A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by George Seurat
Last
night, I watched “Six by Sondheim,” a re-run of the HBO documentary. And though
I stumbled through the zigzagging narrative and interviews, the director, who
happened to be Stephen Sondheim’s former lyricist James Lapine, I discovered within Sondheim the brazen heart
of a lion and the vulnerable heart of a lion’s prey. In his lifetime, Sondheim has
had to face waves of critics, detractors and deconstructionists who, armed with
poisoned pens and closed ears, have judged his works before Sondheim’s shows
opened. They wanted or want flashy flourishes; instead these critics have been presented
deceptively simple brilliance.
Considering
Sondheim’s sad upbringing—until he found a mentor in Oscar Hammerstein—he had
plenty of reason to be cynical, to hate. He chose to do neither. Lapine’s documentary
reminds viewers that Sondheim grew up with a mother who didn’t want him or love
him—which he learned toward the end of his life by her own written hand. Like
many, he was a casualty of divorce and the acrimony between his parents that
accompanied the schism. Still, with Oscar Hammerstein’s encouragement and the
kindness of others, Sondheim didn’t lose heart. In fact, in one of many
interviews with Sondheim, he cried with happiness about his fortune, not his
misfortune. Any hint of cynicism would stem from his long time aggravation with
small-minded producers and critics. The viewer could see the mental exhaustion
Sondheim experienced fighting these battles to be respected and recognized. But
to quote from Sondheim’s Follies
(1971), and Lapine’s documentary, “I’m Still
Here” symbolizes the composer’s perseverance.
Out there
in cyberspace I can hear the grunts and groans. Stephen Sondheim, not cynical?
There are those who believe Sondheim isn’t entertaining because his words and music
are laced with acerbity. That Sondheim is a pessimist is simply not true.
Sondheim has been realistic about who he is, what he can do and what he knew he
could be. His tenaciousness to break the amassing musical log jam, choking from
staleness before Sondheim became known, brought the maestro some critical and financial
success. After all, he wrote A Funny
Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (1962), campy, I agree, yet it
provided the underpinnings for future comedic musicals, including Mel Blanc’s The Producers. There’s a twinkle in
Sondheim’s eyes when he speaks about his work. Stuffy would be the last word
I’d use to describe him (an elitist could never have written the lyrics for West Side Story, 1957).
The
entrenched belief that Sondheim writes inaccessible music and lyrics is an
assumption without evidence. On the contrary, a segment of the HBO documentary addressed
how audiences often “tune out” when listening to songs that are predictable
both in lyrics and melody.
I wrote a week ago a blog about how I loathed the
question, “What Is My Favorite. . .” anything.
To be contradictory, for this blog, I must write that my favorite
Sondheim musical is: Sunday in the Park
with George, for which composer/lyricist received the Pulitzer Prize. As I
watched the documentary about the artist, I smiled, very pleased that Sondheim
also favored that musical. It’s his most personal work, he admits.
Listening
and watching Sunday in the Park with
George (1985) is a journey. The goal, Stephen Sondheim asserts is for
audiences to leave the theatre having been stimulated, not necessarily by
“hummable” tunes. The music can be orgasmic. French women have said about
sexuality that the journey supersedes the outcome. Once lovers stop striving
for fireworks, the intimacy in exploring one another’s desires will naturally
lead to climatic moments. A metaphor for the phrasing of a Sondheim song. Listen
to his music, his lyrics. They are breathtaking, beautiful, haunting and
memorable. “Move On, ” from Sunday in the
Park with George comprises words which elicit practical advice and profound
philosophy, depending on what lifetime experience you bring to it: “Don’t worry
about where you’re going, move on.” This
song is relatable: who doesn’t worry
about the future? Creating art does
involve life’s disparate paths.
Personally I absorb Sondheim songs.
With each word, each phrase I am led on a subtle, multi-layered trip that
culminates in deep revelation. Others may hear songs from Sunday in the Park with George without analyzing, just experiencing
the beauty and touching quality that the songs elicit. After all, like any art
form, music is subjective. However, I assert that Sondheim can reach those who
never took Music 101 (I didn’t either. My exposure to music has been
experiential, with a few years of unproductive piano lessons and singing in
choruses.)
The song,
“Sunday,” ( also from Sunday in the Park
With George) exemplifies my opinion. In James Lapine’s documentary, Sondheim
called this piece a “triumphant march.” To use a less operatic description, “Sunday”
could be called a celebratory hymn honoring the creative process. In “Sunday”
Stephen Sondheim seemingly tricks it’s listener into believing that the song would
end with a bombastic crescendo, as with many show tunes (The Music Man and Hello Dolly,
e.g.) and on radio (Barry Manilow or Celine Dion, e.g.). No, Sondheim’s musical
technique takes a different trek. “Sunday”, in fact, rises from a whisper to a
stirring fortissimo, grabbing your heart strings as your blood surges, only to
decrescendo into a minor chord descending a staircase leading to a final monologue
by Seurat’s descendant as he reads Dot’s journal: “White. A blank page or
canvas. His favorite. . .So many possibilities.” Exploring possibilities, here
I’d say Sondheim is providing us with his mantra. As he travels through his
professional life his works evolve and change. His music and lyrics aren’t cast
in stone.
And to
those who find Sondheim’s stories depressing, then I’d argue see another show
or the same one again (Even Sweeney Todd has
a hopeful finale). With Sunday in the
Park with George, Sondheim clearly wants the listener to see the future as
a place for promise. What an uplifting message to leave with your audience, “.
. .So many possibilities,” although intrinsically the story is immersed in
realism.
The
composer/lyricist, Stephen Sondheim, cannot separate himself from his art,
as was true for the painter, George Seurat. Exceptional artists are often
insular, sometimes selfishly so—incapable of seeing their private lives
dissolving around them. However, isn’t this true for many career-driven
aspirants? Indeed, in ambition-driven professions—for
profit or not-for-profit, such as real
estate development or running an off-Broadway theater—those who succeed often sacrifice their family life for
their own vision or being the top of their profession. Call it selfishness, yet I believe many of
our world’s greatest discoveries, inventions, and artistic masterpieces required
or have called for complete focus. Returning to Sunday in the Park with George to illustrate, Seurat’s model, muse
and mistress, Dot, sees George Seurat’s unflinching immersion and understands
the artist could never love her enough to sacrifice his art. She walks away,
isn’t pushed out. Dot expresses her revelation in the song, “We Do Not Belong
Together.” Poignant but correct.
Sondheim
sacrificed having children in his life, a regret, but an implied choice he would have
made again. Stephen Sondheim knows people
better than they do themselves. He sees beyond romantic syrup and portrays his
characters as if we were to observe them in real life. At the end of earlier musicals
by other composers, theater-goers often “whistled a happy tune” as they left. Like
cotton candy, audience members would often hum a tasty, sweet song but once
home, the pink, sticky fluffy candy would dissolve, leaving a faint reminder. Sondheim
includes a more complex aftertaste. He includes the sour along with the sweet.
When pedestrians
in New York, in the documentary, were asked, “What’s your favorite Sondheim song?” Those who
recognized his name would answer “Send in the Clowns,” with some stating that
they didn’t understand the song’s meaning. Having listened to “Send in the
Clowns,” several versions, the intoxicating words are filled with meaning and
should be interpreted in the context of his musical, A Little Night Music (1973). Then
again, the song can stand alone if the listener understands: timing is a
central component of human life. Sometimes life’s events run parallel, others
intersect, while others go off in different directions.
For me, Sondheim is the Mozart of musical theatre (A Little Night Music is the translation of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, for those who didn’t see the connection).
Mozart loved the working class of Austria for they saw Mozart as a man of his
time and of the people. Sondheim writes for all
of us. His stories, lyrics, and music, however, don’t require a classical
background, a college degree or a music upbringing, only an open heart, open
ears and an ability to go beyond the obvious, to genuinely listen.
My hope
for the future is that my blog followers and others who haven’t explored the
rapturous world of Stephen Sondheim’s music will take the chance. Go to
YouTube and search his name. Hear the music as sung by several of our greatest
vocalists, musical interpreters. Spread the word if you enjoy his compositions.
And if this
essay doesn’t convince you, I suspect Stephen Sondheim might offer,
as a response to your choice, the last line from
his hit Send in the Clowns, “Well,
maybe. . .next year.”
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