A Conversation with Colleen Fitzpatrick
We speak to Colleen Fitzpatrick, who was in the original cast of Into the Woods, Passion & Road Show, about Sondheim
It was a real honor to speak to Colleen Fitzpatrick about Sondheim. Colleen featured in the original cast of Into the Woods (1987), as understudy for the Baker’s Wife and both stepsisters. Her Sondheim credits since that time include the original productions of both Passion (1994) and Road Show (2008), Follies (2011), Anyone Can Whistle (1995), Sunday in the Park with George (2008), and Company (1995). Our conversation begins below:
You’ve been involved with so many Sondheim productions over the years that it’s difficult to know where to begin. I wonder if I could start by asking about your first encounter with the man himself.
By the time I started auditioning for Steve’s shows, it was the original company of Sunday in the Park with George. I went in for Celeste #1. At that time, Paul Gemignani was his musical director. Every time I worked with Steve, except toward the end, it was Paul. I auditioned for that original company of Sunday, but I couldn’t even make it to see Steve because Steve would only come to the final callbacks. He was never there before then. I was devastated that I didn’t get it, and I went home and cried and cried and cried, because I just wanted to do it so badly. So my voice teacher said, “I’m going to teach you how to sing Mozart.” And I said, “What?” She was an opera singer with a storied past, and she said, “Yeah, I’m going to teach you to sing Mozart, because Mozart is talking on pitch.” You just get on and off the note really quickly. And you don’t over-sing Sondheim, because then it turns into something else.
The next show that came up was the original company of Into the Woods, and they needed an understudy for the Baker’s Wife and both stepsisters. I went in for that, and it was an interesting audition. I got called back—and back then, you auditioned on the stage of a theater. You went in, and everybody was sitting out in the house, in the dark—and that could be anybody. So I went up there, belted my own song, and did the scene. And they said, “Thank you very much.” And as I walked out into the house, and I walked up the aisle. And in the dark, this man says, “Excuse me. What was that top note that you sang in the belt number?” And I leaned over, without even really looking at him, and I said, “It was a mixed F.” And then I saw him: it was Steve in the dark. And he said, “Very impressive,” and that was it. And I nearly lost my shirt. I had no idea he was there—and in a way, it was really great that I didn’t know he was there. I was just excited to be doing his material.
And the material that I’ve gotten a chance to work on and perform over the course of many, many years has educated me as an actor and singer. I was seen for the workshop of Passion at Lincoln Center, and I didn’t get the workshop. But I was in the Broadway company from the very beginning, and Steve was very present. Back then, we were rehearsing, and he would always be there, carrying notebooks, scribbling and giving notes. But he would be noting everything. Even at the Public Theater, when I did Road Show downtown, he would always be noting performances, lyrics, whether he should use “and” versus “or…” But I never saw him noting people directly. He would pass the notes on to the director, whether it was John Doyle or it was James [Lapine], or whoever. And I think what was so fascinating was just how meticulous he was throughout the rehearsal period. And for Passion, the previews were very difficult because the audiences were laughing, and all this kind of stuff. But he would obsess over and over and over again about individual words, because he knew that those connecting words change the meaning substantially. And it was a fascinating process, because Steve was writing up until the very last second—and we didn’t really have an ending. I remember James standing on the stage, and Steve was sitting next to me in the house after we’d done a run-through, and we did not have an ending. He was still working it out.
Passion was such an intense creative process, and I watched them cut and cut and cut, because the first audiences were not accepting what the piece was on a lot of levels. They didn’t understand, for instance, that Victorians were obsessed with death and the afterlife, and the things all around that: that they wore hair for jewellery. And by the way, you can see it in even American Victorian jewellery or antique jewellery in England. There’s a lot of hair work in portrait miniatures on the back of their intimate jewellery. On portrait miniatures, there are woven pieces of your beloved’s hair when they died. I mean, it was a massive movement. And there was a whole section of the scene where Giorgio comes to visit Fosca in the bedroom, where she asked if he’ll save her braid and put it in a box—and audiences were just giggling. Every time she would come out and surprise him, the audience would break into laughter. The scene on the mountain in the rain, where she actually faints… One night, people broke into applause. It was kind of unnerving!
I’d love to ask about covering multiple characters in shows. Even though it’s common practice, I’m a little in awe of the fact that you did so in Passion of all things—its characters are all so intricately woven together.
Originally, I think our preview period was six or seven weeks. They extended it. But when we met for the first time, I was originally hired to be the understudy for almost everybody in the cast, except the mother. I was going to understudy Fosca and Clara and the mistress, and one of the maids. And because of the nudity, we had to sign a nudity clause for that opening scene. One cast member was uncomfortable with that and left the company, so then I moved up: I was one of the maids and the mistress every night on stage, and then still continued to cover Clara and Fosca. I had understudy rehearsals twice a week, every week, which was great. And the score of that show, I think it’s one of the best things that I’ve ever heard, because it just never stops. It’s so beautiful.
I think why I’m able to do it is—and I’m not more special than anyone else—but I feel like because of my training, I understand really crisp, clean singing. I love seeing the Broadway company of Merrily, because they’re all doing that kind of singing. On and off the notes. On and off, and letting the lyrics speak. And that’s half of the acting. When you have good text, half of the work is done—and people have said that about Steve before. I think there’s something in my musical ear naturally that I just understand where he’s going. I kind of know where his intervals are going to lie, because that’s his signature, and I just get it. I don’t know why that is, but I think it’s something natural.
Going back to Passion, what I really loved about being on stage every night, coming in and out of scenes, is the show works like a dream. It weaves in and out like a dream—and when I was on stage, that’s what it felt like to me. These overlapping memories of lines. And what’s so beautiful about it, and so modern about it, is that very final scene when Giorgio’s in the asylum… It all comes together, that weaving in and out. Having the maids float through scenes and the soldiers float through scenes and propel the action or the state of mind, and then the whole thing about Ludovic and the parents and all that… But it all comes together in that final scene, where it’s the culmination of the dream. And I’ll tell you what: I don’t think think I ever got through a show without getting choked up. I’m getting choked up now. All these people, from Clara to the doctor to the captain to the soldiers to the maids, criss-crossing and finalizing the story until Fosca comes out. I personally find that to be a brilliant musical moment. It’s the way all these little motifs that Steve writes and Jonathan orchestrates, they all come together in a really astonishing way, like a freaking jewel. A jewel.
And the way it converges onto that final, repeated line, “Your love will live in me,” is so special. You said that the ending wasn’t there when rehearsals began. Did that final scene seem to emerge almost in real time during those weeks?
To tell you the truth, it’s so long ago that I don’t remember exactly how it happened. It occurred in steps, so it almost seemed like it happened naturally. But it was a process, and then it coalesced, and that was the ending. And it felt very satisfying.
What’s interesting about the piece is Clara is truly not a good woman. She’s not. She’s a superficial woman, who is beautiful and uses her sexuality. Out of the bonds of marriage, she’s carrying on with this soldier. And when he says, “Run away with me,” she effectively says, “No. Maybe when my son is grown up.” And you go, “What?” And then with Fosca, yes, she’s obsessed and there’s some weird shit going on. But she’s saying, “We are really very much alike. We read, we do this, we do that.” It’s more about the mind. But if you don’t point to that, sometimes audiences don’t see that, and so they’re missing a lot of the story.
When you think about the other productions you’ve been part of, are there moments—perhaps small ones—that you recall especially vividly?
I covered a bunch of women in the Roundabout production of Sunday. I loved Sam [Buntrock]’s direction of that, because I had never considered having a projection. The direction of it was unreal, because it really was empty—but then those words that Steve writes at the beginning and the end point up everything. When they do the Grande Jatte painting, you see it all on the background, and then the little boat starts to move. And for “and parasols,” the parasols pop open. It was astonishing.
Also, we were downtown and working on Road Show—and I had done a workshop of that many years before, when it was still being called Bounce. We were doing a workshop with Eric Schaeffer, and Bernadette was playing the mother and Richard Kind was playing Addison. We were down there, and Steve was there every single day, making notes. And all of a sudden, more than midway through the process, he comes in one day and he’s decided the brothers need a ballad. To hear Steve bring a song that he wrote, and the boys stand there with the sheet music and sing it, that’s something special.
And even our Follies, because of the Kennedy Center having so much money, we had a massive orchestra. I was on stage every night as DeeDee, and then I went on for Jan [Maxwell, who played Phyllis] and Régine as Solange. But to be standing out there and hear that music… Wow. I just cannot even tell you what that’s like. And it’s really about just knowing that it’s the passage of time, and knowing that it’s gone, lost… And to be in the center of that sound. Sound is really important to me as an actor, as a person, as a singer. Wow. It was astonishing.
I love that you’ve described Sondheim productions at their most intimate and their most grand there.
Yeah, and Road Show was very small. We did it down at the Public Theater, which is a very small house downtown, around Astor Place. So I’ve done the smallest and the biggest. And then even to do the Carnegie Hall Anyone Can Whistle with Angela [Lansbury], Madeline Kahn… And I had already worked with Madeline before, doing Dolly with her. Her, Scott Bakula, Bernadette, Chip Zien. It was crazy. And I’ll tell you what. For me, that’s the sexiest Bernadette has ever been. She made Hapgood sexy too, and you could understand their relationship. It was astonishing. And it’s such a strange show, but the music is so incredible. It was such a beautiful experience, really.
As someone who has seen several of Sondheim’s works right from their inception, how do you reflect on his legacy? I’m thinking about the current wave of revivals and his work finding new fans in particular.
You know what? I’m getting kind of teary. He lived an incredibly grand and elevated-to-the-highest-level life, that we would all love to live. His death was devastating for me. What do I think about the revivals and the love? I love it, but I think you have to be careful of it too. I think the revival of Merrily is fantastic, and they deserve all the Tony wins—and that’s because Maria [Friedman] understands him, because she’s done so much work with him. And really, you don’t have to bend the story, because Steve gives you the story. I’m happy about any love or revival or music, as long as people can really sing it and not overkill it. This sounds kind of stingy of me, but I mean it in the best sense. Trust his material, and let that shine. And what I really want to say is this: any time his music is in the world, it’s a good day.
I called Paul Gemignani the day that Steve died, and I said, “Oh my god, Paul.” And he said, “I know.” But he said, “Here’s what you need to remember. We were lucky.” And we were lucky—to have his music around us, his life, the joy of performing it. But even more, we are lucky to have his music in the world.
Look, this is what you’re going to find. As you get older, even six months from now, or a year from now, or 10 years from now, you’re going to back and hear something or see something, and you’re going to burst into tears. It’s never going to lose its freshness. As your own experience in the world, and the life that the world has for you… You’re going to understand all of these things deeper and deeper, and it may move you in a different direction, and you have all of that to look forward to. I still go back and listen, and I learn something new. And I go, “Oh my god, he really understood that.” You just wait.