Paragons of virtuosity
An outstanding Sondheim production landed all too fittingly in the wake of Tom Stoppard's death
Saturday brought the sad news that Tom Stoppard — who had spent more than half a century creating theater that crackled with inventiveness and intellectual energy — had died. The following day I marched off to San Francisco Playhouse for a superb performance of Into the Woods by Stephen Sondheim, who before his death in 2021 had infused the world of the musical with a comparable vitality and ingenuity. The result was a confluence so glibly appropriate that it felt like bad art; either man would have rejected the scenario as too obvious if the writer had been anyone but the uncaring universe, which is always something of a hack.
There were significant differences between these two creative geniuses, but the parallels feel far more pertinent. Their bodies of work are built, both foundationally and superficially, upon a degree of virtuosity that can’t help but dazzle all who encounter it. The intricate construction of a Stoppard play, with its infusion of exhaustively researched material on chaos theory or moral philosophy or Latin grammar or the Velvet Revolution, sets the viewer’s mind racing right out of the gate; one of its many pleasures is the sheer exertion required to keep up with things. Something similar happens when encountering Sondheim’s songs, with their multilayered web of thematic references and maniacal profusion of rhymes and wordplay.
The criticisms from skeptics have also been notably similar: The work is chilly, even sterile. There are no people. It’s cleverness for its own sake.
This, of course, is nonsense. What’s striking in both Stoppard’s and Sondheim’s oeuvre, for anyone with eyes to see and ears to hear, is how deeply, radiantly humane they are. Yes, the aerodynamic witticisms of the one and the chiseled lyrics of the other are constructed with laser precision. But the technique is always in the service of flesh-and-blood characters whose aspirations and love and heartache are either right on the surface, or any rate nestled beneath a tissue-thin veneer of artifice. In Stoppard’s plays the people are always right there in front of you, whether it’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern batting away existential dread with one-liners, or the mournful, aging figure of A.E. Housman in the underrated The Invention of Love, or every single character in Arcadia, the breathtaking masterpiece that crowns Stoppard’s catalog with a touch of the divine.
This is also true of Into the Woods, Sondheim and playwright James Lapine’s archly ingenious exploration of the Grimms’ fairy tales. More than that, though, the relationship between artifice and human experience is in fact the subject of the work. This is a piece that tries to understand — and tries to get its audience to understand — the ways in which art does and doesn’t match up with real life. (It’s much more profound on this subject, in my opinion, than Sunday in the Park with George.)
In Act 1, Sondheim and Lapine knit together some half-a-dozen familiar childhood tales — those of Rapunzel, Cinderella, Jack and the Beanstalk, Little Red Riding Hood, and more — so that their storylines constantly overlap. It’s a tour de force of narrative stitchery, but even here there are emotional and psychological undercurrents running throughout: the ambivalence of Cinderella at the royal ball (“On the Steps of the Palace”), the world-altering force of Jack’s trip to the top of the beanstalk (“Giants in the Sky”), or my favorite song, “I Know Things Now,” which in no more than three minutes casts Little Red Riding Hood’s passage through the Wolf’s gullet as a metaphor for her induction into the slimy, scary, and exciting world of sex.
But then what? As Into the Woods reminds us, those stories all begin with “Once upon a time” and end with “happily ever after.” Wise children understand, as if intuitively, not to probe too deeply into that latter phrase. In Act 2, though, Sondheim and Lapine take us on a daunting journey behind that veil of discretion. If the Act 1 fairy tales of our childhoods sanitize the pain and terror of the world into a manageable form, Act 2 shows us the world more as it is. People die. The old rules, so painstakingly acquired, turn out to be more equivocal than we were taught. We have to find our own path through the woods, often without others to guide us.
All of this, and more, is made manifest in director Susi Damilano’s compact but zesty production, which features music direction by Dave Dobrusky and choreography by Nicole Helfer. The cast is large and versatile, capturing all the work’s humor and pathos. There are particularly fine individual contributions from Jillian A. Smith (Cinderella), Ruby Day (the Baker’s Wife), and Olivia Hellman (Little Red Riding Hood), but in the end the essence of Into the Woods lies in its communal qualities — the way all the stories fuse into one, exemplifying the final sentiment, “No One Is Alone.”
Into the Woods: San Francisco Playhouse, through Jan. 17. www.sfplayhouse.org.
Elsewhere:
Steve Murray, Broadway World: “Leave it to Sondheim to create a story rich in our universal fascination with the fantasy of fairytales, yet deeply rooted in very human behaviors.”
Jim Gladstone, Bay Area Reporter: “One of its best-known songs is the lush, almost hymnal “No One Is Alone.” At San Francisco Playhouse, director Susi Damilano stages this penultimate number as intertwined duets sung from far opposite sides of Heather Kenyon’s moody woodland set.”
Cryptic clue of the week
From Out of Left Field #296 by guest constructor Bob Weisz, sent to subscribers last Thursday:
Unruly crowd of men? Gross (3,5)
Last week’s clue:
Field a military assault (5)
Solution: SALLY
Field: definition
a military assault: second definition
Coming up
• Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra & Chorale: Valérie Sainte-Agathe, director of the Chorale part of PBO&C, takes the helm for a Christmas-themed program that brings choral singing to the fore. Some of the music is familiar, including Vivaldi’s Gloria and Corelli’s Christmas Concerto. But there are new offerings as well, including a world premiere by the composer (and baritone) Roderick Williams and a U.S. premiere by Caroline Shaw. Arrive early for a holiday appetizer by the San Francisco Girls Chorus. Dec. 5, Herbst Theatre. Dec. 6, First Congregational Church, Berkeley. Dec. 7, Bing Concert Hall, Stanford. www.philharmonia.org.
• Trio Mediæval: Vocal music doesn’t get much more eerily beautiful than the offerings of this Norwegian trio, whose performances (as their name suggests) are primarily concentrated on music of the Middle Ages. But that focus often expands to include contemporary fare as well. The group’s upcoming program is a celebration of Hildegard von Bingen, and along with her music features more recent offerings by Marianne Reidarsdatter Eriksen, Sungji Hong, Gavin Bryars, and more. Dec. 5, St. Mark’s Lutheran Church. www.sfperformances.org.
Thank you for the full-throated defense - which should not be necessary - of these two giants.
At the risk of speaking ill of the dead: I was never much of a Sondheim guy, but while writing my first musical, 'February House,' Bob Hurwitz, longtime head of Nonesuch Records, implored me to read the two volumes of annotated lyrics (Finishing the Hat, etc.). I read both and found them illuminating/edifying/all the things. "Now I understand Sondheim!" I thought.
Then I saw a production of 'Into the Woods' and came away with the impression that what's most successful about the show is actually Lapine's book, which is consistently and effortlessly funny and moving. The songs, meanwhile—as in most of his shows—are musically undistinguished and lyrically showy. I have often thought that when it comes to lyric writing for the theater, cleverness is the enemy of truth. It is more often than not emotionally distancing, drawing our attention to the wit of the songwriter rather than to the psychological core of the character.
This may be a bridge to far, but I speculate that as our society has become more individualistic, artists like Sondheim have been venerated in spite of the fact that their particular craft serves to burnish their reputations rather than strengthening the art form. We genuflect before the altar of Sondheim because we're impressed by his wordplay, not because his wordplay reveals anything particularly deep about his characters.
(places bomb, lights fuse, leaves room)