Introduction

Oscar Hammerstein II is, I believe, the most consequential figure in the history of the American musical. His career spanned from 1920 to 1960, and in those forty years he so transformed our understanding of what musicals could be that any post-Hammerstein musical owes him a direct debt. Having spent the last two-and-a-half years working with his correspondence, I am convinced that Hammerstein was not only a great man of the theater—a richly talented writer and an astute businessman—but also a profoundly good human being.

Because it is his songs that are ubiquitous, Hammerstein is primarily categorized as a lyricist. He is usually placed among his contemporaries Irving Berlin, Lorenz Hart, Ira Gershwin, and Cole Porter—heady company, but one in which he is sometimes dismissed as the sentimentalist. Of course he could be as clever and witty as any of them, but he was less interested in showing off than in being true to his characters. He was more concerned with his songs’ integration within the context of their shows than he was with their potential for being performed, recorded, or broadcast outside the theater. That’s not to suggest he was uninterested in these opportunities—of all of his contemporaries, he was probably the canniest and most successful businessman. But as he wrote in one letter, “The songs are there only to serve the play, and not vice versa.”

As a lyricist, Hammerstein is credited with having written (and in a few instances co-written) the lyrics for approximately 850 songs. The majority of them were written for about forty-five musicals. Most of these songs were for Broadway, though some were for films, a few were for London, one—Cinderella—was for television. There were also a couple of odd stragglers—a revue at the World’s Fair and a show that never made it to Broadway or London. For most stage musicals he wrote between a dozen and nineteen songs that stayed in the show, and a handful that ended-up being cut, if they were ever performed at all. And he wrote a modest number of non-show songs, “The Last Time I Saw Paris” being the most notable. But Oscar was far more than a lyricist.

Oscar wrote (or co-wrote) the scripts to at least fifty dramatic works. Most of these were librettos for stage musicals, but nine are screenplays, three are straight plays, and one is a teleplay. Oscar is credited with directing, staging, or supervising approximately a dozen shows (again, sometimes in collaboration), beginning with the original productions of Show Boat (1927), Music in the Air (1932), and Very Warm for May (1939). And it is widely believed that he ended up directing several shows for which he was uncredited.

In the theatrical world, “Rodgers and Hammerstein” has a long and impressive reputation (the addition of “Organization” came after Oscar died). But Oscar was an involved and shrewd businessman long before his collaboration with Rodgers. He completed two years at Columbia Law and for a brief time also worked for a law firm. After abandoning law school he convinced his uncle, Arthur Hammerstein (a successful producer in his own right), to hire him. Oscar worked as a production stage manager and, whether actively taught by his uncle, or learning by observing, he mastered the business.

Oscar established a professional relationship with attorney Howard Reinheimer by the mid-1920s. Reinheimer, a few years Oscar’s junior, also went to Columbia and graduated from Columbia Law. By 1930 he was not only Oscar’s close friend and attorney, but for all intents and purposes, his accountant and business advisor as well. In 1937 Reinheimer famously acquired the rights to seventy-two musical productions from the Florenz Ziegfeld estate on behalf of five clients—Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, Sigmund Romberg, Otto Harbach, and Oscar Hammerstein.

Oscar was a producer in his own right by at least 1933, with Ball at the Savoy in London. In 1938 Oscar produced two straight plays on Broadway, although neither was a commercial success. And during his two Hollywood sojourns in the 1930s, Oscar was being courted by movie studios and seriously considered moving into the production side of filmmaking.

In 1942 when Oscar and Richard Rodgers began their collaboration and then formed their business partnership, Reinheimer was all but a third unnamed partner. By my count, Rodgers and Hammerstein produced twelve shows on Broadway. Because of obligations for their own works to the Theatre Guild, the first three were shows they didn’t write—the plays I Remember Mama, and John Loves Mary, plus the Irving Berlin musical Annie Get Your Gun, a mega hit. In addition to their twelve original Broadway shows, Rodgers and Hammerstein produced two City Center revivals, one play that closed out-of-town, and the film of Oklahoma! Most of these shows were also sent on national tours. Then there was London where, under the name Williamson Music Ltd. (both Oscar’s and Richard Rodgers’ fathers were named William), they again produced their own productions plus several plays and musicals by other authors. And they managed the leasing of their shows for other productions, both nationally and internationally.

Rodgers and Hammerstein were hands-on producers, concerned with every aspect of their properties, including casting; hiring directors, designers, stage managers, and other artistic and managerial personnel; and overseeing advertising and promotion. Their shows were products they oversaw, regularly visiting productions to make sure standards were maintained. Over time multiple corporations were formed, including a music publishing company, an entity for the leasing of shows, and another for renting theater equipment. In collaboration and with guidance from Reinheimer they were not only major players, but innovators in the business of show business.

With his slow and thoughtful baritone, Oscar embodied gravitas. His opinion and counsel were highly valued. While not officially a play doctor, he read innumerable scripts, and visited rehearsals, out-of-town tryouts, previews, and productions (sometimes as a potential producer, but often just as a friend or colleague). He gave the best, most helpful advice he could. He also received unsolicited lyrics and songs, but (on legal advice), he usually and regretfully declined to look at the songs lest he later be accused of plagiarism.

Oscar was an active member of several boards and committees, and chairman at times for some of them. Most were related to the performing arts, such as ASCAP and the Dramatists Guild, but certainly not all of them. Some organizations he was only briefly involved with—such as the Hollywood Anti-Nazi League, the Writers War Board, and the Music War Committee. Though often approached, he refused invitations to merely have his name used on behalf of various causes (though he may have supported them philosophically and even financially); he believed time and effort should also be requirements for public recognition and solicitation. Among those organizations he publicly supported was the NAACP with which he had a long and close association. Beginning around 1950 Oscar was a passionate member and advocate for the United World Federalists, an organization dedicated to preventing another world war (particularly a nuclear one). And in 1949, in conjunction with their friends and neighbors Pearl S. Buck and James Michener, Oscar and Dorothy Hammerstein founded Welcome House, a child welfare and adoption agency, devoted to children of Asian or part-Asian ancestry. Oscar became its president, and among the first children adopted from the agency was the Hammersteins’ first grandchild.

Oscar married Myra Finn in 1917. They had two children, William and Alice. Oscar met Dorothy Blanchard Jacobson in 1927 on a shipboard crossing from New York to England. They fell passionately in love—as his letters attest. They divorced their spouses and married in 1929, remaining together until Oscar’s death in 1960. Dorothy brought her two children, Susan Blanchard and Henry Jacobson, into the fold, although Henry was raised mostly by his father. Oscar and Dorothy had James in 1931. They also provided refuge for other children at times, particularly during the War. But importantly for the future of musical theatre, James brought a school friend home in 1942 or 1943—the twelve-year-old Stephen Sondheim. Sondheim became a frequent visitor. Within a few years, Oscar became his mentor and, as Sondheim describes it, a surrogate father.

Quite surprisingly, the city-born and raised Oscar became a farmer. In the fall of 1940, the Hammersteins bought Highland Farm near Doylestown in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. Although he kept his apartment in Manhattan, Highland Farm became Oscar’s primary home and refuge. It was a true working farm that he oversaw to the degree he was able, becoming particularly interested in the breeding of Angus cows. Because of his love of the bucolic, and his lyrics that are rich in images taken from nature (birds in particular), Oscar is sometimes perceived as something of a hayseed. He wasn’t. Highly educated, he was an inveterate reader and theatergoer. He was deeply knowledgeable about and interested in history, politics, and finance, and traveled widely.

Having spent years in Oscar’s company through his papers and correspondence, I have yet to find even traces of clay feet. Oscar was kind and generous. He was funny. That’s not to say he was perfect. He could be testy and did not suffer fools gladly. He was defensive about credit, believing that lyricists and librettists were rarely given their due.

While Oscar’s views were quite forward thinking for his times, by today’s standards there are comments in his letters that may come across as dated and sexist, and letters to him that are racially insensitive.

Oscar came of age in the 1920s. His early shows alternated between musical comedies and operettas. His early musicals were fairly typical of their time. There were mistaken identities, Cinderella-like stories, villains, heroes, and love stories. There were large choruses—peasants in the village square, Mounties, Riffs—of virtually indistinguishable players. Read the lyrics and you’ll find songs or large sections of them assigned to “Men,” “Girls” (yes, I note the difference), or the “Ensemble.” The only discernable differences seem to be the time and locale—with an eye for color and pageantry.

Then, in 1927, came Show Boat. The very fact that it was based on a novel—a serious novel—was, well, novel in itself. (The other hit shows of that year were the comic and slight Hit the Deck, Good News, and Funny Face.) The fact that Show Boat dealt with racism, miscegenation, alcoholism, gambling addiction, and the abandonment of a wife and child, was beyond extraordinary. It had a cast that featured both Black and white characters who interacted with each other. It traversed time and geography, covering over thirty years and the length of the Mississippi. But even its broad expanse is secondary in importance to the humanity of the characters. They’re not the traditional villains, heroes, and heroines (except for those in the show-within-the-show). Gaylord is as much a victim as a victimizer. Magnolia survives and eventually thrives, not only because of talent and inner grit, but because Julie makes a sacrifice on her behalf.

Show Boat’s theatrical importance rests largely on Oscar’s libretto, not his lyrics. “Make Believe” is significant, not because it’s one of Oscar’s love songs that doesn’t exclaim its love, but because it’s a song where two people who are attracted to each other make a connection and begin to fall in love during the song. “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man” pretends to be a popular Black song of its day, which is used as a plot point—the first clue that Julie is biracial—but whose substance reflects on most of the ill-fated matches in the show. “Ol’ Man River” is the song that’s something entirely new . . . and I can think of no other that follows in its footsteps. It’s an ambivalent song. Is it a lament or is it an anthem? It’s full of complaint but somehow finds solace in a sense that ultimately nothing matters—the river doesn’t care and won’t remember. But the most important thing is that it puts the suffering of Black people center stage. The white audience must face it and, one hopes, be changed by it. It’s not just characters who change and grow through some of Oscar’s songs, but the audience, too.

Despite the extraordinary success and acclaim Show Boat achieved, Oscar largely reverted to writing shows that were similar in style and content to what he’d written before. There are over twenty stage and film scores that Oscar worked on between Show Boat in 1927, and Oklahoma! in 1943—sixteen years—yet none of them came close to continuing or fulfilling the promise of Show Boat.

It’s not entirely fair to make that claim. In most cases, I have only read and played through the songs, and only know the scripts through synopses. Still, I’m fairly confident. I do note one possible exception. In 1938, Oscar collaborated with Otto Harbach on the book and lyrics for Gentlemen Unafraid. Jerome Kern supplied the music. The show never made it to Broadway, even after it was revised a few years later and given the equally regrettable title, Hayfoot, Strawfoot. Reviewing its songs and story, it’s not surprising that it failed, but one senses deeper ambitions—the show focused on the lead-up to the Civil War and the North–South divide. Oscar and his collaborators were crafting their show during the ominous year before the outbreak of war in Europe—again. Tensions were fomenting, and Oscar must have seen connections. There is one particularly thought-provoking song in the score—“I Wish Dat Dere Wasn’t No War”—in which a chorus of “Colored Women,” Southern soldiers, and “White Women” alternately comment, and the fundamental point is made:

Ax de boss

An he don’ know.

Ax de preacher

And he don’ know.

An’ de Lord Hisself don’ even know

Why men want war . . .

Oklahoma! opened in March 1943, generating seismic changes in the theater and in Oscar’s life. At the time, Oscar hadn’t had a show on Broadway that came close to being a hit since Music in the Air in 1932, eleven years previously (May Wine in 1935 might be considered a modest success). There had been occasional hit songs—in 1939 Very Warm for May produced “All the Things You Are,” and “The Last Time I Saw Paris” premiered in 1940—but Oscar’s Broadway future did not look bright. Even so, letters he received make clear that Oscar continued to be enormously respected in the entertainment industry. Hollywood was definitely interested in his potential as a producer, organizations and boards craved his involvement, and enthusiasm was building enthusiasm for his updating of the Bizet opera Carmen. The show—Carmen Jones—set in the contemporary, Black American South was actually written before Oklahoma!, but was delayed by casting difficulties. When it finally opened in December 1943 it lived up to the high expectations it had engendered.

Oklahoma!’s unprecedented success seems to have surprised everyone, including Oscar. But unlike Show Boat, its innovations influenced not only Oscar, but his contemporaries and those who followed. While he had doubts and struggles with his subsequent shows, I sense a newfound confidence in his artistic ambitions and faith in audiences’ reception of them.

When people comment on Oscar’s innovations they usually focus on what’s referred to as the “integrated musical”—how, among other things, songs now grew out of the characters and the story, and how the characters and the story develop through the songs. That was a great achievement. Equal in importance was the substance of the shows Oscar wrote and the subject matter he tackled. His were adult musicals—they respected their audiences. I believe Oscar was capable of manipulating his audiences with an eye toward educating them, sometimes improving them, or at least making them more sympathetic to human imperfection.

His heroes and heroines were flawed, and his “villains” . . . ? Well, his shows came to eschew villains in the traditional sense. Ravenal, Jud, Billy, Joseph Taylor, Nellie, the King, and the Captain are all, to some degree, victims of their own desires, prejudices, and situations. In Show Boat, Ravenal and Julie succumbed to the demons of addictions, hurting others, but also hurting themselves; both are also given moments of redemption, Julie through self-sacrifice. In Oklahoma!, Jud is a victim of his desires, coupled with an unattractive look and persona he doesn’t have the wherewithal to change. Both Nellie Forbush and Cable are the victims of the prejudices with which they were raised. Nellie struggles mightily to change and succeeds, Cable dies. Whatever their flaws, Oscar looked for the humanity in his characters.

Oscar’s best works—Show Boat, Oklahoma!, Carousel, South Pacific, and The King and I—were based on books and plays written by others. But in adapting them as musicals he gave them a power, longevity, subtlety, and influence they would not have otherwise had. In a unique way, songs become the property of the listener. We hear them in our head, we sing them in the shower. When a character in a show sings a song, we then inherit the song and, in a way, we also inherit part of the character who sings it. We take on part of their persona; they become part of us as we think and feel what their words express.

We can’t think or sing “Ol’ Man River” without identifying with or at least appreciating aspects of Black suffering. Not just Black suffering. Who of any maturity can claim not to have had moments where they were “. . . tired of livin’ an’ skeered of dyin’”? We can laugh at Ado Annie and her travails in “I Cain’t Say No,” but the song wouldn’t be so effective if we didn’t know what it is to have inappropriate urges. One hopes it makes us a bit more forgiving toward those who are less successful at fighting them. You can’t go on the journey of the “Soliloquy”—moving through its stages of excitement, pride, terror, and ill-conceived conclusion at the thought of having a child—without acquiring some sympathy (if not forgiveness) for Billy’s subsequent acts. “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught” may verge on the polemic, but in its thirteen lines it makes its point so clearly that I can’t imagine how one can disagree with its premise without embarrassment. And I think that was Oscar’s goal. Can you experience “A Puzzlement” without asking yourself which of your own beliefs might be questionable? “I Enjoy Being a Girl” has fallen out of favor for its perceived sexism, but I’m convinced Oscar wrote the song largely to telegraph to the audience that the Chinese-American woman, Linda Low, was as all-American as any blonde-haired, blue-eyed young woman of the day. The more I think about Oscar’s work, the more deeply I believe it’s his desire to improve his audience that sets him apart.

In 1953 Oscar received a letter from a college student working on an essay entitled, “The Theme of Brotherhood and Tolerance in the Plays of Oscar Hammerstein II.” He asked Oscar if he could “please send a personal statement on the subject?” Oscar replied:

I suppose that my best personal statements on the subject of brotherhood and tolerance are in the plays that you intend to deal with. I am very happy that you are writing this essay because none of the references to this theme in my plays is accidental. They are quite deliberate and conscious. I believe that the introduction of this theme in plays is more effective than plays that are written obviously to propagate these virtues. The public resists direct propaganda – in our country, anyway.

I believe the letters that follow reveal things about all the aspects of Oscar—the lyricist, the collaborator, the writer, the man of the theater, the businessman, the family man, the believer in causes, the intellectual, the man of good humor, the defensive, thoughtful, and compassionate man that he was. They’re also a fascinating view of history as it was lived, and the history of forty years of show business.

I close this introduction with a vivid memory. A few months into this project, I was intently transcribing a long, very rich letter that Oscar wrote to Jerome Kern in 1942 (during World War II). It was full of detailed discussions on four shows. Then, on the last page, just before the end there was a paragraph that made me feel as though Oscar was writing directly to me from the past to the future:

Knowing that you file your letters and I file copies of mine, it is quite possible that in a couple of thousand years some archaeologist might dig up either the original or the copy and, seeing the date, will be completely puzzled that, during the Great War, so long a letter could be written without some reference to it. It will be hard enough for him to understand how people could be so dumb as to wage wars like this but once in them, how could they possibly be interested in such things as I discussed so seriously in this letter. Well, Mr. Archaeologist, that’s the way we were in these days, feller.

Only eighty years—not two thousand—have transpired since Oscar wrote that, but I believe his confidence in the rightness of saving his letters and their value to the future was warranted.