Miserably Ever After

By WILLIAM A. HENRY III

It says something about Stephen Sondheim that being in love for the first time in his 64 years -- as he recently acknowledged he is -- has evoked the darkest, most depressing show of his career. Passion, the only memorable musical of the Broadway season, portrays the romantic obsession of a penniless, ugly and dying woman for a kind, handsome and accomplished soldier. By the end, she is dead, he has been driven insane, the man who introduced ; them has been gravely wounded, and a doctor who fostered the relationship has been burdened with guilt that will last a lifetime. The audience isn't feeling any too chirpy either. Operas have been this grim, but Passion sets new marks for misery in musical theater. One might assume that such bleakness cannot be commercial. But the show had box-office sales of about $500,000 last week, and its advance was approaching $2 million.

Artistically, Passion is one of the great turnarounds. During previews, it seemed hopeless. The obsessed woman struck spectators as akin to a stalker, too creepy to induce sympathy. Her unstinting devotion resembled emotional blackmail. The narrative, two hours without intermission, felt strained and wearisome. Many theatergoers fidgeted or tittered in the wrong places. (There aren't many right places to laugh in Passion, which makes no use of Sondheim's greatest gift -- a talent for writing intricate comic lyrics that fit the characters.) Sensing disaster, Sondheim and director-librettist James Lapine revamped the plot, recast a major role, picked up the pace and added three songs. The show is vastly improved, but huge problems remain. The obsessed woman, stirringly acted and sung by Donna Murphy, is still difficult to like or admire. The man whom she chases spends most of the show eluding her, then shifts in a moment to loving her passionately. This transition -- which also commits him to a duel -- would be tough for anyone, and is utterly beyond the histrionic powers of Jere Shea, a handsome and harmonious hero but a wooden one. The message that love is unworthy unless it recklessly risks everything may fit the Anna Karenina-style sensibilities of 1863, when the show is set, but now it feels adolescent and irresponsible.

Passion is ably staged but so austere that it provides little visual pleasure. The score similarly resists anyone's yearning to walk out humming, exceeding even the anti-showstopper standards of recent Sondheim: the melodies are elusive, and the program omits song titles. The only lush moment is the opening, a nude bedroom encounter between Shea and luxuriantly fleshy Marin Mazzie. It too soon goes sour. They sing liltingly of abundant happiness. Then she returns to her husband, her child and her hypocrisy, while he goes off to his new posting and his doom.