How strange it must be for Sondheim to mourn the deaths of people he worked so closely with--like James Goldman, Leonard Bernstein and Jerome Robbins. And then, after their deaths, he has to stand by and watch less talented people make creative decisions about their contributions to his shows...while he's still alive to object but not to overrule.
I don't know which experience would have been more excruciating: Arthur on the West Side revival or Bobby Goldman on the various Follies before this one.
I'm very happy this is as good as it is--and not so very sad, as I've been in the past, that it isn't as good as the original. I wonder how he feels. Relieved, I imagine.