At Oxford University Press, I have to thank Norm Hirschy from the bottom of my heart for being so extraordinarily kind and patient throughout the publication process. In spite of my extreme naivety on the subject of publishing books, Norm has always been quick to answer all my questions (many of them incredibly mundane), thoughtful in his responses, supportive when difficult decisions had to be made, and generally a dream to deal with. No less important to this process has been Geoffrey Block, who is not only the most important scholar in the field of American musicals but also a talented and inspiring editor for this series. It has been a wonderful experience for me, and I’m touched that Geoffrey and Norm have put so much effort into helping me bring this book to fruition. Thanks, too, are due to the three anonymous reviewers, my copy editor, and the entire production team at Oxford.
Of my friends, particular thanks are due to: Tracy and Darren Bryant; Rex Bunnett and the late John Muir; Richard C. Norton and Gary Schocker; Elliot J. Cohen; Michael Feinstein; Ethan Mordden; Ian Marshall Fisher; Larry Moore; Terry and Sue Broomfield; Sir Cameron Mackintosh; Sir Tim Rice; my close friends Dorothy and Michael Bradley, Lynne Huang, Marina Romani, and Arlene Tomlinson; Richard Tay, who has been an especially strong supporter and dear friend; and members of my family, including my brother Alistair and his partner Natallia, and my wonderfully supportive Auntie Lin and Uncle John. Special thanks are due to my beloved, long-suffering partner, Lawrence Broomfield, who is the foundation of all my successes. Nevertheless, I owe everything to my parents. By introducing me to The Sound of Music and My Fair Lady at the age of four, they opened a window into a whole new world, and without their generosity, love, and care I would never have been exposed to such a wealth of culture throughout my life, understood the value of education, or become the person I am today. This book is dedicated to them.
LOVERLY
1
FALSE STARTS AND ARTISTIC PROMISE
ESTABLISHING A MYTH: PYGMALION FROM OVID TO SHAW
The Pygmalion myth has its roots in classical Greek legend. Ovid tells us (in Dryden’s translation of Metamorphoses) that Pygmalion “loathing their lascivious life, / Abhorr’d all womankind, but most a wife: / So single chose to live, and shunn’d to wed, / Well pleas’d to want a consort of his bed.”1 The misogynist Pygmalion is a sculptor, and in spite of scorning women in general his “fear of idleness” induces him to carve a beautiful maiden out of ivory. Pleased with his work, Pygmalion “commends, admires, / Adores; and last, the thing ador’d, desires.” This neat progression from feeling pride in the product of his work to finding it an object of desire culminates in Pygmalion’s prayer to Venus, begging her to make the statue come to life. The goddess takes pity on Pygmalion and blesses the union of the sculptor and his creation by granting them a son, Paphos. Later versions refer to the sculpture as Galatea, while in his 1767 retelling Goethe calls her Elise, based on variations of the story of Dido (Elissa). The myth was of interest to visual artists (Rodin, Goya), inspired numerous works of literature (from William Morris’s “Earthly Paradise” to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein) and was the subject of operas by Rameau, Cherubini, and Donizetti, as well as Kurt Weill’s 1943 musical One Touch of Venus. Yet its most famous incarnation will probably always be George Bernard Shaw’s 1913 play, Pygmalion, and the latter’s adaptation into the musical My Fair Lady.
Though the road from Ovid’s Pygmalion to Shaw’s was a long one, we can already see in the original tale the roots of Henry Higgins’s personality. Both Pygmalion and Higgins feel nothing short of contempt for the opposite sex, and yet—or perhaps as a result of this—they both lavish their special talents on creating the ideal image of a woman. At the same time, there is a major divergence from the original myth in the final scene of Shaw’s play. The birth of Paphos after the union of Pygmalion and Galatea is the conclusion of the legend, but the end of the play leaves the audience with an unanswered question: Do Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle form a romantic union after the curtain has come down?
When creating their 1956 musical adaptation of Pygmalion as My Fair Lady, Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe’s greatest challenge was to deal with the complex nuances of the Higgins-Eliza relationship. Although the current study is far-reaching in the topics it embraces, the evolution of this aspect of the show is a unifying theme. It is hardly surprising that Shaw’s Pygmalion should be compared to Ovid’s version, or that My Fair Lady should be compared to both; since Ovid and his successors bring the lead characters together, it is natural to expect this to be reflected in Shaw’s version. Yet the fact that the playwright himself was so vehement in his rejection of the romantic union of Eliza and Higgins—famously writing an epilogue to clarify what he intended by the final scene—means that we are left with a compelling ambiguity in the text that can be played one way or another, according to the preferences of the reader, director, or performer.
From initial planning to the opening night in March 1956, it took Lerner and Loewe almost five years to work out how to maintain this ambiguity while employing the paraphernalia of 1950s musical comedy. To have Higgins and Eliza
