![]() ![]() ![]() “And a little bit not.” It was the apple from the tree of knowledge, that show. “Isn’t it nice to know a lot?” Little Red Riding Hood sings, having survived ingestion by a wolf. First, it was “Into the Woods,” the gateway Sondheim musical for most people born after 1980-a gateway to adulthood, really, just as its characters Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, and Jack (of the beanstalk) go into the woods as wishful storybook characters and come out understanding disappointment, regret, compromise, loss. In the jump from one VHS tape to another, I had just seen myself go from seven to fourteen: the years in which Sondheim taught me how to be a person. My family was watching old home movies, in a post-Thanksgiving time warp, when I found out that Stephen Sondheim had died, at ninety-one. Sondheim infused the musical with complicated, sometimes curdled emotions that Broadway hadn’t dared to sing about before. ![]()
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