Here We Are

(seen at the afternoon performance on 28th May 2025)

As with any hobby or pastime, it is almost impossible to explain the appeal of it to someone who does not share your passion. If they are willing to take an interest, you have to be careful to introduce them slowly – and to the best parts first. Sondheim is a specific sub-genre of musical theatre, an interest of its own, and something his fans always want to share. 

There is no doubt that at his best, he is not the easiest form of musical theatre, the most comfortable to see. This, his final work, goes further. The monkey felt genuinely pretentious watching it. Pretending it is actually great would be more pretentious still.

Apparently, the music and lyric are untouched, only the book has been rounded out – and even then, they had his permission to do so, granted almost on his dying day. The monkey would argue to the end that had Sondheim still been with us, he would never have allowed this on stage in its present form.

It is very clear that more music would have been written. Rehearsal would have shown where extra songs were needed, and the second half would doubtless have been musicalized, regardless of remaining creatives' protestations to the contrary.

The plotting would have been tightened, integrating the two movies further, and the wit heightened with every nip-and-tuck made. As it stands, Ives book is a drone at times, director Joe Mantello giving only occasional flashes of pace.

Sondheim leaves behind little that is fresh. There are plenty of back-references to past triumphs. An inevitable “Sweeney Todd” food number, the illicit seduction of “A Little Night Music” and the couple loyalties of “Company” are the most noticeable.

Trying to update himself away from his life-long characterisations drawn from his own Upper-Class New York lifestyle leaves him exposed and uncomfortable. His “modern” couples still feel like throwbacks to his own era.

The horrifically written teenage character expounding views on gender, sexuality and environment issues is simply far too try-hard, tacked on as secondary thinking without belief or real comprehension of her thought process.

In fairness, the production is immaculate. David Zinn provides an 80s tribute shiny white mirror box with neon for the first half, a lush Victorian mansion style room for the second.

Natasha Katz produces the most sophisticated lighting rig the monkey has ever seen on the battens of the Lyttelton, a miasma of motorised machines painting perfection below.

It shines on some good performances. Jane Krakowski and Rory Kinnear turn a standard stale Sondheim couple into something fresh, Krakowski unhappily eying the audience and indulging in her survival. Kinnear fighting for his.

Chumisa Dornford-May’s mournful Fritz turns Sondheim’s shallow understanding of contemporary youth into something more credible, her romance with Soldier (Richard Fleeshman, making the most of his minor role) helpful in sustaining any interest in on-stage events.

We can also rely on Martha Plimpton for compelling characterisation as Claudia Bursik-Zimmer, with husband Jesse Tyler Ferguson as Paul adding sleaze to proceedings.

Paulo Szot, a stereotype dodgy diplomat - Raffael Sontello Di Santicci - outdoes all in the underhand stakes. He is sadly forced into overcooking his stage presence in the second half to compensate for a lack of lines where we would expect them. 

Harry Hadden-Paton flounders for more to do with his fun Bishop exposition, Cameron Johnson as Colonel Martin is likewise constrained by his role’s single note writing.

Minor roles of waiter and other staff are also well filled, notes for Molly Lynch and Edward Baker-Duly in particular.

Fact is, though, that nothing feels rounded out in the right places, and all the attempts at sophisticated glitz fail through lack of polish by the only person who could do so. It is hard to believe he would want to be remembered this way.

The monkey is not saying exactly that the emperor doesn't have any clothes on, but it is certainly noting a Marks and Spencer, not Savile Row, suit - possibly with Primark waistcoat. 

We'll never see Sondheim’s final work staged better, but the monkey is fairly unsure as to whether we really needed to see it staged at all.