Lifestyle
Stephen Sondheim is cool now
Here We Are was not yet in previews when Sondheim died. It is playing at The Shed in New York.
Emilio Madrid/Here We Are
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Emilio Madrid/Here We Are
Here We Are was not yet in previews when Sondheim died. It is playing at The Shed in New York.
Emilio Madrid/Here We Are
Stephen Sondheim — composer-lyricist for A Little Night Music, Sweeney Todd, and more than a dozen other musicals — is having “a moment” as one of his Into the Woods lyrics might have put it.
Or perhaps a better fit for the Broadway legend, who was widely regarded as brilliant but an acquired taste when he died in 2021, would be a tweak to a lyric from the song “Children and Art” in Sunday in the Park with George:
“There he is, there he is, there he is,
Sondheim is everywhere,
Broadway must love him so much.”
Indeed, the hottest ticket on the Great White Way at the moment, judging from what people are willing to pay for it, is Sondheim’s notoriously troubled musical-that-goes-backwards, Merrily We Roll Along.
Its original Broadway run was a snappily disastrous 16 performances after it opened, and it has never entirely worked until now. But it’s currently playing to SRO crowds and standing ovations at Broadway’s Hudson Theater.
Meanwhile, the hottest ticket Off-Broadway, and already the longest running show ever to play at Manhattan’s new venue The Shed, is Here We Are, the musical Sondheim was still working on when he died.
Also playing to capacity crowds in New York, his penny-dreadful horror tale Sweeney Todd, starring Josh Groban at the Lunt-Fontanne Theater. London’s petite Menier Chocolate Factory has Pacific Overtures. And on tour in the U.S. is a gender-reversed revival of Company, the last show the composer-lyricist saw before he died.
Side by Side by Side
All of the revivals were less successful in their original runs in the 1970s and ’80s. As I’ve been catching them, I can’t help thinking how pleased Sondheim would be — pleased and a bit surprised, no doubt — and wishing I could hear him talk about them, especially that new show, Here We Are.
And then, I discovered I could.
“I think the idea,” says his unmistakable growl on a scratchy cellphone recording, “is to do it in the spring of ’18.”
D.T. Max interviewed Sondheim several times in 2017 and 2018 for a New Yorker profile that he turned into a book — Finale: Late Conversations with Stephen Sondheim. Sondheim was working at the time on what would become Here We Are, or rather, on its first half, which is based on the surrealist Luis Buñuel comedy The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, about three couples searching everywhere for a place to eat.
“There is a complete score [for that first act],” he tells Max in the recording, “but I want to add and tweak. Second act there’s a complete draft of the book [by David Ives based on Buñuel’s Exterminating Angel] and I’ve just begun the score.”
Art isn’t easy
Max had recorded his in-person interviews on his cellphone, and while the sound quality isn’t all one might wish, the conversations are intriguing. For instance, this, about how a producer’s stray remark decades ago planted the seed for Here We Are:
“It stems from a remark Hal Prince made in a cab once,” remembers Sondheim. “We were looking out at night — coming back from the theater or something — and he said, ‘Y’know what the dominant form of entertainment is? Eating out.’ Because all the restaurants were lit up and that’s what people were doing. They weren’t going to the theater, they were eating. And I thought, ‘Gee what an interesting idea.’ And I didn’t immediately think ‘oh that would make a musical’ but somehow, on seeing Discreet Charm…”
A scene from Here We Are.
Emilio Madrid/Here We Are
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Emilio Madrid/Here We Are
What Sondheim put to music and to his characteristically witty lyrics, was the frustration of diners who are perpetually being told they will not be getting food, or even coffee.
“We have no mocha.
We’re also out of latte.
We do expect a little latte later,
But we haven’t got a lotta latte now”
“I’m still feeling my way,” says the songwriter, “because it isn’t the kind of tight story that something like Sweeney or Merrily is. There are six main characters and they interact, but there’s very little plot.”
Opening Doors
There’s plenty of plot in his other shows — almost too much sometimes. Back in 1981, audiences got confused by the time-going-backwards thing in Merrily We Roll Along, and also couldn’t keep its characters straight. The original production tried to clear up who-was-who with T-shirts saying things like “Best Pal.”
The current production has a better trick: It cast Harry Potter‘s Daniel Radcliffe as the best pal; it’s easy for audiences to keep him straight. He’s playing a budding writer of musicals in the 1950s and ’60s — exactly what Sondheim was back then.
Lindsay Mendez, Jonathan Groff and Daniel Radcliffe in Merrily We Roll Along.
Matthew Murphy/Merrily We Roll Along
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Matthew Murphy/Merrily We Roll Along
“It relates to my life,” Sondheim tells Max. “It’s not about my life but it relates.” When asked how seeing a Merrily production generally hits him, he says that remembering the frantic, gotta-put-on-a-show craziness of his youth gets to him every time, especially the deep-in-rehearsal-panic lyric, “We’ll worry about it on Sunday.”
“I always cry,” he tells Max. “‘We’ll worry about it on Sunday’ always makes me cry.”
That song is called “Opening Doors,” and its next lyric is “we’re opening doors, singing ‘here we are’….”
And here we are, four decades later, with his final show — called Here We Are — feeling like a valedictory victory-lap, filled with references to his earlier work.
Finishing the hat
The man who wrote a song (and a book of lyrics) called “Finishing the Hat,” never finished that second act — in librettist Ives and director Joe Mantello’s hands, music disappearing from the characters’ lives becomes a plot point — but his legacy is secure. He talks in Finale: Late Conversations with Stephen Sondheim about feeling low energy, and even old-fashioned.
“The kind of music I write has nothing to do with pop music since the mid-’50s,” he notes.
When gently reminded that he’s regarded as a genius who’s altered an art form, he deflects the compliment by citing “Stravinsky, Gershwin, Picasso” and saying he doesn’t belong in their company.
He may have been the only person who thought that. But anyway, it’s not up to him — posterity gets to decide who belongs in the genius pantheon.
And with stars and directors clamoring to do his shows and audiences embracing them as never before, the early verdict is clear: Stephen Sondheim’s work — all of it — is, as Merrily‘s characters sing of the show that came out of all those frantic rehearsals…
“a surefire, genuine,
Walk-away blockbuster,
Lines down to Broadway,
Boffola, sensational,
Box-office lollapalooza,
gargantuan hit!”
This story was edited for broadcast and digital by Jennifer Vanasco, and produced for radio by Isabella Gomez-Sarmiento.
This story is part of Image’s April’s Thresholds issue, a tour of L.A. architecture as it’s actually experienced.
If you buy a product linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission. See all our Coveted lists of mandatory items here.
Yont Studio, Brutalist Pink Vinyl Listening Station, price upon request
(Serdar Ayvaz / Yont Studio)
In the best version of my dreams, I am listening to my favorite records out of the Brutalist Pink Vinyl Listening Station from Berlin-based Yont Studio. The structure — built of foam that’s been reinforced with epoxy layers and finished in a gloss — hugs a Technics SL-1200 MK7 turntable while featuring a dedicated space for records and headphones, with an integrated amplifier and wheels. The baby pink colorway gives it a hard-soft quality that’s hard to match. yontstudio.com
Waka Waka, Double Cylinder Rocker, $3,600
Designer Shin Okuda has described his design principle as such: “Minimum design. Conscious proportion.” The furniture from Okuda’s Los Angeles studio Waka Waka injects something deeply cool into the everyday. This rocking chair is equal parts dramatic and functional, featuring a stacked cylinder back, rocker frame and arm rests in a black glossy finish. (Other finishes include natural oil, white, pompeii red, indigo, grey, purple and forest green.) wakawaka.world
Gambol Studio X Dusty Ansell, knives, $230
Every item in your home being beautiful and well-designed is a flex, down to your cheese knives. Designed by L.A. studio Gambol and handmade by folk artist Dusty Ansell in a set of three, these knives are made of curly maple and stainless steel, featuring etched artwork depicting a hand, arm and fish. gambol.studio
Schiaparelli, Pierced Mouth Bijoux Minaudière, $13,300
Every design-meets-fashion head’s dream is having a pierced mouth clutch molded out of a rigid wood, no? This minaudière from Schiaparelli features a gold-plated metal chain and rhinestone piercing, bringing the idea of a statement bag to levels unheard of. schiaparelli.com
Hannah Lim X Hugo Harris, Bat Shelf, price upon request
(Hannah Lim and Hugo Harris)
Operating as a functional sculpture, the Bat Shelf is a collaboration between London artists Hannah Lim and Hugo Harris. The piece takes inspiration from Chinese fretwork patterns, Art Noveau designs and German sculptor Hugo Leven’s iconic pewter bat candelabras. Cut and welded from 5mm aluminum, the Bat Shelf comes in a raw aluminum finish or a powder-coated red. hannah-lim.co.uk ; hugoharris.co.uk
Formas, Clear Special Vase by Gaetano Pesce, $650
L.A. is so lucky to have Formas, a curated vintage and contemporary design store in the Arts District founded by Natalia Luna and Josh Terris. Formas’ collection is deep and well-researched, filled with rare furniture and design objects like this Clear Special Vase from iconic Italian architect and designer Gaetano Pesce. Handmade of flexible resin, each vase made in this series is a unique creation. formas.la
Estudio Persona, Luna Table Lamp, $2,500
Estudio Persona, the L.A. studio run by Uruguayan design duo Emiliana Gonzalez and Jessie Young, is a living, breathing wishlist. Made of metal and hand-blown glass, this lamp is the place where angles meet curves — a timeless piece with a healthy dose of edge. estudiopersona.com
Alaïa, nylon Maxi Petticoat, $5,030
When we think of an Alaïa piece we’re essentially thinking about shapes — of the body, of the clothes, of the shape made by the clothes on the body. This nylon Maxi Petticoat from the spring/summer 2026 collection, with its asymmetrical hemline and voluminous fit, is a kind of architecture, a way to build yourself into the world around you. maison-alaia.com
Loewe, Aire Sutileza Elixir Eau de Parfum 50Ml, $210
Image April 2026 Coveted
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Loewe has added another perfume to its scent directory, and the sixth Elixir in a collection of fragrances that boast an intense concentration of essential oils created by the brand’s perfumer Núria Cruelles with the Spanish Rockrose in mind. The Aire Sutileza Elixir is floral, fresh and earthy, featuring notes of pear, lemon, jasmine sambac, vetiver, sandalwood and musk. perfumesloewe.com
Sunday Puzzle
NPR
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NPR
This week’s challenge
Today’s puzzle is a tribute to Mimi. Every answer is a familiar two word phrase or name in which each word starts with the letters MI-.
Ex. Assignment for soldiers –> MILITARY MISSION
1. Pageant title for a contestant from Detroit
2. One of the Twin Cities
3. Nickname for the river through New Orleans
4. Super short skirt
5. Neighborhood in Los Angeles that contains Museum Row
6. Just over four times the distance from the earth to the moon
7. Goateed sing-along conductor of old TV
8. American financier who pioneered so-called “junk bonds”
9. Little accident
10. Land-based weapon in America’s nuclear arsenal
11. In “Snow White,” the evil queen’s words before “on the wall”
Last week’s challenge
Last week’s challenge comes from Benita Rice, of Salem, Ore. Name a famous foreign landmark (5,4). Change the eighth letter to a V and rearrange the result to make an adjective that describes this landmark. What landmark is it?
Answer
Notre Dame –> Renovated
Winner
Chee Sing Lee of Bangor, Maine
This week’s challenge
This week’s challenge comes from James Ellison, of Jefferson City, Mo. Think of a popular movie of the past decade. Change the last letter in its title. The result will suggest a lawsuit between two politicians of the late 20th century — one Republican and one Democrat. What’s the movie and who are the people?
If you know the answer to the challenge, submit it below by Thursday, April 23 at 3 p.m. ET. Listeners whose answers are selected win a chance to play the on-air puzzle.
This story is part of Image’s April’s Thresholds issue, a tour of L.A. architecture as it’s actually experienced.
A landmark is a landmark because it tells you that you’re home now — the piece of earth you’ve chosen to inhabit saying, “You’ve made it back, congratulations.” We identify our cities with their landmarks, and because we identify with our cities, we identify with the landmarks too. They are us and we are them, mirroring each other through eternity. A city like New York or Chicago, with the Chrysler Building, the Bean, etc., has landmarks that exist in the world’s popular consciousness. But L.A.’s most cherished landmarks belong to us and us alone, a secret you’re let in on if you live here long enough and pay attention.
The Fashion Nova baddie in horizontal sprawl off the Vertigo, for example, is an emblem for those in the know. Our twisted version of a capitalist guardian angel, patron saint of spandex in a cropped matching set. Welcome to El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Fashion Nova. Merging on the 110 South from the 10 East while the sunset burns and traffic thickens is a miracle in more ways than one, and in the spirit of compulsively performing the sign of the cross when you pass a church on the freeway, this billboard is deserving of its own acknowledgment.
It may not be the landmark L.A. asked for, but in Sayre Gomez’s painting “Vertigo,” you begin to understand why it’s the one we deserve. At the opening for “Precious Moments,” Gomez’s solo show at David Kordansky, the room was vibrating. A game of energetic ping-pong unfolded underneath the gallery’s fluorescent light, beams of identification, recollections or stabs of grief bouncing off each piece in the exhibition. People were seeing hyperspecific parts of a city they love reflected in a hyperspecific way — for better and for worse. Recognition has two edges and they both happen to be sharp. Gomez twists the knife deeper for a good cause: He wants you not just to look but to really see.
In his work exist iconic signs of beloved local establishments — like the Playpen — the blinding glint reflecting off downtown’s skyline, telephone poles regarded as totems. The line to see Gomez’s replica of L.A.’s graffiti towers, “Oceanwide Plaza,” snaked through the gallery’s courtyard. Once inside, at least three graffiti writers whose names were blasted on the replica pointed it out proudly, even gave out stickers to take home. The truth can be beautiful and it can be ugly — in this case it’s both — on the flip side showing up in the form of smog, tattered flags and an abandoned graffiti tower that starkly represents the pitfalls of capitalism and greed, a neon arrow pointing to the homelessness crisis.
Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave.
— Sayre Gomez
In the main gallery, I was stuck on “Vertigo.” On the 12-foot canvas, my eye went to the place out of focus: the thin strip of billboard in the background featuring a young woman with sand-dune hips, patent knee-high boots and long black hair laid up on her side, wearing cat ears and a tiger bodysuit as flush as second skin. The model made the kind of eye contact that felt dangerous — might cause an accident if you’re not careful. “#1 Halloween Destination … FASHION NOVA,” it read. I knew her, anyone who has driven through the two main arteries of Los Angeles knows her. The black-and-white smiley motif of the Vertigo, an events space, sat right next to her face, just happy to be there, it seemed, above a painted sign that says “Ready to Party?”
The sky was the color of cotton candy, but the stale kind that’s been hardening in a plastic bag for days after the fair. Something rancid about it. In the foreground of the painting was a car encampment with a tattered floral sheet woven through the windows, cloth tarps and couch cushions creating a shield against the elements. Small plastic children’s toys lined at the top of the car — dinosaurs and dump trucks and sharks — creating their own shrunken skyline in front of the Vertigo, signaling that young kids likely lived there. It’s less juxtaposition for juxtaposition’s sake and more an accurate reflection of the breakneck duality of living in a place like L.A.
Even angels exist within the context of their environments. Our Fashion Nova baddie hangs off the Vertigo, a building that has used its ad space as physical clickbait and political posturing for over a decade. It’s promoting the kind of fast fashion brand that’s been regarded as a case study on the industry’s environmental impact. In the years the billboard has been up, it’s looked over dozens and dozens of car encampments like the one depicted in Gomez’s piece.
She feels dubious, yes. But no less like ours.
Julissa James: I’ve lived in L.A. for 13 years now. For me, the city and the architecture of the city is less the Frank Lloyd Wrights and Frank Gehrys — there’s that — but other landmarks that signal, “Oh, I’m home.” The Fashion Nova baddie above the Vertigo has always been that for me. Your piece is layered and there’s so much more to it than just that, but that’s the first thing I saw and was like, “Whoa. I need to talk to Sayre. We need to talk about ‘Vertigo.’”
Sayre Gomez: It’s like L.A.’s Statue of Liberty. It’s the city of anti-landmarks, you know what I mean? I mean, there’s the Hollywood sign, which I think is so telling, because it’s the remnants of a real estate venture. The city is built by real estate schemes and 100 years later we’re feeling the effects of it. You’ve got empty skyscrapers and a massive homeless catastrophe. L.A. doesn’t really have real landmarks. It has anti-landmarks.
JJ: When did the Fashion Nova billboard above the Vertigo click for you as something that felt representative of the city, or something that you wanted to depict?
SG: My studio is in Boyle Heights, so I pass that billboard multiple times a week. This is my 20th year in L.A. and that building’s always been a big mystery to me. It was empty when I moved here before this guy Shawn Farr bought it and turned it into Casa Vertigo. I think he probably makes more money on it with the ad space than anything. I know nobody who has ever been there. Very mysterious to me. So that’s what I was drawn to.
(Paul Salveson from David Kordansky Gallery)
The Vertigo has always been mysterious to me. And that whole fashion industry is mysterious to me — the kind of shmatta, American Apparel-adjacent, or maybe coming out of the wake of that. These kinds of businesses, or the representations of these businesses, how do they function and how do they flourish? Is it aboveboard? What more perfectly encapsulates that than that building? It’s this weird thing you can’t quite figure out but somehow it has a lot of money and then it’s an event space, supposedly billed as that. Clearly it’s this big ad thing, and I’m very interested in the changing dynamics of capital. The capital of yesteryear, which was based on the brick and mortar, where things are being made in a specific location, maybe on an assembly line or in a specific way, to a kind of capital that is based solely on advertising or on viewership. These beautiful buildings acting as pedestals for some kind of ad space, you know? It becomes an anti-landmark for me. Something where I’m like, “Oh, there’s that thing again.”
JJ: It’s this gorgeous Beaux Arts building …
SG: It’s a Freemason building!
JJ: When I’ve talked to some people about the Vertigo, they’re like, “the Fashion Nova building?”
SG: They always have the woman in the same pose — same pose, different clothes. If you remember before Fashion Nova, they would have these provocative ad campaigns or provocative slogans. “Twerk Miley” was up, remember that? They did a Trump one: “TRUMP NOW.” They did one for Kanye when he ran for president. The 10 and the 110 are literally the crossroads of the city, so it’s really poised to be a special building. It has a special designation because of the location.
JJ: Talk to me about the process of doing this piece. Where did it start and how did it evolve?
SG: I was cruising around that vicinity trying to see if I could get a good vantage point to take photos of Vertigo. And then I stumbled upon this car — the car that’s in the foreground of the painting. Anytime I see an encampment that has kids’ toys, things that reference back to the lives of children, it hits hard. But I like to lay it all out there. I like to make things confrontational. I want it to be difficult. The painting isn’t based on a one-to-one photo [Gomez paints from a composite rendering of images he’s taken around town], but I knew that I wanted to use that car, and I knew I wanted to get the Vertigo building, and so I started just messing around with different iterations. I could never find a good angle to take a good photo of the building, so I just went on Vertigo’s website and I was like, “I’m just using these.” I switched the sky and put a more moody, atmospheric sky in.
JJ: Which I loved, because we know that feeling — you’re merging onto the 110 and you see a beautiful sunset. The euphoria of like, “L.A. is the best city in the world.” But you know what? What I found so interesting about your piece is that it was revealing to me about myself, but also about so many of us that live in L.A. and have lived here for years and have developed a jadedness. When I saw your piece, immediately I was like, “Oh my God, the Vertigo! The Vertigo! The Vertigo!” And then I was like, “OK, wait, hold on, there’s so much more going on here.” But the fact that my eye went to that first instead of the car encampment, the kids’ toys, brought up a lot of questions about my own relationship to the city and the things that we choose to see, the things that maybe we’ve seen so much of that we subconsciously filter it out. Why was it important for you to put these two things up against each other in this way?
SG: Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave. That’s what I’m doing in my work at large. I use the sunsets and the beauty to create a dialogue, to entice people to sort of look a little bit at how things are contextualized, how things act, what’s actually happening. I don’t make things in a vacuum. I was working on this show and I was going to really push this agenda of incorporating more of my experience with my kids into the work. That’s also a double-edged sword. I wanted to interject some levity, because the work can get so dark. I wanted to bring in some iconography from their world and things that they get excited about. When you’re juxtaposing that with really stark things, it becomes darker. I want to thicken the stock a little bit. Make things a little more complex.
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