Throwback Thursday - Murder in the Cathedral

Becket (Ruggero Raimondi) faces the four Tempters

It's been said that art which disturbs forces the partaker into a realm of solitude that is not entirely welcome, for it forces one to confront his innermost thoughts, to enter "a world of aloneness, ineluctably insisting on one’s attuning oneself to one’s self.”

And it's in that sense that I use the word "disturbing" to describe Assassinio nella Cattedrale, Ildebrando Pizzetti's 1958 operatic version of T.S. Eliot's (equally disturbing) verse play Murder in the Cathedral, the story of the martyrdom of St. Thomas Becket in 1170.  I first mentioned this piece a couple of weeks ago, and I finally have the chance to come back to it today.

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The performance, from December 22, 2006, was staged at the Basilica di San Nicola in Bari, Italy, with Piergiorgio Morandi conducting the Orchestra Sinfonica della Provincia di Bari.  The grandeur and solemnity of the Basilica provides a unique but stunning location for the opera (with the orchestra situated between the audience in the nave and the singers at the altar), compelling us to consider the story in an atmosphere that for once justifies the correct use of the word "awesome." 

Most of us know, or should know, the basic story of Thomas Becket: his early life as friend and close associate of King Henry II, becoming Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury - and how a fatal rift developed between them over the authority of the State over the Church.  Eventually, Henry is (supposedly) heard to utter the famous words "Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?", whereupon four of his knights travel to Canterbury and there murder the Archbishop in his cathedral.

The question of man's relationship to authority, and the legitimacy of said authority, is timeless. Eliot's play, which premiered in 1935, was taken by many as a commentary on Nazi Germany and its growing oppression of religious freedom.  However, it was difficult in watching Assassinio not to think of today; of the growing religious oppression in America, of the recent abdication of Benedict XVI, of our own futures.

As the opera opens, it is December 2, 1170.  Becket has returned from exile in France.  There is a truce between Becket and King Henry, but nobody expects it to last.  Becket's congregation fears that the Archbishop's return can end only in tragedy, for themselves as well as him.  Becket is unfazed by the prospect of martyrdom, but is it a measure of the man's spirituality - or ego?  The answer is soon to come.

In a stunning first act confrontation, Becket meets four Tempters - manifestations of Becket's own intellect, they converse with him in a reflection of the inner dialogue tearing through the Archbishop.  The first three offer the usual - safety (by running away), power (by compromising with the king), and rebellion (joining the barons against the king).  Thomas is able to deal with these temptations easily; it is the fourth that gives him pause, for the fourth temptation is martyrdom itself, the chance for eternal fame and influence through giving up his life.

This one proves the most dangerous, for it is easy to convince yourself that you're dying to draw attention to a cause, when in reality it is you to which you draw attention.  Is this why Becket returned to England?  Does he look for the ultimate "I told you so" moment?  As the tempter says, it would put everyone under Becket's heel: king, emperor, bishop, baron.

It is here that Becket must provide the ultimate measure of who he is and what he believes - and he does, defiantly casting aside the temper, saying "The last temptation is the greatest treason/To do the right thing for the wrong reason."With this act, Becket finds a kind of peace; he comes to the knowledge that he is not looking for martyrdom, but is prepared to accept it as part of sharing Christ's Cross.

In his Christmas Day sermon, Becket gives us a profound meditation on the meaning of Christmas.  Yes, it is a day to rejoice in the birth of the Savior, but also to realize the price that salvation will ultimately exact from Him*.  It is in this spirit of unity - and love - that one embraces martyrdom, Thomas says, warning the congregation that "It is possible that in a short time you may have yet another martyr."

*I've always thought that the ideal Nativity set should somehow cast a shadow of a Cross over the crib where Christ lays.  The Creed celebrates both His birth and death, and at no time is this more clear than at Christmas.

The denouement of Act Two is, at once, tragic, inevitable, and joyous.  Four of Henry's knights, played by the same four singers of Act One's tempters, confront Becket, accusing him of disloyalty, and calling on him to surrender or face death at their hands.  Becket refuses all attempts by his priests to protect him, either by locking the doors of the Cathedral or by fleeing, but Becket refuses, in a sense recalling Pilate's words that what has been written is written.  He accepts the savage act of martyrdom with peace, and meets his death on December 29, 1170, vested for the liturgy, sprawled on the steps of the altar. 

Bass Ruggero Raimondi delivers a dignified, powerfully moving performance as Becket, a man walking at the same time with both truth and death.  The New York Times once described Eliot's play as "an opera libretto waiting to be set to music," and Pizzetti, working from an Italian translation of Eliot's play, is faithful to both the story and the underlying meaning.  Events are condensed, as they often must be in opera, but at all times Eliot's message comes through without distortion.  The music is clearly modern but never lacking in melody, and it creates an atmosphere that will stay with the viewer long after the opera ends.

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So what does it all mean to us, and why should we care about Assassinio nella Cattedrale as anything other than a work of art?  There are a couple of reasons why, I think.

I mentioned earlier that it was impossible to watch this without thinking of Benedict XVI.  A couple of weeks ago I wrote of Benedict's renunciation as an act of martyrdom, and I think anyone who sees this opera will understand what I mean.  In the act of renunciation, Benedict lays down his office and prostrates himself before the coming persecution, offering his (figurative) death in order that one coming after him, the next pope, might lead the Church Militant in the coming battle.  This is truly disturbing, according to every definition of the word.  It is awful and awesome at the same time, and it indicts all of us, the unruly faithful who have given the shepherd so much trouble. 

The Martyrdom of St. Thomas Becket,
by Michael D. O’Brien

And then there is the question which it forces us to ask ourselves: what kind of stuff are we made of?  It's something that all of us will confront, eventually.  We may hope that it does not occur in as public a venue as it did for Becket and Benedict, but in truth we don't know.  As Joyce Carol Oates once wrote, "You won't know until it beckons. To you. So long as it temps others you can judge - can sneer - can express shock, disgust, outrage, and prim distain - the usual emotions of punitive people. But you won't know."

It may be pessimistic to see in these days the twilight of America, if not the world, but then there are reasons to be pessimistic.  For we may be far closer to the times of Becket than we think.  Benedict perhaps saw this, and we must consider it as well.  Francis Cardinal George, the Archbishop of Chicago, said a few years ago that "I expect to die in bed, my successor will die in prison and his successor will die a martyr in the public square."

The time is coming, I think, when we will find out what we're made of.  It will beckon, as Oates says, and then we will find out. The battle is not merely fought among the high-ranking, the statesmen and prelates; its battlefields not confined to the ancient histories of centuries past.  No, history is here and now, and each of us will be called upon to take up our own roles in this drama.  And then we will find out, we will know.

Originally published March 13, 2013

Giulio Cesare or, the Queen of the Nile

Dessay and Daniels in Cesare - but which one's the queen?

April Fools' Day may have been the first of the month but it didn't matter for the Metropolitan Opera last Saturday, as it pulled off one of the great practical jokes of recent time on a capacity crowd in New York and a worldwide HD theater audience, with David McVicar's hoax "production" of Handel's Giulio Cesare.

The idea of doing a broad parody of Handel's most famous opera - turning it into a sex farce complete with cross-dressers, hokey dance scenes, and over-the-top arias that seemed as if they would never end - would have been a risky stunt in less capable hands, but McVicar and his talented cast executed the spoof brilliantly, with nary a wink nor nod to the knowing audience, most of whom were in on the joke from the opening curtain. Not since This Is Spinal Tap has a genre been mocked so mercilessly - and hilariously - as it was here.

Cesare was ripe from beginning to end with scenes so ridiculous that they obviously weren't meant to be taken seriously as actual opera.  Take, for example, French countertenor Christophe Dumaux, whose Tolomeo was a joy to behold, a remarkable performance of over-the-top effemininity made all the more effective through Dumaux’s insistence on playing it all straight (so to speak). Surely the idea of turning the bloodthirsty co-ruler of Egypt into a fruit-flavored sadomachostic drag queen, and then suggesting that he actually had a sexual interest in Pompey’s widow Cornelia (shrilly played by Patricia Bardon) would have been madness in the hands of a lesser production team, but the sheer ridiculousness of it all just added to the general gaiety of the night.

Tolomeo’s bitter rival to the throne, his sister Cleopatra, was played to the hilt by the afternoon’s star, soprano Natalie Dessay. Dessay has long been recognized as one of opera’s greatest actresses, and her willingness to spoof her own reputation with an all-singing, all-dancing interpretation of the teenage queen that seemed to have come right out of a Judy Garland-Mickey Rooney “hey kids, let’s put on a show!” musical, with routines ranging from the Charleston to Bollywood-inspired schtick, was a risk from which lesser singers might have shied. Dessay, at least thirty years too old for the role, eshewed the use of any makeup that might have detracted from the impression she was actually playing Cleopatra's mother, and proved that in the generally stuffy world of opera, a diva willing to make an asp of herself is indeed a breath of fresh air.

Cleopatra’s love interest, Giulio Cesare himself, was the famed countertenor David Daniels. Up until the 1980s, the role of Caesar, written for the castrati of Handel’s time, had frequently been interpolated for high basses, providing a measure of authenticity for the work. That obviously would have been inappropriate in this case; thankfully, McVicar chose to go with the more modern practice of casting Caesar as a countertenor, and in the hands of Daniels, the military general became just another lovestruck boy. Daniels’ passionate make-out sessions with Dessay provided some of the biggest laughs of all.

We also shouldn’t overlook Alice Coote in the trouser role of Sesto, Pompey’s grieving son. The idea of Coote’s hermaphroditic Sesto vowing vengeance on the mincing Tolomeo would have been enough to keep anyone in stitches for the rest of the evening, were there not even more laughs in store.  And we must save a word for Rachid Ben Abdeslam, as Cleopatra's aide Nireno, obviously channeling Liberace's comedic talents in a flamingly flamboyant presence throughout.

The cast was ably led throughout by conductor Harry Bicket, perhaps today's premier interpreter of early music.  Baroque opera has gotten a bad rap through the centuries for its static staging and endless lyrical repeats (in which a single line is repeated as many as three or four times), making it rich for parody.  But by slowing the tempo even further, Bicket was able to produce exaggeratedly long set pieces - so long, in fact, that were this an actual opera many patrons probably would have fallen asleep.  This production, however, proved the old adage that nothing succeeds like excess.

Only base Guido Loconsolo, as Achillas, struck a sour note. His spot-on, realistic portrayal of Tolemo’s once-loyal aide turned traitor, was too grounded in reality to truly fit in, as if he were the only one of the cast not in on the joke. As it turned out, though, McVicar had an answer for that as well.

In an age when the world grows increasingly absurd, parody has become more and more difficult to pull off. Fortunately, McVicar’s crowning touch – that of bringing Tolemo and Achillas back from the dead to join in the chorus at the finale – surely removed any lingering doubt that this was a performance not to be taken seriously. After all, the alternative would be that the Metropolitan Opera was treating one of classical music’s greatest composers with utter disregard and contempt, mocking the story, the characters, and – most of all – the audience in a way that was both obscene and depraved, rendering the venerable Met as little more than a gay burlesque theater and Cesare a demented fantasy.

It would be so unthinkable, in fact, that only a madman would suggest that this performance was ever meant to be seen as anything other than this generation’s Rocky Horror Picture Show. Indeed, it’s likely that the Met’s Giulio Cesare can look forward to a long life of midnight showings at independent movie theaters. And for fans of absurdist musical comedy, that’s the best news of all. ◙

Don't leave it to "The Beaver"

First things first: Mel Gibson delivers a brilliant performance in The Beaver, Jodie Foster's movie about a man's breakup and redemption. It may well have been his best performance since Gallipoli, and were it not for his current state of disgrace, there would surely be an Oscar nomination in his future. Perhaps even that won't be enough to keep him from a nomination, since there are few things Hollywood likes more than a good comeback story; but I still think it's a longshot. Nonetheless, his portrait of a tortured man hanging on to sanity, filled with loathing for others and himself, had to have given us an insight into the man that one seldom gets from an actor. He wasn't playing a role so much as he was using his own experience to interpret the role. If his own life is anything like this (and I think it is), I have the greatest compassion for him.

There was also a lot to like from the script, which led us down one road, toward the seemingly inevitable feel-good conclusion, and then took us in a completely different direction. Hitchcock, who was a master at mixing light humor with dark terror, often showed us that the most effective horror comes from the inoccuous - and what could be more inoccuous than a motley beaver hand-puppet?

Indeed, as The Beaver opens, we are presented with the portrait of a man - Walter Black - on the verge of self-destruction. He is deeply depressed (although, unless I missed it, we are never told exactly if there was a single episode that tipped him over the edge, only that depression appears to run in the family), unable to find help from any form of treatment (amusingly shown in a montage with voiceover), and his wife (Jodie Foster) has packed up their two kids and left him. Alone and drunk, on the verge of suicide, he discovers the puppet - who, the next thing he knows, has taken over his therapy. And wouldn't you know, the Beaver seems to be the only one who can actually penetrate the fog and reach Black where it counts. (One might wonder if the fact that Gibson voices the Beaver with no attempt at ventriloquism is meant to suggest that the answers have been inside him all the time, blocked by a lack of self-confidence, but the script misses the opportunity to go there. Not the only opportunity it misses.)

So far, so good. Black returns to his family a new man, charming younger son Henry (Riley Thomas Stewart) and giving his wife a cautious optimism. Only older son Porter (Anton Yelchin) remains antagonistic - but Porter has his own problems,* and it's clear that he's already well along on the same road to mental illness that his father and grandfather have already trod. Perhaps we're supposed to feel some sympathy for Porter, but I didn't - I kept thinking someone should have sat down with him a long time ago and laid down the line.

*Starting perhaps with his name? A wimpy name like Porter is perhaps the strongest evidence of how disengaged Walter must have been in this marriage.

And here we start to get into the greatest problem with The Beaver: Jodie Foster herself. Foster has shown some skill in past as a director, and her two Academy Awards are testimony to her talent, but in this role she's completely out of her element. Foster's Meredith is far too much a co-dependent, unable to reach either her husband or her two children, who desperately need parenting and aren't getting it. Foster's great strength as an actress is just that: her strength. And a weak character like this is not for her, not at all. It would not be hard to understand how Walter could come to feel that only the Beaver cares for him; I could not imagine that Meredith ever could have given Walter what he needed. Foster can, and should, play a stronger character - but more about this shortly.

I don't generally like to give away the ending of a movie, but in this case I feel I have to in order to prove my point. [PLOT SPOILERS AHEAD] Near the end, we find out that the Beaver has taken over Walter, convincing him that only he has Walter's best interests at heart, that his family has betrayed him, that everyone else has betrayed him, that he must listen only to the Beaver. (A point of view for which I had some sympathy, by the way.) We now see that Walter, in addition to being depressed, might also be schitzophrenic.* He no longer has control over the Beaver, who now controls him.

*A bit which Anthony Hopkins, Foster's Silence of the Lambs mate, did much better in a much better movie, Magic.

When Walter, sensing this, tries to call Meredith on the phone, the Beaver forces him to hang up, and proceeds to beat Walter up (in a scene that's much more horrifying and less silly than it sounds). Now, we're presented the opportunity for Foster to shine, perhaps directly confronting the Beaver (something she has been loathe to do, always talking to Walter instead), willing to do anything to save the man she loves, even if it puts her own life in danger. 

But no. The plot drums up the lame excuse that Meredith has to stay with an ill younger son, and sends the older son to check on his father. To his horror, Porter discovers that Walter, realizing that he must escape the Beaver in order to survive, has cut his own arm off to rid himself of the puppet.

This was the point at which the film finally lost me. And this is the reason why The Beaver ultimately fails.

In her best roles, I've always thought Jodie Foster had something of Barbara Stanwyck in her. Stanwyck was a tough broad (and I say that with admiration), who didn't take anything from anyone. As the heavy, she could put the fear of God into you; as the heroine, you knew she'd fight to the death for what was right I(and thank your lucky stars that she was on your side). Now, imagine Stanwyck in this role, going to Walter and confronting the Beaver, treating it as if it were alive (as, in a way, it is), screaming "Give me back my husband, damn you!" She wouldn't have been afraid to fight the Beaver, and Walter too, if that were needed. And my money would have been on her. It would have been a ferocious, terrifying scene. And it would have guaranteed Stanwyck an Oscar nomination.

Foster, I think, could have pulled this scene off. Maybe this sudden toughness would have seemed too much out of character. Perhaps, given Gibson's personal history of confrontational relationships, there was some discomfort about the possibility of a physical confrontation between Foster and the puppet, which surely would have meant Foster vs. Gibson. Maybe she and the writer thought such a confrontation smacked too much of a stereotypical thrillier, ala Fatal Attraction. On the other hand, maybe they should have tried doing a drama cum thriller, rather than a comedy-drama.

Alas, we're only allowed to review the movie at hand, not the movie as it might (should?) have been. And that's why The Beaver winds up a failure: a noble one, perhaps, an ambitious one, full of promise (I haven't even mentioned the excellent performance of Jennifer Lawrence as Porter's girlfriend, who shines in a somewhat tortured subplot). But a failure nonetheless. It's best not even to discuss the film's end, which is either a too-pat happily-ever-after finish, or a hopefull, this-is-the-ending-that-might-be that was executed with too much subtlety.

In the last analysis, Jodie Foster the director was let down by Kyle Killen, the writer, and - perhaps more importantly - by Jodie Foster, the actress. For when Mel Gibson, whose strength has always been in action movies, shines as the most sensitive actor in your drama, you know you're in trouble. ◙

There Be Dragons

A film ostensibly about the early life up until his 30s of St. Josemaria Escriva, the founder of Opus Dei, who was canonized in 2002 by Blessed John Paul II. There are only tangential references in the film to the lay apostolate founded by the saint in 1928, designed for Catholics to learn to sanctify themselves through their secular work. And not much about St. Josemaria’s early life and education. Today, Opus Dei has 90,000 members around the world with 2,000 priests, most of them deemed to be quite well educated and very influential in the Catholic Church.

The film tells the complex story of the Spanish Civil War (1936-39) when hundreds of thousands of people in Spain were killed in a fraternal war between the conservative Nationalists backed by fascist Italy and Nazi Germany and the socialist and communist Republicans, backed by the Soviet Union (and lots of intellectuals and kindred souls from the U.S. and other European countries, motivated by the ravages of the Great Depression and the ensuing enthusiasm for revolution). During that war, when thousands of priests, nuns and other religious were singled out and killed, St. Josemaria’s role seemed to be somewhat fictionalized to help tell the complex story. But it’s an interesting story if you’re a history geek like me.

It’s a hard story to tell, but I thought that the Director, Roland Joffé, well know for his films, “The Mission” and “The Killing Fields”, did a great job on this complex film featuring love, faith, jealousy, revenge, civil war, family relationships, reconciliation and death. The cinematography and especially the combat scenes I thought were particularly good.

I’ve never known much about the Spanish Civil War, the practice event for World War II. The Germans tested their flying and bombing skills there to great effect. Picasso’s “Guernica” painting is world famous for depicting an early aerial bombing raid of an undefended city. The Russians tried to do that but at the same time, Stalin was purging most of the General Staff of the Soviet armed forces on manufactured grounds of treason. So it didn’t do them much good. Thus, the Spanish nationalists, under General Francisco Franco, ultimately defeated the Republicans supported by Stalin.

When I enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1964, one of the last things I had to do before I took an oath of loyalty to the United States and its Army, was to sign a disclosure sheet stating that I was not then nor ever had been a member of a list of a 100 or so organizations that I had never heard of. Anxious to avoid the draft and combat duty, I diligently plodded my way through the list, pondering each name and checking “no” and then moving on to the next. About halfway through the list, the officer in charge just said to us all, “You haven’t been in those groups, just check ‘no’ and give me the sheets!”. The only two names that I do recall from the list were, the “Abraham Lincoln Brigade”, later that I found out was the most significant American unit in the Spanish Civil War, and the “Chopin Cultural Society.” I never did find out what that was all about. But they both dated to the time of the Spanish Civil War. I passed, and did my four years.

Go see it. It’s good! The film probably won’t be around for long. I attended the 4:45 showing this afternoon and as I left, the cleanup crew seemed to be larger than the number of us who paid to see it. (I missed out on the free tickets that were floating around). ◙

History stutters, destiny triumphs

To what shall I compare thee, The King’s Speech? Art thou a moving testimonial to the resilience of the human will, a gripping historical narrative, a story of a wife’s devotion to her husband – or a highbrow version of a movie genre best known as the Disease of the Week?

There’s probably been enough discussion on the web regarding the historical inaccuracies of The King’s Speech – everything from the timeline of events to the nature of the relationship within the royal family to the true story of Churchill’s involvement in the abdication crisis. We needn’t review them here; links exist if you want to peruse them (Here, here and here for starters).

No, the point of this is not that the movie wasn’t 100% gospel, although there’s a lot to be said for historical accuracy, and much to be inferred from movies that play fast and loose with it. The point is that all lying, or fudging of the truth, is an attempt at manipulation. Storytelling itself, even when the story is completely and absolutely true, is manipulation as well, in that the purpose of the storyteller is to elicit a certain response from the audience. The reason we don’t think about this more often is that the best storytelling is done subtly, with a sure and confident hand, and if the story moves at a rapid enough pace we don’t even realize we’ve been had until much later, if ever. The best storytellers can have you eating out of their hand when you didn’t know you were even hungry.

What this leads to is a moment in Westminster Abbey during the preparations for the king’s coronation when the thought occurred to me: I am being manipulated. And as soon as I realized that, the enjoyment of the movie vanished. It was a moment that was telegraphed, for anyone to see if they had been looking for it. It was the precise point in time when the king confronts the doctor with the revelation that he has found out the truth, that the doctor is not and never was a doctor, and that his entire reputation has been built on a series of falsehoods and fabrications. It is The Crisis Moment, the pivotal moment when a conflict is introduced that threatens to tear apart the fabric of what up to that point had promised to be a Feel-Good Story. It’s the football star who’s ruled ineligible on the eve of the Big Game, the woman who walks out on her boyfriend just before the wedding due to a tragic misunderstanding – most movies have one, and usually one look at your watch will reassure you that everything will be cleared up in the end, because it’s not time for the movie to be over yet.

So this was The Crisis Moment of The King’s Speech, and it even had a Bad Guy to make the Crisis more appealing – the Vicar, who clearly resented the doctor’s involvement in the whole process, primarily because the Vicar hadn’t been responsible for introducing him to the king. We know that the Vicar will eventually lose this battle, for after all the moment of the King’s Speech hasn’t come yet and the doctor still has plenty of work to do. Sure enough, the doctor is able to explain himself, the king succeeds with his small speaking role in the ceremony, and we can get on to the major work of the movie – preparing for the King’s Speech.

As for the Speech itself – well, vis the title, this is what the whole movie works up to. George was, in a sense, born for this cinematic moment. Will he pull it off? Is the Pope Catholic? You might have figured the filmmakers weren’t about to make a movie about a king who absolutely blew it on a live microphone in a moment of grave crisis for his people. But one of the challenges to portraying historical events in a movie (or book, for that matter) is the eternal question of how to keep the suspense alive. One of the great compliments anyone can give such a story is the comment Judie had following the movie Apollo 13, when she said “I knew how it was going to end, and I still found myself wondering if they were going to make it.” Now that’s suspense – and I didn’t get that from The King’s Speech. Not for one minute.

Having passed through The Crisis Moment, we now arrive at the Climax – the speech itself – and this director isn’t about to let you forget it. As the king steps to the microphone, the fortunes of the entire Empire riding on his tied tongue, the second movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony starts up. Let me say here that my admiration for this piece of music is second to no one’s. If you only heard one of Beethoven’s compositions in your life, this is the one that would convince you he was a genius. It is atmospheric beyond imagination, running the gamut between sorrow and triumph. But its use as backdrop to the speech was beyond manipulation. It was as if the director didn’t trust the actual words of George’s speechwriter, which were stirring enough, to make the point. But then, in an era where we even have background music in public restrooms, I suppose a speech without a soundtrack is unimaginable. Sure enough, the king pulls it off (and, it must be said, the actor does a remarkable job of mimicking the real-life speech), and as sure as if Clark Kent just stepped out of a phonebooth, he leaves the broadcasting booth transformed: a new, and changed, man.

I don’t want to make it sound as if there was nothing good about this movie – the look of it was fantastic. The historical detail (other than in the script) was impressive, especially the reproduction of old Wembley Stadium at the movie’s outset. Geoffrey Rush was, as usual, solid; for my money it should have been him, and not Colin Firth, in the Best Actor category. Helena Bonham Carter, as Queen Elizabeth (aka the Queen Mum to you and me) was passable (if mannered; she never let you forget for a moment that she was acting), with just enough of a hint of the shrew about her to suggest that she was a woman most men would not have wanted for a mother-in-law. Maybe it was something about the eyes. On the other hand, if that was not the effect she was trying for, then the performance was no credit to her.

Firth won an Oscar for Best Actor, but then so have Richard Dreyfuss and Roberto Benigni, so that’s no point in his favor. I was underwhelmed by this performance – with the exception of an early scene with daughters Elizabeth and Margaret, his George struck me as a cold, and not particularly likeable, fish, part snob and part dolt. One of the key essentials to Crisis Moment movies is that you have a rooting interest in the hero, and I just couldn’t do that with Firth. The only reason I wanted him to get over the stutter is because of Rush – otherwise, I couldn’t give a damn. If he hadn’t been part of the royal family, I’m sure he would have fit right in alongside Bertie Wooster at the Drones Club. The rest of the royal family, particularly George and Edward, were unlikeable, as the filmmakers intended them to be. Whether or not they were portrayed accurately is a matter of taste, I suppose. And this whole review has, in one way or another, reflected back on the director, which means we’ve said enough about him.

All in all, The King’s Speech was, for me, a movie that left a sour taste in the mouth, a movie that diminishes in statue the farther one gets from it, although apparently this opinion puts me in a very small minority. Oh well. It’s a movie that won awards and sold tickets, and since that’s what it was bred for, you’d have to consider it a success by any measure, regardless of what you might think of it.

Finally, I have to admit, and I take no pride in it, that while I consider myself a fairly learned individual, I had no idea George had made such an important speech to the British people. Like many of you, I suspect, the only wartime speeches with which I was familiar were the ones that came from Churchill. And since I was able to find recordings of the speech on YouTube, recordings that were posted long before this movie came out, I’m forced to concede that this was indeed an important speech. I also can’t really say that I was aware of George’s stutter, although upon further reflection I do recall my mother (who was decidedly not an Anglophile) once remarking that she’d always thought George was a little bit, shall we say, slow in the thinker, and I suppose his speech impediment caused a lot of people to think that way.*

*See I, Claudius, who was, of course, played by Derek Jacobi – who also played the Vicar in this movie.

So, to the extent that this movie introduced me to a piece of history that I wasn’t familiar with, I suppose it did some good. At least it encouraged me to read more about it, where I was able to find out what the true story really was.

But I left the theater feeling as if I’d been played, and I don’t like to feel that way.


*****

The opening minutes of Winston Churchill: Walking With Destiny present, in some remarkable color footage of Churchill’s funeral, the image of a woman weeping as the funeral cortege passes by. Even though Churchill was 90 and had been in poor health for some time, his death, as narrator Ben Kingsley comments, still came as a shock to a people that revered Churchill as a link to Britain’s Finest Hour. And I wondered, as I saw the woman gently wiping away her tears, and later watched the scenes of teeming crowds pass by Churchill’s bier, whether or not there had been the same honest emotion at the time of George’s death. Admiration, yes. An affection for the monarchy, certainly. But grief? Not having been there, I can’t say for sure.

But I can say that I came away from this documentary with even more respect for Churchill than I’d had previously, which was already considerable. While George found himself forced into a role that he didn’t want (and did it well; the decision of George and Elizabeth to remain in London rather than flee to Canada for their own protection provided immense moral encouragement to the people), Churchill was forced into a role that he himself wound up creating – a kind of latter-day Lord Protector of the Realm. The movie focuses on the years 1940-41, beginning after a brief prologue with Churchill’s ascent to Prime Minister, and concluding with his Christmastime trip to the United States following the bombing of Pearl Harbor. For most of that time Britain was forced to stand alone against what appeared to be an unstoppable Nazi powerhouse, and Churchill had been one of the first to sense the threat Hitler posed, going back as when he was merely Chancellor in the Hindenberg administration. With the fall of France, it was left to Churchill to cajole and convince America of the need to enter the war on the side of the Allies.

There’s something stirring about watching Churchill defiantly challenging the Germans, while encouraging the British people to rediscover the strong stuff of which they were made. Since we’re bound to do it, we’re also forced to contrast the stammering George with the smooth Churchill, especially in the later’s speech to a joint session of Congress in which he remarks, to a roar of laughter and cheers, that had his father been American and his mother British instead of the other way around, he might have come to speak before Congress more honestly. (President Churchill, anyone?)

Naturally, any documentary about Churchill is going to have Churchill as the focal point. As such, we get less about FDR’s initiative in convincing the American public, as well as Congress, to take sides in the war. As well, while the king isn’t ignored, it’s apparent the filmmakers consider Churchill the true hero of the war, particularly in an instance when Churchill and George, while dining together, are interrupted by a German air raid. George was content to head to the safety of the shelter, but Churchill insisted on going to the roof to watch the action first hand. (No record as to whether or not George joined him.) And since the movie was produced by the Wiesenthal Foundation, there are several examples given of Churchill’s fairness to Jews and defense of the right to a Jewish homeland, which might have otherwise seemed out of the narrative stream.* And the soundtrack, which is filled with lovely and stirring music, nonetheless suffers from the occasional bombastic orchestral arrangement that seems just a little wrong for the moment.

* Particularly in pointing out Churchill’s concern that the Atlantic Treaty, which encouraged self-determination in government, could result in Arabs blocking the creation of a Jewish state following the war. While this was undoubtedly one of Churchill’s concerns, I think it likely that he was more concerned about the effects the Treaty would have on Britain’s colonial holdings, especially India.

These minor quibbles aside (and even the word quibble might be strong), this movie, in a little under two hours, reminds us all of the power of heroic virtue, and the influence that can have not only on individuals, but on an entire nation. And while there are different paths to, and different kinds of, heroism, there will always be a need for heroes, and it’s good to have that demonstrated from time to time.

Walking With Destiny is an antidote, a cleansing of the pallet from the bad taste left by The King’s Speech – one which I, at least, needed. ◙

Ed Sullivan's America

I suggested a couple of weeks ago that there was a new blog on the way, and now it's here - Our Word presents It's About TV! It's About TV is just that - all about television and the shaping of American culture, with a concentration on television of the 50s and 60s. I think you'll find it not only informative, hopefully with a lot of "I didn't know that!" moments, but also fun and offbeat. And your suggestions, as always, will be more than welcome. Updated once or twice a week, it can be found at http://www.itsabouttv.com/.

I mention this because a little while ago I promised you a review of Gerald Nachman's Right Here on Our Stage Toinght! Ed Sullivan's America. Well, here it is! ◙

Opera Wednesday

Last month, I attended a pair of one-act operas based on Charles Dickens stories, A Christmas Carol ("Mr. Scrooge") and A Tale of Two Cities ("Miss Havisham's Wedding Night"), as part of "A Dickens of an Evening". As usual, I do not review operas where I have conflict of interest since it would be impossible for me to review anything that features singers or musicians with whom I have sung in Beethoven's Mass in C Major (2010), Excerpts from Haydn's Die Jahreszeiten (2009), or any of the numerous Händel's Messiah excerpts that I have participated (2005-present) (with virtually disqualifies me from the majority of events I attend). The Sunday production that I attended featured my voice teacher's fiancé, and the Saturday that I did not attend had her (we sat together for the Sunday production), and the accompanist was the lady of whom accompanied the Beethoven and Haydn productions I mentioned. Mr. Scrooge himself is the bass who has sung at Mass in C Major, therefore disqualifying me from any reviews, so I can only discuss reflections on the operas.

The first opera's story was haunting and tragic (and featured Dr. Hill on Saturday, which disqualifies me from any review), and to me sounded similar to a woman's betrayal at the wedding altar, a female Figaro in a tragic way. The soliloquy was about Miss Havisham (from Great Expectations) being betrayed and staying in one room fifty years previously at the altar. Sadly, with the way some of us who are not yet married look at life, it is a sad state to see this is not the type of person you want to be in your seventies, and the anger of the woman will make a man want to find the right woman, and marry her, before it is too late. The haunting theme wants me to read this book, and sadly, our education system has corrupted the standards of literature by ignoring Dickens in favour of Communist authors such as Richard Wright.

It was interesting that Samuel Douglas, who is a music professor at South Carolina (my alma mater), composed the 35-minute piece. Cleve Callison, father of John, who was the Ghost of Jacob Marley in Mr. Scrooge, noted how his son had to sing as a mummy with linen wrapped around the head to keep the jaw with the head in burial. The creepiness of the opera and the ghosts of the Christmases were reminiscent of Scrooge's attitude in the Dickens story. But the joy of Christmas had to be there, and the story was reminiscent of Dickens to an angle. Why do we ignore Dickens today for authors who are not qualified except for their politically correct standards?

Mr. Scrooge was locally composed by Samuel O. Douglas. And for those of you who aren't familiar, you may notice some familiar faces and names in the promotional videos they had for the operas.  ◙

Opera Wednesday

By Mitchell Hadley

One’s reactions to last month’s run of Tosca by the Lyric Opera of Chicago will depend in great part on how you feel about opera in general, and this opera in particular. If you’re of the opinion that opera is stuck in the hidebound past, and that Tosca is little more than a piece of hoary melodrama that needed Luc Bondy’s recent innovations, then you probably wouldn’t much care for this production. If, on the other hand, Franco Zeffirelli's mammoth, opulent setting fits your definition of grand opera, then you were in luck. Count me in the latter camp.

The Lyric purchased Zeffirelli's staging a few years ago from London’s Covent Garden (for whom it had originally been designed) as a 50th anniversary present to itself, and if the sets were starting to show their age a bit, it was still wonderful to see what has become an all-too infrequent occurrence nowadays - the idea of opera as theater. And not minimalist, abstract theater either, but theater as spectacle - grand opera, in other words. While some complain that singers are dwarfed by the mammoth scale of Zeffirelli's sets, I have no sympathy for anyone who fails to be spellbound by the Act 1 finale, the Te Deum sung inside Zeff's massive recreation of the Basilica Sant'Andrea della Valle, jam-packed with altar boys, priests, a bishop vested in mitre and flowing cape, incense billowing about, parishioners kneeling before life-size statues - and yet, in the midst of a stage crammed with people, the lone figure of Scarpia singing of how Tosca makes him forget God, dominates the scene. The set overwhelming the singers? Nonsense.

Many were surprised by the casting of Deborah Voigt and James Morris, better known for heavy Wagnerian opera, as the two leads. However, Voigt portrayed the diva in a concert version of Tosca at the Minnesota Orchestra a couple of years ago, and if it is true that she didn’t bring back the echoes of Callas with her performance, neither was she any less suited for the role than, say, Karita Mattila in the Met’s production.

The Lyric’s rich history with Tosca stretches all the way back to the company’s beginning, with the famed Tito Gobbi, who played Scarpia to Callas’ Tosca in so many great performances. Gobbi was something of a godfather to the newly formed Lyric back in the 50s, appearing as Scarpia in several of those early productions. Perhaps Morris wasn’t quite in that class, but the man who’s become famous as the great Wotan of our time has actually essayed the villainous Baron more times at the Met than he’s played Wagner’s one-eyed anti-hero, making him well aware of the complexities of this deceptive character, who relies on charm in order to wrap his tentacles of corruption through and around his victims. Whereas Bondy was content to portray the police chief as little more than a cheap thug, Zeffirelli (and by extention Morris) understood that, as with the Devil, it is the smooth exterior and unctuous manner that make evil truly chilling. To be able to say that you once saw Morris playing Scarpia is to say a lot.

The real show-stopper is, of course, the showdown between Tosca and Scarpia which closes Act Two (as well as bringing down the curtain on Scarpia himself). It's a scene of immense drama, with Scarpia at his most sinister and Tosca at her most vulnerable. With Puccini's magnificent score as backdrop, it really is possible to imagine this as true drama, the only difference being that the actors are singing rather than speaking their lines. From Tosca's celebrated aria
“Vissi d’arte,” to her sense of utter despair as Scarpia writes her safe-conduct pass, to her sudden and startling discovery of the knife on the table, to Scarpia's smug sense of victory turning stunningly into tragedy, and Tosca's final, frantic escape from the death room - this scene has it all. Were Voigt and Morris up to the task? Absolutely. And for you Bondy fans out there, the candles do make a difference.

As for the third member of this little triangle, Vladimir Galouzine, who plays Tosca's doomed lover Cavaradossi, more than held his own. It's a role for big tenors, from Pavarotti (literally) to Domingo to Corelli and more, but when you've got such famed names at the top of the bill there may be a temptation to make Cavaradossi an afterthought. However, Galouzine wouldn't allow that, particularly in his big first and third act arias, and his performance completes the character's transformation from a doomed man facing execution to a man suddenly filled with hope - only to have it dashed at the end.

But the real star, as is always the case, was Puccini’s magnificent music, and the Lyric's music director, Sir Andrew Davis, brought his orchestra home in style under what could only be described as unique circumstances - the musicians, playing without a contract, actually held an informational picket outside the theater prior to opening night, and the threat of a walkout was present throughout the initial performances.

No fear on this score or any other, for that matter. This was Tosca as it was meant to be, with all the drama, power and lyricism that involves. The Lyric was a winner, Franco Zeffirelli's staging was a winner, and perhaps Puccini himself was the biggest winner of all - after all, if the master could survive a debacle such as that in New York, think how glorious it is when he's given the respect he truly deserves.

Losing by More Than a Nose

By Mitchell

We know from Parson Weems that young George Washington chopped down a cherry tree and, when confronted by the fact, bravely said to his father, “I cannot tell a lie.” History does not tell us what happened to the unfortunate piece of wood that young George cut down, but of this we can be certain: it did not turn into a lying, conniving, mouthy puppet.

And so, having drawn this tenuous link between two of history’s more famous wooden limbs, we turn our attention to the Minnesota Opera’s presentation of Jonathan Dove’s The Adventures of Pinocchio, which played here this week. We cannot tell a lie: it did not work for us.

First, the good news: this is a gorgeous production. Imported from the Leeds Opera in England, Pinocchio runs through a staggering twenty scenes during its three hours and two acts, and Francis O’Connor’s highly imaginative sets run the gamut from the interior of a forest to the inside of a whale, without so much as a stagehand running around pushing a piece of scenery. It cost the Minnesota Opera a bundle to bring the whole thing over from across the pond, and it was worth it.

Good words must be offered, too, for the astonishing performance of Adriana Zabala as the wooden-headed Pinocchio. On stage for virtually the entire performance, Zabala sings, dances and runs her heart out, managing all the while to convey the jointed movements of a puppet (not to mention the prosthetic nose which she wore for all but the final transformation scene).

For that matter, the cast as a whole did a pretty good job, although the lyrics frequently failed to make their way to the upper balcony at the oft-lamented Ordway. Thank goodness for supertitles, although one has to wonder once again why they should be necessary for an opera sung in English. Perhaps the Ordway’s notorious acoustics let us down once more, or possibly the notes were getting caught in that elaborate set, although people on the main floor seemed to hear all right. Good tidings as well to the orchestra, under Anne Manson’s baton, which turned in a very capable, if occasionally loud, job.

So where did it all go wrong? Well, first things first – dare we suggest that perhaps Pinocchio is just not all that appealing a character? He’s lippy, headstrong, foolish, deceitful, stubborn – in short, hard to like. We’ve been told from the outset not to expect that other Pinocchio, e.g. Walt Disney’s. And it is true that Disney’s version did much to sanitize Collodi’s dark and cautionary piece. But one thing it did accomplish was to present the irrepressible charm that even the most conniving little boy often has, and maybe that’s something you just have to depend on a cartoon to provide.

Mind you, it’s not that we doubt Pinocchio’s sincerity when he tells Geppetto and the Blue Fairy how much he loves them. But we’ve seen him do so many stupid – not to mention dishonest – things, it’s just hard to take him seriously. For example, after having been conned for the second time in three scenes by the conniving Fox and Cat, a court sentences the puppet to three months in prison for being so easy to fool – and you want to shout, “Good! Leave him in there!” (Not, perhaps, a very charitable attitude to take, but then opera audiences have not always been known for their charity.)

And this brings us to our biggest complaint: the sheer size and length of Pinocchio. (And no, we’re not talking about the nose here.) It runs, as we said, for three hours – longer than Tosca, longer than Das Rheingold, longer than Salome or Elektra or The Barber of Seville. Does one really need three hours to tell the story of a puppet?

Apparently one does, when trying to faithfully adapt Collodi’s original story. And it should be said that Alasdair Middleton’s libretto is a marvel; witty, literate and clever, one couldn’t help but be reminded of Eliot, or perhaps even Cole Porter. But it is, shall we say, very thorough. Forty minutes could easily have been chopped from this story without missing a beat. And in trying to cram all these somewhat unconnected episodes into the story, it necessitates rushing through many of them. When that happens, character development is bound to suffer. Pinocchio leaves us unaffected because we never really get to know him. His transformation and redemption at the end of the opera should be stirring and touching, but it isn’t. Pinocchio may be made of wood, but – like another Woodman, that from the Wizard of Oz – what he really needs is a heart. It’s hard to describe, how a three-hour opera can be too long and yet still feel incomplete, but there it is. Everything whizzes by too fast; it’s ADD night at the Ordway, Sesame Street goes to the opera. We were promised a fast-paced story, but this is almost frenetic, and there is a difference.

And, as we must be honest, Jonathan Dove’s music just wasn’t all that interesting. Big, bold and often brassy, it resembled John Williams more than, say, John Adams, lacking in subtlety and occasionally drowning out the singers (although, as we mentioned, there could be other factors at work). There wasn’t much there that tugged at the heartstrings, which is vital in a story that revolves around the trials and ultimate redemption of Pinocchio. It was virtually all recetitive, meaning there were no arias, few portions that could stand as excerpts, little in the way of hummable melodies that one could take from the opera house (save the four-beat “Pin-oh-key-oh” theme that, upon closer inspection, was reminiscent of that 60s song Aquarius). As we’ve said, Pinocchio just isn’t a very likable character; but a lot of opera heroes and heroines can be hard to take, and yet their operas still work because of the music. That didn’t happen here.

This was thoroughly modern music, but in an uninteresting way; and to the extent that one could detect signs of such 20th Century composers as Stravinsky, Puccini, Menotti, Britten or Rorem (personal favorites all), it was merely to remind us that Dove doesn’t measure up. Had it been done in, say, the Italian style that would seem to suit this story – but then, what is the use in dealing with what-ifs?

So what did we have? It was too much like pop to be classical, too much like a musical to be an opera, but in reality it was none of the above. Musical theater, one could guess, would be as accurate as you might get; but even that description, like this opera, is unsatisfying. We were told not to take it too seriously, to have fun with the production, and it’s evident that those behind the scenes and on stage, as well as many in the audience, followed that advice. But even fun sound and fury still signifies nothing.

In the end, The Adventures of Pinocchio is not the story of a puppet longing to be a boy; it’s that of a fairy tale longing to be an opera. And failing.

For, as we said, we cannot tell a lie.

Devilishly Good

By Mitchell

One doesn’t normally think of opera as adversarial sport, but there it is: oftentimes, the audience is pitted against the director, and there can be only one winner. Either the audience leaves happy with a production that is pleasing, lyrical and traditional (and, say some, hopelessly “old fashioned”), or the production team emerges triumphant with a “visionary” staging that is “relevant,” “bold” and “provocative.” (This kind of production often fails to, shall we say, move large numbers of the audience – except to the exits- to which the director will respond that such patrons “fail to understand,” and must be “educated” to appreciate such artistic vision.)

And so it was with some trepidation that we approached last week’s Minnesota Opera performance of Gounod’s Faust. The production was being directed by choreographer Doug Verone, who had last worked with the Opera on their Elephant Man of a few seasons ago, and would feature members of his dance troupe. Their goal, according to artistic director Dale Johnson, was to make the music breathe, so to speak, through the dancers’ movements. Well, one can hardly be blamed for being apprehensive, especially on the heels of the Mark Morris-produced Orfeo ed Euridice (to which I alluded in the comments section here).

So just what kind of night would it be? Who was going to come out on top?

Happily, one can report that both audience and creator were the big winners, in this lively, crowd-pleasing and lyrical performance. Verone did indeed have the Midas touch, as his choreography lent a sublime, evocative accent to the enduring story of the aged philosopher Dr. Faust and his bargain with the devil – youth, romance and riches, all for the amazingly low price of one soul. Who could pass up a bargain like that?

Kyle Ketelsen, who was so good as the devilish Don Giovanni of a few seasons ago, was wonderful in the scene-stealing role of Méphistophélès, and Judith Howarth, who shone in a previous production of La Traviata, was likewise luminescent as Marguerite, the innocent girl looking for love but getting more than she bargained for. Paul Groves, in the title role, took some time to warm up, and his tenor voice occasionally reached the balcony with some difficulty; nonetheless, he well portrayed the agony of a man at the end of life, who can’t shake the nagging suspicion that this bargain isn’t all it’s supposed to be cracked up to be. Jean-Yves Ossonce, leading the orchestra in the pit, provided a fine handling of Gounod’s lush music, and the combination of Andromache Chalfant’s sets and Jane Cox’s lighting created an appropriate atmosphere.

This production succeeded on many levels – one of Verone’s expressed desires was to bring some life to an opera that can, truth be told, be somewhat static and stagy. He also wanted to bring out the whimsy and liveliness inherent in Gounod’s story. He accomplished both through the effective use of a troupe of eight dancers – four to play the handmaids to Marguerite, and four to play Méphistophélès’ henchmen. They did indeed compliment the music, providing an accent, rather than a distraction, to the melodies flowing from the pit. It was as if the music itself was using the dancers as paintbrushes, their movements casting large swatches of color across the stage. No special effects-laden movie could have done any better. As well, the Walpurgisnacht ballet sequence from Act V, which is often omitted, is presented here in all its glorious, decadent intensity.

Legend has it that demons evolved from dogs, and Méphistophélès’ apprentice demons did indeed resemble a dog pack in the way they hovered around old Scratch, constantly moving and circling, their gestures at once both grotesque and fluid. (At one point they even make a noise in unison that sounded very much like a howl.), and James Schuette’s costumes should be praised for the subtle accents of black fur, underscoring the dog-like origins. They might resemble puppies eager to please, but they are demons, after all, and their underlying menace was never very far below the surface. The Devil, of course, never likes to get his hands dirty, not when he can rely on someone else to do the messy stuff.

And that leads me to a couple of observations on the story itself. Literature and real life both testify to the Devil’s immense ability to charm, and nowhere is this more apparent than in Méphistophélès’ constant flattery of Faust – unctuous without being totally subservient. You are the master, Méphistophélès reminds him, and I am here but to serve you. All the while, of course, he schemes to manipulate Faust into ever-more untenable situations.

Johnson also mentioned in the pre-performance talk that Verone was fascinated as to why Faust, at the opera’s beginning, chooses to renounce his faith in God and turn instead to the Devil for consolation. It is a dramatic, fateful and ultimately fatal decision, and one that causes us all to wonder. Why look to the Devil for what we must know is only temporary (and shallow) comfort, rather than the eternal truth of God? Is it that we have always demanded quick fixes to our needs? Do we have so little belief in our own worth that we think our souls are of such minimal value? Or, as Burgess Meredith so smoothly suggested in a classic Twilight Zone episode, do we consider ourselves to be too grown up and sophisticated to believe in something so outdated as the Devil?

At the opera’s climax Marguerite, kneeling on the gallows facing death for killing her illegitimate (with Faust) child, puts her life entirely at the disposal of Jesus’ mercy. (Anges purs, anges radieux), to which a chorus of angels respond that her faith has saved her (Sauvee! Christ est ressuscité). There is no white-washing by anyone involved in the production, no attempt to minimize the intense religious message in this scene (indeed, there is a bevy of religious symbolism to be seen throughout the performance).

And so while Marguerite is saved, Faust is whisked by Méphistophélès to eternal damnation. A happy ending? Well, in typical opera fashion, death is the ever-present spectre as the final curtain falls. But in this case it is the redemptive power of Jesus which carries the day and so, as a reminder that as we die with Christ so too shall we be raised with Him, this ending can’t help but be a hopeful one.

Oh, brothers

The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour: Best of Season 3
 Available on DVD through most retailers

When discussing the Smothers Brothers, one doesn't review a television show as much as an specific time in history. Not the era of the Smothers Brothers themselves, for they really flashed across the sky for but a brief moment; and not an epochal moment in history, for much of what the Brothers accomplished was, shall we say, less than timeless.

No, to understand the Smothers Brothers, and what their comedy was all about, one has to understand the 60s, or at least be conversant with them. Taking them out of context, watching or listening to them without that background information, can leave one wondering what all the excitement was about. (Frankly, even with an understanding of the 60s one might have that same reaction, but that is a discussion for another day.)

If you've ever wondered what all the shouting was about, why so many people supported and admired them while so many others were outraged and disgusted by them, why they were the idols of college campuses and the bane of politicians and network censors, then you could do worse than to have The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour: Season 3 as part of your DVD collection.

I remember watching them back in that year of 1968, and I suppose I understood the humor about as well as any eight-year-old could (even a politically savvy eight-year-old), but one thing I did understand was that the Brothers were very good at raising the hackles of a good many people.

So what was all the shouting about? You might ask yourself that very question after watching a few episodes from this, the third season. For one thing, taken in the context of other variety shows of the day (Ed Sullivan, Carol Burnett, even shows to come such as Sonny & Cher), the Smothers Brothers Show was amazingly conventional. There was an opening bit (not quite a monologue, since there were two of them), appearances by special guests (standup comedians and rock stars), scripted bits, production numbers, and other things one might expect from a variety show. If you wanted cutting-edge television, this wasn't it; Monty Python was certainly far more advanced in breaking the mold, and even Laugh-In was far more creative in establishing a new way of thinking about the variety show. It's true that the Brothers had The Doors as special guests, but then so did Sullivan. And while their clothes were often vintage 60s (try a red blazer and turtleneck, for instance), it's also true that if you let the coat out a bit and lower the cut, you come up with a fairly fashionable double-breasted coat, and that turtleneck cut down just a little looks like a very sharp mock-turtle. If you'll look closely, you'll notice that Dick (he was the one mom liked best) even wears cufflinks.

So the show wasn't nearly as cutting-edge as we might remember. Nor could one say that the writing was exceptionally clever. Nothing, certainly, like the talent on shows such as Your Show of Shows. (Try Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks, Howard Morris for starters.) I doubt that the writing bench was as deep as those of Carson or Paar, for example. One thing that strikes me on watching these shows is that so many of these bits go on for far, far too long. The writers really don't know when (or perhaps even how) to end some of these sketches, which gives it more in common with Saturday Night Live than anything else.

(By the way, did you know that the original title of that show was NBC's Saturday Night? Why, you ask? Because the name "Saturday Night Live" was already in use - by Howard Cosell, in his short-lived Saturday night variety show.)

Anyway, I suppose the comparison to SNL is perhaps the best one on a number of levels, for what made the Smothers Brothers unique - the reason why I'm watching this DVD and writing these words - is that they took on the law and won (for at least a little while). Their comedy writers were those who wrote the lead stories in the nation's newspapers, and their targets were the politicians who ran the government, the church leaders who guided the nation's morals, and the suits who ran CBS.

I said earlier in this review that viewed out of context, without knowing what the 60s were like, much of the humor in these episodes (which, I should say, have been beautifully mastered, with the vivid color saturation that is so typical of 60s television) might fall flat, or at least seem tedious and didactic. Fortunately, some of the features included in this set help to set the table: a brief documentary featurette on the 60s helps to give the show some perspective, and optional opening and closing comments by the Brothers provide some real insight and background on the episode in question. There's the complete "Pat Paulson for President" special, with Henry Fonda (another old radical) as narrator. There's a rich collection of outtakes, uncensored (and never seen) episodes, and a rich collection of correspondence between the Brothers and CBS documenting the many disputes between them. I've already mentioned the beautiful look to these episodes, and the set itself is nothing if not comprehensive. No, if you're looking for quality and comprehensiveness, you won't have to look far.

The talent is certainly there, as well. One episode featured a very funny George Carlin and a brilliant performance by The Doors (brilliant, that is, if you're a fan of theirs), and other guest stars in this collection include Bob Newhart and Steve Martin, Judy Collins and Joey Bishop, Ike and Tina Turner and George Harrison. There's comedy, rock, folk - all kinds of stuff.

We are left, then, with the title stars themselves. This is a DVD review, not a cultural essay; anyone looking for information about the Smothers Brothers won't have far to look. But it is a fact that many watching these shows for the first time ever, or the first time in a long time, will be apt to find parallels between the political landscape of today and that of the 60s. Some will rejoice in that, others will roll their eyes.

The Brothers could be, by turns, funny, tiresome, smug, naive, entertaining, boring, infurating, and subversive. They showed then, as now, a pronounced lack of respect for current mores, for authority, for rules and regulations and propriety. There's no question that some of the tiresome molds of the era needed to be broken, but (as the Catholic Church as since found out) sometimes when you open up the windows to let the stale air out, you let a whole lot more come in. And once it's in, it's damn hard to get out. The Smothers Brothers helped change television, just as they helped define a generation. They didn't do it all themselves (for very little that is either very great or very evil can be boiled down to just one or two individuals), and while they might not have meant for everything to happen that has since come to pass, we all know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Then again, maybe they did mean for it all to happen. Who knows?

Really, there's not much we can do except try to understand it. Sometimes that understanding can only come with perspective, with time and distance. And then we may find out that what we thought we knew we didn't really understand at all.

So is The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour: Season 3 worth your investment? If you're looking for a cultural artifact, a window into time, a sense of what it was like back in the day - then the answer is yes. As for the entertainment value, well, that is probably left in the eye of the beholder.
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Hit and Mitzi

By Mitchell

Well, it's been a busy month here, and I owe you some reviews. So let me start with the new DVD Mitzi Gaynor: Razzle Dazzle! The Special Years.

I don't know how many of you remember Mitzi Gaynor, but it's a pity that more people don't. Her biggest role was that of Ensign Nellie Forbush in the 1958 film version of South Pacific. After that she had a very successful run in Vegas with her own show. Mitzi Gaynor could do it all: she was vivacious, she could act, she could sing - and boy, could she dance.

And from the first moment of her 1968 special, simply entitled Mitzi, it was apparent that television showcased her talents to the utmost. It was a confluence of factors that made these annual specials, which ran between 1968 and 1978, so spectacular. By 1968 color TV was hardly a novelty, and these shows take full advantage of the color saturation that was common to the era, with hues that fairly leap off the screen.

Then too, broadcast standards had eased somewhat by then (this was the 60s, after all), and the costumes by designer Bob Mackie played this to the hilt. The fabrics often appeared nude or semi-nude, accompanied by a judicious placement of spangles. (Mackie later adapted some of these costumes for use by another of his famous clients: Cher.)

The specials were loaded with big-name guest stars of the era; some of their names might not mean as much to you now as they did then (Mike Connors, Ross Martin, and Ken Berry), while others should ring a bell (Jerry Orbach, Suzanne Pleshette, Michael Landon and George Hamilton, to name a few). And they featured great production numbers, mostly choreographed by the great Tony Charmoli.

But the biggest asset to these specials was Mitzi herself. Between her terrific dance moves, the Mackie costumes, and her own formidable figure, one can only regret that these were not originally telecast in HD. (Or perhaps not; Mackie mentions one Mitzi dance that the network censor deemed a little too provocative, ordering her to be shown only from the mid-upper body up. The disc shows, for the first time, the full-body footage as it was originally shot.) Need more evidence? Check out the trailer below:



So why have I gone on for so long without telling you much about this DVD? Because it's important for you to know why you should want it. The hour-long program features highlights from Gaynor's eight specials, along with comments by Gaynor, Mackie, and others such as Kristin Chenoweth, Carl Reiner, and choreographer Charmoli. Now, since this show is popping up on public television pledge drives all over the place, you might figure that you'll just wait and let the DVR take care of it. Which is where you'd be wrong. The extras on this disc are wonderful; over an hour of features, including extended musical numbers from each of the specials, a sit-down (or more like a stand-up) with Mitzi and Mackie, reviewing the designs for some of her outfits, and Mitzi herself sharing stories of her career (including her headline appearance on the Ed Sullivan show - which just happened to come on the same night as the Sullivan TV-debut of the Beatles!).

This is a slick, good looking disc from City Lights Home Entertainment, with sharp graphics and a menu that's easy to maneuver. If there's one bone to pick (and it's a slight one), it's that many of Mitzi's co-stars are not identified by on-screen graphics. Yes, it's true that at the time they were all well-known, but viewers today who might be drawn in by Mitzi's charisma might wonder who that clumsy dancer was in that very funny bit. (Hint: it was Michael Landon.)

Mitzi Gaynor's specials ended in 1978, and that's probably about right. By then the era of the big-budget variety special was well on its way out, and although Mitzi even managed to survive the disco era, the format was living on borrowed time. But for those among us who remember those glory years, along with anyone who wants to see what those big, high-rated TV specials really looked like, you couldn't do much better than Mitzi Gaynor: Razzle Dazzle! The Special Years.