Skip to main content

Howard Ashman: "Beauty and the Beast"

 "Little Shop of Horrors" is a kind of rehearsal for "Beauty and the Beast," in the sense that both stories are about love rivalries.


In "Little Shop," the cartoonish wrong choice is Orin, the dentist. He morphs into Gaston, the villain from "Beast." Both characters get show-stopping numbers; both tend to use rather simple syntax. "Shut up. Open wide. Here I come." "It's a beast! He's got fangs. Razor sharp ones. Massive paws! Killer claws for the feast. Hear him roar. See him foam..." (I wonder if Howard Ashman studied Count Carl-Magnus, from "A Little Night Music.")

In another corner, we have Seymour/Audrey II, and we have the Beast. These are essentially the same character. Seymour understands what he really should do. "This nightmare must come to an end; there's only so far you can bend. You've got no alternatives, Seymour, old boy, though it means you'll be broke again and unemployed. It's the only solution; it can't be avoided....The vegetable must be destroyed." At the same time, Seymour's rapacious id, represented by the alien plant, sings its *own* song:

Feed me, Seymour.
Feed me all night long.
You know the kinda eats--
The kinda red hot treats--
The kinda icky, licky sweets I crave....

In a similar way, Ashman depicts a struggle within Disney's Beast; Ashman uses brilliant lines.

She glanced this way--
I thought I saw.
And, for once, she didn't shudder at my paw.
No, it can't be.
I'll just ignore...
But, then, she never looked at me that way before....

Ashman respects the audience. He doesn't include winky tiresome faux-jokes (a staple for many other Disney writers who are essentially spitting on Ashman's grave). Ashman gets to the point, and he finds ways to dramatize internal struggles through song. I don't know where this gift came from. I still think it's so inspiring.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

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...
3 comments
Read more

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...
1 comment
Read more

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...
1 comment
Read more