"I Am Your Man:" The Villain Song

Dan Donohue as Scar in The Lion King

Today, we’re returning to the Building Blocks of a Musical series and taking an in-depth look at the Villain Song. Not every show has a villain. Sometimes, the antagonist is just another character with competing goals. Sometimes, it’s a misbelief. But when there is a villain and they get a song, it can heighten the stakes, add insight into the hero, emphasize the theme, and throw in a welcome change of pace. The way our stories treat our villains can also help to build the Beloved Community. 

For the rest of this series, we’ll be looking at how the standard building blocks show up (or don’t) in five musicals, four of which are among the top 10 highest grossing Broadway shows since they started keeping records: the Lion King, Wicked, Hamilton and Les Miserables, in that order. The fifth is Newsies, because I personally love it and it’s a reader request. 

So let’s dive in. 

"The Bottom Line" in Newsies

"The Bottom Line"

A well-executed Villain Song can add depth and insight to the story by highlighting the contrast between our protagonist and the person who’s trying to take them down. In Newsies’ “The Bottom Line,” for example, we meet a jaded, self-serving newspaper magnate who doesn’t really seem to care about anything but maximizing his profits, his convenience, and his ability to pretend his hands are clean. The song, which follows the rousing “Carrying the Banner,” is laid back and emotionally detached. Joseph Pulitzer approaches the problem of declining circulation almost academically.  He wants a solution from his inner circle. No, big pictures do attract readers but they’re too expensive. When you’re getting shaved, he sings, you don’t want the razor too close, lest it slice your throat. In other words, push the damage as far away as you can while getting the job done; don’t let it impact your own skin. At last, one of them comes up with the idea of charging the newsboys ten cents more per hundred papers, which will motivate them to sell more. 

When his  secretary worries “It’s gonna be awfully rough on those children,” Pulitzer counters, “Nonsense, they'll be learning a real life lesson in economics. I couldn't offer them a better education if they were my own.” Considering how we later see him treat his daughter, that may be less of a bald-faced lie than it appears. 

The meaning of the next verse is a little harder to parse. He sings that you shouldn’t throw your shoes away when they get dirty; just get them waxed. What does that have to do with the newsboys? The idea of further exploiting the boys, when they are barely eking out enough to eat, is actually Pulitzer’s and it’s dirty. But it’s too valuable to throw away, so he slaps on some veneer; he manipulates an underling into suggesting it instead of putting it forward himself, and then he frames it as the only rational solution and a valuable education for the children he’s using. In doing so, he heightens the stakes for Jack Kelly and all the newsboys. 

All of this is a stark contrast to Jack Kelly’s soaring “Santa Fe,” where he pours his whole heart into a dream about living by “plantin crops, splittin’ rales, swappin’ tales around the fire,” and building family-like connections. He urges his buddy with a bad leg, Crutchie, the one he’s always watching out for, to come along where “We won’t beg no one to treat us fair and square.” Jack’s song reveals he has next to nothing, but what he has, he shares. He longs for equality but he wants to rise together. And he’s going to find a way to take care of the ones who have even less than he does. Pulitzer’s shows that he has more than enough but he still wants more, that he thinks he’s better than the people who are closest to him, that the newsboys are beneath his notice, and he’s always looking for a way to hide his dirt from even himself. 

Pulitzer’s “The Bottom Line” comes two numbers after Jack’s “Santa Fe,” where he was already determined to flee New York before it grinds him to nothing. The stakes have just gotten higher, not only for Jack but for all the newsboys, and their reaction is going to drive the rest of the story. 

"Wonderful"

In Wicked, the Villain Song isn’t just about contrast; it’s also about similarity, and the pull of a life-long dream. “Wonderful” comes rather late in the show, shortly after the intermission. That's necessary. It’s not the Wizard’s first song, but he sings “A Sentimental Man” before we find out that he’s a villain so, although it’s full of irony, it doesn’t really count. We're not supposed to know that he's not all he's cracked up to be until just after that song, and then we're busy watching Elphaba react by defying gravity. It's not until after the intermission, when Elphaba and the Wizard meet up again, that we get a chance to look inside his head. In “Wonderful”, he presents himself as an awkward, harmless gentleman, who never had anybody’s admiration until he accidentally blew into Oz. He sings about the headying effect of its citizens hailing him as wonderful, and how can Elphaba help but relate?  She too has been on the outside, longing to be acknowledged and accepted. That’s what her “I Want” song, “The Wizard and I” was all about, and she was going to achieve it by earning the Wizard’s notice. He recounts never having a family (ironic for reasons that Elphaba does not yet guess) and wanting to do everything for his new people. With a father who’s been rejecting her since birth, she knows that familial longing all too well. She’s unimpressed with how he’s lied to his subjects, but he counters that truth is really a matter of perspective. It’s not what you did; it’s how you’re remembered that defines you. That’s a bitter but enticing thought, since she had earned her way to fame, only to be suddenly maligned throughout Oz as wicked. He offers public redemption. Her dream is back within her grasp, and she almost takes it, until she remembers that he is not a harmless old man, his crimes are a whole lot worse than pretending to be something he was not, and partnering with him is therefore impossible. In Wicked, the villain sings like a siren, but Elphaba finds a way to resist. Only, can she continue to do so over the long term, or will she also allow external events and the perceptions of others to redefine who she is? By touching on these issues, this Villain song serves to underscore some of the musical’s key themes. 

Will Swenson as Javert in Les Miserables. Photo by Michael Le Poer Trench

"Stars"

I don’t know if it’s fair to call “Stars” from Les Miserables a Villain Song. Javert, who sings it, is fanatical, destructive and profoundly sincere. This makes him very different from Thenardier, whose life is filled with all forms of villainy, from petty to profound, many of them gleefully catalogued in “Master of the House.” Thenardier is inclined to exploitation and persuadable to murder. He’s despicable, but also comical. Javert, by contrast, is dignified and terrible. He hunts Valjean across decades, doggedly and with religious zeal.  “Stars” tells us why. Javert believes in order, not repentance. Those who fall are irredeemable. They can no more rise than can a fallen star. They are only safe behind bars. 

Herbert Kretzmer, librettist for the English version, recounts that this was the one and only song where the lyrics came first, instead of after composer Claude-Michel Schönberg wrote the music. And they were written from deep within Javert’s character. “I consider myself an atheist,” Ketzmer told The Guardian, “but you don’t have to believe in what you’re writing, so long as you believe with every sinew that your characters believe it; the theology in the lyrics was written with the utmost sincerity.” 

This is another example where the contrast between the hero and the antagonist underscores the themes. Valjean’s “I Want” song, “What Have I Done,” is all about coming to grips with how far he’s fallen, how lost he feels, and how the brotherly love that’s been shown to him in spite of all that means he can and needs to somehow begin a new life. Javert’s “Stars” establishes the rigid mindset that will lead to his final song, a reprise of “What Have I Done” that ends in suicide, because his theology doesn’t offer him a way out. Jean Valjean’s saving of his life cannot reclaim his soul; it can only transform him from terrible to tragic. 

Jonathon Groff as King George III in Hamilton

Tie for Top Place

We’ve saved the best for last. In my opinion, the final two Villain Songs are unbeatable. In truth, this was the deciding factor that put Hamilton on the list of musicals we’ll be exploring through the rest of the Building Blocks series. There were a number of reasons not to choose it: the musical breaks so much new ground that it’s going to be some work to highlight how it follows the basic pattern. It’s liberally peppered with strong language and includes a significant extramarital affair that is depicted onstage (not graphically). But it also has powerful themes connected to the Beloved Community and it explores those compellingly. Also, its Villain Song is so good that I couldn’t resist.  

King George III of Hamilton and Scar of The Lion King are similar in a number of ways. They are villainous megalomaniacs who share a penchant for witty wordplay while issuing outrageous statements with high-bred superiority, distinguished accents, and classic, British reserve. 

Gareth Saxe as Scar in The Lion King

"Be Prepared"

Tim Rice modeled “Be Prepared” on a Nazi rally, with Scar playing Hitler to a bunch of goose-stepping hyenas who have no idea that they’re being insulted and manipulated. He wanted the song to be both “funny and sinister. That’ll intrigue the audience,” he told Vulture. He took pleasure in using language that stretched the vocabulary of his young target audience (or even their parents: I was an adult when the movie came out and suspect that’s where I learned “quid pro quo”). There’s hardly a line in the song that doesn’t delight, while revealing Scar’s cultivated sense of misuse that he sees as justifying his treachery. It’s especially fun to hear him insulting the intelligence of his minions in language that’s so lofty they have no idea what he’s talking about.  He’s revealing his black heart, his vicious plans, and his utter disdain for the troops he’s going to use to bring about his coup, and all they hear is the promise of free food. There’s a lesson there that’s worth thinking about. 

It’s no accident that Simba’s “I Want” song also centers on his longing to be king, to be in charge (instead of being bossed around) and to inhabit the spotlight. But Simba’s “I Just Can’t Wait to be King” is innocent, child-like and enthusiastic, whereas Scar’s is sinister, resentful and sardonic. 

You'll Be Back

Lin-Manuel Miranda modeled his villain on a toxic ex. Ironically, he wrote the song “You’ll Be Back” on his honeymoon. It shows King George III “lovingly” chastising the Colonies for wanting out of a relationship that’s clearly being working well for him. He pooh-poohs their complaints and treats their rebellion like it’s all histrionics. He knows what they want, a man who is strong to their “sweet submissive” subjection. They can’t live without him, and if that reassurance isn’t enough to dissuade them from leaving, also, they’re his favourites and their loss would drive him mad. So, “Da-da-da, dat-da” no need to get all worried about it. And then the clincher, delivered in wooing tones, “I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love.” After that, he invites the entire audience to join in with his shoulder-shrugging “Da-da-da, dat-da” chorus. 

This is toxic to the extreme, but it’s played with such a light hand (and performed by Jonathon Groff with such cheeky conviction) that it’s hilarious. It offers deep insight into the nature of a colonial relationship. And its playfu,l pop treatment is a dramatic contrast with both the number immediately preceding it (“Farmer Refuted” - a debate between the very proper royalist Samuel Seabury – accompanied by a harpsichord – and Hamilton, who is singing rap) and Hamilton’s “I Want” song, “My Shot,” an insistent “I gotta holler just to be heard” rap. 

King George III holds himself erect and self-contained in his palace, while crooning patronizingly at the raging revolutionaries. Hamilton is overflowing with barely-contained energy as he paces about a pub, while he raps about being “young, scrappy and hungry,” admits that he has “a lot of brains, but no polish,” and vows “I will lay down my life if it sets us free.” 

On Broadway, the king is the only white actor in the show. All the revolutionaries are played by people of color, emphasizing the differences in lived privilege and access to power. But the message isn’t anti-white. They are all playing white characters who laid down the foundation for American liberty at enormous personal cost. 

It should also be noted that King George may be the villain of the show, but Aaron Burr is the true antagonist, a mentor who becomes Hamilton’s rival and then his killer. But there is no villain song for Burr, because that’s not what he is. He’s someone who likewise cares deeply about his country, begins to disagree with Hamilton and gets swept up in a series of events that leads to a duel. Hamilton is the better marksman, whose entire career (and “I Want” song) has been focused on not throwing away his shot. So Burr shoots to stay alive, only to perceive afterward that Hamilton aimed at the sky. Burr ends his final song with the lament, “I should’ve known/ The world was wide enough for both/ Hamilton and me.” 

Villain Treatment Matters

That message, that the world is wide enough for both us and them, that we need to figure out a way to see and respect each other, instead of trying to destroy each other, is another reason that Hamilton is on the Building Blocks list. It is also an important truth to consider when writing villains. They may be detached and self-serving like Pulitzer and King George; resentful, treacherous and conniving like Scar; laboring under imposter syndrome and carried away by the praise of others like the Wizard; or bound down in false beliefs that rob them of compassion and give them no space to grow, like Javert. They may be so far gone that there’s no way to redeem them in the story. But they are people. And creators who give them the dignity of well-rounded treatment, who let us connect with their motivations and glimpse their (often wasted) potential, help us to see and respect the humanity of those we see as antagonists in our own lives. Such villains also enrich the show. 

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Update: Last week I announced I'm launching a podcast with Gunnar Michael Anderson and I would be posting a link to it this week, for those interested in following. That's being delayed for another week, but progress is going well.

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