Crimp’s Treatment

Posted on March 6, 2011 by barczablog
Crimp

Playwright Martin Crimp

Who is Martin Crimp and where has he been hiding all these years?  Maybe as you read this, you’re thinking “he’s not new to ME”.  Congratulations if you’re able to say that

I just saw my first Crimp play tonight, namely The Treatment.  As I recall –with the help of google—I had a few opportunities in the past couple of years, but didn’t take advantage of opportunities to see Attempts on Her Life, and The City, as well as classic plays Crimp translated from French (his Misanthrope was on just last month according to google, that arena of the belated and the might-have-been).  I feel as embarrassed as a doctor not knowing about a common ailment.  Aren’t drama grads supposed to know famous playwrights?  In my defence all I can say is:

  • I don’t think the reading lists for comprehensive exams include him (at least not yet),
    and (blush cough cough)
  • opera, musicals and film are really my specialties

Suddenly I am excited that another Martin Crimp play — Cruel & Tender– is going to be produced next year at Canadian Stage, directed by Atom Egoyan.

I saw The Treatment tonight at Theatre Glendon, and in the process discovered a distinctive “new” voice: that is if you can call something “new” that has been popular in England for twenty years.  The Treatment premiered in 1993.  I suppose I should cut myself some slack, given that Crimp has gone from comparative obscurity—at least in Canada—to becoming very popular over the past few years.  His writing isn’t easy, which is probably the reason it has taken so long for him to become a major star.  With a dozen parts in the play (only one pair of small parts can easily be doubled) it’s challenging for the producers & performers, as well as for the audience.

The Treatment is a wonderfully meta-theatrical study of modern life.  We slip between two worlds disturbingly connected.  A husband and wife team—Jennifer & Andrew—seem to be seeking a fit subject for a film; or perhaps they’re actually seeking life in their own lifeless marriage.  Another husband and wife –Anne & Simon—struggle with a torture scenario, partly imaginary, partly real; does he tie her up with her consent (and possibly for her pleasure), or is it something she hates and seeks to escape?  Sitting on the boundary between the “real” pain-filled world of Anne & Simon on the one hand, and the vicarious parasitic world of Jennifer & Andrew on the other, we find Clifford the writer. Oh boy, an invitation to meditate on life and art. How could i resist?  Clifford introduces himself to increasingly hilarious effect as a writer who was famous for some hits in the 70s; he works half a year (just enough to pay the bills), and spends the other half-year writing.

Before long, Anne encounters Andrew, who wants Anne’s story AND her body.  We will watch the treatment –as in the title—of Anne’s scenario take us to entirely different versions of the plot.  An alternative writer –Nicky the deadpan receptionist in Jennifer & Andrew’s office—and Jane, the director, object to the passivity of Anne’s character, as an affront to womenkind.  And so they substitute fictition for the reality they had previously been reading and trying out in their studio.  In and of itself that’s not really news: that “look what they’ve done to my song” trope.   But this is deeper and stranger, because art & image come into collision with Anne’s identity & authenticity, while the whole busy apparatus of art & culture are presented in the most cynical terms.

It’s the relationship between the two worlds and their imaginative juxtaposition that energizes The Treatment. We get to watch the film version of Anne & Simon’s violent scenario, juxtaposed against the originals.  As we bounce between the two worlds –that is, the world of Anne & Simon, and the replica thereof—the relationship between the two gets confusing because there is so much going on inside the head of each of the characters.

Lukac

Director Aleksandar Lukac

Theatre Glendon’s production was an adaptation directed by Aleksandar Lukac, which is to say that in addition to the complexities of the original, Lukac added some additional challenges of his own.  I can’t pretend that I know the script –I don’t!—but Lukac told me that he changed the sequence in places, such that we’re sometimes seeing the film version of an event before we see the reality it’s supposed to have captured.  For me, the most wonderful part of the presentation is completely Lukac’ creation, namely the filmed replica of Anne’s story being enacted in a studio space, and then simultaneously projected onto the back wall of the stage.  The result is quite surreal & disturbing, even as it is also wonderfully ironic and full of insight about the nature of the mind and how story-telling & fantasy work.

While there are most definitely issues in The Treatment’s attitude to genders (some will be offended by what they see) it’s amazingly funny.  I laughed so loudly with others in the audience at one point that we made the unfortunate actor playing a waitress start to laugh uncontrollably; I don’t think she or her colleagues realized how FUNNY that scene was until that moment.  Part of me felt sorry for disrupting her performance, while another part loved the sense of surprise.

The play is a meditation upon authenticity and a genuine life.  We see phoniness in abundance, usually layered in ironic delivery, and very few moments when the people onstage are likeable or nice.  We occasionally encounter genuine passion, particularly from Anne & Simon, whose lives are at the centre of this comedic nightmare.

Adam Abbas played Andrew with a deliberate stillness evoking a species of office animal we’ve seen before in films involving politicians & lawyers, as well as films about film such as Altman’s The Player.  At the other extreme of the human spectrum, we encounter the Simon of Vito Corapi, a brooding angry man capable of sudden bursts of poetry; you couldn’t take your eyes off his coiled physical presence whenever he came onstage.  The bridge between the two was Philip Tetro’s Clifford, a splendidly creepy study in the mechanics of selling out, or perhaps a portrait of the artist as a shyster.

The two main female characters are not quite so simple; or in other words, I am still trying to figure them out and want to tread carefully.  Michelle Drutz was Jennifer, the other half of the vicarious couple; in some respects she is powerful, in other respects, another victim.  Anais Rozencwajg was Anne, stepping in and out of a realm of fantasy, in what must be the most complex role in the play.

I was especially pleased by several small portrayals that in their way stopped the show. Whenever Baudride Mbaya’s Bay Lady was onstage it was as if everyone else vanished.  Yes the writing gave her several wonderful lines, but it’s not just that she slam-dunked her best moments; Mbaya happily took the stage when given the opportunity.  Lynda Dawkins was also blessed with some wonderful lines as the blind cab driver (hard to believe right? very funny), which she underplayed, reminding me of a female Stevie Wonder.  Some of the most inventive moments came from Geneviève Melanson’s Nicky, the brilliant receptionist cursed to work for the incompetents (Jennifer & Andrew).  While Nicky never said anything too caustic, Melanson let us see her contempt, and in the process was a huge crowd-pleaser.

Rounding out the cast were Kaila MacDuff & Denix Wilson as the film actors portraying Simon & Anne, often providing an amusing juxtaposition between what we’d seen and what they enact, both onstage and then, when caught by a video camera,  projected to the other side of the stage.  Where were we to look? We often had several options.  Between Crimp & Lukac, there was never a let-down.

Posted in Dance, theatre & musicals, Reviews | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Opera York’s Cosi fan tutte in Richmond Hill

Posted on March 4, 2011 by barczablog

I just saw Opera York‘s Cosi fan tutte in their wonderful new home the Richmond Hill Centre for the Performing Arts, a wonderful home for opera.

a beautiful new theatre

The theatre has been open for over a year, but this was my first visit.  I had heard good things, for instance, that its design was a charming echo of the Four Seasons Centre in downtown Toronto; but that’s hardly surprising considering that it’s once again Jack Diamond who is responsible for the design.  The Richmond Hill space is like mini-me to the space in Toronto, but don’t let anyone tell you that there’s anything wrong with a small theatre.  If i could be assured of getting a seat, i’d happily trade theatres (if we could figure out a way to get it downtown!), because of course it’s already very hard getting a seat; how much harder would it be when instead of roughly 2000 seats, you only have 600?

There are so many good reasons why one should see opera in a theatre this size, it’s hard to focus on one as the key.

  • There’s no bad seat in such a theatre. While i’ve heard the same thing said about the Four Seasons Centre, it’s only true when your’e making a comparison to a really bad space.   In fact with the Richmond Hill space it’s literally true that every seat is good.
  • The acoustics aren’t just good.  If you think about the problem of acoustics–without amplification of course– there’s a limited amount of energy generated by voices and orchestra.  When over 3000 have to share the energy of those sounds, even if those vibrations were perfectly shared (that is, if you have perfect acoustics) there’s less sound available than when 2000 people share the same sound.  Now imagine instead that the sound is poured over a mere 600 people.  Even singing quietly, one can hear every distinct voice.  The soft notes have additional richness.
  • The seats are bigger, the aisles are huge.
  • The parking is free
  • And need i mention that this is a stunningly beautiful space

It’s true that Richmond Hill is not Toronto, but a suburb.  It took me less than an hour just after rush hour to get there from downtown, so it’s not far, but even so, some people aren’t willing to make the drive.  I would say this is a mistake.   Having made the drive, i am planning to repeat the experience, likely with the next performance of Cosi fan tutte.   Richmond Hill is not far away, yet still feels like a small town. Everyone i met today was friendly; no offense Toronto, but you’re pretty rude in comparison.  I had more warm fuzzy encounteres with staff in the lobby before the opera, than i’ve had in the past week at home.  I felt as though i’d gone on a vacation (sigh).

What about Mozart’s opera?

Cosi fan tutte is one of those operas that rewards the risk of employing a youthful cast. The romantic plotlines of opera work better when we’re watching attractive couples onstage.  I am accustomed to seeing this opera treated with a certain respect, likely because of Mozart.  Opera York’s approach is somewhat daring, as the comedy was played with more edge than I’ve seen.  Given that humour is a subjective thing, some might find it a tad over-the-top, but for me it was refreshing.

tenor Ryan Harper

Dion Mazerolle as Don Alfonso, was the vocal star of the evening, showing delicate pianissimos in the famous trio, articulating his words flawlessly, and lending a genuine sense of maturity to the proceedings.  His portrayal was restrained, unlike the antics of the two young men.  Anthony Cleverton’s Guglielmo felt like the straight man in the comic pairings of the two male leads; and Cleverton’s singing was a conventional reading that comfortably negotiated Mozart’s challenges with a lovely warm sound.  Ryan Harper, in contrast, played the funniest Ferrando I have ever encountered, whether in his physicality, his endless repertoire of facial expressions, or his ironic delivery of lines.

The women, too, took a contrasting approach to their portrayals.   Marcelle Boisjoli as Dorabella sang her aria in the first act very comically, whether in her droll singing, moans and a wonderfully long face.  Rachel Cleland was the more serious of the two women as Fiordiligi, which is apt for the way the part is written. Cleland unveiled a big powerful voice for her passionate Act 1 aria (“come scoglio” when it’s done in Italian, but sung in English), yet otherwise  played up maidenly restraint for comic effect.  As the maid Despina, Anna Bateman was very energetic in her comedy, with a lovely clear voice.  At the end Bateman chose an unconventional approach, seeming disgruntled by the outcome, as if disapproving of the entire game played by Don Alfonso, possibly adding a modern feministic tinge to the denouement.  Her darker demeanour was a wonderful contrast to the prevailing jollity at the conclusion.

We had the benefit of two music directors tonight.  Geoffrey Butler, who conducted, steps aside for Saturday’s performance, when Sabatino Vacca our harpsichordist will lead the performance from the keyboard.  Vacca brought a wonderful flourish to many of the recitatives.  Butler kept the orchestra and singers together, leading the performance at a very intelligible pace, which is to say, the singers were mostly clear in their enunciation and never drowned out by the Opera York orchestra.

The costumes – by Amanda Eason—were a persuasive window on the 18th century, including the silliest Albanian outfits I have ever seen.  The first thing that popped into my head was “two wild and crazy guys…” because they were indeed cruising for chicks in tight slacks, plus silly wigs.

Cosi fan tutte has one remaining performance at the Richmond Hill Centre, this Saturday March 5th at 8 o’clock.

Posted in Art, Architecture & Design, Opera, Reviews | 7 Comments

COC take Nightingale to BAM

Posted on March 1, 2011 by barczablog
Brooklyn Academy of Music

Poolside, BAM (psst... didn't that used to be the orchestra pit?). Photo © Canadian Opera Company

Gosh darn…(!)

I am not going to Brooklyn to see the remount of a Canadian Opera Company production that I saw in November 2009; but i figured i would repost excerpts from a review posted to drama.ca, as a kind of preview, plus some photos taken at the site of the current production.  The review makes a tiny mention of the second opera (Madama Butterfly) mounted at the time; but I believe it’s still pertinent to the BAM installation.  In case you can’t tell, I am a huge fan of this production.  I enjoyed re-reading what i wrote in 2009, which is still pertinent now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The East Is Golden [originally posted November 2009 at drama.ca]

The two operas presented by the Canadian Opera Company this autumn at the Four Seasons Theatre –The Nightingale and Other Short Fables by Stravinsky, and Madama Butterfly by Puccini—appear to be a perfect pair. Both evenings of opera (including short Stravinsky works not usually understood as “opera”) were written in the 20th century. Both take their title from a non-human avian creature. Both rely heavily upon a single female star for their impact. Both are oriental in focus, even if their music is European. And although the East is sometimes red, both works have been box office gold for the COC.

And that is probably where the similarities end.

Whereas the delicate set and costumes of Butterfly make it possibly the fastest production to set up or take down, of all possible operas that the COC has in its repertoire, Nightingale entails a setup so complex that its mise-en-scène upstages the work. But how can one argue with the results? For the second time, the COC handed Robert Lepage a daunting modernist project that he converted not just into an exciting evening of theatre, but a money-maker and guaranteed sell-out requiring additional performances to meet demand. The first time was in the early 1990s when Lepage staged the double bill of Bartok’s Bluebeard’s Castle and Schönberg’s Erwartung.

beside the pit

In addition to the unorthodox placement of the orchestra, there are also several interesting placements of singers, dancers & puppeteers. Photo © Canadian Opera Company

The current project appears to be every bit as forbidding, in the choice of unfamiliar repertoire from a composer known to be dissonant to the ear and difficult to execute. But Lepage and his company Ex Machina hand us a coup de theatre before the show begins. Opera is usually a daunting form to theatre practitioners, placing an enormous yawning orchestra pit full of musicians between the stage and the audience. Under normal circumstances, singers offer variously dramatic interpretations, but only after they have devoted themselves to the imposing task of learning their music and then singing their parts.

Not this time. Lepage evicts the orchestra, filling the pit with water. Did he need to do this? Possibly; but the strongest message it sends is that the normal business of the opera house has been overturned, and that the conductor has been removed from his usual place of oversight.

And the singers who usually give indifferent performances were in for a shock when they came to this production, which changes –if not completely subverts—their usual role. A singing-actor is in fact a curious hybrid, as some have previously observed. Julie Taymor for example, has used dancers with offstage singers in place of the usual hybrid. Lepage turns to the precedent of bun raku, the oriental style of puppets that are a compound figure comprised of a voice and manipulated puppet. The arbitrary separation of voice and animated body makes sense when we remember what opera has been for most of its history: a singer giving almost their entire attention to vocal production, while sparing a comparatively smaller part of their attention for their dramatic portrayal. In the past few decades this balance has shifted somewhat, but even the finest singing actors are required first to bring their vocal technique to a level where they can offer a good dramatic portrayal.

Lepage’s presentation of The Nightingale does not settle for singers who do a little acting. Instead we get puppets, some actually manipulated by the singers: and the singers coped remarkably well with the challenge. The gentlemen in question could hardly be accused of being prima donnas, to be singing, manipulating puppets, and all while slogging through water up to their waist. So in addition to the demotion of the orchestra and conductor, Lepage knocks at least some of his singers off their pedestal as well.

Does it work? I think it depends on where you sit. For the performance when I sat near the front, I was enchanted. But when I was up in the purgatory of the fifth circle–a location that acquired a genuinely Dantesque association—I could not see the show properly. Admittedly, the COC advertised the deficiencies of those seats in advance. Curiously, the appetite for tickets was so strong that nobody seemed to mind until they actually saw the show. The friends with whom I attended that second performance were decidedly unimpressed.

Why did Lepage do it this way, making so many of the puppets too small to be seen from anywhere but the best seats? After all there are some huge puppets in the show, and surely the expense was not the reason. I think there is a clear rationale when one looks at the climactic image of The Nightingale. For most of the opera humans manipulate small puppets, creating a scale that is appropriate for a chamber work. Then the Emperor goes to sleep. He is confronted by Death, a puppet that reverses the usual template with electrifying effect. Suddenly the human is tiny, surrounded by the huge expressive skeleton shape of Death. This reversal struck me as highly symbolic, making the fragile Emperor seem like the puppet, controlled by the powerful figure of Death. Without the tiny scale of the puppets in the rest of the opera, the effect would not have been possible.

In fact, Nightingale comes across primarily as theatrical spectacle, and is only operatic en passant. The figure of the Nightingale is an irrepressible coloratura, capably sung by Olga Peretyatko. The remainder is picturesque, without testing the skills of the COC singers. The most successful singer of the evening—setting the gentle mood of the opening and close of the work, in addition to manipulating puppets—was Lothar Odinius as the Fisherman.

Stravinsky provided the remainder of the program’s Other Short Fables. Although there is one medium-sized work –The Fox, a vehicle for puppets of a completely different style from those in Nightingale—most of the first portion of the evening is a series of miniatures, more of a chamber concert than opera, helping to whet the audience’s appetite for the subsequent spectacle, in a series of works that require patient listening. Conductor Jonathan Darlington and the COC orchestra were more visible playing from the stage rather than the pit, bringing out the delicate colours as much as the occasional dissonance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you’d like to hear a performance from the 2009 season that was broadcast on CBC, click here: The Nightingale and Other Fables, previously broadcast on CBC .  The BAM production begins March 1st 2011.

Posted in Essays | Leave a comment

COC Nixon

Posted on February 25, 2011 by barczablog
CD

cover of the Naxos CD Nixon in China

Tonight I watched the Canadian Opera Company production of John Adams’ Nixon in China.  I saw the Met High Definition broadcast recently after acquiring the Naxos CD of the opera containing virtually the same cast as the one I saw tonight.  Short of a cast album of a Broadway show, WHEN have I ever had that kind of opportunity?

Never.

The parts of Richard Nixon (Robert Orth), Chou En-lai (Chen-Ye Yuan), Henry Kissinger (Thomas Hammons), and Pat Nixon (Maria Kanyova)—four of the six principals—are the same as on the Naxos CD.  Although two roles are different (Adrian Thompson’s Mao and Marisol Montalvo’s Madame Mao) the musical polish displayed in this COC production is remarkable, and at times astonishing.

I found myself unable to avoid making comparisons to two operas in my recent experience:

  • The Metropolitan’s production of the same opera, conducted by the composer and directed by Peter Sellars who conceived of the project in the first place; it’s being repeated in movie theatres on March 12th; unfortunately there are no remaining live performances in NYC
  • The COC production of The Magic Flute

 

The latter must sound really absurd but I couldn’t help noticing that

  • the most dominant figure in each opera is an over-the-top female sung by a coloratura soprano
  • in each opera there is also a trio of females who are at times like a meditation upon the feminine, or at least a man’s exploration of woman.

Maybe it’s just a fluke? but I can’t help but think that Adams and librettist Alice Goodman must admire The Magic Flute.

More significantly, I was mindful of the differences between the two productions of Nixon in China I’d seen, and want to talk about them because I suspect many people will have seen at least the Met production if not both productions.

The COC Nixon, designed by Allen Moyer (set), James Schuette (costumes) and Wendall K Harrington (video designer), and directed by James Robinson, looks and feels quite different than the Met’s production.  Sometimes the Met production felt as though it were being conservative, compared to the more radical co-production Toronto rented  (produced by St Louis + Chicago + Colorado + Houston +Minnesota + Portland), problematizing and re-thinking the opera.  At other times, i thought that Sellars was the one bringing the subtler approach to bear.

Throughout the first act, which might be a departure point for Sellars, i felt we were on comfortable ground, watching the Nixons get off a reasonable facsimile of a Boeing 707.  When Richard Nixon sings his “News” aria, he is simultaneously shaking hands with a row of Chinese, even as his mind wanders away.  In Toronto, while the lineup mimed shaking, Nixon walked across a different part of the stage, illustrating just how odd this moment is.   Why, after all, shouldn’t an operatic character sing an aria while performing an action?  The Met version gives it as written, whereas the Toronto production unpacks the oddities & complexities throughout the evening.

Most challenging is the use of video.  What exactly are we watching, and just where are we, as this opera unfolds? While we do observe the same actions as in the Met production, we see a series of images on a series of TV screens, as well as the occasional visit from the average American TV viewing family in their living room.  Nixon not only comments on the phenomenon of being in the news, he walks among them, a living icon.  Such moments reverberate with complexities.

This tendency doesn’t work so well for me in Act II.  When Henry Kissinger appears in the COC’s Act II opera-within-the-opera, it’s explained for us by Kissinger’s cognitive dissonance, Pat’s confusion and RMN’s assurances, whereas the mysterious metatheatre is disturbing in the Met’s production.  When Pat jumps into the Met’s revolutionary ballet it feels cataclysmic because she seamlessly blends into the illusionary world of the ballet; Toronto’s equivalent isn’t nearly so disturbing because they made it very clear for us.   I loved the ambiguity in the Met’s production.

There’s a trade-off, of course.  I experienced the big aria from the Met’s Chiang Ch’ing as a mere temper tantrum, interrupting a very powerful tableau.  In Toronto, where the deconstructed ballet in Toronto is less fearsome or powerful as ideology, Madame Mao’s aria comes across as overwhelmingly powerful.  Where the Met version of the aria was decidedly operatic and even fun, i found the Toronto aria, from Marisol Montalvo, very scary theatre.  The chorus of singers and dancers around her seemed genuinely cowed by her aura.  Yes, Montalvo sang wonderfully, but she moved with the lithe grace of a jungle cat, prowling among those she could devour if she wanted.  The scene felt genuinely dangerous.  Wow.

In Act III we have another sort of divergence.  Where the Met’s Act III seems to be a gentle exploration of the inner lives of the characters, the COC version is far lighter, exploiting the dances that are spoken of in the libretto far more than what we get from the Met.  Madame Mao is clearly still a great dancer, observed by a passive & voyeuristic Mao.  The Chairman physically assaults her: a necessary reminder that Mao Tse-tung isn’t just a cute old man, but an authoritarian and a thug.  This picks up on one of her lines, when she says to Mao “Nothing I fear has ever harmed me, why should you?” But he does. There’s nothing as nasty in the Met version.

My favourite passage in Adams’ opera is the very end.  After the reminiscences of the couples, Chou En-lai looks to the future.   I didn’t expect to be moved nearly so much in Toronto by Chen-Ye Yuan as i had been in the movie theatre hearing and seeing Russell Braun.  As you may recall from my earlier review, Braun played historical subtext, that Chou was slowly dying of cancer even as he continued to work with stoicism and dignity. Yuan plays up the hard-work, mimicing images on video of oxen tirelessly labouring.

But I didn’t need any subtext, hearing Chou’s lines in a delicious duet with the COC orchestra:

Just before dawn the birds begin.
The warblers who prefer the dark,
the cage-birds answering.  To work!
Outside this room the chill of grace
lies heavy on the morning grass.

….Listen to it from about 5 minutes into this youtube sample (a different production NB, but fabulous writing from Adams & Goodman).

Aided by the COC orchestra & chorus, conducted by Pablo Heras-Casado, this is one of the finest productions I’ve ever seen at the Four Seasons Centre.  There’s only one remaining performance on February 26th.

Posted in Opera, Reviews | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Spiritual rather than religious

Posted on February 22, 2011 by barczablog

Conversations online can be as real as the ones we have with the people around us.  A brief little remark I made to a Facebook post from my friend Romy Shiller concerning Roland Joffé’s The Mission has spurred additional conversation.  Please note, before reading any further, I am just a guy who has opinions, and not to be mistaken for any sort of expert (ha…. that will become obvious if you keep reading, AND the fact that while i sometimes make references to other religions i can’t claim to have knowledge of anything far beyond my own experience).  What’s more, I am still far from having figured any of this out, and so would welcome comments & feedback from others.

I think Romy plans to comment on the film at some point.  I made the remark that this film reminds me of the news factoid I’d recently heard.  I understand that “spiritual rather than religious” is now the biggest denomination in the USA, although it may be apocryphal.

It’s based on something i recall reading somewhere.  But perhaps it will make more sense if I explain myself.

I understand “religion” as a system, the combination of beliefs, rules, regulations, and also, the associated institutional processes.  A church encompasses buildings, laws and ideas.  It’s also people, whether they’re on membership lists, sitting in front of the pastor on Sunday, or the ones who only come a few times per year.  A religion is an abstraction that comes to fruition in the practices of churches, synagogues, mosques, or whatever buildings celebrate that particular religion( and one can even imagine religions requiring no buildings).  The practices of the religion began with a series of beliefs, that we sometimes speak of as a “belief system”.  While that belief system is maybe the pre-requisite for a religion, I understand the religion in the institutional and cultural processes that follow, the practices and habits that create communities of faith.

Spirituality, on the other hand, is a much vaguer idea, I would say.  While there are many religions, each of them has rules and books, such that one knows the difference between say, a Presbyterian and a Roman Catholic, between Sunni and Shia, between Orthodox and Reform Judaism.  Spirituality is not systematic in this way.  By my understanding, spirituality is a necessary component of any religion.  If I may be permitted to make a crude analogy, spirit is like the whispering voice in the ears of the prophets.  It is only afterwards—when the whispers have been recorded, and likely turned into the basis for argument, doctrine, and even dogma—that we end up with religions.

Spirituality can exist outside the boundaries of organized religion.  People feel things and have intuition and inspiration, without necessarily anything coalescing into a text or even an explicit word that can be passed on.  I would say that spirituality is as individual as the beauty that is in the eye of a single beholder.  When someone tries to take individual insight and make it intelligible to many people, that is where religion becomes possible;  you have to experience some sort of paraphrasing, a translation of something individual into something that is meant to be read by all people.  Many people hunger for direction, for a sense of meaning to their lives, and so the impulse to share inspiration and to pass along messages that are informed by the spirit is an old one.  If films are any guide, it’s not such a good idea–this business of systematizing beliefs into religions– considering how many horrible things are done in the name of religion.  Hollywood, naturally, distorts the real world.  But long before Hollywood, we had witch-burning, Christians thrown to lions, wars of conquest in the New World.

To loosely paraphase Love Story, Erich Segal’s novel from the 1960s spirituality is belief without having to say you’re sorry.  Does that seem unfair?  Spirituality is a wonderful way to opt out of the systems for morality that normally posit consequences for misbehaviour in the afterlife.

Speaking of belief, I believe religion is man-made.  Am I wrong? I believe that Jesus, Allah, God, or any other deity, must never be blamed for the misconduct of humans, acting in the name of their deity.  Humans commit all sorts of follies in the name of their gods.  I think this observation –that the greatest evils in the world are often those done in the name of a god—is one of the reasons people sometimes fear religion and prefer a safe and undefined spirituality in place of religion.

After all:

  • Spirituality doesn’t have the issues with gender, doesn’t impose second class status upon women or demand that they behave differently.
  • Spirituality doesn’t have the same issues with law, punishment & guilt.  That’s all the result of human systems, based on what’s in religion

I would argue that spirit is what speaks to prophets.  Except in rare cases, the spirit whispers to select people fortunate to be chosen in this way as prophets or channels of something divine.  But when we paraphrase what was said and try to systematize it, we end up with “thou shalt”… do this or that.

The challenging part within religions are never the warm and fuzzy parts. Nobody objects to eternal life or forgiveness.  People object to being told they have to give up something, such as adultery or lying or stealing.  We may know we’re supposed to be good, but the authoritarian side of religion is much harder to reconcile than the warm fuzzy security blanket that is spirituality.

But some of the rules seem ridiculously out of date:

  • Are kosher rules anything more than a prudent defense in the ancient world against trichinosis; in other words, given proper refrigeration, what’s wrong with pork?
  • Are the rules against homosexuality just another objection from a particular time, when men were supposed to reproduce?  the same probably applies to premarital sex, and shouldn’t be confused with concerns about adultery

It’s particularly ironic when—for example – the Bible contains so many obsolete passages concerning the proper rules for polygamy, sacrificial animals & slavery, rules that are comfortably ignored by practicing members of that faith.  How is it that people can cherry pick, singling out some rules to ignore, while using others as weapons against people?

No wonder that so many people identify themselves as “spiritual rather than religious”.

Did God create religions? or are they rather human artifacts, possibly inspired, but still, an interpretive rather than divine creation.  I tend to believe that religions come from people rather than God.  What’s more, I believe we’re doing better in the 21st Century, now that we don’t read holy books such as the Bible as literally as we once did.

What’s the connection to The Mission? The plot of the film, taking place several centuries ago, concerns Jesuits who believe in Christianity’s most radical ideas, such as Jesus Christ himself would espouse; these idealistic Christians are victimized & martyred by a cynical and worldly church. The space between the two (that is, those ideal martyrs, and the cynical Christians) reminds me of that impulse to find a kind of spirituality without the negatives, a series of beliefs (if not an actual system of belief) that avoids the mistakes of the past.

I understand spirituality as an idealistic series of intuitions & feelings, not systematic or coherent, but a vague sense of something that informs our lives.  Religions, on the other hand, are systems that have been very helpful for running our own human world.  Our moral and legal apparatus are inconceivable without the inheritance from the Old & New Testaments.  Religion has furnished a pathway, but like any other way-finding system, the logistics of road construction & signage need to be reconciled to our ability to read signs and not crash into one another on those roads.  The revelations whispered in the ears of many prophets are the mysterious voice of spirit; when the words of those prophets are collected, organized & systematized into rules & regulations, you get a religion, which is meant for all of us who are unable to hear God and want a pathway, not just to salvation, but away from chaos.  We needed religion to avoid anarchy.  Surely religion serves different purposes now.  Can we live without those systems? I wonder what we’re left with if we blithely throw it away.  And maybe that’s why churches are changing so rapidly in the last century.

I am very happy with my religion (i am a Christian by the way), but can’t pretend that this is the way everyone sees things.  Is the opposite of my particular species of Christianity another system, such as Judaism? Islam? Buddhism?  or are all of those variations on the same love of a god; and is the opposite agnosticism or atheism?  I don’t trouble myself with that question–about opposites– because there are so many questions to undertake merely in coming to terms with my faith & spirituality.

I am happiest, i think, when the music is playing.  I sing in the choir, sometimes privileged to sing solos, and sometimes a replacement organist.  In those moments I feel safely spiritual without so many difficult questions to answer, lost in the richness of the musical experience.  It’s funny, but there’s a curious parallel between religion and music.  Excellence can’t happen when we offer unconditional criteria for acceptance.  While one part of my brain is conflicted about judgment (whether we’re talking about the kind of judgment whereby we recognize good and bad behaviour, OR good and bad musical performance), another part of me recognizes that we have to sometimes judge.

I wonder if part of the impulse behind spiritual-rather-than-religious is the quest for unconditional acceptance.  The thing is only God can really be unconditional.  I’ve tried, and i am simply not up to it.  I can hear when people sing out of tune; sometimes I can tell when people are lying.  I think I would be happier if i were tonedeaf (unable to hear wrong notes), if I were more naive (unable to recognize people who lie and cheat).

…but then if I were tonedeaf, how much enjoyment would i get from something like this?

Posted in Essays, Spirituality & Religion | 3 Comments

Opera, made in Canada

Posted on February 18, 2011 by barczablog

Pamina (Simone Osborne) and Tamino (Christopher Enns) in the COC Magic Flute, on until Feb 25th at the Four Seasons Centre. Photo: Michael Cooper.

What’s so Canadian about the “Canadian Opera Company”? It probably never occurs to the average person to question.  The operas are usually written by long-dead Italians, Germans, the occasional Frenchman, and sometimes we get one in English.  Nobody objects to the languages because of the glorious surtitles that –as we’re often reminded – were pioneered right here in Toronto by the COC.

Because we tend to think of opera as a European art-form, nobody makes much of a fuss when the stage is populated with foreigners.  But maybe we should.

After all, the orchestra is Canadian, and so are the chorus.  And sometimes, even the singers are Canadian.  The COC’s current Magic Flute is a good example.

In the cast employed on opening night, the two stars –Prince Tamino & Princess Pamina—were played by Canadians Isabel Bayrakdarian and Michael Schade.  The Queen of the Night, who sings the most impressive high notes of the night and if she does her job correctly, gets the applause to match, was also Canadian, namely Aline Kutan.  All three acquitted themselves admirably, and would have been warmly greeted in any opera house, Canadian or otherwise.

But alongside those Canadians, were others.  Neither the Papageno nor the Sarastro were Canadian.  We may notice that Mozart gave Papageno (that is, Schikaneder, the librettist who created the part for himself) especially easy music because the role was and is meant to be a vehicle for comedy rather than great singing; that’s hardly a persuasive argument in favour of importing someone from the other side of the Atlantic.  Sarastro is perhaps the opposite of Papageno, expected to sing impressive low notes and command with his presence on stage.

So in fact these non-Canadians in their two roles were adequate.  It didn’t occur to me one way or the other, until tonight when I went to see the “Ensemble cast” sing the very same production of Magic Flute.

 

First, let me explain what the Ensemble is.  It all began in Lotfi Mansouri’s days with the COC.  Mansouri was General Director from 1976-1988 (hope I got the years right).  Modeled on the Merola program at the San Francisco Opera, the Ensemble offered young singers a kind of apprenticeship in the company, giving them a salary, training, and occasional roles.   The ensemble is comprised of young singers, not ready for prime-time, or so the theory would go, and to this day is a wonderful achievement for any singer.

Last night, I saw the Magic Flute, in a cast comprised of ensemble members.  A young Canadian named Adrian Kramer sang Papageno.  Kramer has a lovely voice and was much funnier than the imported singer he replaced.  A young Canadian named Michael Uloth sang Sarastro.  In fact, the person usually singing Sarastro was satisfactory but not particularly distinguished in his portrayal (I was more impressed in those other performances by Robert Gleadow as the Speaker, a small role that should not in the normal scheme of things ever overshadow a Sarastro).  Uloth did a great job, whether in the lovely legato in both his arias, his confident low notes and particularly in the profundity of his final lines.

Simone Osborne may be an ensemble member, but she has already sung impressively in performances as an alternate in the role of Pamina.  Tonight I saw her looking more relaxed, perhaps because this time she was among her peers, anchoring the production with another confident portrayal.  Osborne always sounded fresh, and with a higher gear available for a few key moments.  Her Tamino Christopher Enns was a convincingly handsome prince.  Enns did not have the vocal ease of Michael Schade whom he replaced–but then who does?– sometimes gliding easily, while at other times sounding as though he were working hard.  Even so, the sound was often very powerful, and never unconvincing.

If success can be understood as the greatest applause for the briefest appearance, then Ambur Braid was champ as the Queen of the Night, earning huge applause for both of her arias.  She brought a seductive presence to the stage with every entrance, always the focus whenever she appeared.  Her henchwomen, the three ladies — Ileana Montalbetti, Wallis Giunta and Riab Chaieb—-brought a funnier mood to the stage than the previous cast.  Where the other ladies had been deadpan, I found these ladies much more willing to go after a laugh, and all the while singing with great accuracy & clarity.

The Ensemble has been a wonderful concept; the years a singer spends there could serve as a springboard to an international career, and that’s marvellous up to a point.  But I have to take issue when the COC brings in mediocre foreigners while ignoring talented Canadians in the ranks of their Ensemble.  I’m all in favour of importing talent if no Canadian can sing the part.  In that case please bring in a Russian or an American or if necessary, a Martian.

But it is really nice to be able to go hear Canadians singing in the Canadian Opera Company.

Posted in Opera, Reviews | 3 Comments

Nixon on the Beach

Posted on February 13, 2011 by barczablog

 

John Adams, composer of Nixon in China

“Nixon on the Beach”? I saw the High Definition Metropolitan Opera broadcast of John Adams’ Nixon in China at the Beach Cinemas, my favourite Toronto theatre.  The Beach Cinemas actually have voicemail, and call you back with the most personalized service of any local cinema.  While it is meant as a joke to speak of “Nixon on the beach, ” I came out of the theatre on a brilliant sunny afternoon, looking at the expanse of water immediately to the south in Lake Ontario.  I felt wonderful.

While Nixon on the Beach is also an allusion to Philip Glass – a personal favourite  and the other great minimalist opera composer of the past quarter century, e.g. Einstein on the Beach (1975)—after  seeing Nixon in China I’m wondering if I need to revisit my earlier opinion.  As I talk about the performance I saw broadcast from the Met today, I’ll reflect on both the production and the work, evidence that there’s a new (minimalist) sheriff in town.  Famous as Glass has been, none of his operas are so easily intelligible as Nixon in China; and having said that, i believe it’s safe to predict that Adams’ popularity will continue to rise.

Here’s how I understand the three acts of the opera

  • Act I is one of optimism at this great moment in history, including Nixon’s fascination with the magic of the event, in a segment beginning with his repetition of the word “news” over and over.  The Mao we meet in the second scene is more philosopher than politician.
  • Act II takes us deeper into China, first with Pat Nixon’s face-to-face encounters with the people, then at a surreal opera-within-the-opera where the real Madame Mao shows us her true (darker) colours.
  • Act III, on the last night of the visit, is on a personal scale, concerning the juxtaposition of past and future.  Each of the leaders reminisces with his wife, while Premier Chou En-Lai ponders the future

I came to the broadcast with some trepidations, having read a number of complaints about the singing by James Maddalena, who happens to have originated the role of Nixon almost a quarter of a century ago (the opera premiered in 1987).  That leads us to the first, and possibly the most remarkable thing about Nixon in China.

Maddalena did not sound as though he’d be comfortable singing Verdi or Rossini anytime soon.  But what of that?  Maddalena nailed Nixon perfectly: in his manner, his look and his sound.  When you think about it, Nixon’s loss to Kennedy in the 1960 electoral debate was all about style.  Where JFK was cool on camera, Nixon sweated under the lights, just like any average guy.  That’s Nixon.  To portray him in an opera surely is to check your virtuosity at the door.  A polished Nixon would be a misrepresentation, if not an out and out oxymoron.  And so, while it’s true that Maddalena didn’t sound great, his sound was perfect for Nixon.

And so it is, in different ways for each of the characters:

  • Mao Tse-Tung is a heldentenor, declaiming powerfully and sometimes ironically, sung by Robert Brubaker. While this may seem odd for the frail old man we see onstage, there’s nothing frail about his ideas or their impact.
  • His wife Madame Mao is a ferocious coloratura soprano who dominates the stage whenever she is present, flawlessly sung by Kathleen Kim.

While these figures seem to push the action of the opera, just as they were agents for change in the world, two other characters represent the passionate side:

  • Pat Nixon is a soprano who sings lyrical lines, and appears to be a bit like Richard Nixon’s conscience, or at least an influence upon her husband to bring out a warmer side of him.  Janis Kelly’s Pat Nixon is a sympathetic witness to the Chinese people, and an uncooperative onlooker to the Revolutionary Ballet; her refusal to mutely sit in the audience electrifies the scene, and galvanizes Madame Mao.
  • Chou En-Lai, the Chinese Prime Minister, presents the comparable reflections to those of Pat Nixon, in the person of Russell Braun’s smooth and eloquent baritone, including the remarkable summing up at the end of the opera, when he asks “How much of what we did was good”?

I believe Alice Goodman’s libretto is strongly influenced by two prominent textual sources:

  • Mao’s “Little Red Book” was at one time a best-seller, known as Sayings of Chairman Mao.  This book was a series of aphorisms about proper behaviour in the world of Communist China.
  • The philosopher Confucius has long been known as a source, if not the traditional source of Chinese wisdom

Curiously, the libretto often breaks into streams of brilliant little aphorisms, as if we’re suddenly listening to a recitation of the little red book.  And at one point, after a comment about Confucius, Mao, Madame Mao and her followers explode into a wonderfully ironic denunciation of Confucius, in a series of aphorisms.  At this moment it’s as though we’re being treated to a fit of Confucius against Confucius.  At that moment I couldn’t help but notice how the Little Red Book is indebted to Confucius, a fact that clearly wasn’t lost on Goodman.

Nixon in China begins as though it were the sequel to the Patrice Chereau Ring, which ends (after The Twilight of the Gods) with a stage full of people staring into the audience.  Is it just a coincidence?  The revolution has happened, and there they are, the People’s Army, singing and looking the audience in the eye.

BIG ARRIVAL: Janis Kelly, far left, as Pat Nixon, Teresa S. Herold as Mao’s second secretary, James Maddalena as Richard Nixon, Ginger Costa Jackson as Mao’s first secretary and Russell Braun as Chou En-Lai. (Photos By Ken Howard/metropolitan Opera)

In the Metropolitan opera production, a second-generation interpretation from director Peter Sellars, and conducted by the composer himself, there is a strong sense of additional depth.  This is especially evident at the end, where Chou En-Lai is now shown in the process of dying from undiagnosed pancreatic cancer, an important piece of subtext that baritone Russell Braun revealed to us during the intermission.  Chou alone of those onstage muses on the meaning of what they’ve been doing, then issues stoic lines bearing additional poignancy because of the physical subtext:

Just before dawn the birds begin,
The warblers who prefer the dark,
The cage-birds answering.  To work!
Outside this room the chill of grace
Lies heavy on the morning grass.

I’m looking forward to comparing the Met’s interpretation with the Canada Opera Company’s import production directed by James Robinson.  The encore broadcast of the Met producion is four weeks away, on Saturday March 12th.

Posted in Opera, Reviews | Tagged , , , , , , | 4 Comments

If it’s Thursday it must be Zauberflöte

Posted on February 11, 2011 by barczablog

Last week I was watching the Canadian Opera Company Magic Flute on a Thursday, again tonight and even next week. I’m not complaining.  If this is a rut, I like it!

But whereas last week I saw the so-called “A” cast, tonight we saw a different hero & heroine.  Instead of Michael Schade & Isabel Bayrakdarian as Tamino & Pamina, the COC gave us Frédéric Antoun and Simone Osborne, with some interesting trade-offs.

Antoun with Osborne means a pair of young lovers who look the part.  Bayrakdarian is a beautiful young singer, whereas her prince, in the person of Michael Schade, doesn’t match her beauty, although he’s more than a match vocally.  But that’s the most superficial discrepancy.

This is my second look at Diane Paulus’ interpretation of Magic Flute, and I feel even stronger about it this time (and disappointed in the critics who didn’t seem to get it).  I’ve been reading a series of ongoing discussions on the CUNY opera listserv, where one of the big issues is the horror of Regietheater: when a director savages an opera in the interest of a glib concept with little or no connection to the actual text.  Paulus, to her credit, makes her concept work with the text, unlike some of the worst interpretations I could point to (including some from the COC).  One would hope that the directors who actually hammer out an interpretation that atempts to work with– rather than ignore– the text would at least get some credit.

[NOTE TO SELF: maybe one reason directors ignore the text is because nobody is knowledgable enough to hold them to account]

Central to Paulus’ reading is a different approach to Pamina, who becomes the central character of the opera.  In so doing Paulus shifts the gender disbalance in the opera.  The misogynist –and racist—lines are still there in the German, although mostly excised from the surtitles, which whitewash over the worst of them or omit them entirely.  In fairness that discrepancy (between the German text and the surtitles) is probably unavoidable, given that the singers learned their lines long ago.

Bayrakdarian’s Pamina is still, however, a largely conventional reading.  Perhaps it’s the experience factor with Michael Schade that dooms the attempt to change this couple.   Osborne & Antoun, in contrast, seem really fresh in their approach; maybe that’s also due to the willingness of young artists to comply with a director.

I was struck by one enormous contrast.  The moment before Pamina’s big aria “Ach, ich fühl’s” in the dialogue, Pamina enters upon Papageno & Tamino, who are both silent.  Bayrakdarian was probably doing what she usually does.  Within a few seconds, she was already showing signs of sadness.  The aria was immediately charged with despair.

When Osborne entered she was playful and happy.  When Tamino is silent, she’s a bit frustrated but doesn’t immediately segue into suicidal thoughts.  She turns to Papageno.  He’s also silent.  The aria then begins, with a trace of smile fading from her lips.  As a result, the aria began not at the height of despair, but as a beginning of a questioning process, with a distinct dramatic arc.  If this were an opera of an older style perhaps
Bayrakdarian’s approach would be more correct; but for Mozart’s mature style, and indeed, in a modern theatre (where people tend to make up the rules anyway), Osborne’s approach was far subtler and far more interesting to watch.  I couldn’t help but think that whereas Schade & Bayrakdarian have been doing these pieces for years, Antoun & Osborne were reading them with fresh eyes and genuine emotions.

On the vocal side, the trade-off between the casts is mixed.  Antoun seemed nervous until his second aria, when suddenly he found his voice, and some wonderful high notes.  Antoun does present a sympathetic figure on the stage, but not the commanding presence that Michael Schade offers, so at ease with the music of this role that he makes it seem second nature.

Soprano Simone Osborne

Osborne’s singing was for me the highlight of the evening.  While she’s also scheduled to sing Pamina with the ensemble cast, there’s nothing “ensemble” (in the sense of the COC’s apprentice company) about her singing.  She sang the high notes with greater ease than Bayrakdarian, and showed the ability to articulate dynamics such as long passages in a clear pianissimo.  When Osborne re-appeared for the ensemble with the three spirits, she showed us a voice with some power, suggesting her potential is enormous.  I’m looking forward to hearing her again next week in the ensemble cast.

In the meantime, Diane Paulus’s Magic Flute for the Canadian Opera Company continues at the Four Seasons Centre until Feb 25th, including the performance of the COC Ensemble cast Feb 17th.  Catch it if you can.

Posted in Opera, Reviews | Leave a comment

Opera Atelier & Glimmerglass to collaborate

Posted on February 8, 2011 by barczablog

Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito, upcoming in April 2011, stars Measha Brueggergosman, Michael Miniaci and Krešimir Špicer.

Opera Atelier‘s announcement of their 2011-2012 season included some interesting news:

  • two operas to be produced in Toronto
  • a new partnership with The Glimmerglass Festival

Who are these people and why would they want to work together?

Opera Atelier:

  • call themselves “Canada ’s premier baroque opera/ballet company, producing opera, ballet and drama from the 17th and 18th centuries”.
  • have a regular season in Toronto, with occasional tours outside the country, and have been in existence since 1985

Glimmerglass Festival identify themselves as

  • “a professional non-profit summer opera company dedicated to producing new productions each season. The company’s mission is to produce new, little-known and familiar operas and works of music theater in innovative productions which capitalize on the intimacy and natural setting of the Alice Busch Opera Theater; to promote an artistically-challenging work environment for young performers; and to engage important directors, designers and conductors who provide high standards of achievement.”
  • Glimmerglass have a summer season each year in July & August, and have been in existence since 1975.

Perhaps each company benefits from this collaboration.  The plan they’ve announced calls for the usual Opera Atelier season, including a co-production.  That co-production would be premiered during the winter OA season, in April 2012, then taken to Glimmerglass’s home for their 2012 summer season.  OA would get exposure & money, while Glimmerglass would get a very different kind of repertoire & experience for their audience.

The opera for the co-production is Armide by Jean-Baptiste Lully.  OA have already produced Armide before.  Glimmerglass participation will allow OA to do a more elaborate production, or in the words of the OA press release “The Glimmerglass Festival’s participation has enabled Opera Atelier to add major design elements to Armide making it the most sumptuous production in OA history.”

The Glimmerglass audience are in for a treat.  Armide, which was given it’s North American premiere in OA’s previous production is a work that deserves to be better known.  Lully’s style represents the perfect vehicle for OA, a company who sometimes seem more like a ballet company than an opera company.  They are so consumed with issues pertaining to movement, physical beauty and youth, that they are shockingly unlike what most people associate with opera. They look good, stunningly good.  Lully, who was originally “Giovanni Baptista Lulli” from Italy until he changed his name, became Louis XIV’s ballet master.  Ballet and dance runs through his operas in a way that is surprising to those who only know grand opera from the 19th Century. As a result, the operas of Lully –with their obsessive interest in dance– are the perfect vehicle to show off the abilities of Opera Atelier.

OA employ a style that is historically informed.  They do their homework, they understand the traditions and styles from the periods they are producing.  The singing, movement, dance, costumes, sets, and perhaps most importantly, the orchestral sound, are all appropriate to the time that the work was first created.  Yet OA do not slavishly imitate those periods.  There are modern elements too.

I expect OA to make a big splash at Glimmerglass.

The other opera from OA next season will be a new production of Mozart’s Don Giovanni. I find this very exciting, considering how wonderful their DG was last time.  They bring the most authentic commedia dell’arte ideas to this opera that I have ever seen, changing the opera substantially.  The opera that people think they know –with the romantic Don—is not what Mozart created.

As OA co-artistic director Marshall Pynkoski explained (from the stage during the last production) Don Giovanni is a species of the capitano character type, based on the Roman miles gloriosus.  If you’ve seen A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum you know a bit about this character type, although the one we get in Sondheim’s musical is different from what Mozart & Da Ponte created.  The point is, Don Giovanni is a bully and a braggart, who needs to be seen as a comical character in his own right, rather than as the noble and/or tragic soul we get in the more romantic readings.  As a result, much of the gravitas we’ve been always taught to expect in this opera is dispelled in a puff of comical smoke.

In the meantime – as the second part of the 2010-2011 season—I am eagerly looking forward to the first period production in North America of Mozart’s La Clemenza di Tito APRIL 22 – MAY 1, 2011 at the Elgin Theatre in Toronto.

Posted in Essays | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Linda and the jokes we don’t get

Posted on February 6, 2011 by barczablog

I am going to talk about one of Linda Hutcheon’s ideas.

Ever notice that some jokes make you laugh, and some don’t?  Of course you do.  You probably would say it’s because some jokes are good and some are bad.  Fair enough.

But the way jokes work is partly a matter of good construction, and partly a matter of the audience.  One of my favourite sayings is “there are no bad jokes, just bad audiences”.   It’s another way of saying that a joke that works is understood to be good, and one that falls flat to be bad, even if the problem was with the match between the material and the audience.

I am no doctor of joke-ology.

Let me illustrate with something a bit different.  I was in a production of The Biggest Noise, a children’s musical I wrote a very long time ago.  In one segment, two of the actors do some acrobatics.  I taught them phonetically how to count in Hungarian as they marched (because i thought it would be really cute): “egy, ketö, harom, négy; egy, ketö, harom, négy; egy, ketö, harom, négy.”  We performed it all over Toronto, and I suppose it did okay.  One magical day we took it to a library on Roncesvalles, in the west end of town, in a neighbourhood full of eastern Europeans….(!)

WOW. The kids came to life during “egy, ketö, harom, négy”…as if to say they recognized our Hungarian acrobats, perhaps even felt they were among family.  Same performance of the same material, but different audience? bang! a very different response.

Linda Hutcheon’s book Irony’s Edge exposed me to some wonderful ideas.

Someone tells a joke.  Depending on how i understand its nuances and implications, i will or won’t laugh.  Hutcheon talks about “communities of discourse”, which is to say, areas where language and imagery and myths overlap.  When we speak the same language (share the same values & imagery), we will understand one another.  For example,  as a man, i think i understand male things, whereas i miss nuances that women get; and vice versa, right?

As a Canadian, I share certain commonalities with Canadians.  MOST Canadians love to ridicule Toronto (ha some of them seem to HATE toronto), so while i understand this, as a Torontonian i don’t usually participate.  I shared a video from a Canadian comedy program (Rick Mercer Report) doing a deadpan news report about the horror: that snow had fallen in Toronto. 

Part of the subtext was that in 1999, after our silly mayor had made huge cuts to our budgets, we were completely overwhelmed by a snowstorm, unable to dig ourselves out.  The Mayor called out the military. And ever since, the rest of canada has been laughing at us (and no wonder!).

But notice that it depends on a set of knowledge?  Americans might get the idea that it’s absurd to be so worked up over snow, but miss out on the we-hate-Toronto subtext.  Discursive community is part of anything cultural.  When i write a play and put it before an audience, i have to be mindful of how it will be received; otherwise they may not “get it.”

The thing is, people often say “that movie is terrible” or “lousy joke”, aka a judgment about what they’ve heard, when what they really are having is a response based on their discursive community.  Imagine a man thinking of telling a joke that usually would have his pals screaming with laughter; but he’s on a first date with a woman.  WARN HIM! this woman is not from the same discursive community as his pals, or in other words, the joke that has his friends high-fiving and screaming with laughter might lead to the premature end of his date.

Sunday is super sunday, the day when much of America and indeed, Canada too, come to a halt while 22 men at a time struggle for 100 yards of real estate and a hunk of pigskin, while millions watch.  To some it’s a big deal, a matter of honour, manhood, the right to claim they really understand football.  To anyone who thinks football is a stupid past-time, of course, this notion will probably seem neanderthal in the extreme.  But football is just another context for discourse.  Those who “get” the NFL will be plugged in, whereas those who do not will be oblivious.

Within the large group of football fans are micro-communities.  Some of us love the ballet of the athletes in motion, pinpoint passing, strategy.  Others love a good hit, the pure violence of the game.  Some come to the game as an arena to express their civic pride, loyal to their team whether good or bad.

Some people will wear yellow triangles on their head.  This is a visual cue meant to suggest “cheese”, which is one of the chief exports of Green Bay Wisconsin.  Loyal fans of the Packers are known as “cheese-heads”.   In the big game Sunday February 6th, the Packers face the Pittsburgh Steelers, who have their own coded fan paraphernalia, as particular as the accoutrements of a medieval pilgrim, as specific as the fashion choices of rock music fans.  While i believe it’s possible to enjoy football, rock music or a pilgrimage without declaring your allegiance in the way you clothe yourself, those who wear their discursive community on their sleeve represent a different type of fan/pilgrim.

I consider myself very fortunate that I’m a bit of an omnivore.  This past week I’ve seen operas (Tales of Hoffmann, The Magic Flute and Pelléas et Mélisande, a broadway musical (Dirty Rotten Scoundrels), a blended family comedy (Cyrus) and a silly superhero film (Green Hornet) and enjoyed them all.  I got to sing Haydn and Handel in church, played Bach & Busoni on the piano, listened incessantly to Nixon in China (a new CD i just bought), and will be singing a spiritual in church as part of our celebration of February (Black History Month).  And I will be watching the Superbowl on Sunday.

Debussy’s opera was written for a tiny group verging on a cult, namely the Symbolists.  They shared a set of assumptions.  They could be understood as a discursive community. It was (and is) a small community because most opera fans really don’t like — or get– this opera.

The opera I watched Thursday–Mozart’s The Magic Flute— has been presented in many different interpretations.  Some people insist on doing the opera exactly as written (and there’s a similar insistence in some people when you talk about film adaptation or other similar phenomena). The willingness to accept new and even radical interpretations is more likely among some people than others.  I find that some people are more resistant to radical re-imaginings of opera, just as some people are resistant to change, resistant to radical political ideas, or radical new fashions.  I don’t know how consistent these patterns are in people, but i do think there’s probably a correlation between discursive community and cognitive styles.  ‘Do mathematicians prefer Escher to Aeschylus?  I can only speculate, and admit that i find it great fun to think about such things.

I was fascinated that a film receiving terrible reviews —Green Hornet–could be so well received at the box office (it’s done rather well, last time i checked).  I confess that the main reason i went to see it is that it’s the only film at the Beach cinemas –near my home– that i either wanted to see or hadn’t yet seen.  Why Beach cinemas?  i wanted to go to purchase a ticket to the high definition Nixon in China to be shown Feb 12th (success!), and I knew i’d like the movie.

Seth Rogen is in it, and i’ve liked everything of his i’ve seen, even if goofyness is normally present in abundance (eg Superbad and Funny People).  Tom Wilkinson is in it, and in my experience absolutely everything he does is brilliant, from Batman Begins to In the Bedroom to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind to Shakespeare in Love.

Why did the critics hate Green Hornet?  i think critics are especially unhappy with films that they don’t understand.  No i don’t mean in the Ingmar Bergman – Spike Jonez – Charlie Kaufman sense of not understanding.  No, if we fail to get someone deemed to be brilliant (like that trio) we shut up about it and nod respectfully, possibly genuflecting in their direction.

On the other hand, when a self-respecting critic is mystified and sees no brilliance, they need to assert their own wisdom, and that means, according to the discursive foodchain, that they will do everything they can to devour the one to make them feel incompetent.  I believe something like that was at work with Green Hornet.  The film is sometimes hard to decode, because of its blend of styles and codes.  It crosses Rogen’s very natural comic gift with the slick procedures of super hero movies.  Rogen brings a wonderful lightness to the film, regularly saying and doing things so politically incorrect as to suggest they are mistakes.

In fact Green Hornet treads a path very similar to Batman Begins.  We get the life story, complete with a rationale for the craziness that follows.  It’s not profound.  It’s as light and disposable as a Saturday Night Live sketch.  Considering the polished surface of the film, this is very expensive junk food.  Clearly the producers & writers assessed the audience very cleverly, and in the process may even have decided that having the critics on board wasn’t necessary.

But the audience gets it.

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