Marry the Man Today." An artist injects thoughtfulness and lived experience into the tiniest detail. If the artist is good at her work.)
Anyway: Check out "A Little Night Music"! Bergman transferred to the musical stage--and the thing I seem to have been placed on this Earth for. The thing I seem meant to write about. Sondheim: Doing something no one else had done--or even thought to attempt--before.
Comments
Post a Comment