The Book of Broadway Musical Debates, Disputes, and Disagreements

INTRODUCTION

This book is for completely dedicated musical theater fans.

And how are such people defined?

You’re a completely dedicated musical theater fan if you can remember where you were standing and what you were doing when you heard that Patti LuPone was having her hips replaced.

You’re also qualified if you believe that those who don’t like musicals are Children of a Lesser God.

In addition, you hate at least one musical that most everyone else loves and you love at least one musical that most everyone else hates. You can also give scores of reasons why you don’t like certain scores.

And just let anyone try to convince you otherwise.

Musical theater enthusiasts learn early on that we can’t agree on everything. When a bunch of us get together and start trading opinions, if we occasionally see eye to eye, that counts as one of the hundred million miracles that happens every day.

But far more often than not, civilized discussions turn to heated arguments and opinions are stated as incontrovertible facts.

So here’s a book to make your blood boil—well, I should say! As Passionella sings in The Apple Tree, That’s what I’m here for—dispensing one man’s opinions on many musical theater matters.

You’re well within your rights to respond:

What?! How could he possibly think that!

Huh?! How could he leave out (fill-in-the-blank)?!

Did he simply ignore (fill-in-the-blank?!) or just forget?

Is he kidding!?

"Is he crazy?!"

On the other hand, maybe every now and then you’ll find yourself nodding your head in agreement when you see the conclusions that your author has reached.

In terms of structure, we’re taking a leaf out of the Tony Awards playbook. Most of the time, a Tony category has five nominees and an eventual winner. As a result, far more often than not, we’ll have five nominees in each category, one of which will be an Author’s Choice that names the winner.

Sometimes there’ll be fewer nominees, just as the Tonys have had. In 1995, the nation heard "The nominees for Best Musical are Smokey Joe’s Café. Sunset Boulevard. and the Tony goes to—."

And then there was Aaron Tveit’s uncontested win for Moulin Rouge. Conversely, there will on occasion be six, which has been known to happen in certain Tony categories, too.

Theater, as we know, is ephemeral. A case can even be made that these days, the only time we even hear the word ephemeral occurs when someone talks about theater.

Granted, this isn’t as true as it used to be. Videos, be they professionally or surreptitiously shot, have captured many shows and performances in the last four decades.

But alas, comparatively few alive today saw Gypsy with Ethel Merman, Angela Lansbury, Tyne Daly, Linda Lavin, Bernadette Peters, and Patti LuPone to say with any authority which one was the definitive Broadway Rose.

Fewer still are alive today who saw the original Oklahoma! even toward the end of its then-mammoth run. Happily, since 1943, when the cast of Oklahoma! went into a Decca studio and made the original cast album, a legitimate part of theater and recording history, generations have had some idea of which Broadway personalities were wonderful and which ones weren’t.

Thus, most choices will be selected from Oklahoma! and beyond.

Don’t look for detailed plot synopses for the hits; those will be few, for summations of those musicals can be found in dozens of other tomes. However, you will find synopses for lesser-known musicals just in case you missed these short-running shows.

All set? To quote the name of a 1943 Rodgers and Hammerstein musical that played New Haven and Boston (before its title was changed for Broadway), Away We Go!

CHAPTER ONE

Debating the Musicals

WHEN A TIME MACHINE IS INVENTED, WHAT MUSICAL WOULD YOU FIRST RETURN TO SEE?

Girl Crazy (1930). When Ethel Merman hit that high-C for sixteen bars in I Got Rhythm, did the first-nighters scream halfway through as they would today? At the end, did anyone go Whooo! Or did applauding in awe suffice?

Another Evening with Harry Stoones (1961). Barbra Streisand’s one and only off-Broadway show opened on October 21, 1961, and closed on—yes—October 21, 1961.

Diana Sands, the original Beneatha in A Raisin in the Sun, was in it, too; so was ever-so-delightfully silly comedian Dom DeLuise.

With those three on board, could it really have been that bad? We’ll never know.

Yet here’s the real question: Had we been there, would we have said Gee, that young woman whose first name was misspelled in the program is really something?

(Probably.)

1776 (1970). Stuart Ostrow produced the Tony-winning musical on Broadway but decided not to bring a company to London. So Alexander H. Cohen, the Broadway producer who had little luck or wisdom with musicals, did the honors.

Ostrow must have inferred that The West End wouldn’t welcome a show with such lines as The king is a tyrant and such lyrics as We say to hell with Great Britain!

1776 closed after 168 performances, less than a tenth of the Broadway run. Cohen, not Ostrow, suffered the slings and arrows while losing an outrageous fortune.

South Pacific (1984). No, not a business-as-usual production with Mary Martin or someone like her. Director Anne Bogart offered quite the rethinking at New York University.

More than three dozen actors played war-scarred World War II veterans who’d be introduced to the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. Their caretakers hoped that its optimism, be it cockeyed or grounded, would help them return to a happier civilian life.

A doctor simply watched and said not a word. The nurses and interns were played by the five musicians. (Did John Doyle see this production on a trip to New York?)

Sounds crazy, no? Don Shewey in The Village Voice would later write that "this South Pacific was hilarious and sexy. What made it chilling was the way it captured today’s yuppie conformism to a tee."

As Jerry Herman’s big uptown hit was then asking Who knows? Who knows? Who knows?

Author’s Choice: The Cradle Will Rock (1937). Take me back to Manhattan on June 17, 1937, to the Maxine Elliot’s Theatre at 109 West 39th Street. Let me join six hundred audience members who are arriving to see the opening of bookwriter-composer-lyricist Marc Blitzstein’s The Cradle Will Rock.

What we find is that the Works Progress Administration Federal Theatre Project has been shut down and shot down by the Feds. They’ve literally padlocked the theater’s doors.

Apparently some of their powers-that-be have seen a rehearsal or a run-through. They’ve found the show too anti-government, anti-capitalistic, anti-religion, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The Feds have forbidden the show to open.

The government agents also frowned on the implication that the steel industry wasn’t fair to its employees. Only three weeks earlier, eighty thousand steel workers had gone on strike and would be out for four months more. Although the forges weren’t burning, this show could fan the flames.

Under these dire circumstances, most producers and directors would say The padlocks are on our wrists as well as the doors. That’s not the style of two future legends: John Houseman, Cradle’s producer, and Orson Welles, its director. They’ll just find another theater, that’s all.

But even if they do, how can the show go on? The fifty-nine-member cast consists of those who are in actuality government employees, and thus aren’t allowed to perform on stage. Actors’ Equity president Frank Gilmore agrees.

Houseman and Welles circumvent that dictate with an ingenious loophole. If the actors are merely seated in the audience and stand when each is scheduled to speak or sing, they won’t perform on stage. Abe Feder, now in the fourth year of what would be a nearly half-century Broadway career in lighting design, will shine a spotlight on each individual when he or she starts a line or dialogue or a song.

Now Gilmore points out that any cast members who aren’t Equity members may not perform in a commercial enterprise in a commercial house. unless they join his union. That’ll be fifty-nine dollars for the first year’s dues, please.

In today’s money, that’s $1,185. And the Great Depression still isn’t over.

Press agent Helen Deutsch has money, and she’ll pony up. (Luckily, in the years to come, Deutsch will make that back and more for writing a short story on which the 1961 hit musical Carnival is based.)

What of the musicians? The twenty-six-piece orchestra consists of government employees, too. They too would have to be paid rates commensurate to Broadway. Deutsch’s pockets aren’t that deep, so Blitzstein will accompany the performers on a piano. But what if the theater they find doesn’t have one?

So while Houseman searches for a house, Jean Rosenthal—the future acclaimed lighting designer but at the time a production manager—is sent to find a piano. She eventually does and even resourcefully hails a truck whose bribed driver gets the upright into his trailer.

Now they must ride around the block and stop whenever she spots a pay phone. Rosenthal hopes to discover where to deliver the instrument, but where she’ll stop, nobody knows.

Finally, after more than an hour, Rosenthal learns The Venice Theatre on Seventh Avenue and West 58th Street has been engaged. The house will be hastily put into service at the cost of one hundred dollars ($1,896 in today’s dollars). The real surprise is that the reporters who were covering this story put up most of the money.

Oh, to be one of the one hundred or so game theatergoers who form a veritable parade as they walk twenty blocks uptown to see this new work. Passersby ask what they’re doing, are told, and join the march. Their numbers swell to about twenty-five hundred by the time everyone reaches the Venice. There’s not an empty seat and plenty of standees.

Blitzstein begins playing and singing. Imagine the pressure on Olive Stanton, who has the show’s first words. Will she stand and sing them? Actresses with lesser fortitude wouldn’t have had the courage to rise on cue, for they’d be fearful that the law would arrest them and arrest their careers as well.

Stanton stood, sang, and set the tone for all to follow suit, each standing when the time came to perform. The result was a unique night in musical theater history.

WHAT WERE THE BEST MUSICALS OF EACH DECADE?

Musicals with original scores will be the only ones eligible here. Jukebox musicals belong in a separate category, and will get their due after we examine the musicals of the last eight decades.

We’ll go along merrily as Merrily We Roll Along rolled along: backwards in time from the most recent decade back to the 1940s.

The 2010s?

The Book of Mormon (2011). When the creators of South Park collaborate with the composer of Avenue Q, you can expect naughtiness that’s on a much higher level than Naughty Marietta.

Matt Stone, Robert Lopez, and Trey Parker took plenty of risks with this one. They spoofed a religion that’s dear to more than sixteen million, dealt with female circumcision, and used a vulgarism for vagina that had made many women slap the faces of those who dared to use it in their presence.

At The Book of Mormon, some of those same women were using their hands to applaud wildly.

Elf (2012). Who’d expect that this Christmas musical would contain such a significant piece of dialogue?

North Pole resident Buddy the Elf has learned that he’s really Buddy the Human. He comes to New York City to find his actual father and winds up in the man’s office. Buddy’s the type of guy who finds childish delight in everything and is naturally affectionate—so exuberant, in fact, that he runs over to Jim, one of his father’s employees, hugs him tight and lifts him high off the ground.

To which Jim says, I already have a boyfriend!

Many of us remember a time when Jim would have reacted in horror. He would have given Buddy a startled look that said You’re crazy! or a disgusted one that said You’re queer! before he’d have run off in horror.

Such a situation would have passed for humor; indeed, the audience would have laughed at the plight of a heterosexual man enduring an ostensibly gay man.

That bookwriters Thomas Meehan and Bob Martin even dared to insert the line in a family musical show, and they had confidence that today’s parents wouldn’t hear the quip, wince, screech, and put their hands over the children’s ears.

God bless us, everyone.

Matilda (2013). Although the Dennis Kelly–Tim Minchin musical had a fine 1,554-performance run, its London edition, which opened in 2011, has played nearly three times as long and is still on the boards as of this writing. So why didn’t Matilda run longer and win the Best Musical Tony that went to Kinky Boots?

An oft-heard complaint during intermission was I can’t understand a word those kids are saying!

The four West End actresses who alternated as Matilda were all nominated and won the Olivier Award (London’s Tony).

The four Broadway actresses received no Tony nominations, let alone the award.

This doesn’t mean that there are more talented moppets in London than in New York. No, British kids were delivering dialogue and songs in their native language; American child performers had to adopt British accents that were unnatural to them.

When Roald Dahl’s novel Matilda was turned into a 1996 non-musical film, it was Americanized; so should have this musical. Note that the 2000 Broadway musical version of the 1997 film The Full Monty (2000) changed its locale from a northern England town to Buffalo and thus avoided the language issue.

Granted, The Full Monty only ran half as long as Matilda, but it didn’t have the youth appeal so vital to today’s success on Broadway. But it did run almost two years, which it might not have accomplished had the audience been expected to decipher thick accents for two-plus hours.

A Gentleman’s Guide to Love & Murder (2013). How could Robert L. Freedman and Steven Lutvak make murders be funny?

A prologue A Warning to the Audience ameliorated: Those of you who may be faint of heart. before we start you’d best depart. an usher fainted in the aisle, a nun from Leicester lost her wits.

Set designer Alexander Dodge immeasurably helped by placing another stage atop the actual one at The Walter Kerr Theatre. This smaller version of an English music hall sported six very old-fashioned gold scalloped footlights. Two fanciful pillars, each of which had a bas-relief bust of some prominent Roman, supported an elegant proscenium arch with statues of little cherubic angels atop it.

The set almost resembled a dollhouse, which one doesn’t associate with murders. With its set within a set, Gentleman’s Guide could read as a musical within a musical. It took the show one step further away from reality so that we weren’t appalled by all the blood-letting.

Dear Evan Hansen (2016). Some dislike this musical because Evan tells one lie after another. Yes, but consider his motivation.

After Connor Murphy’s suicide, Evan sees how the boy’s parents are grieving. He wants to alleviate their pain, so he tells them what they want and need to hear, and is nervous throughout.

When Connor’s sister takes a romantic interest in him, he’s grateful to finally have a girlfriend but is never cocky about all the good things that are happening to him.

Evan’s lies come from a noble place. He has a heart, which is why he wants to help the Murphys heal their broken ones.

The message that one lie leads to another and then another has been a topic in many stories. The point was made stronger by the presence of social media that bookwriter Steven Levenson as well as songwriters Benj Pasek and Justin Paul well established.

In an earlier era, Evan’s lies wouldn’t have been able to go viral. But this electronic virus turns out to be just another malady that the unfortunate Evan must encounter. Let’s feel sorry for him rather than blame him.

Author’s Choice: Hamilton (2015). Lin-Manuel Miranda is one of those rare musical theater writers who was able to follow his freshman Best Musical Tony winner (In the Heights) with an even greater success.

Alexander Hamilton was one of the country’s many immigrants who reminds us that we get the job done. Although Hamilton recognizes that New York City is insidious, he also sees possibilities and proclaims I am not throwing away my shot!

This line is repeated so much that it’s a wonder that Aaron Burr didn’t sing it before shooting Hamilton dead. (We’re glad that he didn’t.)

Miranda quickly establishes each man’s character. After Burr advises Don’t let them know what you’re against or for, Hamilton says You can’t be serious!

Burr’s oh-so-careful, oh-so-planned, oh-so-political machinations don’t yield what he’d expected. He’s so jealous of Hamilton’s rise that gives rise to the first conservative versus liberal battle in American history.

As for Miranda’s music, rap certainly wasn’t heard in the late eighteenth century. Although anachronistic, its inherently angry and agitated sound works for this period of intense tumult.

Hamilton offers the grandchild of Sondheim’s Someone in a Tree as the uninvited Burr wonders what Hamilton, Jefferson, and Madison are deciding in their closed-door meeting. The room where it happened, he snarls. Beneath the red, white, and blue bunting is a green-eyed monster.

Meanwhile, Hamilton’s wife Eliza loves him very much, but his infidelity makes her snarl I hope that you die! She’ll get her wish before wishing that she could take it back.

Miranda doesn’t forget George III. You’ll Be Back, the king inaccurately predicts to his previous subjects. The confident melody could just as easily serve a spurned lover who staunchly believes that the person who did the dumping will soon be sorry.

If God is in the details, the Supreme Being has blessed Miranda. What a powerful line is Your perfume tells me your father has money. Musical theater writers are urged not to write on the nose, meaning to say things in the most obvious way. Miranda abides.

Considering that the term ground-breaking has been so often used when describing Hamilton, its line A revolution is happening in New York turned out to be an inadvertent comment about the show.

Miranda described his title character as young, scrappy, and hungry. The first two still apply to his own life, but he’ll never be hungry again.

The First Decade of the Twenty-First Century?

Hairspray (2002). Twenty-five years after Annie had opened at the Alvin, we had another fairy tale at the same (albeit renamed) theater.

Tracy Turnblad’s winding up with Link Larkin is as unlikely as Annie’s getting the world’s richest man to adopt her. As for Tracy’s mother, we’d like to think that a wife that ample would still have a husband that was desperately in love with her. However, if you can’t have fairytales in musical comedy, where can you have them?

But why was a great line dropped in Mama, I’m a Big Girl Now? The B-section once had Mom, you’re always telling me to act my age! Well, that’s just what I’m trying to do!

Don’t we all wish that we’d had the presence of mind when we were teens to say that to our mothers when they levied that charge against us? Indeed, we were acting our age; what they wanted was for us to act their age.

Avenue Q (2003). The time-honored policy for puppeteers is that they’d be masked in black from head to shoes. That way, no one would be distracted from the puppets who’d create their own little world.

Avenue Q unapologetically showed the performers in street clothes. Songwriters Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx didn’t plan it that way. They were writing a musical that they hoped would wind up on television, where only puppets would be seen.

For a reading at the York Theatre Company, Sesame Street’s puppeteers John Tartaglia, Stephanie D’Abruzzo, Rick Lyon, and Lara MacLean were in full view. After the presentation, so many attendees not only told Lopez and Marx that the show should be a stage musical, but also that the facial expressions from the puppeteers were such fun that they should be seen and not just heard.

The two writers took both pieces of advice and saw Avenue Q run six years on Broadway and nearly ten more off-Broadway. I wonder how many professional puppeteers have since come out of their closets with their best clothes on?

Urinetown (2001). Has any musical ever triumphed over so terrible a title? As daring as it was, more daring still was killing off the hero—one we’d come to love—midway through the second act.

The creators set the anything-can-happen tone even before we heard a word or note. A no-nonsense policeman brought a distraught looking man on stage. We wondered what the poor guy did.

Practiced his piano, no doubt, for the cop took him to an upright, sat him down, and had him play the Overture. From its first notes, it sounded very Kurt Weill-ian—fitting, for Urinetown is the grandchild of The Threepenny Opera.

In the Heights (2007). Bubbling Brown Sugar, a 1975 revue, did it first. It took us to Harlem and showed theatergoers that it was more of a fun part of the world than a dangerous place.

Lin-Manuel Miranda’s first Tony-winning musical did the same for Washington Heights. He showed us a community of people who cared about each other. Some say that the friends you make become your real family; here, real families and honorary ones merged nicely.

Wicked (2003). Ben Brantley of the New York Times—the critic who most counted—called Stephen Schwartz and Winnie Holzman’s show a sermon of a musical, a bloated production that might otherwise spend close to three hours flapping its oversized wings without taking off. He felt it was an "indignant deconstruction of L. Frank Baum’s Oz and that its swirling pop-eretta score sheds any glimmer of originality."

Brantley wasn’t finished. Wicked, he thought, so overplays its hand that it seriously dilutes its power and wears its political heart as if it were a slogan button. Peppered throughout were such words as colorless, plainness, and loses before Brantley concluded that "Wicked does not, alas, speak hopefully for the future of the Broadway musical."

For most of the twentieth century, such a review from the Times would have meant that ads in that very paper would soon scream Last four performances! Instead, Wicked showed that it was the New York Times that no longer spoke for the American musical.

Longtime Broadway observers often say that Seussical (2000) was the first musical victimized by internet chatters. Conversely, Wicked was the first musical saved by reviews written by many an amateur (a term meant affectionately; after all, the word does mean one who loves).

Those posting on the internet—especially teenage girls who could identify with outsider Elphaba—helped Wicked to run cumulatively longer than all of Stephen Schwartz’s five other Broadway musicals—and that even includes the revivals of his Godspell and Pippin.

Elphaba continues to defy gravity just as Wicked continues to defy the New York Times.

Author’s Choice: Caroline, or Change (2004). Young Noah is always leaving his change in his pockets when he leaves his pants to be cleaned by maid Caroline. Mrs. Gellman, in order to teach her stepson a lesson, tells Caroline that she can keep any change she finds.

Noah doesn’t mind, for he heroine-worships Caroline. (The president of the United States. stronger than my dad!)

Caroline sees herself quite differently. Thirty-nine and still a maid. I thought for sure by now that I’d be better off than this. Noah will purposely leave a few shekels for her, although Caroline tells both him and his stepmother that she doesn’t want the coins that she finds.

Yet she does find herself taking them so that she can give her three young children lagniappes. (The show takes place in Louisiana.) This scene, an hour into the musical, is the first time we ever see Caroline smile.

She can’t afford to dispense little gifts very often, for she only makes thirty dollars a week. This is more telling when one realizes that Caroline, or Change takes place in 1963—literally thirty years after Flora Meszaros (Flora, the Red Menace) was making that precise salary—and during the Great Depression, yet.

What Caroline wants is a completely different kind of change. But life is same as yesterday; same as tomorrow.

Then Noah inadvertently leaves in his pants the twenty dollar bill that his grandfather gave him. This Caroline will take. When Noah realizes his mistake, he demands to have it back.

Caroline at first refuses, but she eventually gives in.

What a great metaphor to suggest that yes, the white privileged want to be accommodating to Blacks—but only to a point. Moreover, Blacks in that pre–Civil Rights era were often forced to pass up opportunities because whites simply didn’t want them to have them.

The 1990s?

Assassins (1990). "They’re making a musical out of that?!?"

That was the response of many when they heard that Lolita and Kiss of the Spider Woman were headed for the musical stage.

Never did eyebrows raise higher than with Assassins.

However, Musical Theater Rule Number One says that people in musicals sing when passions take over and speech will no longer do.

Do they ever in Assassins. Stephen Sondheim and John Weidman brilliantly revealed the minds of those crazies who were greatly influenced by John Wilkes Booth’s action on April 14, 1865.

It didn’t open to particularly good reviews. Yet a lyric that Sondheim wrote for Booth turned out to apply to the show: They will understand it later.

(Incidentally, Booth’s only Broadway appearance was in Julius Caesar, in which he played Marc Antony—one of the few men in Shakespeare’s play who isn’t an assassin.)

Once on This Island (1990). Blacks have been known to have their prejudices, too. Even in the French Antilles, light-skinned Blacks, such as the Beauxhommes, are rich and famous, while dark-skinned Blacks, such as Ti Moune and her family, are not. There may be many factors for that, but skin tones are a contributing one.

When Daniel Beauxhommes is injured in a car accident and Ti Moune nurses him back to health, the playing fields are leveled and both fall in love—for a while. On Daniel’s wedding day to another light-skinned Black, Daniel follows the custom of throwing change to the poor people assembled outside his sumptuous home. How heartbreaking when he throws coins at Ti Moune.

She wants to die—and does. That she’s reincarnated as a tree can’t be anyone’s idea of a happy ending, but Lynn Ahrens’ lyrics and Stephen Flaherty’s music is so joyous that we conveniently overlook the bizarre conclusion.

Titanic (1997). In the 1972 film Avanti, Juliet Mills’ character says that her rock musician beau is working on a musical that deals with the sinking of the Titanic—"called Splash!"

It’s an all-too-obvious gag from director and co-writer Billy Wilder.

A quarter century later, the subject wasn’t a joke to bookwriter Peter Stone or songwriter Maury Yeston. Their approach and talent yielded a musical about the Titanic that was a Tony-winning artistic achievement.

Two details are worth noting. As the mammoth ship was ready to launch, a little boy who’s been holding a toy sailboat raises it high in tribute.

Soon after the iceberg is hit, no one is yet certain how bad the damage is. until a liquor cart slowly but all too surely rolls across the stage, letting us see the boat is listing.

HMS Titanic should have used as much attention to detail before it set out on the Atlantic on that April night in 1912.

A New Brain (1998). Here’s another Are you kidding me? musical. Granted, literally hundreds of words rhyme with ation, but that doesn’t mean that you write a musical about an arteriovenous malformation.

This brain aneurysm felled William Finn shortly after he’d won the Best Score Tony for Falsettos. Nevertheless, he eventually recovered enough to write about his decline, fall, and renaissance.

This musical suggested that Richard Adler and Jerry Ross only told half the story when they wrote You gotta have heart. Finn expanded it to You gotta have heart and music.

He’s right.

Author’s Choice: Ragtime (1998). Harry Thaw’s 1906 murder of Stanford White was called The Crime of the Century, although Emma Goldman wisely pointed out that ninety-four years would have to pass before anyone could be sure.

Many musical theater enthusiasts thought Ragtime’s losing the Best Musical Tony to The Lion King (1997) was The Crime of the Century.

Creating any musical is always difficult, but padding the eighty-eight-minute Lion King film to two-and-a-half hours is easier than reducing a 271-page novel to the same 150 minutes.

How bookwriter Terrence McNally and lyricist Lynn Ahrens managed to achieve this is utterly remarkable. Stephen Flaherty certainly honored E. L. Doctorow’s characters, providing appropriately Semitic-tinged melodies for the Jews, four-square melodies for the WASPs, and no less than real-sounding ragtime for the Blacks.

Harold Hill maintained that ragtime was shameless music. Not in this case.

The 1980s?

Sunday in the Park with George (1984). Of all the musicals that have had a What the hell is happening? moment, here’s the best.

Audiences should have inferred that after Seurat finished his painting at the end of Act One; Act Two would be required to go in a different direction.

Yet after the curtain rose and the Island of La Grande Jatte went disappearing, audiences were either scratching their heads or delving into their Playbills to find out where and when they were going next. Matters became even stranger when a machine came on looking like R2D2 on steroids.

But here was another Sondheim musical where we had to catch up with him (this time with James Lapine). Many theatergoers since have, while being reminded of the values of both children and art.

Les Miserables (1987). And to think that the reviews in London were putrid.

We have Oliver! to thank for this musical. Alain Boublil saw Lionel Bart’s hit in a 1978 London revival. When he saw the Artful Dodger cavorting,