Guess who's in the news? It's Stephen Sondheim.
John Mulaney has written a parody of a documentary regarding the taping of a cast album of an original Sondheim show, "Company." This is what happens when you are Stephen Sondheim. The NYT called Sondheim to ask what he thought of the spoof, and he said, bluntly: "I liked it fine. The people I watched with hadn't seen the original documentary, so they didn't get the spoof at all. Does Mulaney understand that? Does he understand this will be funny only for a very small audience?"
And Mulaney--and his friend, Seth Meyers--couldn't care less. Just thrilled to be upbraided by Stephen. "Thank you, Mr. Sondheim."
The Times piece ends with a joke. The joke is this: "Sondheim, what did you think of the actual songs in the spoof?" Sondheim, without apparent irony: "I'd have to listen again. The lyrics are a bit crowded."
The joke? How could Sondheim accuse another writer of being too wordy? Isn't Sondheim the man who famously wrote--for example--about a dying cow whose "withers wither with her"--?
Fair enough. Sometimes Sondheim is wordy. But I think a common misconception--one that the Times has now unwisely encouraged--is that Sondheim is *always* wordy. And that's not true. Some of his most beautiful songs use very simple, spare language. Think of "Send in the Clowns." "Johanna." "Anyone Can Whistle." "Small World." "Tonight." Sondheim's hero is DuBose Heyward, who kept things as stripped-down as possible: "My man's gone now...Ol' man sorrow's....come to keep me company...." Sondheim often channels *that* less-is-more spirit.
My current favorite in the pared-down Sondheim world is "Little Lamb," from "Gypsy." You could almost fit the words on the palm of your hand. The idea is that a child of an abusive mother is celebrating her birthday. She has no idea how old she is--she is made to seem as young as possible, so that she'll draw paying audiences--and, after a typically bewildering and stressful "party" with her mom, she is left alone to contemplate her situation. Imaginative and lonely people sometimes choose to "animate" the non-living objects around them--think of Caroline and the washing machine, in Kushner's work--so, smartly, Sondheim has Louise addressing her stuffed animals.
"Little lamb, little lamb: My birthday is here at last. Little lamb, little lamb: A birthday goes by so fast." The celebration is over. The grayness of Louise's sad life has returned.
A genius move: Sondheim then intuits that Louise would have a remark for *every* stuffed animal on her bed. Louise turns: "Little bear...You sit on my right, right there." (Perhaps the bear provides stability that Mom can't provide.) "Little hen: What games shall we play, and when?" (An innocent childhood game, surely, but this is also a show about psychological games. Posturing. Strutting. "You gotta get a gimmick.")
"Little cat, little cat: Why do you look so blue? Did somebody paint you like that? Or is it your birthday, too?" These lines send chills through me. Sondheim has opted to change the rhyme scheme: We are no longer AABB, but ABAB. Louise, who has learned to doubt appearances, and to hide behind makeup, automatically assumes that the cat's "blueness" may be a pose. Or maybe the cat has also just suffered through a confusing and weirdly painful birthday. Do these lines give you the creeps and also sort-of-crush you?
Jerome Robbins almost cut "Little Lamb," perhaps because it was too subtle for him. Jules Styne wisely supported Sondheim, and the song stayed in. What Sondheim does is to give us an alarming portrait of a strange, secretive girl who is not quite like anything we have seen on Broadway before. "Little fish," she says, "will I ever get my wish?" And we have a little time bomb. We're heartened to know that tiny, apparently-passive Louise *has* a wish--and we're now half-prepared for the electrifying, shocking transformation that will occur, for and within Louise, in Act Two.
"Too crowded"--? I don't think so. These are all observations that the NYT could have chosen to print this week--but the reporters took a different route. You can thank me later, New York Times. And try a little bit harder next time.
*P.S. Can you think of a movie that shares DNA with "Gypsy"--? It's "A Star Is Born." Same general plot, same shifting power dynamic. I wonder if Steve--and Arthur Laurents--had watched the Judy Garland version over and over.
John Mulaney has written a parody of a documentary regarding the taping of a cast album of an original Sondheim show, "Company." This is what happens when you are Stephen Sondheim. The NYT called Sondheim to ask what he thought of the spoof, and he said, bluntly: "I liked it fine. The people I watched with hadn't seen the original documentary, so they didn't get the spoof at all. Does Mulaney understand that? Does he understand this will be funny only for a very small audience?"
And Mulaney--and his friend, Seth Meyers--couldn't care less. Just thrilled to be upbraided by Stephen. "Thank you, Mr. Sondheim."
The Times piece ends with a joke. The joke is this: "Sondheim, what did you think of the actual songs in the spoof?" Sondheim, without apparent irony: "I'd have to listen again. The lyrics are a bit crowded."
The joke? How could Sondheim accuse another writer of being too wordy? Isn't Sondheim the man who famously wrote--for example--about a dying cow whose "withers wither with her"--?
Fair enough. Sometimes Sondheim is wordy. But I think a common misconception--one that the Times has now unwisely encouraged--is that Sondheim is *always* wordy. And that's not true. Some of his most beautiful songs use very simple, spare language. Think of "Send in the Clowns." "Johanna." "Anyone Can Whistle." "Small World." "Tonight." Sondheim's hero is DuBose Heyward, who kept things as stripped-down as possible: "My man's gone now...Ol' man sorrow's....come to keep me company...." Sondheim often channels *that* less-is-more spirit.
My current favorite in the pared-down Sondheim world is "Little Lamb," from "Gypsy." You could almost fit the words on the palm of your hand. The idea is that a child of an abusive mother is celebrating her birthday. She has no idea how old she is--she is made to seem as young as possible, so that she'll draw paying audiences--and, after a typically bewildering and stressful "party" with her mom, she is left alone to contemplate her situation. Imaginative and lonely people sometimes choose to "animate" the non-living objects around them--think of Caroline and the washing machine, in Kushner's work--so, smartly, Sondheim has Louise addressing her stuffed animals.
"Little lamb, little lamb: My birthday is here at last. Little lamb, little lamb: A birthday goes by so fast." The celebration is over. The grayness of Louise's sad life has returned.
A genius move: Sondheim then intuits that Louise would have a remark for *every* stuffed animal on her bed. Louise turns: "Little bear...You sit on my right, right there." (Perhaps the bear provides stability that Mom can't provide.) "Little hen: What games shall we play, and when?" (An innocent childhood game, surely, but this is also a show about psychological games. Posturing. Strutting. "You gotta get a gimmick.")
"Little cat, little cat: Why do you look so blue? Did somebody paint you like that? Or is it your birthday, too?" These lines send chills through me. Sondheim has opted to change the rhyme scheme: We are no longer AABB, but ABAB. Louise, who has learned to doubt appearances, and to hide behind makeup, automatically assumes that the cat's "blueness" may be a pose. Or maybe the cat has also just suffered through a confusing and weirdly painful birthday. Do these lines give you the creeps and also sort-of-crush you?
Jerome Robbins almost cut "Little Lamb," perhaps because it was too subtle for him. Jules Styne wisely supported Sondheim, and the song stayed in. What Sondheim does is to give us an alarming portrait of a strange, secretive girl who is not quite like anything we have seen on Broadway before. "Little fish," she says, "will I ever get my wish?" And we have a little time bomb. We're heartened to know that tiny, apparently-passive Louise *has* a wish--and we're now half-prepared for the electrifying, shocking transformation that will occur, for and within Louise, in Act Two.
"Too crowded"--? I don't think so. These are all observations that the NYT could have chosen to print this week--but the reporters took a different route. You can thank me later, New York Times. And try a little bit harder next time.
*P.S. Can you think of a movie that shares DNA with "Gypsy"--? It's "A Star Is Born." Same general plot, same shifting power dynamic. I wonder if Steve--and Arthur Laurents--had watched the Judy Garland version over and over.
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