Word: lyricist
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...withered or custom staled the tunes and lyrics of Noel Coward. This animated musical anthology has been culled from a half-century of his songs and patter. For Coward fanciers, a substantial cult, the only word for the evening is enchanting. Retrospectively, one can see that Coward the lyricist has been the slyly sophisticated offspring of W.S. Gilbert. Satirically, he could spoof the empire's topeeless Englishman who went out in the midday sun because he had a fond underlying assumption that that sun would never set. Temperamentally, Coward is a child of the '20s, that...
Stewart is doubtless the best lyricist writing popular music. And more than anyone else with the pretensions, he fits the role of troubadour--the single, often lonely man, who writes and performs songs of his travels. Stewart plays songs from his shuffling youth in front of ever-larger audiences...
...fact, I suspect that lyricist Barry Harman and composer Norman Siegel are only using the hoary old conventions of Pudding shows past (as well as the Theatricals' impressive $70,000 budget) to act out their own love affair with musical comedy. Siegel has come up with a nicely eclectic score--from a very G&S number like "Establishment" to a first act curtain entitled "Glory" that is straight out of Dolly or Mame. Harman's lyrics are generally up to the same par, although one or two ("Remember the Mania," "Sit Down and Take a Stand") seemed...
Boos and Raves. A friend introduced her to Fred Ebb, the lyricist for an upcoming musical called Flora, the Red Menace. "I remember this shy, awkward girl coming into the room," says Ebb. "She looked awful, like Raggedy Ann. Everything was just a little torn and a little soiled. She just sat there and stared at me, and I stared back." Liza convinced Ebb that she was his Flora...
...crusaders--Agee, MacDonald, Warshow--is now lacking. Since the educated came to recognize that talented men have already created lasting works of cinema art, it's become more acceptable to say, sniff, that Dreyer is a poet in light; or, sigh, that John Ford is the lyricist of the American past. Just sit back, go to sleep, and watch the once subversively free art form ossify for want of criticism which demands its best...