In musical theatre lore, when emotion outgrows words, characters sing (and when emotion outgrows song, they dance). This idea – in various guises, configurations and subversions – has shaped musical theatre for the last eight decades. The expectation that in a musical, characters sing is deeply ingrained: songs move the story along, or suspend time to enlarge a moment of emotion.

Songs give audiences a chance to connect and to thrill at the virtuosity – and vulnerability – on display. After all, the very term “musical theatre” gives us a clue to its priorities. What happens, then, when the singing stops?

That is the question posed by Stephen Sondheim’s final musical, Here We Are, which premiered at The Shed in New York in 2023 (two years after his death at 91) and is now playing at The National Theatre in London till the end of June.

Based on two surrealist films by Spanish auteur Luis Buñuel (1972’s The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie and 1962’s The Exterminating Angel), act one sees a group of wealthy friends searching for a decent brunch.

In act two, after finally eating in the dining room of an embassy building, they mysteriously find themselves trapped – along with the waitress and the butler – and unable to leave. Completed posthumously and written with playwright David Ives, the show does something radical: in its second act, the characters stop singing.

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That is not to say the show is not musical, and act two does include three brief moments of musical interlude rather than song. We might suggest this “songlessness” acts as a kind of silence; the characters speak, but as this is not a play, they should – as is expected of a musical – sing.

Initially keeping up appearances, act one is full of group numbers and sung encounters, yet even here, Sondheim plays games with his audience. The main characters rarely get solo moments; instead, minor characters, including a waiter and a soldier, are given richly expressive songs.

The usual power dynamics of musical theatre are inverted. Who gets to sing – and who does not – becomes central to the story. Director Joe Mantello has said that this approach was counterintuitive, even for Sondheim.

By act two, the playfulness escalates. Suddenly, not even the piano in the embassy drawing room makes a sound. Silence here is not simply a gap to be filled – it becomes the point of the drama. Audiences are asked to sit with characters inured to privilege and trapped by their sudden helplessness.

The absence of song draws attention to everything else: the dynamics and relationships, the constrained movement, the increasingly stilted small talk. Without the emotional release of song, these characters are confronted, confronting and exposed.

Musical silence and space

This seems a courageous move in a genre built around song – but in fact, there are many examples in musical theatre where characters who do not sing are nonetheless central. In West Side Story (1957) and Spring Awakening (2006), adults are silent while the youth give voice to generational difference.

In The Drowsy Chaperone (1998), the central narrator talks but never sings. In more recent works like Maybe Happy Ending (2016), the silence of not singing is more comedic, with the main character Oliver’s best friend being a (silent) house plant named HwaBoon. But Here We Are takes the idea further. Why?

One reason is dramatic. The characters are trapped in an illogical, surreal situation, leading Sondheim to reportedly ask: “Why would these people be singing when they’re trapped in this room?” To its composer, the emotional directness of singing seemed inappropriate here.

Instead, as with the ambiguity that characterises much of Sondheim’s work, we get something more open-ended, perhaps even rebellious. Without the usual musical release, tension builds. What do these characters really feel? What does their inaction demonstrate?

The kind of musical silence gives rise to such questions, becoming a space in which characters and audiences can reflect, transform and critique. The second act of Here We Are is not simply a story about people who cannot leave a room – it is about being confined by habits, class structures and privilege. Characters and audiences alike are forced to confront these things without the thrill of song to soften the edges.

Here We Are further plays with musical theatre’s deepest conventions. What if the thing we expect most – the habit and structure of singing in a musical – does not happen? What if the absence of singing is the most powerful sonic gesture of all?

To end his final work in this way feels like Sondheim has played one last trick on his audience. After a career of writing some of the most emotionally complex songs in musical theatre – such as Send in the Clowns from A Little Night Music – he leaves us with one final challenge to the structure of the form he expanded.

In an interview with journalist Adam Gopnik of The New Yorker in 2014, Sondheim said his dream project would be “not writing”. With Here We Are, he was almost there.

Ben Macpherson does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.