Mandy Patinkin as Saul in Homeland.Sifeddine Elamine/SHOWTIME
Long before he knew he was destined for the stage and screen, Mandy Patinkin unwittingly fell in love at the synagogue. Recalling the moment over the phone from his New York home, Patinkin’s coarse, velvety timbre softens almost to a whisper: the melodies of Hebrew prayers surrounded him, the voices of old men embedding themselves in his bones before he understood their meaning. “I didn’t know what I was hearing at the time, but it found me before I found it. That’s where I fell in love with song.” That early immersion, felt more than understood, became the foundation for a career that would span Broadway (Evita, Sunday in the Park with George), film (The Princess Bride) and television (Homeland).
At 72, that pursuit still drives him. His latest tour, Being Alive, which stops at Massey Hall on March 27, isn’t just a concert. It’s a living, breathing thing, moulded by the room, the energy and whatever thoughts happen to be rattling around in his head that night.
For Patinkin, music isn’t about precision. It’s about presence. Ahead of his Toronto appearance, he reflects on the role of music in uncertain times, his deep connection to Jewish liturgical traditions and the mentors who shaped his understanding of what it means to truly perform.
With so much happening in the world, what role does art, and specifically music, play in keeping people connected?
To feel alive. That’s what it’s about. Music, storytelling, dance, theatre, it’s all there to remind us of what it means to be human. When I’m on stage and I see people reacting, I feel it: this sense of being in it together. It’s immediate. It’s real. There’s no filter. That’s why I believe in music. It brings people together in a way that nothing else can.
You’ve spoken about Jewish music as something deeply personal, but also something bigger than yourself. How did that relationship with music begin?
It started in the synagogue. I was in Hebrew school every day after public school. Junior congregation Friday night, junior congregation Saturday morning. Then I was in the boys’ choir for the adult service. I was surrounded by liturgical music: Hebrew music, Psalms. The old men would shuckle – rock back and forth while singing and praying – and it got into my bones before I even realized it.
One day, somebody asked me to be in a show at the youth centre where I went to nursery school, and suddenly, I heard something come out of my mouth that sounded like those men in the synagogue. That experience – hearing those old men and realizing that music could move through you like that – it changed me. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the beginning of everything.
Years later, famed theatre producer Joseph Papp encouraged you to sing in Yiddish. What did that experience mean to you?
Joe Papp told me, “It’s about time you learn a Yiddish song.” And I said, “I don’t know a Yiddish song.” And he said, “Well, it’s about time you learned one.”
So I did. And when I sang it, something clicked. I didn’t understand the words, but I knew it meant something.
Later, when I recorded my Yiddish album [Mamaloshen, released in 1998], the musicians, many of whom didn’t speak a word of Yiddish, came up to me and said, “This was the best experience we’ve ever had.” And I thought: This isn’t just Jewish music. This is immigrant music. I realized something in that moment. I didn’t have Italian songs, Spanish songs, Haitian songs, but I had this. And the lesson is: Whoever you are, wherever you’re from, let the sounds of your ancestry pour over you. Let them wash over you. You don’t need to understand a single word. It will take you somewhere beyond words.
That’s why I wanted the album cover to have an American flag behind me – not because I was making a statement, but because I wanted to show that this is part of the fabric of America. We’re all immigrants.
You credit the composer Leonard Bernstein for teaching you how to speak about music. How did that happen?
At Juilliard, I studied to be a classical actor, but I was surrounded by music and dance. The drama students were on the third floor, in between the orchestra rooms and the dance studios where [the choreographer] George Balanchine was working with [the dancer] Rudolf Nureyev. During breaks, we were allowed to nap on the floor as Leonard Bernstein conducted. One day, he woke us all up shouting: “No, no, no! The lightning hits the redwoods! The redwoods split! The gazelles start to run! The forest is on fire! Now play it!” And they played, and the roof came off. Years later, when I was working with Paul Ford, my long-time accompanist, I realized – that’s where I learned how to talk about music. From Bernstein.
Did you ever get to tell Bernstein what he meant to you?
No, I didn’t realize it at the time. But I met him. My roommate at Juilliard was Ted Chapin, whose father, Schuyler Chapin, was Bernstein’s manager. At Schuyler’s 60th birthday, my wife and I walked in, all bundled up, holding our baby in a bassinet. Down the stairs comes this guy with a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, full of life. He walks right up, ignores us, grabs the baby, kisses him on the mouth. I look at my wife and say, “That’s Leonard Bernstein!”
You could have stayed in film or television. Why do you keep coming back to performing live?
Joe Papp once told me, “If you do The Winter’s Tale for me, I’ll give you six Monday nights to do your music thing.”
I turned the piano around so Paul Ford wouldn’t see the audience. And we did it. And when I came offstage, Joe put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Wow. I guess you liked doing that.” I said, “I sure did.”
And he said, “You need to keep doing this.” So I did.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
