Stephen Sondheim (1930-2021)

1990 Photo by Fred Conrad for the New York Times

For someone who takes as much solace in art as I do, there's one less reason to go on living after yesterday's long dreaded news.

Stephen Sondheim by Al Hirschfeld (1977)

Aside from ignorantly loving "West Side Story" and thinking "Send in the Clowns" was a Judy Collins song,  I had a rocky introduction to Stephen Sondheim:  "Pacific Overtures" on Broadway with Cynthia not long after we graduated from Columbia.  I knew it was artful, but I could barely follow the book and the music lacked the disco beat that had been thumping in my brain since our first visit to Le Jardin.  I'm ashamed to say, the musical bored me to tears.

"West Side Story" by Al Hirschfeld

Stuart, my first boyfriend, and Barnet, my best gay friend, both were appalled. They worshipped at the altar of "Follies."

 

"Follies" by Al Hirschfeld

Then came David.  Just beginning his career as a set designer after moving to New York, he'd never even heard of Sondheim.  Masquerading as a New York sophisticate, I took him to see "Sweeney Todd." Even from the balcony of the Uris, we knew we were witnessing theatrical history when Angela Lansbury and Len Cariou sang "A Little Priest."  I can still recall David throwing his head back in delighted laughter. We bought the cassette tape which came in a long box and included the lyrics. I brought it along when my father and I drove to Alaska in 1980.  After a difficult sell, he began to hum "Nothing's Gonna Harm You," my favorite show tune for many years to come.

"Sweeney Todd" by Al Hirschfeld

Sondheim with Angela Lansbury & Len Cariou

Still, Sondheim didn't quite take.  Sure, like every other gay man of my generation,  I learned the sassy words of "I'm Still Here" from Carol Burnett and Elaine Stritch, and the Pet Shop Boy's remix of Liza's "Losing My Mind" was on repeat in the Pines throughout the summer of 1990, but whenever I read a review of the latest Sondheim show, I feared it would be over my head.  And unlike the rest of the world, I didn't much care for "Into the Woods," aside from Barbra's version of "Children Will Listen."

"Passion," another show I missed on Broadway, changed all that.  Barnet lent me tape his original cast recording which I listened to over and over again while re-painting my apartment, my heart breaking each time.  The "American Playhouse" broadcast with Donna Murphy and Jere Shea finally turned me into a Sondheim acolyte.  No one who didn't identify with Fosca could have written these gorgeous melodies and bitter words!

I began playing the back catalog and seeing all the discounted revivals I could afford.  I was equally determined to pass along my newfound enthusiasm.  Barnet and I took Magda to see "Follies."  And one rainy weekend in the Pines we played "Company" for Zoltan.  Audrey later told me with beaming pride "He's the only straight 2nd lieutenant in the Army who knows what's coming when he hears 'Bobby, Bobby . . ." 

But nothing quite prepared me for the reaction I had to the Studio 54 production of "Sunday in the Park with George," imported from the West End.  Barnet, who'd been given a pair of seats for his birthday,  asked me to go because I'd never seen it. Goosebumps, tears and saliva (we were in the 2nd or 3rd row of the center orchestra) to a degree I'd never experienced before even though none of the cast was familiar.  The end of the second act, when the players assemble in a tableau of Seraut's painting on the stage literally defines coup de theâtre.  And an equally strong intellectual reaction: surely "Sunday in the Park" is the finest portrayal of artistic creation in any medium.  Bravo!

"Sunday in the Park with George" by Al Hirschfeld

I paid $350 to recapture the magic less than a decade later in a Broadway production starring Jake Gyllenhaal.  At that price, I couldn't really enjoy it even with the added star power.  That revival also was indicative of the only bone I have to pick with Mr. Sondheim.  Shortly before his death, he was asked about the state of Broadway.  Wisely, he said he didn't care.  But I do:  how can we expect a younger generation to find its own Sondheim if they can't afford to go to the theater?

James Lapine & Stephen Sondheim by Gerry Goodstein (1983)

Still, that won't be my last memory of the 20th century-musical theater's greatest talent.  Netflix, Lin-Manuel Miranda and Bradley Whitford reveal in "Tick Tick . . . Boom!" that Mr. Sondheim really DID care about the future:  look no further than "Rent" for proof of that.  Miranda has said you can draw that line even further, straight to "Hamilton."

Stephen Sondheim, maestro and mensch, may you rest in peace.