An Open Letter to Stephen Sondheim

Dear Mr. Sondheim,

I'm not sure if you're still draping yourself in sheet music these days, but I'm writing you in the hope that your retrospective tendencies haven't totally canceled out your interest in new material. See, I've had a fascination with a certain story for quite a while, and I know there's only one person who can do it justice: YOU. 

What's the story, you might ask? Well...attend the tale of Mussolini's body!

That's right, Il Duce himself. Cruel dictator, Nazi-BFF, and all-around schmuck. Also, fascinating corpse! 

The pint-sized but apparently charismatic Benito did a lot of - horrific - things during his life, yet perhaps the most interesting tale about him takes place after he died. Spoiler alert: this gets a little gross. But you're the guy who created a musical about a dude who dices up his clients and lets his lover turn them into tasty meat pies, so...I think you can handle it. 

It starts with his execution, which is pretty grisly. Mussolini and his mistress, Clara Petacci, were captured (while trying to flee the country - real brave!) by communist partisans in Northern Italy. After a brief flirtation with handing them over to the Allies for a legitimate trial, the partisans (who would later publicly squabble over who had actually been the lucky one to pull the trigger...boys will be boys) instead decided to execute them by firing squad. Along with the corpses of other top fascists (which sort of sounds like the name of a goth metal band) who had also been quite-recently executed, the bodies of Mussolini and Pettaci were hung upside down from meat hooks at an Esso gas station in Milan (they politely tied Ms. Petacci's skirt around her knees to spare her the embarrassment of post-mortem exposure). Among other disgusting things that often take place when reviled dead bodies are exposed to angry citizens, evil brain matter apparently started seeping out of Mussolini's severely beaten and decaying head. I don't know about you, but I'm picturing a musical number of them all singing while suspended. Too much? Hey, you're the guy with 8 Tonys. Your call!

And that's only the tip of the iceberg! After a few days of allowing justifiably enraged hordes to glory in the death of Mussolini and friends (and stone them, old school-style), the partisans buried his body in an unmarked pauper's grave in a giant cemetery. Only a few people knew its exact location. Yet somehow, a little less than a year later, several Fascists secretly disinterred his body. On Easter Sunday. That shit is twisted. Even more twisted was the note they left on the open site: "Finally, O Duce, you are with us. We will cover you with roses, but the smell of your virtue will overpower the smell of those roses."

If by "virtue," they meant "severely decayed flesh," then, yeah, that sounds about right. Either way, I'm definitely thinking their insane Fascist poetry could provide inspiration for a rousing ballad.

What followed was a zany, months-long, country-wide search for the missing dead despot. When he finally turned up, at a Franciscan monastery in Pavia, he was apparently MISSING A LEG. It's like a Laurel and Hardy movie. Or a French farce. Except Italian. And involving rogue Fascists/dead dictators.

(The less wacky post-script to the tale involves Il Duce being buried in a secret location for the next decade, and then finally being dug up - officially, this time - and moved to his family plot in Predappio.) 

So what do you think Mr. Sondheim? Some titles I've been tossing around include both the simple (Benito's Body) and the allusive (A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to a Free Italy and Sunday at the Gas Station with Il Duce). But I'm sure you can come up with something better. That's the ball. And it's officially in your court. I really hope you'll do something fantastic and fantastical with it!

Sincerely,
Cailey