HERE’S TO YOU, STEPHEN SONDHEIM
Like a Greek hero, a ceremony ought to take place upon the death of one of the greats. Upon hearing Stephen Sondheim died this past week, I scrolled through Twitter to read the glowing tributes and memories about the man. Lin-Manuel Miranda, the creator of Hamilton, shared an email chain between the two, thanking him for his wisdom and guidance while piecing together that recent Broadway masterpiece. Former actors in his plays, the great playwrights, everyone from around the world that was touched by his music and lyrics shared something about the influences of his work.
“He was the reason I started writing music.”
“I saw West Side Story when I was eight and it changed my life.”
I’d consider myself changed by Stephen Sondheim’s work. The greatest of his works (for me personally) was Into the Woods. It’s a play of interweaving fairy tales set in the midst of a thick wood where the lives of the multiple protagonists are changed for better or worse. It’s a play about the consequences of our lives, that happily-ever-after doesn’t follow when the first act of our lives is finished. There’s always more and we must face who we’ve become whilst in the woods. It’s a beautiful story and I wanted to give tribute to what’s it meant for me.
Except, I’m a far-away observer. I’ll raise my glass, but who am I in the context of sharing Stephen Sondheim’s joyous works?
I’ll tell you what I did. I did as most mere mortals do: I watched my favorite of his works—the Disney version of Into the Woods in honor of his memory.
Not that this watch was different than the previous four times I’ve seen the film, but I made sure to really hear the lyrics this time, appreciating the magical wordplay Stephen Sondheim wrote. “The Prologue” might be the greatest musical introduction in the history of musical theater, weaving the stories and origins of all the protagonists, all the while setting the stage for what changes their lives forever. I was moved by all of it, even Milky White, the cow that was Jack’s best friend to be sold to market.
And I made it 38 Minutes into the movie, just in time to hear the beginning of “Giants in the Sky,” sung by Daniel Huddlestone.
“There are giants in the…”
PAUSE.
“Chocolate milk,” I thought. “I should make myself some chocolate milk.”
So, I hopped off my bed and headed towards the kitchen to mix some Nesquik into a tall glass of milk, the perfect compliment to watching the show. With the Nesquik made, I sat back down on my bed, ready to press PLAY on my keyboard, and then I stopped: did I really just pause this masterpiece of musical theater so I could make a glass of Nesquik?
This bothered me greatly. I mean, I hadn’t even planned on making the chocolate milk before the movie started; it was a spontaneous idea, something that sounded good on a whim. This was supposed to be my small way of honoring a great lyricist and composer who’s death was tragic for the entire creative world. And during the movie, something I set aside special to watch in his honor, I paused in the middle of a song to make a glass of chocolate milk?
Why would I do that? If I were at the theater watching Into the Woods, I would never get up in the middle of the first act and head to the concession stand and say, “Weird request, but do you happen to serve chocolate milk here?”
No, I would never dream of interrupting the show. So, why did I get up?
With this guilt weighing me down, I placed the tall glass of chocolate milk on a coaster beside me, and pressed:
PLAY.
“..sky! / There are big, tall, terrible giants in the…”
Chocolate milk. I really want that chocolate milk…
“…sky! / When you’re way up high / and you look below / at the world you’ve left / and the things you know / little more than a glance / is enough to show / you just how small you are!”
I mean, it doesn’t hurt to sip it, right?
“When you’re way up high / And you’re on your own / In a world like none / That you’ve ever known / Where the sky is lead / And the earth is stone / You’re free to do / Whatever pleases you / Exploring things you’d never dare / ‘Cause you don’t care / When suddenly theres…”
Chocolate Milk. Look, it’s starting to cake over on top. Just drink it.
“A big, tall, terrible giant at the door / (A giant?) / A big, tall, terrible, lady giant sweepin’ the floor / And she gives you food…”
Like chocolate milk. Just drink it.
“…And she gives you rest / And draws you close / To her giant breast…”
Which is like an utter, where milk comes from. As in chocolate milk.
“…And you know things now / That you never knew before / Not ‘til the sky.”
Goddam it.
PAUSE.
I drank the chocolate milk, in nearly one gulp. The shame coursed through me just as easily as the cold liquid poured down my throat. I felt terrible; I couldn’t even properly watch a movie that I cherished, that was penned by a man who recently departed this world. I looked to my empty glass, the last grains of Nesquik waterfalling down the side to a muddy soup at the bottom, and I meekly raised it up. “To Stephen,” I said aloud.
Even if I couldn’t properly honor his contribution, I decided, at least I can claim that I tried.
And I think that’s what the entire world tried to do over this past week. If it wasn’t a menial Twitter post, then it was a tall, cold glass of Nesquik during Into the Woods—the Disney version.
So, raise a glass (a new one, not the one I just gulped chocolate milk from).
Here’s to you Stephen, a giant now in the sky.
PLAY.
***
A MUCH BETTER DEDICATION TO STEPHEN SONDHEIM
In a much more sincere and heartwarming tribute to Stephen Sondheim, stars and previous cast members of his many shows and the greater Broadway community appeared in Duffy Square in New York City to sing “Sunday” from the play Sundays in the Park with George. Lin Manuel-Miranda read a passage from Sondheim’s book, Look, I Made a Hat, and it was a wonderful prelude to the mission of the man and what he accomplished in his life.
The video comes curtesy of Playbill, so check out the link below to watch:
***
SURPRISE! A NEW SHORT STORY IS HERE!
Below is a link to the shortest short story I’ve ever written. I enjoyed writing it, both because of its length and also that so much can be inferred from so few details. My favorite art is that which gives the illusion of greater detail without providing it, like a few paint strokes that somehow, from a distance, look like the varying layers of rock or a mountainside. I won’t compare this short story to something as masterful as those artworks, but I’m curious to see what can be made with even fewer details.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
***
***
Wishing everyone as well as they can be. You’re not alone out there,
