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TRICKSTERS AND HUCKSTERS: SHOW BIZ ARCHETYPES
by Addison De Witt
"Side by Side”
I would call it a dream come true when I was asked to collaborate with Stephen Sondheim, but it wasn’t something I ever dared to dream about. It never occurred to me, in my wildest fantasies, that I would have the opportunity. I was content to admire him from afar, to appreciate his genius, to be grateful for his immense contribution to the American Musical Theatre. As regular readers of this column know only too well, most cultural icons are best kept at a distance, safely up on their pedestals, lest their feet of clay be exposed. As it turned out, Sondheim’s feet did, in fact, become exposed – but I’m getting ahead of myself.
My first exposure to Sondheim’s artistry was through his lyrics for WEST SIDE STORY and GYPSY, arguably two of the greatest musicals ever written. As composer as well as lyricist for COMPANY, FOLLIES, A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC, SWEENEY TODD, SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE and INTO THE WOODS, among others, Sondheim broke new ground with each show. He set the standard and has kept the bar high for daring, originality, intelligence, wit, and heartbreak. Now in his 70’s, Stephen Sondheim remains the one artist that all aspiring musical theatre composers and lyricists hope to emulate.
In the mid 1990’s, some enterprising television producers asked Sondheim if he would be interested in writing something original for television, something he hadn’t done since the 1960’s, with the original television musical EVENING PRIMROSE, starring Anthony Perkins. Sondheim said he would consider HBO, and offered up as a possibility a film treatment he had written years earlier with Perkins, with whom he had collaborated on the screenplay for a film called THE LAST OF SHEILA in the 1970’s. This treatment was, at one time, to be directed by Michael Bennett. But now, Bennett and Perkins had both passed away. With the right person to write the teleplay, Sondheim would provide the songs, and finally get this project off the ground.
Naturally, I didn’t hesitate when I was asked if I’d like to write that teleplay. Not only would I get to work with the one artist I most revered in all the world, but it was obviously going to be a slam-dunk selling the film to HBO. What television company, network or cable, could possibly turn down the development of an original musical by Stephen Sondheim? The project’s success was therefore preordained.
But first, I would have to talk to Stephen Sondheim himself. He was given my phone number and I was told he was going to call me. I was terrified. What if I got tongue-tied and came off as an idiot? What if my brain ceased to function at all, which seemed a distinct possibility? How could I possibly be Sondheim’s match in the thrust and parry of conversation? Wasn’t he one of the most brilliant minds of the century? When, exactly, was he going to call? Every time the phone rang, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. What if he called when I wasn’t in? What would he think of my outgoing message? Was it too cute? Too enthusiastic? Was the register of my voice too high? I listened to my outgoing message and determined it had to be changed. But what should I say and how should I say it? I must have recorded it, over and over again, for an hour, until I got it right. It had to be serious, but not self-important, disinterested but not arrogant, the voice carefully modulated and deep as I could get it.
When Sondheim finally did call, a greater power was clearly in control, because I was miraculously able to carry on an intelligent conversation and be myself. I told him my reaction to the material, and we tossed ideas back and forth about how to make it work. We only spoke for 15 or 20 minutes, but it was like speaking to a colleague – okay, a brilliant colleague – and I just flew with the wind at my back. It didn’t hurt that Sondheim was nice, he was funny, and he treated me with respect. What a concept!
Next came the meeting in-person. I flew to New York with the producers to meet with the great man to “pitch” him my “take” on the movie, and get his approval to present the project to HBO. While his famed Turtle Bay townhouse was being repaired after a fire, Sondheim was living in a high-rise apartment near Carnegie Hall with spectacular views. Going up in the elevator, I had to pinch myself a few times. I couldn’t believe my life and career had taken me to this point.
Technically, this project was not my first introduction to Stephen Sondheim in person. We had actually met briefly at a grad school function in New York about 14 years earlier when I was studying musical theatre. After I finished my thesis project, a full-length musical, I actually sent the script and a tape of the songs to Sondheim to get the benefit of his wisdom. Kind of a ballsy thing to do, now that I think about it, but he had a reputation, which continues to this day, of unselfishly helping young writers. In about six weeks, Sondheim wrote me back – six pages of handwritten notes. He started off by apologizing for taking so long – imagine that! Then he told me (the words are emblazoned in my memory), “This is my kind of musical.” I floated on a cloud for months after that, and found his notes incisive and invaluable.
But I didn’t expect him to remember me, or my show, and he didn’t mention it when we met, and neither did I. He answered the door in a Young Playwrights Festival t-shirt, baggy pants and thick socks. He looked like he might have just rolled out of bed. But he was friendly, invited us in, offered us drinks. I sat on the end of a couch, the producers facing me in chairs. Sondheim sat on the other end of the couch, and then quickly adjusted to a reclining position with his feet right next to me.
Sometime during our conversation, without missing a beat, Sondheim took off his socks. This may sound silly, but I found it hard to concentrate with this great man’s actual bare feet so close to me. I hoped my discomfort didn’t show as I participated in the discussion. After a while, Sondheim put his socks back on, inside out, still not missing a beat of the conversation. On a list of possible eccentricities, pulling one’s socks off and on isn’t such a big deal, I grant you. Still, it seemed odd at the time.
After about 40 minutes of talk about our project, one of the producers asked Sondheim about the new musical he had recently begun work on. Sondheim sat up and proceeded to regale us for another 40 minutes with a description of his new show and what excited him about it. It was like watching an enthusiastic kid, he was so clearly in love with what he was writing. And we felt so privileged to be among the first to hear about it. (All these years later, after readings and workshops and three title changes, that new musical is finally going to have its first production, in Chicago, next year.)
The meeting ended with everyone in agreement about what and how we would pitch our project to HBO. That was a Friday morning. After floating my way through New York all weekend, Monday night I went to a tribute to another great Musical Theatre Giant. He was receiving the Oscar Hammerstein Award for lifetime achievement, and some friends of mine were going to be performing (on a line-up with some pretty big stars) and I came as their guests.
As I walked into the theatre lobby with moments to spare, I discovered Stephen Sondheim, in a tuxedo, standing alone off to the side. I took a deep breath and went over to greet him. We were colleagues now, after all, weren’t we? Sondheim was surprised to see me, and greeted me warmly, but it was clear he was very uncomfortable about something. He quickly revealed in a near-whisper, as if talking to an old and trusted friend, that he was about to present this award to another Theatre Giant (his collaborator on four musicals), a ritual he hated, but that he was duty-bound by friendship to perform. I will never forget his words as he held his stomach and leaned his head against the glass wall: “I would rather bang my head against this wall until it bleeds then go in there and give this award.” I wasn’t sure what to do with this information. How do you give encouragement to Stephen Sondheim, of all people?
Luckily, he was pulled away, and I headed toward the theatre just as the honoree, the Theatre Giant, was prepared to enter and take his seat. I had both studied with the Theatre Giant in graduate school, and worked with him on a public television special. The Theatre Giant is not a cuddly bear type, and is famous for not suffering fools gladly, but in his nervousness he threw up his arms and greeted me with a delighted cry, moved that I had come to attend this special night in his honor. As the Theatre Giant was hugging me, Sondheim suddenly appeared, wide-eyed and confused. He said to the Theatre Giant (with whom he has had a complicated, on-and-off relationship for 40 years), “How do you know him?! How do you know him?!” It took me a second to realize that Sondheim was talking about me. (Me?)
In the competitive way that has apparently been a hallmark of their friendship, the Theatre Giant answered, “I’ve known him for years! How do you know him?!” Sondheim, his chest puffing out with oneupsmanship, declared, “I’m working with him!” The Theatre Giant was momentarily stumped. Then he turned to me with a wink and said, “Good for you.”
Even in that wild moment, I of course understood that this had nothing to do with me,and everything to do with their relationship. My head was spinning as I staggered myway to my seat in the dark.
Back in Los Angeles, the HBO reception area: The HBO top banana is keeping us waiting. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. Finally, we’re given the go-ahead and we walk through the door, down a long hallway, and finally into The Man’s office. The Man is short of stature, physically, but compensates with an air of self-importance that Napolean would have envied. As we take our seats – two producers, a lower-level HBO executive, an assistant, The Man, and me – I can’t help but notice a life-size puppet of The Man, perched on a tall director’s chair. The resemblance is striking, though the puppet is much warmer.
After a brief introduction by the producers, in which Sondheim’s name is invoked and it is made abundantly clear that we are not just pitching with his approval but with his cooperation, I launch into my shpiel. I had learned, through hundreds of these kinds of meetings, to be enthusiastic and to make eye contact with everyone in the room. With The Man’s show-me attitude, it wasn’t long before I was including his puppet-double in my line of vision as I tried to connect with the circle of real humans I was facing. In fact, I’m now certain that if it was up to the puppet, I’d have a three-picture-deal at HBO as we speak.
A few minutes into my pitch, The Man stood up and announced that it was 12:30, and he had to go into a staff meeting. He asked us to wait in his office. He promised to return at 12:40, and then he would have six more minutes to hear the rest of the pitch before he would have to leave for a lunch appointment. He walked out and we sat there in stunned silence. Even the puppet was speechless. First he kept us waiting for 20 minutes, and now this.
He came back, as promised, in ten minutes, and I tried to pick up where I’d left off, but the momentum had clearly dissipated and I rushed the story along in order to finish within the six minutes we had left. The Man got up and left, and we all collectively started to breath again. Still, we told ourselves, no matter how the pitch went, it was really just a formality. There’s no way in the world that HBO would turn down an original musical by Stephen Sondheim. Couldn’t happen.
But it did. HBO “passed”. Sondheim had his worst fears about television confirmed and never looked back. I saw my dream of collaborating with him vanish. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since.
About a week later, I had a single ticket to see “Angels In America”, a theatre marathon with a dinner break in the middle. Imagine my surprise when I was seated next to The Man from HBO and his wife. For the next eight hours (which included several intermissions and a dinner break), while it seemed that everyone else in the audience was making friends and talking and laughing during the breaks, The Man either didn’t know who I was or pretended not to, and made a point of not engaging me in conversation. (I’m certain the puppet would have remembered me.) It made for a lonnng night. And that's Hollywood.
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