|The First Art Newspaper on the Net
||Established in 1996
|| Saturday, October 23, 2021
|Stephen Sondheim, the man who felt too much|
Carolee Carmello and Norm Lewis in Sweeney Todd, at the Barrow Street Theater in New York, April 11, 2017. Why did it take so long for Stephen Sondheim to be unambivalently embraced? Maybe because ambivalence is what hes embraced most of all. Sara Krulwich/The New York Times.
by Ben Brantley
NEW YORK (NYT NEWS SERVICE).- How do you feel?
Thats a simple question, right? And unless youre talking to a doctor, you probably have a simple answer.
And if thats the case, the odds are that youre lying.
Such, anyway, is always my view of the human race after listening to a cast recording of a Stephen Sondheim musical, or even to just one of his ballads. And when it comes to emotions, Sondheim more than any other composer from the Broadway songbook is the one I trust to tell me the truth.
Thats because in the world of Sondheim, feelings never come singly but in battalions. Even his simplest, most assertive melodies usually sound as if theyre being pulled in contradictory directions.
Of course, his ever-nimble lyrics which have made his name a byword for verbal cosmopolitanism abound in paradoxes, puns and declarations of uncertainty, all etched into deep-burrowing grooves. But the music adds yet another layer, which often both confirms and battles with the words.
Its confusing. Its exhilarating. Its life as we know it, if were being honest with ourselves. Stephen Sondheim is the American musicals supreme artist of ambivalence. Which is why it took audiences and critics so long to embrace him, and why once they did he assumed his rightful place on an Olympian peak that no subsequent songwriter has ever been able to ascend.
My baptism into the multicolored, churning waters of a Sondheim score occurred when I was 16, on my maiden trip to New York, a place that loomed in my Southern childhood like the Emerald City of Oz. In retrospect, I cant believe my luck. Providence or my ticket-buying parents had seen to it that my very first Broadway show was Follies, Sondheim and script writer James Goldmans portrait of two unhappy marriages, set amid the ruins of a once glorious, fast vanishing era in show business.
I should say here that I considered myself well-versed in musicals at that time. Original cast recordings of New York shows were still regularly spinning on turntables in middle-class American homes. Growing up in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, I was weaned on the work of, above all, Rodgers and Hammerstein. (The first Broadway show my mother had seen, as a college graduation present, was Oklahoma!, and I used to warble People Will Say Were in Love to my dog, Bangle.)
But I could also lie for hours on the floor next to our big, boxy monaural console in the company of recordings of Lerner and Loewe, Meredith Willson, Jerry Herman and the Leonard Bernstein who wrote the music for West Side Story and Wonderful Town. For me and I imagine for many Americans even the sad numbers from these shows were straight, pick-me-up shots of concentrated happiness.
They exalted everyday life which I intuited early on was always going to be messy by giving it a rhythm and rhyme that you could belt, wail and dance to. And usually, they had a conveniently insistent and straightforward progression of notes and words that, once heard, were tattooed forever on your mind, ready to be retrieved in moments of despair.
So in 1971, at the Winter Garden Theater, in the dark, when the overture began for Follies, I was incredibly excited and, before long, slightly disturbed. (At that point, I was unacquainted with Company, Sondheims breakthrough hit of the previous year.) A luxuriously full orchestra was summoning the kind of grand strains that you would expect to precede a majestic show with a cavalcade of stars. But there were shadows plucking at the grandeur, a sense of magnificence dissolving into dissonance.
By the end of the show after watching a climactic succession of nervous breakdowns in song, styled, by directors Harold Prince and Michael Bennett, as opulent fantasy musical-comedy vignettes I wasnt sure what had hit me. I had borrowed enough contemporary novels about disenchanted spouses from my parents library to realize a lot of Goldmans book wasnt exactly new territory.
But those songs! So worldly, so well-referenced, so eminently quotable, so contemptuous of hummable, assembly-line melodies and, beneath it all, in a way I was still too young to absorb, so torn by a fathomless fear and yearning. As a self-conscious, awkward kid who wanted only to be sophisticated, I didnt yet grasp the complex, subversive dialectic of words and music in those numbers or realize that they were as full of feeling as anything by Rodgers and Hammerstein.
The perception of Sondheim as a writer of sweetly laconic cynicism (as Clive Barnes wrote in The New York Times) was fed by post-Follies cabaret acts and revues (including Side by Side by Sondheim, which was on Broadway in 1977 when I first moved to New York) that emphasized his supreme, stinging wit. These were lyrics you heard quoted as zingers at cocktail parties (Its not so hard to be married, Ive done it three or four times, from Company; Could I bury my rage, with a boy half your age, in the grass?/Bet your ass, from Follies.)
But in truth, Sondheim was never just the gimlet-eyed outsider at the party, quipping wisely and witheringly. Instead, what he was capturing like nobody else in his genre was the voice of a generation of doubters who, whether they admitted it or not, were starting to feel like outsiders in their own lives, like loners even in a crowd, even within their own family.
These were people who grew up in an age of anxiety, of self-probing psychoanalysis and rising divorce rates. The all-conquering love hymned in the classic musical was beginning to look like an increasingly flimsy fiction. Happy endings can spring a leak/ Ever after can mean one week, as Sondheim wrote in his lyrics for Do I Hear a Waltz?, the 1965 musical on which he collaborated with Richard Rodgers.
Such skepticism is not to be confused with wholesale cynicism or self-protecting numbness. As far back as his Saturday Night (written in the 1950s but never produced in New York until 2000), a portrait of young Brooklyn men impatiently waiting for their lives to begin, Sondheims scores have consistently throbbed with a longing to connect, to engage and, yes, to love. Its a sentiment wistfully embodied in the ballad Being Alive from Company, a song repurposed in the 2019 Noah Baumbach movie Marriage Story for Adam Drivers divorce-mauled husband.
But no one in a Sondheim musical is ever going to make the sort of unconditional declaration that the cockeyed optimist Nellie Forbush did in Rodgers and Hammersteins South Pacific: Im in love with a wonderful guy! Love, chez Sondheim, is treated as a dangerous substance that could explode or rot or evaporate altogether once you finally embrace it.
Follies covers a giddy range of the forms assumed by the divided nature of love, and how we hold on to what remains of the illusions we once had about it. (Whats so brilliant about the pastiche numbers, evocations of quaint songs of yesteryear, is the musical tension between past styles and present perception.) Most of us, I imagine, have experienced something like the frenzied vacillations of the two-timing husband who sings, Ive got those God-why-dont-you-love-me-oh-you-do-Ill-see-you-later Blues.
But note how even an ostensibly straightforward ballad like Not a Day Goes By, from Merrily We Roll Along, progresses from a declaration of lifelong passion to a harsh and resentful cry against the human bondage that such commitment entails. Or how in Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (1979), Sondheim and Hugh Wheelers retelling of a bloody Victorian urban legend, an exiled barbers love for the family he lost is transformed into a blind pursuit of revenge, with music in which gentle motifs of tenderness are devoured by thundering chords of rage.
Obsession, as both a life-warping force (Assassins, the savage yet oddly empathic study of American killers from 1990) and a creative necessity (the ravishing Sunday in the Park With George, 1984), becomes an increasingly dominant subject for Sondheim in the second half of his career. The peerless Finishing the Hat, from Sunday, mixes the exhilaration that comes from the quest for perfection and the painful knowledge of the selfishness and sacrifices that it requires.
But what happens when love itself becomes the overwhelming obsession? Sondheim finally approached that subject late in his career, with Passion (1994), his penultimate work to date. As shaped by Sondheim and writer and director James Lapine (his collaborator on Sunday), this operatic masterwork follows the initiation of an ordinary man, a soldier, into the labyrinth of its titular subject.
His instructor takes the form of a sickly, ugly woman named Fosca, who teaches him that love is a blinding, irrational force as pure as breath, as permanent as death, as implacable as stone. The paradoxically uplifting darkness of the music here suggests that the triumph of love is something neither to celebrate nor to lament. It simply is, in all its irreducible complexity.
When Fosca describes what might be considered both her nemesis and her salvation, she might be speaking for Sondheim a composer once dismissed as all head and no heart. I know I feel too much, she says. I often dont know what to do with my feelings. Sondheim has always transformed that not knowing, a state in which we all exist, into some of the most fully feeling songs ever written.
© 2020 The New York Times Company
March 16, 2020
Palaeontologists present a 10,000-year-old "South American yeti"
Six decades after the Banana Boat, Harry Belafonte's archive sails home
Andrew Jones Auctions will hold important back-to-back sales March 21-22
Is that a Dalí among the tchotchkes?
Explore the arts of the Islamic world & Asia with over 300 lots on view at Sotheby's London
Italian architect of Barcelona stadium dies of virus at 92
Hauser & Wirth Zurich opens an exhibition of works by Luchita Hurtado
500 years of pregnant women in art
Andreas Brown, longtime owner of Gotham Book Mart, dies at 86
Alfredo Jaar is the recipient of the 2020 Hasselblad Foundation International Award in Photography
Gladstone Gallery exhibits new soft sculptures and bronzes by Sarah Lucas
Pace Gallery presents two bodies of work by Paul Graham
Charles Wuorinen, uncompromising modernist composer, dies at 81
In a pandemic, musicians play in empty halls for audiences online
Stephen Sondheim, the man who felt too much
As virus strikes festivals, red carpets happen in living rooms
Ticket holders seek refunds as coronavirus prompts mass cancellations
Ireland's Connemara Mountains transformes in largest ever outdoor light artwork
Largest sculpture exhibition by a single artist at Canary Wharf opens Monday
Exhibition of works executed between 1974-1989 by Tatsuo Kawaguchi on view at Kayne Griffin Corcoran
The Ringling welcomes 'Howie Tsui: Retainers of Anarchy'
Galerie Templon opens an exhibition of works by German painter Norbert Bisky
'From Alfredo Biagini to Toti Scialoja: A tale of 20th century Italian Art' on view at Ottocento Art Gallery
3rd edition of COLLECTIBLE end of fair report
How the design of slot machines appeal to people
Museums, Exhibits, Artists, Milestones, Digital Art, Architecture, Photography,
Photographers, Special Photos, Special Reports, Featured Stories, Auctions, Art Fairs,
Anecdotes, Art Quiz, Education, Mythology, 3D Images, Last Week, .
|Royalville Communications, Inc|
Tell a Friend
Dear User, please complete the form below in order to recommend the Artdaily newsletter to someone you know.
Please complete all fields marked *.