Say It Plainly

A lifelong fascination with two remarkable geniuses

For most of my life, I have been quietly obsessed with two men: Oscar Hammerstein II and Bennett Cerf.

I came to Bennett Cerf first, as a child, through his books of riddles. I loved them. That led me to the librarian at our local public library, who handed me his book of jokes, and from there I was gone. A lifelong fan. Later, when I learned he was one of the great forces behind Random House, all those books I had owned and handled and loved suddenly meant something different to me. He was not just a funny man with a good story. He had helped build one of the great houses of American letters.

Then there was Oscar Hammerstein II.

At that same public library, I was able to check out cast albums. I believe I had them for ten days, maybe two weeks. I would take them home, listen to them, and then, with the moral flexibility of a young theatre kid, copy them onto cheap Kmart cassettes before returning them. Those tapes eventually warped, hissed, and exploded into little brown ribbons of tragedy, but for a while they were my private conservatory.

Somewhere in all of that, I also found an interview album with Oscar Hammerstein and Richard Rodgers. I do not know why it affected me so deeply, but it did. Hammerstein was a man of few words, but the words he chose were clear, descriptive, elegant, and exact. I felt, even then, that he helped me understand the music better.

As a singer, Oscar Hammerstein taught me to honor the written word because it was so selective. Every word seemed chosen for a reason. And when I began researching what some of those words meant, I discovered how much subtext was woven underneath them. It is no accident that Stephen Sondheim idolized him. Hammerstein’s lyrics are subtextual. They may sound simple on the surface, but underneath them there is architecture.

Richard Rodgers wrote beautiful melodies. No one needs to argue that. They are graceful, memorable, and deeply singable. But I have always believed it is Hammerstein’s wit, restraint, and word weaving that make those songs universal. Sometimes the work is dated, yes. It belongs to its time. But when you go back as a historian, you have to understand where the information came from and what was truly at the heart of the message then. It may be in conflict with the present. Absolutely. But when you unearth a relic or return to an older work, I believe you begin by honoring it.

You honor it first.

That does not mean you excuse everything. It does not mean you stop thinking. It means you listen before you correct. You look closely before you decorate. You try to understand the bones of the thing before deciding what needs to be changed.

And when you start there, even as a director, even as a choreographer, beautiful things can happen.

My dear friend Roy used to watch me draw or block a show and ask, “Are you adding dingles to it?”

Dingles.

That was his word for unnecessary ornamentation. He meant, in his own wonderful way, “Is this needed, or are you just decorating?”

He was often right.

Hammerstein taught me that plain language can be profound. Bennett Cerf taught me something just as important, but from another direction.

When Random House was still young, Cerf toured the country visiting booksellers. He would walk into local bookstores and magazine stands, look around, and see where they had placed the Random House books. Then he would get to know the people working there. He would ask, “Where’s our display?” Then he would say, “Why don’t you move it up? Give us a chance.”

And then he would help them do it.

He would roll up his sleeves and physically move the books. Then he might take the booksellers to lunch. Before long, they knew him. They respected him. Not because he acted important, but because he showed up. He helped. He did the work.

That is a great example.

If someone needs your help, help them as best you can.

Plain and simple.

That lesson came from one of the most sophisticated minds of the twentieth century. This was a man who helped make serious literature more accessible, who understood that books should not belong only to the few people who could afford expensive hardbacks. He believed good writing, good jokes, good stories, and good ideas belonged at the same table.

What I learned from both men is this: intelligence does not have to be cold. Sophistication does not have to be showy. Beauty does not need to announce itself with a brass band.

Say it plainly.

Use the grand word when the grand word is needed. Use the simple word when the simple word is true. Do not talk down to people, but do not make them climb a ladder just to understand your sentence.

That is what I am thinking about on a Sunday afternoon. Two men I never met helped shape the way I hear language, the way I sing a lyric, the way I block a scene, the way I write a sentence, and the way I try to move through the world.

Roll up your sleeves.

Honor the word.

Skip the dingles.

Tell the truth.