As a child, you most likely sang "Do-Re-Mi" or maybe even "My Favorite Things." And chances are you watched the film version of The Sound of Music, an adaptation of the 1959 Broadway musical about a nun-in-training who becomes a governess to seven motherless children in an Austria about to enter World War II.
Within the past month we have read with sadness of the deaths of four important artists who seemingly have little in common: composer and author Mary Rodgers Guettel, internationally famous American conductor Lorin Maazel, Broadway and cabaret star Elaine Stritch, and the legendary operatic tenor Carlo Bergonzi. They do actually have one thing in common: me.
During this Christmas Season, I could not help but notice that The New York Times' default metaphor for anything a critic finds objectionable in the arts is none other than Walt Disney. It is as if Uncle Walt was the anti-Christ of Art. When his name appeared once again the other day, I stopped to think about what that might mean.
"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens/Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens/Brown paper packages tied up with strings/These are a few of...