Skip to main content

Howard Ashman: "Aladdin"

 "Aladdin" is a strange hybrid, a Frankenstein's monster. There are three Howard Ashman songs; they're the good ones. Then Ashman dies, and Tim Rice writes three additional songs; they're the bad ones.


Ashman cared more about "Aladdin" than about "Beauty and the Beast"; "Beast" was just a favor he contributed to Disney, while he worried about "Aladdin."

One intriguing issue with "Aladdin" is that the villain does not get his own big number. He just does a reprise of "Prince Ali." I can't help but imagine that Ashman would object to this decision.

Another thing: Ashman had not written a major, splashy work for a male protagonist since "Little Shop of Horrors." Ariel and Belle were women, and they were fabulous right away. Aladdin--in Ashman's daydream--was more like Seymour from "Little Shop."

Poor. All my life I've always been poor.
I keep asking God what I'm for--
And he tells me, gee, I'm not sure.
Sweep that floor, kid.

Seymour sort of hates himself. Describing his mentor, Seymour concedes, "Mushnik treats me like dirt--calls me a slob--which I am. So I live downtown. That's your home address--you live downtown, when your life's a mess...."

Compare this with "Proud of Your Boy," which was (inexplicably) deleted from "Aladdin."

I've been one rotten kid.
Some son--some pride and some joy.
But I'll get over these lousin' up--
Messin' up--screwin' up times.....

This Aladdin is more soulful and more interesting than the one who appears in the Tim Rice film.

As Ashman's Aladdin rallies, we can't help but hear traces of Seymour-at-his-most-hopeful. ("Lift up your head....Wash off your mascara....") Aladdin has his own set of commands:

Water flows under the bridge--
Let it pass. Let it go.
There's no good reason that you should believe me--
Not yet, I know, but--
Someday and soon--
I'll make you proud of your boy....

I just want to describe exactly the sort of loss that Disney suffered when Howard Ashman died.

I'll be away for a few days. See you soon.

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...