Love and Agony in Manhattanland

The Bitter Brilliance of Sondheim, Part 1

by Jay Blotcher, January 25, 2007

Most of the revivals clogging the Great White Way for the past five years are blatant spasms of marketing aimed at the clueless category of tourist who expects Broadway to be a live regurgitation of primetime television. The proliferation of this new genre of theatre—and its relative success—merely reinforces the old saw that no one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public. Stunt casting continues; witness Tony Danza in "The Producers." I’ll not rest, however, until I’m in my orchestra seat when Martha Stewart plays The Baroness in the umpteenth revival of "The Sound of Music."

However, there is one current revival that will charm even the most jaded veteran theatregoer. And hopefully cleanse the palate of a new generation of first-nighters. It is the recent restaging at the Ethel Barrymore Theater of the 1970 musical "Company" by Stephen Sondheim and George Furth. Here is the story of a single man named Bobby, approaching his 35th birthday and wondering why he hasn't yet met his one and only. Nudging him toward marriage, even as they kick and scream in their own unions, are five couples who are his closest friends. (However, as Bobby observes, after another bout of their incessant meddling, “When you’ve got friends like mine...") Over the course of two acts, these people bare their hearts and air their neuroses about the myriad difficulties of finding love—and the difficulties once you find it. I’d like to say there is a universality to these truths—but Sondheim and Furth’s observations still seem mainly about Manhattanites.

Make no mistake; "Company" is not a musical to cuddle up to. It is a truculent worm inside The Big Apple; a harsh meditation on city living and the many reasons why most New Yorkers just can’t seem to connect. But its honesty is bracing and its optimism refreshing. And the score is brilliant, an adjective that rarely applies to musicals of any stripe.

Its messages are unvarnished truths and unbearably on-target. To wit: men and women are naturally at odds with one another. Love is closer to hatred than we realize. And neediness is the rule, not the exception. We’re all just clinging to one another and calling it romance because we’re afraid "The Grim Reaper" is lurking around that next corner. (In Manhattan, it’s a safe bet he is.) But as Sartre said at the end of "No Exit," another play that reminds us that hell is other people, "Well, let's get on with it." It's that unquenchable, if naive, faith that makes "Company" so special.

So, how did such repellent material become a landmark musical? Because Sondheim’s music is endearingly manic and his bittersweet insights are the result of pure cranky genius. (This musical is pure proof that if you scratch a cynic you will find the most heartrending of romantics, dying a little death everyday in this wicked world.) The only person who would quibble with the honesty of his lyrics is someone who is lying to himself about how we conduct our lives. When the musical first appeared, it had its detractors. The characters, critics carped, were not people you would want to know, all of them miserable in some way. But people eventually saw the genius in this work, and gave "Company" the Tony award for Best Musical. It is that rare thing: a work of genius. The only other musical that makes as many dead-on observations about life and love in New York City is 1981’s "March of the Falsettos" by William Finn. I employed both musical scores as a guide to how I lived and loved in my 19 years as a New Yorker.

I attended a production of "Company" recently with my man Brook and some friends. I had missed the mid-90s revival, which had its champions. This new staging was directed by John Doyle, the Brit who made his name over here by mounting a stripped-down version of another Sondheim gem “Sweeney Todd” which featured all cast members playing instruments. he reprises the gimmick here, to lesser effect. I thank Brook for this observation: "Company" always had a problem at its core. It is a series of vignettes rather than a continuous story. Consequently, the characters beyond Bobby never have a chance to grow (save for Joanne, who is broadly drawn from the start). Therefore, when you ask these thinly-sketched characters to lug instruments through the musical, you undermine whatever character development even possible. It is true; George Furth’s book ebbs and flows in its power, and the plot always plays straight man to the delicious wit of many of the lines. At the center of this production, Raul Esparza, a Bobby, offers a combination of manly brashness and little-boy-lost gestures that make him appealing. The rest of the cast, save for Barbara Walsh as Joanne, labor under the same weaknesses that originate with Furth’s book. I was also puzzled that the frenetic pacing of the music and dialogue seemed slowed down just a bit here. The characters were hipper and cooler. But New Yorkers have grown more manic since 1970, not less—unless Bobby’s friends were supposed to have found Prozac? Still, genius is a rare thing and in these days when dopiness has become a sacrament in politics and the arts, "Company" remains a valuable roadmap to life and love and sanity. Or rather, a comfortably insane version of it.

"Company" is currently on stage at the Ethel Barrymore Theater in New York City. For more information, visit: www.ibdb.com/venue.asp?ID=1147

Jay Blotcher, a former Manhattanite, began his Ulster County life as a weekender in 1996. He and his partner, Brook Garrett, now live in High Falls. Jay is a regular Chronogram contributor and has written for the New York Times, the Times Herald-Record, the Citizen, InsideOUT, and Ulster Publishing’s Almanac.