Skip to main content

On Musicals

It's the fortieth anniversary of the premier of Stephen Sondheim's masterpiece, "Sweeney Todd," possibly the closest-to-perfect piece of writing in musical theater, in world history. Some thoughts:

*Leonard Bernstein was a testy father, and one day he was particularly difficult with his daughter. His daughter later spotted a family friend, Stephen Sondheim. She complained to Sondheim about her father's mystifying recent bitchiness. Sondheim thought, and said: "He might be in a bad mood. SWEENEY TODD happened this weekend. Its success might be hard for him."

*Lorrie Moore calls Sondheim "the Dark Prince of Broadway," and she notes that there is a conspicuous flat note in "Sweeney Todd," in the song "Johanna." The flat happens to occur when the singer hits the syllable "win," in "window." (Moore does *not* note that the flat happens elsewhere, again, in the song, on the word "dream." But three cheers for Moore, for praising Patti LuPone's "Sweeney" performance, and for focusing on LuPone's wavy sting-ray lips.)

*Tony Soprano would seem to usher in an era of Difficult Men. Walter White, Don Draper, Al Swearengen. But look at Sweeney--whose story debuted long, long before the "antihero wave." From the moment the curtain goes up, Sweeney isn't looking for anything moral. He is looking for vengeance. Sondheim doesn't judge Sweeney. Sondheim seems to say, to the audience, "Do a little work. You can understand this guy. You don't need all of your musical-theater heroes to be Dolly Levi."

*"Sweeney Todd" is the moment where Sondheim really embraces Victorian language. "Gentlemen," "trod a path," "deserved a nod," "my ward," "pretty as a rosebud," "green finch and linnet bird." As in other Sondheim works, part of the fun in "Sweeney" is just watching a genius renew his love for words.

*I've loved Sweeney, and "Sweeney," for years. My favorite. A huge inspiration. It may be time to dig out the Tim Burton version: Just imagine you're hearing great singers, even when you aren't.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...