Skip to main content

Sutton Foster

 In her twenties and thirties, Sutton Foster had musicals written for her. They often weren't very good--but they happened--one after the other after the other. "Little Women," "Young Frankenstein," "Shrek."


Then, a shift occurred. I don't know if this was deliberate. After "Shrek," Foster turned her attention to revivals. In a big way. On and off Broadway. "Anyone Can Whistle," "Into the Woods," "*Violet," "The Music Man," "Sweeney Todd," "Sweet Charity," "Once Upon a Mattress," "Anything Goes." At times, it seems as if Foster is on a mission to do *every* canonical role. The "Sweeney" phase--where Foster was Burnett by night and Lansbury by day--was particularly exciting.

I have a list of roles I'd now like to offer to Foster. Desiree Armfeldt, Phyllis in "Follies" (notice how the word "Phyllis" sounds like "Folly," and if you mix "Phyllis" and "Sally," you do sort of get "Folly"), Roxie in "Chicago," Madame Rose, Annie Oakley, Dolly Levi (yes, you can play Dolly when you are fifty), Helen Bechdel. It's striking to me that great new roles for post-ingenue actors are not popping up now that Sondheim is dead. Jeanine Tesori is available--but if you make Sutton essay the role of Patty in "Kimberly Akimbo," you aren't really allowing her to explore her own glamour and star power.

In her Second Act, Chita Rivera leaned on Kander and Ebb for new material. (Smart move.) Patti and Bernadette both returned--and returned and returned--to the Sondheim playbook. Sutton Foster clearly has a kind of partnership with Jeanine Tesori, but I wonder if this will prompt the creation of *more* work in the 2020s and 2030s.

It's unfortunate to lose composers to Disney--and I admire Sondheim for rejecting this possible path. I'm hopeful that the people behind "Six" might have Sondheim-esque plans up their sleeves. It's nice to dream.....


*Right. "Violet" hadn't been on Broadway before. But--also--it wasn't *brand new* material.

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...