She croons: "Oh this will be my fifth-time lucky / Hug me quick my honey-ducky".
Her range in that show is striking: she crooned the love songs; she hurled out the show tunes.
She crooned the words like a lullaby, over a barely swaying rhythm, with her voice swathed in sustained chords from a string orchestra.
"Ooh, I love this," she croons, fondling one of the mole-like dots decorating the tulle.
For Buddy Johnson's "Since I Fell for You," she croons, and goes softer where Liza Minelli belts Kander & Ebb's "Maybe This Time".
She croons, "Catching my breath, letting it go, turning my cheek for the sake of this show / Now that you know, this is my life, I won't be told what's supposed to be right".
She croons about home on the aptly titled "Lullaby".
Fondling the spiked hair of a male audience member, she croons something vaguely vulgar.
At one point, in a ritzy bar, she unveils the still heart of the film, her face trapped in closeup while she croons "New York, New York," at a crawling tempo.
The pathos of Ophelia's madness was increased with the knowledge, which probably went back to childhood, of the folk songs she croons in her distraction.
