Matilda and the Much-Too-Packed Lyric

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Sondheim once wrote, "Many lyrics suffer from being much too packed," making the point that excessively dense lyrics fundamentally interfere with clarity and thus kneecap one of the main functions (I might even go so far as to argue the main function) of those lyrics - to convey events and ideas clearly and elegantly. And the moment I read that, the example that sprang most readily into my head was the musical adaptation of Matilda.

I would like to highlight the contrast between two numbers in this show. The first is "Miracle," which apart from anything else has the misfortune of being the opening number. Maybe it was the pressure that positioning implies that drove composer/lyricist Tim Minchin to pack his words and rhymes so densely that they lose virtually all impact. It hardly helps that the lyrics occasionally let themselves down even on their own terms, as with the infamous miracle/umbilical non-rhyme that gets repeated enough times for it to stop being funny (i.e. more than none).

 A big part of the problem is that the number is not just too densely packed with word and rhymes, it is too densely packed with responsibility. The song has to establish the situation and setting, introduce a set of characters, and get the audience invested in the story. On top of that, Minchin somehow decides the time is right for some slightly limp social satire, so throw that on the pile as well. It is possible to imagine this being done passably well if properly paced and staggered, but the result is a mess. The song takes far too long to settle precisely what it hopes to achieve with its allotted time, and I can easily imagine a large part of the audience losing interest in that time. This is, after all, the opening number. The opening number is crucial, we all know this.

So "Miracle" is a bit of a wash, but there are also parts of the show that I quite like, and they are perhaps best summed-up in the song "Naughty"...

 Alright, after the trying-too-hard intro, the song gives itself basically one job - to establish the character of Matilda and her operating philosophy. The lyrics are still quite wordy, but the superfluous rhymes have been cut down, and - more importantly - the aim of the song has been streamlined into something more easily manageable. Consider the long pauses between "That's not right...and if it's not right...you've got to put it right." The lyric does not dumb itself down in the least, it simply recognizes that it has a dramatic function within the story, and that in order to fulfill that function it must meet its audience halfway.

In short, it is not "much too packed." Well done.

Sweeney Todd vs. Into The Woods: Two Approaches To Film Adaptation

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I have been given to understand that I am somewhat outspoken in my love for the 2007 Tim Burton adaptation of Sweeney Todd. Whatever your complaints (and I've heard them before, I guarantee it), I would like us to set them aside for a moment and consider the movie as an adaptation alone.

Consider, for example, the controversial decision to entirely excise the chorus numbers. One might immediately presume this to be a measure taken against implausibility and staginess, but it actually serves a larger thematic purpose in the movie. The Tim Burton filmography is almost entirely about alienation, and Sweeney Todd is no exception. You can see this in the make-up work, where the gaunt and skull-like circles around the eyes are granted to those in Sweeney's sphere who have succumbed to madness. Toby, for instance, is not given the gaunt eyes until his very last scene - the one in which (SPOILER, I suppose) he cuts Sweeney's throat.

The decision to cut the chorus numbers extends this theme. The music and the related compulsion to sing is re-framed as a product - or perhaps an expression - of the madness inherent in the main characters. Where the Hal Prince interpretation emphasized the universality of inter-human predation and framed Sweeney's crimes as an extension of the callous disregard for life in an over-industrialized society, Burton pares back the story. He makes it less socially relevant, true, but at the same time more intimate and personally affecting.

For a film adaptation, this is - at least in my view - entirely the right choice. In a medium in which the camera can precisely focus on whatever specific element the director demands and capture micro-expressions that would be imperceptible on the stage, taking a sweeping story and making it tight and close is a choice that perfectly suits the medium into which the work is being transferred.

In short, Sweeney Todd serves as an excellent example of how to adapt a musical to film with a keen eye on the comparative advantages of each medium. By way of contrast, then, let us compare this approach to that used in the recent film adaptation of Into The Woods.

As I explained in my review at the time, I did not think the movie was particularly bad. The source material is just so good that you would really have to go far out of your way to make it unwatchable, after all. However, I also criticized the approach of the adaptation with a metaphor that I would like to elaborate on somewhat here.

The adaptation of Into The Woods is characterized not by any major additions, chronological fiddling, augmentations, or what have you, but instead by its omissions. Say a certain scene has to be cut for time. In that case, the subplot that the scene in question resolves must be cut in its entirety. If this cannot be done without destroying the main plot, then a more disposable subplot must be found. If you are going to cut the resolution of the Witch's arc, then you must also cut Rapunzel's death. If you are going to cut the Narrator and the Old Man for reasons of staginess, then you also have to cut "No More." You must cut precisely the right scenes in order to maintain the basic structural integrity of the piece as a whole.

In short, this adaptation treats the story like a Jenga tower. The trick is to pull out precisely the right blocks so that the whole edifice does not collapse.

Which, while I recognize that it's probably necessary in this case given just how complicated the plot of Into The Woods can get, I would assert is entirely the wrong way of going about it.

While I hope this does not require reiteration, I may as well repeat it here: the cinema and the stage are separate mediums with separate demands, and a good adaptation of one to the other requires heavy alteration of the source. If that alteration "ruins" the story, then maybe that work should not have been adapted in the first place, which is also a possibility that I think the entertainment industry doesn't consider nearly enough.

But in any case, whatever your reservations might be about Helena Bonham-Carter's singing, Sweeney Todd stands alongside the likes of Fosse's Cabaret as a shining example of how to do a stage-to-screen adaptation right by rebuilding rather than just reducing the source.

The Necessity of Rhyming, or What Does It Get Ya?

           Today I thought I might give a brief argument as to why perfect rhyming is essential in lyrics. Let’s think about musical dissonance for a moment; modern music is fully aware of dissonance, but is also smart enough to use it sparingly. The fully atonal composers saw dissonance as a style, rather than what it actually is: an effect. And any musical effect must be used intelligently and therefore intermittently if it is to maintain its efficacy over time. Thus, dissonance must be saved until the moment at which it will be most effective. At that point, it may be used with abandon.

As a rule, any kind of artistic effect is like bad language: it is deliciously startling if used rarely and disappointingly tepid if applied indiscriminately. So it is with the technique of temporarily abandoning rhyme. Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics for the magnificent “Rose’s Turn” from Gypsy demonstrate how best to apply this technique. Through most of the show, Sondheim’s lyrics had been conventional musical theater lyrics, but very clever and expertly rhymed. “Rose’s Turn” represents a drastic departure from that style, corresponding with Mama Rose’s mental deterioration:

Why did I do it?
What did it get me?
Scrapbooks full of me in the background.
Give 'em love and what does it get ya?
What does it get ya?
One quick look as each of 'em leaves you.
All your life and what does it get ya?
Thanks a lot and out with the garbage,
They take bows and you're battin' zero.

            Obviously it’s still rhythmic, but the rhyme schemes have completely collapsed, replaced by a stream of regrets and recriminations. It’s a brilliant moment, but imagine if the whole show was written like this; what would happen to this number’s emotional impact without its anarchic departure from the orderly lyrical structures that surround it?

            Doing away with rhyme is hardly taboo and can generate extraordinary dramatic effects, but only if used with moderation and a keen eye. Forcing yourself to rhyme is a wonderful thing; it crystallizes ideas, forces you to express emotions in ways that you might not have thought of, and abets both clarity and concision. Any of those alone would be worth playing for.

Clever vs. Telling Lyrics, or The Gap Between Noel Coward and Spring Awakening

            I posit that lyrics (that is to say, good lyrics) tend to fall somewhere between two polar ends: clever and telling. Clever lyrics can be found in their purest form in the work of lyricists like Noel Coward and W.S. Gilbert. No plumbing of emotional depths is even attempted in such lyrics, for they are dazzling feats of wordplay that tend to be sung either by the lyricist himself (as in Coward’s case) or by characters acting as a surrogate for the lyricist (as in much of Gilbert’s work). Simply put, the lyricist becomes the star.

            Telling lyrics belong in a different class entirely. Paying little attention to verbal aesthetics, they seek to express the pure emotions of a character without any reference to the lyricist. This category can be subdivided into two types of telling lyrics, the elegantly simple (as in the work of Oscar Hammerstein) and the irritatingly self-absorbed (as in Steven Sater’s work on Spring Awakening). 

         
           Lyricists who can move comfortably between the two are the best off of anybody, but even their examples can prove all-too-instructive. Stephen Sondheim's lyrics almost invariably combine dramatic emotion with marked intelligence and wit. Being very clever, he also excels at writing purely witty and sparklingly fun lyrics, like the cut version of “We’re Gonna Be Alright” from Do I Hear A Waltz?.
           Unfortunately, such irrepressible intelligence does not lend itself to writing purely telling lyrics, as the musical Passion demonstrated. It is a show with some truly admirable moments, and it is certainly possessed of one of the most musically beautiful scores that Sondheim ever wrote, but you need look no further than the song “Loving You” to find the kind of awkwardly maudlin statements that unfortunately define the show. From the opening salvo of “Loving you is not a choice/it’s who I am,” you know what you’re in for and only Donna Murphy's sublime performance as Fosca can elevate the material.

This example should serve not to denigrate telling lyrics; Sondheim’s failure in the area is not a consequence of any deficiency in the form, but rather in the fact that Sondheim never had the same faculty for simplistic lyrical beauty that was always apparent in the work of his mentor, Oscar Hammerstein. Sondheim is a lyricist with an unparalleled felicity of expression, but that expression is a function of his intelligence. Take away the intelligence, and not much is left.

            However, telling lyrics can have extraordinary power. Tim Rice, like him or not, is one of the most versatile and workmanlike lyricists alive, just at home in the world of rock-and-roll as he is in Argentina or Jerusalem. His lyrics for Jesus Christ Superstar find him at his most unabashedly emotional. Fortunately, Rice has a talent for the simple but powerful sentiments that define the best lyrics of the telling variety, and it is with this example that I leave you for today.