A Song for Stephen Sondheim, by Julie Andrews and Others

To the Editor:

Re “Stephen Sondheim, 1930-2021: Virtuoso Who Reshaped the Broadway Musical” (obituary, front page, Nov. 27):

Stephen Sondheim’s death closes the American Broadway musical era profoundly and decisively. It’s not just another great composer’s death, but the end of the modern American genre as we have known it for the past 70 years.

The giants of the industry are now all gone: Rodgers and Hammerstein, Jerry Herman, Frank Loesser, Jerome Robbins, Michael Bennett, Bob Fosse, Hal Prince. Their contributions broke many molds and new ground. There hasn’t been anything of late comparable to their original creations, which pushed the envelope, but were always steeped in the best traditions of the American musical.

Ironically, in spite of his extraordinary reputation, Steve would constantly remind me, “Another award and another tribute, but my shows don’t make money.”

John Breglio
New York
The writer was Mr. Sondheim’s lawyer and agent for 40 years.

To the Editor:

This is not supposed to happen to a genius that we adore so much! He will never be far from my thoughts. To quote him:

Not a day goes by
Not a single day
But you’re somewhere a part of my life
And it looks like you’ll stay.

Indeed you will, dear Steve.

Julie Andrews
Long Island, N.Y.
The writer is the actress, singer and author.

To the Editor:

A text received from a dear friend shortly after 5 p.m. Friday: “Omg Sondheim.”

I knew immediately what it meant.

Stephen Sondheim was not a president, influencing world events. But it is indisputable that his influence over the cultural landscape during the latter half of the 20th century cannot be overestimated.

Earlier this month I attended the first performance of “Company” since the pandemic. Shortly before the house lights went down, there was a murmur in the already over-energized audience, and I saw Mr. Sondheim take his seat just a couple of rows in front of me. Of course, the audience rose (“Everybody rise!”) to give him a thunderous ovation, which was his due. I had heard that he was often the most enthusiastic member of the audience when attending one of his own shows, and I would say this was true on that night.

I am still processing this loss of someone I never met, but whose work has had a huge influence on my life and the way I think about art. It’s hard to imagine a world without Stephen Sondheim in it, and to realize that we can no longer look forward to his next show.

I guess that I’m “sorry-grateful.” Thank you, Mr. Sondheim.

Jeffrey Sosnick
New York

To the Editor:

As a journalist and longtime fan of Stephen Sondheim’s works, I had a crazy idea in 1994: I would start a magazine devoted to his works. I didn’t need his permission but I wrote him a letter. To my surprise he called me on a Sunday afternoon. He said the idea was fine, though he didn’t think there would be much to put in a magazine.

We then talked for three hours about the show he was writing: “Passion.” He asked if I had seen the Italian film on which it was based, “Passione D’Amore.” I had not. The next week, a videotape of the film arrived in the mail. That’s the kind of man Stephen Sondheim was.

Paul Salsini
Milwaukee
The writer is the founder and former editor of The Sondheim Review.

To the Editor:

I nervously hold a sign with “Stephen S” written in large red letters. He spots me before I see him. He approaches, carrying a small weathered overnight bag, and sporting his signature lopsided smile. Easy and spirited conversation puts me at ease as I drive him to his suite at the Rosewood Mansion on Turtle Creek in Dallas. He tells me he’s thrilled to have a concert grand piano waiting for him in the suite because he’s in the midst of some new ideas.

The next evening we are at the Dallas Museum of Art, where he will be performing at a gala fund-raiser for the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. I enter the green room, where he is waiting to be called to the stage.

As he stands, he reminds me of my father, with his slightly bushy eyebrows, his twinkly eyes and dandruff flakes dusting the shoulders of his black jacket. I ask him if he will allow me to dust him off. “Most certainly and thank you very much, my dear,” he says. I respond, “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Sondheim.” He walks onto the stage.

Laurie-Jo Straty
Dallas