No Easy Way to Tell You This: Remembering Stephen Silverman

Stephen Silverman’s latest book arrived on my doorstep today. It’s a handsome celebration of the late composer Stephen Sondheim. Sondheim: His Life, His Shows, His Legacy, is an amazing piece of work by an amazing writer—and a good friend.

Of all places, I got to know Stephen at the edge of the Grand Canyon when the two of us, along with a passel of other journalists, were trapped over a weekend with Chevy Chase while he somewhat grimly promoted National Lampoon’s Vacation. Although Stephen and I had nothing to do with it, the movie became a huge summer hit. We became friends.

Thereafter, when we found ourselves together at one of these movie junkets, we made sure to join forces. That way we could be sure, at least in our minds, of getting in a few intelligent queries in the midst of what was often a storm of jaw-dropping dumb questions. We interviewed Roman Polanski at lunch overlooking the Mediterranean during the Cannes Film Festival, flirted outrageously with Barbara Hershey in Los Angeles as she promoted Hannah and her Sisters, and generally had a lot of laughs together.

I liked and admired him immensely, but then who didn’t like Stephen? With his carrot-colored hair, impish, freckled face, he was kind of like Howdy Doody come to life, only more handsome and a whole lot more sophisticated. Highly intelligent, endlessly witty, a bit cynical, and always great fun, Stephen, best of all, was a superb writer. When I met him, he had already published Public Spectacles, his sparkling account of his brushes with celebrity while laboring at the New York Post.

He had befriended film legend David Lean (Lawrence of Arabia, Dr. Zhivago). Charmed, like everyone else, by Stephen, Lean agreed to participate in a biography, the first time the reticent director had done so. Stephen then proceeded to write about subjects as disparate as the turmoil at 20th Century Fox, the director Stanley Donen (Singing in the Rain), and histories of the Catskill Mountains and amusement parks. His smartly written and beautifully produced books, have a special place on my bookshelf.

 Although he had been born in California, Stephen, particularly in his later years, always struck me as the quintessential New Yorker. He had an apartment overlooking Lincoln Centre, a camera-ready little dog named Kingston, and lots of glamorous nights filled with Broadway openings and dinners in great New York restaurants with fascinating.

For years, we talked about getting together again in New York. Life somehow kept getting in the way. Finally, I emailed him to say that my wife Kathy and I were coming to the city in October and there was nothing I would like better than to get together with an old dear friend and celebrate the publication of his book.

He didn’t answer the email. Totally unlike Stephen. A couple of weeks went by, me thinking that he must be holed up somewhere doing last-minute work on the Sondheim book.

Still…

Come to think of it, lately he hadn’t posted on Facebook. He had been very good about reporting on Kingston’s latest adventure, or the opening night he had attended, or one of the lectures he often gave.

I decided to check his Facebook page. To my shock and sorrow, I discovered that Stephen had died July 6 at the age of 71, months before I tried to get in touch with him. I felt sick and embarrassed. How could this happen? How could I have missed the death of someone who had seemed so alive and vibrant, who so enjoyed his life. Yet there it was. I had missed it all, including a lengthy New York Times obituary.

Soon I received an answer to my email. It was from Diane Reid, an old friend and the executor of his estate (who also helped him with the Sondheim book). Her note began, “There is no easy way to tell you this…”

No, there isn’t. Her words haunt me still. No easy way to understand how someone like Stephen could have slipped away so quickly. No easy way to understand the tragic irony of achieving a book like Sondheim and then disappear barely two months before its publication.

No easy way to understand any of it, except to sit quietly today, holding tight to Stephen’s book…

Remembering…