protests and "peace"

Protests in all parts of the city. It is really alive. In Manhattan, the protest started at Union Square, then south to the west village, then east on Houston, and finally back on Union Square. In Brooklyn,  it began at Parkside and the Q train---now somewhere on Bedford. I have two friends at that one; that is the protest I would have joined if I was able to go---but I decided not to. Not feeling that well, and very afraid of being caught in another police action---although from today's reports, there are very few. It interesting that these protes are taking place in a city with its bars closed. The bars, in my opinion, represent the opposite of activisim---they are there for people to escape---a luxury item that exists for itself. Wonder whether there would have been any conflicts had the protesters shut down the streets that the bars were on. It is an interesting irony here. ,
  On Facebook I watched a number of black activists who are calling for really drastic measures to change things. This includes defunding the police departments of major cities and a guaranteed income. They don't just want reform; they want the whole world turned over. Can it happen? Is it possible? We will see.
   It seems a bit odd to now write a review of last night's streaming of the Met's La Sonnambula---is it kind of frivolous, but nevertheless here it is. I lasted about 40 minutes into the stream, but the concept---a rehearsal of Sonnambula in a rehearsal hall around Union Square, did not seem fully developed. The singers seemed simply to portray their characters in modern dress---very little "rehearsal behavior" to interrupt it. So when the third lead, the baritone, enters the rehearsal hall, he is wearing a modern equivalent to what his character would wear. Why? Why should not the singer come in in dungarees and  sweat shirt---then assume the character he was singing? And why should he enter just when his character does?  A water cooler and coffee place, but nobody went over for water or coffee. The director's vision, or if you prefer, conceit, seemed hollow to me.
   So while others were protesting---I spent a lot of the afternoon in "passive" Riverside Park---
96th to 108th street. A laid back, peaceful place, lots of couples, many young families with one or two year olds, learning how to walk, some loners like myself. I liked the quiet energy---a world at
"peace"--I read a lot of a play by David Adjani called Marie Antoinette. Kind of tart and vibrant.
  So there it is---time to find out the latest from the protests (if I can) and think about the
ramifications

Visions of "Onegin"

This afternoon while looking at my facebook posts, I came upon an arts group that was inviting me to watch its Opera Marathon, which is streaming this weekend. I wanted to check out what was being shown---on the list was a production from (I think) the Netherlands of Eugene Onegin, the great opera by Tchaikovsky. I watched the first fifteen minutes of the production, by a European director; the conductor took his place, then a group of well dressed party goers moved onto the stage and mingled a bit in silence, then a man wandered in, attractive, separate--he stands alone. Then the orchestra begins but not with the opening strains of the opera, no, what we hear is a fast dance from the first scene of Act III, which is in fact a fancy ball. All of a sudden a beauatiful young woman arrives on the arm of her escort---she sees the man alone, then shies away from him. Ah, I thought, this is Tatiana, the heroin of the opera,  now married, but once infatuated with the man standing apart---Eugene Onegin. Everything stops, Onegin is mired in thought, then the mid stage opens up, and the orchestra returns to the opening measures of the opera which takes place around seven or eight years before. So the narrative will all be filtered through Onegin's memory. An interesting vision from the director but not at all (at least for me) intrusive. I listened to the opening phrases---a sad love song being sung  by an old nurse--watched the young Tatiana and her sister Olga arrive and then stopped. Why? While it took me a long time to understand and like this piece, I am now overpowered by it. Somehow in the last 20 or so years, Onegin's journey has become my journey. But if I am Onegin, who is my Tatiana? And what circumstances during the time I have recounted creates a meaningful counterpoint to the story of the opera? Have I had my final encounter with "Tatiana" yet, and what would be its result? What a gift Tchaikovsky has given to me! That is all that I can say.
   It is Friday---heat! Strength in and out. Left the apartment around 5;45 A.M. for my first coffee at the deli four blocks away. Is that why I am so tired at parts of the day? And how will this energy or lack of same effect me when the lockdown is lifted and I can move around the city. Oh, how I yearn to go to Brooklyn again--Park Slope, Flatbush the Gotham Market, Cobra Club in Bushwick--anywhere that is different from the upper west side.
 Finished Curtains, a mystery by Agatha Christie that my friend Sarah got for me from her parents'
house. Very skillful---really drew me in---if I could find four or five other of her mysteries, I would
probably just stop everything and read them---they seem to have been created for "shelter in place".
But this is the only one I have---will have to make do.
Lots of classical music concerts and operas that are streaming this weekend, plus many performances of classical works simply exist on youtube. Tonight the Met is streaming its production of La Sonnambula--one that debunks the simplistic narrative of the opera by setting it in a rehearsal
room where the singers are rehearsing---well La Sonnambula. The kind of production that I like
let's see if it works. Will report tomorrow.

so I have read The Mask and the Face, by Luigi Chiarelli

and once again, I am awed by its strength and its vision. Written in 1913, and first performed after World War I, its vision of men-women relationships seems to me just as timely today. Essentially the plot revolves around an arrogant Count, who swears (this is Italy 1913) that if caught his wife in an unfaithful act he would kill her and be justified. On this night, at a party at his house, his wife is being unfaithful---he finds out and is faced with following through. He can't---he sends her away; she agrees to go, then he fires a shot and says that he has killed his wife, and that her body has fallen into the lake below their estate. He is arrested---goes to prison for nine months, then is tried and acquitted,  On his day of return, he is considered a hero--many have sent flowers, women want to meet him--but now he sees the absurdity of the whole business. Refusing to take part in all the celebrations ,he isolates himself and then---surprise---his wife returns---she understands her foolishness (the affair was meaningless to her) and she wants to be with him again. Do they reconcile? Can the Count's new understanding of the absurdity of his situation turn his rage to love?
Its done in a fascinating way, the dialogue is full of insight, and the supporting characters are sharply drawn.  I love the play.
  So what (if anything) can I do with it? I am showing it to my friend Sarah, an up and coming director who programs new groups into the theater she has just become co-Artistic Director of. I am sure she will read it carefully, but a production---even at a time when theater was happening--seems very difficult. Maybe, when the theaters are reopened again, we could arrange for a staged reading of the play---I already know the actors whom I think could give very strong readings in the leadsl--at one of the small theaters.  Whatever, I would just like as many theater people whom I know to get to know it.
Yesterday evening, spent an hour and a half on zoom, meeting with Imani, the leader of BAN and two other volunteers in preparation for doing some phone calls about getting free food to residents of Flatbush. First experience during the pandemic in which I was confronted with the "here and now".
This is about doing! The ghosts and memories of the past are made irrelevant by these tasks. It was a solid hour an a half---I signed up for an hour of work on Sunday, I will receive my instructions soon---should be a nice challenge.
What else..? I think that is all---its been a strange day---I spent most of it in the apartment reading the really skillful Agatha Christie mystery that Sarah got for me from her parents library.  It really keeps one going---will report soon.

Early Wednesday morning....

had a weird scare earlier--my computer would not go on. Tried everything but forgot to press the "on" button. For about three hours it seemed like I would be computer-less. All kinds of crazy feelings went about my brain---I had become pretty dependent on it for at least of couple of hours of surfing. Restless,  anxious, what would I do with the time? Only reading..? Anyway, it is back---I discovered the "on" button--false alarm!

  Yesterday two events of importance. Cityboy took a long walk from Amsterdam and 79th to 115th and 8th Avenue. Just as he was approaching the corner of 115th, feeling great---body strong, he slipped and fell on a small grate. Crashed down head first! Stinging! About three people came over to help, he got up, totally conscious, in control---the three good samaritans gave him an ice water bottle, a new mask, and helped him clean up the blood (not a lot of it) coming from the fall. Still, no real damage---sat for a short while, then was able to walk south on 8th then Central Park West to 100th street where he picked up the 10 bus and returned home. Pain in head and leg continued for a while, but have subsided, nicely---I think. CItyboy spent most of the rest of his day in the apartment, but did go out for food and snacks a few times, without a problem.
   The second event: Received in the mail a copy of a compilation of five plays---all written about
100 years ago. One of them, The Mask and The Face, by Luigi Chiarelli has fascinated me since I was assigned to read it in my sophmore year at Hopkins. I had owned a copy, gave it to an actor friend of mine, because I thought he would be perfect for the main male character---and he promptly lost it. Not many copies of this compilation are in print---I was lucky to find a web site where I could buy it. Very much looking forward to reading it again, then want to show it to my friend Sarah--a director---see how she feels about it---maybe collaborate with her on a reading, or produce on on my own---something I have not done in about 18 years. When I read it I will determine if my past instincts about the strength and vision of this play have been justified. Then I will report back.

Remember, Inherit the Wind

I was twelve when I saw it. That was the year my parents allowed me  take the subway from the Bronx to Manhattan; go to Saturday matinees with friends, and return to the Bronx without any parental supervision. I think that was a milestone for me---I could not believe that the ticket taker would let my friend and I into the theater without an adult, but we gave him the tickets, he gave us the stubs,  and in we were.
Inherit the Wind, by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee was a play about the Scopes trial. Names were changed, otherwise it was accurate.  It starred Paul Muni as Henry Drummond, the character modeled after Clarence Darrow. Muni was a legend among Jewish theater goers, the idea of seeing him in person was overpowering. Ed Begley played Matthew Harrison Brady, the character modeled after Williams Jennings Bryan, who had run for President three times and lost. E. K. Hornbeck, a character modeled after H.L. Menken, a smart alec reporter was played by Tony Randall, already familiar to me from his television work.  The production, directed by Herman Shumlin was performed on a two tiered set---the back tier being the main street of the town, and the lower space, the court room.  The cast must have consisted of about 40 to 45 people, many of them playing townspeople, on the streets of Hillsboro (the name of the town) or courtroom spectators. The whole production had a kind of epic sweep to it--in the town scenes, people were constantly in motion. I bought into all of it.
   There was a revival of the play in 2007 starring Christopher Plummer in Muni's role, and I remember finding its conflict rather shallow and simplistic. It wasn't helped by the production which seemed very superficial. But as a twelve year old, watching, Muni, Begley, etc, I was totally enthralled. As I said earlier, the production's look was authentic, the flow of people as they moved through the stage, incredibly natural, and of course, "good" (Drummond defending Bertram Cates, the character modeled after John Scopes) defeated "bad" (the sheer stubborness of Brady and his followers). Muni was cool and sharp as a tack, but the more I play that afternoon back in my head, the more I consider Ed Begley's performance as Brady, the key to the play's success.In act I, Brady has much more stage time then Drummond, and Begley's portrayal, full of himself, yet sincere, a powerful speaker whose charisma reassured the townspeople, a man of strength and confidence,  solidified Act I, and gave Drummond and his followers something really to fight against.
   Act II was mostly the trial itself, and that is where Drummond triumphed and Brady fell. Much laughter in the audience, every time Drummond's questions flustered Brady and exposed a literal belief in the text of the bible in explaining the creation of the world. Tony Randall's part, E.K. Horrnbeck had no lines in Act II, yet there was Randall in the center of the stage, laughing hysterically every time Drummond shot Brady down. Very enjoyable if you saw what Brady was fighting for as backward,. Yet in the final scene of the act, all have left the courtroom but the totally humiliated Brady and his wife: "They are laughing at us, mother" Brady cries out to her---a man with great pride totally beaten down.
  Act III ties it all up. Brady is giving a final speech when he collapses and is carried off. Drummond, about to leave, hears that Brady has died. Hornbeck, who saw Brady as nothing but a deluded showman, makes a joke about his passing.  Drummond is outraged: "There was much greatness in
this man", and again, from Begley's performance, you really believed that. The play ends with
Drummond alone on stage, about to leave for the train station, holding Darwin in one hand and the
Bible in the other.  All I know was that I was enthralled.
  And so I returned to the Bronx and to my seventh grade dreams (whatever they were). The next
play that I would see on my own was The Lark, Lillian Hellman's adaptation of the play by Jean Anouih about Joan of Arc, which starred Julie Harris. More about that some other time.

Sunday evening..finding out about Bach

 This morning attended the service created by the Seven Daughters of Eve, a group headed by
 my friend  Sibyl.  A beautiful service, its leader asked the congregants to grieve over something important. Singers sang "A Hard Rain Is Gonna Fall" and a sadness came over me immediately.Written in the sixties, its idealistic demands seem to have been never met---another cause for grieving. The whole service took about 40 minutes, captured my attention and left me very moved.
Spent some of the afternoon outside, a short walk north on Broadway till about 87th street then a bench on Riverside Drive---had Lydia Davis' book of short stories with me, but also really enjoyed looking at the flow of people who passed. All ages, children, couples, seniors, etc. Ms. Davis' short stories are concise, heated and intense. They come at you with a kind of immediate fury. After one or two, had to stop just to chill my mind out. Their focus is incredible, but stylistically they are so similar that one's mind and feelings can be exhausted quickly. . At any rate, felt a little fatigued by around 4, so headed back to the apartment.
   I had received an e mail telling me that the great cellist, Yo Yo Ma was performing the six Bach unaccompanied Cello suites, beginning at 2. I felt very strongly that this was time i wanted to be out of the apartment, and when I returned, I expected the concert to be over. But it wasn't; the sixth suite was being played--I listened for a short while and was mesmerized. Here was Bach that was penetrating and really fierce. I stopped what I was doing and listened carefully--there is something almost inpenetrable about the piece. I made up my mind that in the next few days, I would listen carefully to all six of the suites---really try to get to know them. I have always seen Bach's music as "circular" that is, always returning to the same place---somehow a lot of his music leaves me very unmoved. I think listening to the suites will be a different experience. I want to challenge myself to really understand them. Will I do it in the next few days? Well, nothing much else is planned--so I have the time, but this is a tough challenge. After the Bach, I searched utube and listened to Mozart's Violin Concerto Number 3---a truly beautiful piece that the young Mozart wrote, one of five Violin Concertos written at the same time. Much easier for me to absorb---Mozart and his amazing dialogues between soloist and orchestra are always fascinating to me.
That is all for now. How many more weeks until I can visit a bookstore, or stop and sit down and have coffee, not a take out on a park bench? Hopefully soon.

Saturday morning...a dark day..

for a dark time---how responsive the weather seems to be to the demands placed upon those who are asked to stay in.  Kind of nice, earlier, now the rain is falling which eliminates any thought of a long walk or trip to another borough, or even another part of Manhattan. How will I spend my day, not sure...but there seems to be enough to do here.
  Last night---a tough night---lots of stomach cramps, which did not let up until the morning, and even are not fully gone. What does this mean---it is truly a physical statement, but when I resist going to see a doctor and take the risk of the cramps playing full out--is this an emotional statement? Earlier this morning, in my mind, I linked the cramps to the desolation I sometimes feel in the early morning hours. A fair assessment? Not sure---anyway, time to move on to another subject.
   The Met Opera web site is streaming operas from its past---this morning I came upon a 1976 televised version of their production of Don Giovanni. My history with that opera began in 1966, I saw my first performance at the Met on the same day that I "failed" my first army pre-induction physical. Given a 1 y designation because I was seeing a therapist, I celebrated by first going to Luigino's a nice Italian restaurant on 48th street (sadly no longer there) . Then, off to the Met (in its last season in "the old house" on 39th Street) to join the line for standing room tickets for the evening's performance of Don Giovanni, with Cesare Siepi in the leading role and Welsh bass baritone Geraint Evans as his servant Leporello. It was a time when I was becoming fascinated with every aspect of opera in detail, and I had probably read a great deal about the opera (which I knew to be great) in preparation for seeing it. The conductor was Joseph Rosenstock, a stand in for Karl Bohm. The latter was a well respected conductor who conducted  Mozart and Strauss at the Met often, but was not available that season.
My response to the opera which was well performed was not one of being blown away (maybe the opera is too complex for that anyway0 but more one of watchful and cautious absorbtion, I wanted to really "know" this opera--and that evening was to be my first learning experience. I must have seen it that season at least two more times at the Met---I also invaded the Lincoln Center Library to try to take out as many recordings of the opera as I could find, and compare the different interpretations of the singers, and the different tempos and visions of the conductors. It was a "heady" time for me,
getting to know the repertory that the two opera houses were performing, and also using the standing
room line at the Met as a way to meet possible dates. I was working for the Department of Welfare
in a center in the Bronx with an eclectic group of colleagues, many of them just out of college like myself, trying to figure out what to do with their lives. I think I was enjoying myself at that time
a great deal. It all ended that summer, when I decided to leave the job, and audition as an actor
(I had been studying for about a year with Milton Katselas and thought that I was ready), a move
that I guess one might call "miscalculated".  There  were not that many auditions--I found myself with
a lot of time on my hands that I did not expect to have, and I began to question whether the aspiring
actor's lifestyle was really something that I could cope with. It all ended with my getting a job
sorting mail for the U.S. post office--a job which I grinded through for seven months. Finally I was able to transition to a Social Work job around July of 67, and my world went slightly back to normal.
I've covered some of the alienation and confusion that I dealt with for those months in an earlier
post (Mozart forever)--more to come..? Perhaps...will report soon.