This Day in Musical History (Stephen Sondheim’s ‘Pacific Overtures’ Opens)

Jan. 11, 1976—After a Boston preview and a one-month run at the Kennedy Center, Pacific Overtures premiered at Broadway’s Winter Garden Theatre. It was another success d’estime, but hardly a blockbuster, by Stephen Sondheim, closing after 193 performances.

Starting in the 1960s, twentysomething John Weidman worked on the story, about how the "black ship" of Commodore Matthew Calbraith Perry's East India Squadron ended more than two centuries of isolation from non-Dutch Westerners imposed by Japan's shogunate.

But after toiling on this straight drama for years, producer Harold Prince told Weidman he saw wider possibilities for opening it up, particularly as a musical in collaboration with Sondheim.

Though the show’s title came from a letter sent by Commodore Perry, it appealed to Sondheim’s interest in wordplay and ambiguity. The U.S. naval leader meant the phrase to signal peaceful gestures toward diplomacy (absurd on its face, considering that Perry trained guns on the populace during “negotiations”). But for Sondheim, it also meant an opening through music (“overtures”) of two nations separated by an ocean (the Pacific).

If not quite a 21^st-century “clash of civilizations,” the encounter certainly changed both races. And it startled both the creators of the show and its American viewers in that bicentennial year—who, if they heard of Commodore Perry at all, would have associated him with the kind of triumphalism displayed by Samuel Eliot Morison in his 1967 biography, Ol’ Bruin.

(For a more modern and objective perspective on these events, you might want to turn to Peter Booth Wiley’s 1990 history, Yankees in the Land of the Gods.)

In the Seventies, each show that Sondheim and Prince, had already mounted (Company, Follies, A Little Night Music, The Frogs) stretched the boundaries of the American musical. But this topped it all.

The all-male cast (an issue that Sondheim and Prince eventually revisited) was the least of it. The plot would be seen entirely through non-Western eyes: two Japanese friends caught (and made the scapegoats for) the ensuring epic national transition, through the conventions of Kabuki (a form of Japanese theater).

And Sondheim had set himself the task of writing the score within quasi-Japanese style of parallel 4ths, without any leading-tone or pentatonic scale. The whole thing proved unexpectedly, devilishly difficult.

(Nearly 30 years later, at the Roundabout Theater Company’s 2004 revival at Studio 54, Prince and Sondheim would live to witness the logical conclusion of their wish that the action be viewed through foreign eyes, as the musical was directed this time by Amon Miyamoto.)

As with most of those pre-workshop days of musical theater, changes were made on the fly, with deadlines bearing down on everyone. In getting ready the Kennedy Center production, Sondheim told one actor that his big number would be replaced with “Chrysanthemum Tea,” a song with four verses that needed to be memorized in three days!

In addition, “Welcome to Kanagawa,” Sondheim wrote in Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954-1981), was “the most annoyingly problematic song I’ve ever written. With each revival of Pacific Overtures I rewrite it and with each revival it fails to be funny.”

The wonder is that everything turned out as well as it did. Sondheim himself claimed to the end of his life that “Someone in a Tree” was the favorite of all his songs: “I like the swing and relentlessness of the music and the poetic Orientalism of the lyrics, but what I love is its ambition, its attempt to collapse past, present and future into one packaged song form.”

For more than 40 years, this was the Sondheim musical with which I was least familiar. I never heard the whole thing with lyrics, and had to make do with an orchestral suite arranging its seven “dances” or songs through a 1985 Book-of-the-Month Club collection of his work.

Then this week, in preparing this post, I came across this YouTube clip of the 1976 production, which ended up being shown then on Japanese television.

The Kennedy Center staged Pacific Overtures again as part of its 2001-2002 Sondheim Festival. But I think that producing it at this time would be the last thing that current management would consider.

A show about—let’s face it—imperialism, would not sit well with a chauvinistic, saber-rattling administration that effectively dictates policy and governance to a cultural institution once largely insulated from it.

Film Review: ‘Best Worst Thing That Ever Could Have Happened’

Longtime readers of this blog know that I am an aficionado of Stephen Sondheim. The first original-cast album of his that I ever bought—and took to heart—was not one of his Broadway successes (e.g., A Little Night Music), but instead Merrily We Roll Along. In prior posts, I considered this 1981 musical’s disastrous initial Broadway run (so bad that the lyricist-composer did not work again with longtime producer-director Harold Prince for another 20 years), and reviewed a wonderful revival of this work, four years ago, by the New York musical series Encores.

Even for those like me who are at least somewhat familiar with this decidedly mixed history, however, the 96-minute documentary Best Worst Thing That Ever Could Have Happened yielded many surprising insights. I missed a performance at the IFC Center in Greenwich Village a few weeks ago that featured several members—or, I should say, survivors—of the 1981 run. But I was fortunate enough to catch up on it at an afternoon showing at the Film Society of Lincoln Center last week.

One of those survivors was Lonny Price, one of the three original leads, narrates and directs this retrospective in a spirit that, like an earlier Sondheim song, might be termed “sorry-grateful.” Several years into making the film, he learned that footage long since believed lost—tapes for a “making-of” TV documentary that was shelved after the musical’s failure—had been rediscovered. That, together with some private footage (including a priceless scene where Sondheim, at a birthday party, previews a song that will appear in the show) allows for a contrast that mirrors the perspective of the musical itself: the sunlit hopes of theater-mad youth versus middle-aged disappointment and disillusionment.

Although both Sondheim and Prince open up about why they believe the show closed after only 16 performances (critics could not abide the two collaborators being both mavericks and successes, Sondheim says), it is fellow cast members who offer Price the most fascinating insights.

Some went on to prominent careers in entertainment, including “Seinfeld”s Jason Alexander, Tony Award-winning actress Tonya Pinkins, singer Liz Callaway, actor Giancarlo Esposito, and Jim Walton, a longtime Broadway fixture. Others struggled on the margins of the industry or even dropped out altogether, such as Ann Morrison, the principal female cast member; Jim Weissenbach, the show’s original Franklin Shepard, who now runs a talent agency; and Abby Pogrebin, who became a CBS producer and successful author. No matter how they turned out, a sense of acrid failure over the show’s failure clings, to one extent or another, to virtually everyone.

While Weissenbach reacts, with quiet bewilderment, to his firing and replacement in the principal role by Walton (claiming that neither Prince nor Sondheim gave him any sense he was doing anything wrong beforehand), the dominant note throughout is poignant, sometimes painful or even teary-eyed, particularly in the cases of Morrison, Pogrebin, and Price.

The musical’s previews—so disastrous that actors were sometimes singing to the backs of audience members heading for the exits—necessitated a blizzard of major last-minute changes unusual even for a major Broadway opening. Partly because of the decision to take the show straight to Broadway without an out-of-town tryout, rumors of problems multiplied, and critics pounced at the opening, ignoring larger facts in front of them: the brilliance of Sondheim’s score and the marvelous young talents in front of them.

Against all odds, the musical has gone on to a wondrous afterlife, continually performed around the world—including,  the film’s postscript notes, by children of the original cast members. But it’s hard to see how any of these performances could have topped the 2002 concert revival that reunited the original cast members. The exhilaration from that event, still palpable onscreen here, was such that Sondheim and Prince even reunited for a new musical (alas, also not successful), Bounce.

Best Worst Thing That Ever Could Have Happened has been out a couple of months already and therefore likely to appear on DVD, public television or cable station soon. If you have a chance, I strongly urge you to see this look at a musical that became famous for its spectacularly public death, only to enjoy an unexpectedly triumphant afterlife.

Flashback, May 1984: Sondheim’s Pulitzer Prize-Winning ‘Sunday’ Debuts

Sunday in the Park With George, with its first of 604 performances at Booth Theatre on May 2, 1984, put Stephen Sondheim back in the conversation as Broadway’s most innovative playwright, after the wrenching failure three years before of Merrily We Roll Along.   

Reviews were not uniformly admiring and he would be virtually shut out at the next Tony Awards, but the composer-lyricist who had overturned musical theater conventions in the prior decade with Company, Follies, Pacific Overtures and Sweeney Todd before long had something that had escaped him (and other composers) for a while: a Pulitzer Prize.

So savage were the reviews for Merrily and so swift its end (only 16 performances) that it’s a wonder Sondheim could get his head off the pillow afterward, let alone that he could attempt anything artistically audacious again. The experience had been so traumatic that it ruptured his two-decade professional and personal association with producer-director Harold Prince. From this point on, except for the musical Bounce 20 years later, Sondheim’s primary collaborator would be playwright-director James Lapine. The composer’s work process would change accordingly.

In an immediate sense, Lapine was an indispensable help to carrying out Sondheim’s vision for this latest musical, which was inspired by the Impressionist painting A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte. With an extensive background in art (including an M.F.A.), Lapine was quite familiar with the two periods covered by the play: 1880s Paris and its modern equivalent, 1980s New York.

To mirror the Pointillist technique of painter Georges Seurat, Sondheim crafted songs that, when not rhythmic, were disjointed and staccato. (Even the name of the painter’s mistress, “Dot,” reflects the Impressionist style.) The technique was daring, especially in relation to Merrily, which was written as a series of 32-bar songs, in the traditional style that had dominated musical comedy since the early 20^th century.

Sondheim’s intellectual justification for his musical choices did not always sit well with audiences, a fact he burlesqued in Merrily when producer Joe Josephson urges Frank and lyricist partner Charlie to come up with works that will leave playgoers “hummin' those hummable melodies.” It has been said that he was quite peeved when Jerry Herman, after beating out Sondheim for best score at the 1984 Tony Awards, told the audience in his acceptance speech, "There's been a rumor that the simple hummable show tune is dead on Broadway. Well, it's alive and well at the Palace [where his show, La Cage aux Folles, was playing]!"

Sunday in the Park With George represents a shift in Sondheim’s career for another reason: It was the first time he had tested his material in the modern workshop format, which one of his biographers, Stephen Citron, would aptly term “a sort of open-ended rehearsal period.” When Sondheim started out in musical theater in the Fifties, problems would be worked on frantically away from Broadway and the media in different cities.

Beginning with A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum in 1962, Prince and Sondheim would work with a small group of actors before mounting it. The composer was not to be rushed. As he told Robert Berkvist of The New York Times in a 1979 interview: “I'm a slow writer. I don't want to spend three weeks writing a song and then find it's the wrong song. I want to be sure it's the right song before writing it." This could drive Prince and others associated with his shows crazy, but their annoyance, at least, acted as a spur to Sondheim, who over the years has admitted to procrastinating.

The modern workshop format (which, in its more elaborate modern form, began when director Michael Bennett used it for A Chorus Line) had seemed to offer a different, less expensive alternative. But the same cost issues that had bedeviled out-of-town tryouts began to exert themselves here, as workshops became more elaborate. 

One of the people afflicted by this was Sondheim. He and Prince collaborated on six shows between Company in 1970 and Merrily We Roll Along in 1981. (And they might have had another show in there but for the heart attack Sondheim suffered mid-decade.) In contrast, Sondheim and Lapine worked on only four in a roughly comparable period.

As Sondheim admitted in his lyrics-with-commentary compendium, Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954-1981) with Attendant Comments, Principles, Heresies, Grudges, Whines and Anecdotes, workshops progressed “from the simplicity of actors sitting around a table with scripts they barely had time to read and a composer singing solo at a piano to elaborately staged and choreographed semi-productions with skeletal sets and suggestions of costumes, complete with a small band and a large invited audience. What had begun as a learning experience for the authors became transmogrified into a thinly disguised backers’ audition….Workshops with carefully chosen lull-sized casts, staged to entertain deep-pocketed strangers, are virtually worthless, certainly nowhere near as instructive as a performance with one person reading and one person (or two, if it’s a team) playing and singing through the show. I’m pained to say that I speak from experience.”

In keeping with Sondheim’s determination to forge a new direction in his post-Prince career, Sunday marks a new perspective on his characters. Previously, his musicals (nearly all, remarkably, derived from original material rather than prior literary sources) had been outer-directed, delving into marriage, class inequality, and racism. Even Merrily, a show ostensibly about musical collaborators, ultimately concerns the corrosive impact of success on friendship and marriage, in the larger context of massive social change in America over the course of a generation. The main character, composer Franklin Shepard, subconsciously might have represented a way to vent lingering resentment at Sondheim's collaborator on the misbegotten Do I Hear a Waltz?, Richard Rodgers—whose manifest creative brilliance co-existed with sharp, even cold-blooded skill as a businessman. Merrily was sour in concept, and, for the composer and director who had been longtime friends, it ended sourly.

In contrast, Sunday is inner-directed: a show about the creative process. The first half of the play (most, including myself, would agree, the better half) might concern events from a century ago, but so little was known about the real Seurat that Lapine and Sondheim felt liberated to imagine his life in largely fictional detail.

And so, in writing about a 19^th-century French painter, Sondheim may have created his most autobiographical work, a vessel in which he could pour his feelings about the frustrations and glories of the creative process. Solitary and private (by necessity for most of his life to that point, because of lack of acceptance for his homosexuality), Sondheim wrote out of understanding for an artist so obsessed with “Putting It Together” that no relationship could compete with the products of his easel.

Like much of the rest of the musical, “Finishing the Hat” vibrates with the composer’s and his subject’s tensions, the onlooker of life in painful yet triumphant proximity to the generator of creative life:

“There's a part of you always standing by

Mapping out the sky

Finishing a hat, starting on a hat

Finishing a hat, look I made a hat

Where there never was a hat.”

The show was mounted again, this time by the Roundabout Theatre Co., six years ago. (See my review here.) Enhanced production techniques still could not hide the fact that the second act was anti-climactic. But the musical remains, like its creator, challenging--and, despite the claims of the composer's frequent critics, moving.

Theater Review: Sondheim’s ‘Merrily We Roll Along,’ at Encores!

“How can you get so far off the track?/Why don't you turn around and go back?” the chorus asks in Merrily We Roll Along—and for three decades, that question has bedeviled the show’s creators. For Stephen Sondheim, the most significant influence in musical theater in the last half-century, the challenge has always been how to get back on track a musical that, by the end of its original 16-performance Broadway run, had provoked the execration of critics and the desertion of audiences, not to mention a two-decade professional split from longtime friend and director Harold Prince. (See a prior post of mine on this.)

This past Sunday, I attended a matinee at the tail end of a two-week revision of the show at City Center, where it ran as part of its “Encores!” series of neglected musicals. This series has, since 1994, presented concert versions of old shows in which singers will often appear with scripts in hands. But this show felt far more like a finished, polished production.

In the past, a couple of Encores presentations--the Anne Reinking-Bebe Neuwirth production of Chicago and the Patti Lupone-led Gypsy--resulted in Broadway runs. Predictably, Ben Brantley of The New York Times put the kibbosh on that idea for Sondheim‘s show: “By the end you felt that same old mixture of exhilaration and deflation that ‘Merrily’ — beautiful and damned ‘Merrily’ — always inspires.”

Reactions of past (and, in Brantley’s case, present) critical naysayers haven’t meant the end of Merrily, though. Longtime New York deejay Jonathan Schwartz has a phrase for this type of show: “a distinguished failure,” a musical that might not have proved popular but had much merit. (Think Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Allegro, or Jerry Herman’s Mack and Mabel.) Others—myself very much included—would call this genre “the cult musical,” underscoring the level of devotion many feel for an underdog property.

The original-cast album of Merrily was the first Sondheim soundtrack I ever purchased, and, like Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run, it made me a fan of the artist for the duration. I was drawn to its magnificent, if uncharacteristic, brassy sound, and with the passage of time its themes—of friendship and the compromises along the path of life—have only deepened its meaning for me.

Thankfully, not only fans have refused to lie the show die, but also Sondheim, the late writer of its book, George Furth, and James Lapine, who has functioned as Sondheim’s principal collaborator since the end of the association with Prince. Before this latest production, they had worked on three different permutations of the show over the years: at LaJolla Playhouse, New York’s York Theater, and in Leicester, England.

The show needed all this attention because of its challenges. It was based on source material--George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart’s play of the same name--that itself bombed on Broadway in 1934. Sondheim, Prince and libretto writer George Furth kept the same reverse-chronological narrative technique of that show. Recent critics have likened that approach to the film The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but the much more relevant similarity is to Harold Pinter’s Betrayal—where, like this, not only a wife is sacrificed but friendship.

Additionally, Sondheim and his collaborators tested audience sympathies through the story of three friends that, we learn from the opening scene, have gone their separate ways: Franklin Shepard (played in this production by Colin Donnell), Broadway composer turned sellout Hollywood producer; his nerdy lyricist partner Charlie Kringas (Lin-Manuel Miranda), who on his own has written a Pulitzer Prize-winning play; and Mary Flynn (Celia Keenan-Bolger), an alcoholic novelist whose one bestseller is years behind her. It’s hard to sympathize with successful people who are miserable, critics sniffed--ignoring the fact that Rodgers and Hart’s classic Pal Joey has an out-and-out heel for its protagonist.

Thankfully, Lapine has gone back to basics with the show. Gone are the tacky sweaters (e.g., BEST FRIEND, EX-WIFE) that sent everyone into conniptions on the unwisely-spent money of the original; in its place are video montages that give a sense of what the three friends meant to each other through the years. Gone are actors barely out of their teens, attempting (unsuccessfully, by most accounts) to portray convincingly characters across a quarter-century span; instead, the plot action has been shortened to 19 years, making it easier for actors in their late 20s or early 30s to act both ends of the musical’s age spectrum.

More important, the emphasis is back where it belongs: on the music.

How do all these changes add up? From a stagecraft viewpoint—Lapine’s specialty—the changes are more noticeable, and welcome. From the viewpoint of music—Sondheim’s bailiwick—it’s more or less a wash.

The best songs from the original stay in this version: “Not a Day Goes By,” “Old Friends,” “Good Thing Going,” and a witty send-up of the extravagant hopes engendered after Kennedy’s election, “Bobby and Jackie and Jack.” One “new” song, “That Frank,” is a slightly reworked version of “Rich and Famous.” The truly “new” songs here—“It’s a Hit!”, “The Blob,” “Growing Up,” and “Musical Husbands,” the kind of sassy, massive production number that Jerry Herman and Cy Coleman mastered in 1960s Broadway smashes—advance character and plot, but are unlikely to be taken to heart by Sondheim aficionados.

Unlike other Sondheim shows such as Sweeney Todd, Company and Follies, Merrily features younger characters, attracting performers who tend not to be marquee names. That diminishes its box-office potential and highlights the need for skillful performances in the lead roles.

Lin-Manuel Miranda, himself a composer and lyricist (In the Heights, Bring It On: The Musical), shines the brightest among the three leads, delivering the show’s most sustained (if uncomfortable) comic highlights in his bravura interpretation of a nationally broadcast nervous breakdown, “Franklin Shepard Inc.”

Celia Keenan-Bolger’s voice, while not classically powerful or beautiful, is steady and audible over the full orchestra, and she manages to wring every emotional note out of Mary’s Dorothy Parker-ish, guys-don’t-make-passes-at-girls-who-wear glasses lovelorn cynic.

The blandness of Colin Donnell (most recently, the heartthrob male lead of the Roundabout production of Anything Goes) actually works in favor of this production—the problematic protagonist becomes not so much the heel of prior incarnations but a man too weak to withstand temptation.

Vocally, the most gifted cast members are two supporting actresses: Betsy Wolfe, as Frank's good-hearted first wife Beth, and Elizabeth Stanley, as her successful, a musical comedy star-mantrap, both of whom perform magnificently in their solos ("Not a Day Goes By" and "Musical Husbands," respectively).

It’s not enough to ask whether the flaws of Merrily We Roll Along remain ineradicable. The more important question is, are they disabling? The answer is: Not at all. Those of us who caught this most recent production count ourselves blessed that we finally saw, in New York, a production of the show that minimized its faults and offered some of the most thrilling songs in the entire Sondheim catalogue the way they were meant to be played: with a full orchestra. This production’s creators really did have a “Good Thing Going” this time.

This Day in Theater History (Sondheim’s “Company,” 1st Concept Musical, Opens)

April 26, 1970—On the short list of productions that changed Broadway, the first non-linear, concept musical, Company, premiered at the Alvin Theater. It was the first of five collaborations in the 1970s between composer Stephen Sondheim and director Harold Prince that tested audience tastes and stretched the boundaries of musical theater.

In Company, I would argue, Sondheim began to use his musical “voice” with self-confidence and mastery. It was easy to miss in his early work, which was overshadowed by senior songwriting partners Leonard Bernstein, Jule Styne and Richard Rodgers, or by crushing failure. (See my post on the cult favorite Anyone Can Whistle.)

But now, critics and audiences became fully aware of his technical and emotional range—especially seen through lyrics suffused with intelligence, wit and ambivalence about modern life and relationships. “I prefer neurotic people,” he told Newsweek in 1973. “I like to hear rumblings beneath the surface.”

The marriages in this ensemble piece are, more often than not, emotionally brittle, taking their cue from the city’s nervous energy. You can see it in a song like “Another Hundred People,” and especially in “Not Getting Married Today,” a vocally taxing tune whose breakneck speed conveys its main character, a bride having a nervous breakdown just before the ceremony.

Let’s stop for a second. Even as I write about Sondheim’s “self-confidence,” I can’t help but think how much Company, like other great shows, came together almost as a happy accident.

Start with this: It wasn’t supposed to be a musical in the first place.

Actor George Furth (best remembered for his priceless small scenes as the diehard railway employee Woodcock in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid) had written a series of one-act plays, meant to be performed with one actor taking on the lead role in each. When asked what he thought of the idea, Prince said it would work better as a musical.

Then, think of the Man Who Would Be Bobby, the 35-year-old bachelor protagonist who resists his married friends’ urging to commit himself to a relationship. Critics have long noted that Bobby is a rather enigmatic figure. That might be at least partly because his identity has shifted with and been reshaped by the three actors originally associated with the role:

* Furth and Sondheim began to invent scenes and emotional textures for Bobby with the thought that Anthony Perkins would play the part. But Perkins went on to direct a different project.

* Dean Jones was then cast as Bobby. Those who have bought the original-cast album know that he possessed a strong voice. Unfortunately, the musical’s uncertainty concerning marriage hit too close to home for Jones, who was going through a painful divorce at the time. Prince agreed to let him out of his contract if Jones could make it a couple of weeks past the premiere.

* Jones’ replacement, Larry Kert, the original Tony in West Side Story, was so good in his role—and the circumstances surrounding Jones’ departure so unusual—that the Tony nominating committee were persuaded to nominate him for the Tony.