Saturday, December 27, 2008
We're in the gardens of Hirohito, Lord Keeper of the Seal. A number of young ladies of the court are enjoying the evening air when a pair of salesmen from the US barge in, giving their spiel. What are they selling, you might ask? Suspenders, I reply -- something about as useful to the Japanese of that time as bathing suits are to Eskimos.
And it's right here that the show's gimmick kicks in: when talking amongst themselves, the Japanese speak perfectly good English. A little stilted, perhaps, but clear and understandable. Have them talk to the Americans, and suddenly we're in the realm of "no tickee no washee!" And as if that werent enough, Bill (one of the salespeople) cant tell the difference between men and women here ("They all wear skirts!") so he decides:
If you cant tell what gender it is, give it a pair anyway!
Ah, the Ugly American. Well, here's the other problem: legally, they cant sell their suspenders to the Japanese until each product is stamped "Made in Japan". Even though they arent, that could have been easily changed by passing a few discrete Yankee dollars around in exchange for a permit from (you guessed it) the Lord Keeper of the Seal. But that would be too easy, right? Nope, here Tom (the other salesman) has fallen for Hirohito's daughter Hanano, and she for him. But she's promised to Prince Matsuo, who's apparently a bit long in the tooth (which means he's probably over 30). Still, her attendant Lototo has arranged secret meetings between her and Tom but now insists these stop.
This romantic interlude is interrupted by an offstage crash! It seems Bill has gotten himself in an accident with a rickshaw driver.
Ive subwayed through big towns
Ive ridden to the hounds
Ive airplaned over big hills
Ive even waded rills
But I never really knew
What thrills might be
Until one day in old Japan
A coolie tempted me
Oh, Jinny Jinny rikishaw
Youve made my bones all sore and raw
Oh wont you listen to my plea
The way you act is killing me
The streets go up and down
The houses spin around
The river's in the air
And stars are everywhere
Oh Jinny Jinny rikishaw
I guess you're quite outside the law
But I'll get even with you yet
American man he wont forget
And youll get taken for a ride
't will be the end of Jinny Jinny rikishaw!
Bill pretty much steps deep into it by telling Hanano why he and Tom are there in Japan and the problems with selling the suspenders without a proper seal. Before Tom can stop him, Bill tells Hanano that this is why Tom asked the ambassador to introduce him to her... news that Hanano doesnt take very well, as you might guess.
But it seems one of Hanano's friends, Toshi, wants to help "handsome nice American men": her father apparently knows some great secret about Hanano. Bill agrees (even though he's not sure what he's agreeing to), and she exits only seconds before Peggie, Tom's sister and Bill's fiancée, catches him. He tells her she has nothing to worry about, that it's only Tom that's in danger, but that can wait while they exit to spend some quality time together.
Tom and Hanano reconcile, but Hirohito catches them, and is he upset or what... Despite Tom and Hanano's pleas, he decides she's to marry Matsuo that very night and Tom has to leave the city. The lovers have one more little love song, and just as Tom is about to leave, Lototo tells him to hide: Matsuo is coming! He's even less impressed when he finds out his intended is in love with someone else, so he orders Tom taken away and thrown into a dungeon. As Tom is pulled off by guards, Matsuo cackles and rubs his hands in Simon-Legree-style enjoyment.
Act Two starts later that night, during the Festival of the Full Moon. Peggie is distraught that her brother is in prison, but Bill cheers her up with a patriotic little ditty about how great the US compared to Japan, a number so apparently infectious that the chorus (all Japanese, remember) join in.
Hirohito and Matsuo find Hanano and tell her it's time -- and to ensure her complete loyalty to Matsuo, Hirohito has ordered Tom's execution... but not before he's forced to watch her marriage. Matsuo twirls his moustache as Hanano makes one last plea even as Tom is tied to the tracks and --
Wait. Sorry. Wrong melodrama. Anyway, it's all getting a bit too close to crunch time when Toshi's father appears:
Now many years ago
A certain lord I know
Did me a serious wrong
Said I, "It wont be long
Ere you'll regret this deed."
To which he gave no heed
But now the time has come
My vengeance has begun
Hirohito starts to squirm a bit and orders the man taken away, but before the guards can do so, Toshi's father declares that Hanano is not Hirohito's daughter! She was left, as an infant, on a shrine to Buddha after her real father, one John Barlow, an American missionary, died in an earthquake in Nagano. Hanano forgives her pseudo-father, tells Matsuo to take a hike, and starts packing for a wedding in the good ol' USA.
But what about the suspenders, you ask? Hirohito tries to remain firm, but Bill threatens him with "some of our government's international lawyers", and he caves, agreeing to turn American-made suspenders into ones "maid in Japan"...
Musically, Gatwood cant decide whether she wants to attempt Japanese, Chinese, or just one-size-fits-all "Oriental" music that freely mixes the first two with a smattering of Indian and Middle Eastern. The rest -- the standard ballad, the quasi-comic song, even the temple dance -- are all just generic song styling, with no real themes to hold everything together. Whatever "editing" Soderstrom did, it didnt seem to help.
But just pull back a bit and think. Granted, these works are all fantasies and nothing more. People fall in love and decide to get married within the two-hour performance span: that's not unusual. Neither is it all that unusual to have some kind of last-minute revelation that the hero or heroine that we thought was impoverished actually turns out to be the heir/heiress to a huge estate. In that regard, I can forgive the plot resolution how she's not really Japanese but really American: it's well within the accepted bounds of the 30s high school musical.
But MAID IN JAPAN has a slightly bigger perceptual problem. I mean, okay, if Hanano is an American, wouldnt she look... well... not Japanese? Wasnt anyone suspicious that she looked... well, different? I mean, not even her American boy friend could tell -- so what does that say about how attentive he is? Truly, this has me curious. She's eighteen (I think: the script's not specific), and she never had an inkling that something might be a little wrong, in all those years of growing up with her Japanese father and her Japanese friends, all of whom never saw anything unusual about her. Fascinating. A director in the 30s would just shrug his shoulders and say, "Yeah, well, who cares?" But I'd really love to know how the modern director, whose audiences are slightly more aware of such inconsistencies, would get around something like that.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
So let's take a look at what we do know for sure. Chaney was born in Kansas but spent most of his life in the Fresno area of California, where he worked primarily as a school superintendent. Apparently coming into his talents as a composer late in life, he studied under several composers and music teachers before turning his attention to writing operetta. SAILOR MAIDS and THE BELLE OF BARCELONA were his two biggest successes, and he was one of the few in this genre who wrote book, words, and music.
SAILOR MAIDS, like BETTY LOU, is an interesting look at "how the other half lives": our heroine Frances Marie has just turned eighteen and is celebrating her birthday by launching her new yacht. Her crew is a band of young ladies known as the Sailor Maids, and her pilot is to be Edward Dover, a childhood friend whom she hasnt seen in eight years and yet somehow is her fiancé -- go figure. Problem is (isnt there always a problem?), Edward hates the water. He knows zip about yachting. What seems to temporarily save him is that, when he arrives at the birthday celebration, he's mistaken for a caterer employed for the occasion.
Now, sure, he could have just said, "Hey, it's me, Eddie!" -- but he doesnt. And why, you may ask? Because he's seen Frances' friend Jeanette... and he likes what he sees. Or, as he sings it:
I'm a caterer
But why they chose me for this position
Is a mystery I cant solve
Someone surely is mistaken
What I know about catering
Would not be worth repeating
If some trouble I would avoid
I will have to be explaining
A caterer, a caterer, a caterer
Who does all sort of fancy things
Who spoils the broth and spills the beans
I wonder if I can do it
To me it does not seem amiss
To wear a sporty suit like this
Perhaps appropriate a kiss
I wonder if I will rue it
If I may to the kitchen go
And with that maiden be
What jolly fun, o what a treat
How fortunate for me
It's quite a bold advance
But I will take a chance
I'll take the risk and hie me to the kitchen
As you can see, lyrics werent Cheney's strong suit.
So: what to do about Frances? Edward, in a moment of sudden inspiration, turns to another late arrival, a genuine yachtsman named David, and convinces him to assume the role and sail the yacht. For his part, despite some hesitation, David's more than happy to, if it gets him closer to Frances. The complication is Edward's father and Frances' father have both seen the real Edward, but Edward dismisses David's concerns over that with a light "oh, I'll say it's just a lark".
And then there's Gerald. Captain of the rowing crew, the not especially bright Gerald's also infatuated with Frances Marie and has asked her countless times to marry him, but she's never given him an answer one way or the other -- but she promises to do so "tonight". Given what we know about her feelings about the man she assumes to be "Edward", methinks poor Gerald is sailing en route to some unhappy news.
Meanwhile, David is getting more and more upset by the awkward position Edward's put him in: he's starting to really like Frances (and she seems positively doting on him) and doesnt think he should be, since he's not really Edward at all. And Edward's finding it difficult to get quality time with Jeanette because he's under the command of the house cook, Olga, who's a demanding Swede that consistently has to chase him down and send him back to the kitchen to work. So, by the end of the first act, the charade is still afloat, but only barely.
Act Two is later that night, during the birthday celebration. The sailing went well, Frances is even more enamoured of "Edward", Gerald is even more frustrated, the fathers congratulate each other on a successful love match between their children. David's borderline frantic, but Edward stops him from going to the fathers and confessing all by proposing another plan: bring Jeanette and Frances here and tell them everything. Once they're won over, the fathers will have no choice but to acquiesce... or so Edward thinks. But of course, not even that goes smoothly: Edward is sent yet again to the kitchen just as Jeanette has brought Frances to hear something the "caterer" wants to tell her. Jeanette thinks that it's some kind of scandal, and Frances immediately fears that Gerald may have overheard her and "Edward" earlier.
And now David (as himself) encounters the two fathers -- and when he has the opportunity to set things aright... for some weird reason he doesnt. Or maybe it isnt so weird, because by now he's really gotten to like Frances. Really.
Well, just when you think it cant get any more confusing, Jeanette suddenly blasts out of the house, claiming the "caterer" has stolen something from her, her most prized possession. Edward (the real one, remember) protests: he hasnt done any such thing! But remember: in everyone's eyes, he's a mere servant, not one of the guests, so it seems that no matter what he says, he's still a thief. Well, now he has no choice but to confess who he really is, and, as you might expect, Frances doesnt take the news very well. And is she not only furious with Edward: she's livid with David. And when poor Gerald tries to console her, she make sit plain that she wants to be alone. So much for Gerald, who exits stage left.
Well, hopelessly infatuated David makes one last pitch at Frances. Jeanette admits that what Edward stole was her heart (aww!). The fathers, still confused, try to straighten it all out and fail miserably until Edward takes control of the situation and pretty well forces everyone's hand, including his own onto his still doubtful father. It seems a double wedding is in the air as the curtain falls.
SAILOR MAIDS is remarkable in that it's a very book-heavy show, much more so than most in this genre. It almost has to be, given how much plot and counterplot there is roaming around the stage. Generally, in these things you get a page of dialogue, then a six page musical number. SAILOR MAIDS reverses that, with pages of dialogue connected with very short songs of maybe a page and a half or two in length. Chaney has a very workable farce buried underneath his operetta, but it's covered over with so many trivial musical numbers (and they are trivial, compared to even the work by the Clarks) that the ending is a slam-bang, pile-on-the-information sprint that rams the conclusion home. There are some rather remarkable pieces of structure, particularly in how Edward manages to be "Edward" to the fathers and "the caterer" to everyone else, sometimes literally within seconds of each other, but these are exceptions. The rest is so heavy, weighted down with mechanics, that a play that should float seems instead to flounder and ultimately sink.
Musically, he's slightly more successful: the few numbers that do work have a certain music-hall sensibility to them, like "Take the Name I Offer You", for Edward and David. The ensemble pieces, such as "A Thief! A Thief!", are more light opera in tone, giving this thing a curious mix that's neither one thing nor the other.
But know who I feel sorry for the most? Not Frances: she's marrying well -- David is the son of a very successful shipbuilder, so I imagine her sudden interest isnt just based on his chiseled jawline. So's Edward: Jeanette seems the kind of girl who'd put up with just about anything from her man. Truth be told, both of the leads have a streak of cruelty in them a meter or so side: Frances simply toys with her men -- and then gets all self-righteous when it's played on her. Edward is too much of a coward to simply say who he is and what he wants and be done with it. Both treat their "inferiors" (i.e., folks like Olga) as barely a step above civilized (which is pretty ironic right there). But poor Gerald, about the only truly honourable character in the play, one whose sub-plot is treated as casually as anything, has spent the entire play waiting for an answer to his proposal, and Frances just writes him off -- and for that, he's probably lucky. After his dismissal, he's not seen again, so one can only wonder what happened to him. Hopefully his rowing crew consoled him well, because I can definitely imagine, seconds before the final curtain, him racing back onstage with an ax.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
THE GYPSY TROUBADOUR (1931), by Effa Preston and the omnipresent Don Wilson, really requires more than its share of stretch to get the concept off the ground, because it's predicated on the collision of two worlds that would never have met in the first place.
Gypsies are, of course, a staple of the operetta genre: there's probably a dozen titles with the word in it, and fully a quarter of my collection features a "gypsy dancer" as a divertissement at the very least. As usual, the gypsies, much like blacks or Jews or the Irish or anyone who's not Caucasian American, are all sketched so broadly as to be something two or three steps beyond an affectionate stereotype. But GYPSY TROUBADOUR, when you really look at it, pushes that to a conceptual extreme.
Our hero is Nikoli, son of Todoro, who's the leader of a band that calls themselves the Haaren tribe. Nikoli has been away to college, an act that required special permission for him to even think about leaving, given his place -- but now he's returned, determined to make a success of himself in the cold, hard world of poetry. His father, needless to say, doesnt greet this news with any degree of enthusiasm, but he's even less impressed when Nikoli announces his intention of marrying an "outsider" named Clare, who's the daughter of a businessman. Todoro, after all, had planned for his son to marry within the faith, as it were, to Rosita and then together the two young people would carry on the leadership of the tribe. And if that wasnt bad enough, Todoro's nephew Vario, a scheming little villian, is delighted, because now all he has to do is push his uncle a little further by setting up some small issue that will result in Nikoli getting thrown out of the tribe. Then Vario can marry Rosita himself and take over.
Now we meet Clare, and it doesnt take too long to ask what Nikoli sees in her. She's spoiled, petulant, and thoroughly annoying. Her "friends" arent much better (which suggests something about what kind of life Nikoli led while away, but we wont dwell on that). Vario manages to steal a pearl necklace from Clare and oh so nonchalantly drops it into a box of trinkets that Nikoli has brought intended for Rosita. Clare sees the necklace on Rosita's neck and goes ballistic, blaming her for the theft. Nikoli, assuming his once-girlfriend gave in to temptation, chivalrously takes the blame himself. Rosita, blinded by love for this two-timer and not wanting him to be denied his destiny as Leader of the Pack, insists she took it. Todoro, who's apparently quite the stickler for honesty, is furious and bans both Nikoli and Rosita, telling them they have to be out by midnight.
Why midnight, you ask? Well, if they had to leave now, we wouldnt have a second act, would we?
But the punishment is averted, thanks to a counterplot set off by Tom, Nikoli's "happy go lucky" college chum, and Marko, the camp fortune teller (something on those two in a minute). Now convinced that her beau will never succeed in the dog-eat-dog world of poetry, Clare gives Nikoli the heave-ho, and the poor boy turns on the rebound to ever waiting arms of Rosita. Vario's scheming is exposed, he's expelled, Clare storms off in a huff, and with much dancing and slapping of tambourines during the nuptials of Nikoli and Rosita, the curtain falls.
Now, on the surface, this is much like any other facilely-plotted operetta. You know by page 5 how it's all going to sort out, so it's not like there's any real surprises. And yet there're other things at play here that make THE GYPSY TROUBADOUR more than unusually head-wrenching. Right off the bat, it's got more than its share of sermonizing, with an ensemble number called "Dont Try to Be What You Aint":
Just do your own stuff
Dont pose as sinner or saint
It's folly to bluff
Then there's the gypsies themselves. Speaking in a sort of slightly elevated, decidedly European way, you just know that we're not talking about the folks that live around the New Jersey area; these are very much European gypsies, singing, dancing, trinket-wearing, harness-mending, East European gypsies. Not a single American (or, as Todoro dismissively describes them, "house-dwelling") influence to be seen anywhere... and yet the play is set, quite clearly, in the States. On the surface, that's probably easily dismissed as a theatrical conceit and nothing more -- and yet it also adds an interesting layer to things, almost like Nikoli's return is comparable to Puck coming back after a few years at Eton. A cunning director might push this to give it almost a Brigadoon feel, turning the gypsy camp into this magical place of fantasy and other-worldliness, so that the collision of these two worlds becomes even more pronounced.
Musically, it's also interesting to see how Preston and Wilson assign styles to their characters. Bear in mind that in most operettas you have a standard roster of waltz, allegro comic number, 4/4 ballad, and so on, and it's all pretty much interchangable, whether the play is set in Japan or a circus tent. But here, you can almost hear the cynicsm ladled on the characters by their creators: for example, Clare's little love song to Nikoli:
The skies are bluer than ever before
The blossoms are sweeter by far
The grass is greener, the breeze more soft
And brighter each distant star
... and so on and so on, in a subtle but still almost laughably mawkish catalogue of clichés that becomes more and more self-parodying. I know we're not supposed to like Clare very much, but this seems to be denying her even the least amount of character -- and we're only on the second page after her entrance. She's not bad, she's evil incarnate hiding behind a gentle smile and dyed blonde hair in her quest to marry into the presumed fortune that will come with her husband-to-be the Poet.
Then we get Tom and Marko, and what a piece of subtext these two are. According to the character descriptions, Marko is "a tall man with a large, athletic build", while Tom is smaller, fair-haired, and costumed in a suit with a "loud necktie". Throughout the play, he and Marko "conceive a great admiration for each other", so much so that by the end they're finishing each other's sentences and, in one memorable scene, actually walking arm in arm. One might guess that Nikoli's time away from the camp exposed him to slightly more than just a liberal arts education. And what seals it? Tom's final line to Marko, ostensibly spoken about Clare, but...
Moral: never be off with the old love before you are on with the new.
... which could be translated as, "Hey, I didnt get a shot at Nikoli either, so what're you doing after tambourine practice, big boy?
Saturday, December 20, 2008
THE PRINCE OF PILSEN (1902) by Frank Pixley and Gustav Luders. The only copy of the libretto that I can find is at the Library of Performing Arts in NYC, so actually talking about that will have to wait until my next trip there. The last production I can find was mounted in 1997 by the Musical Theatre Research Project, led by Elwood Anaheim (who, sadly, cant locate the abbreviated script they used for that staging). His opening remarks, quoted here from the MTRP website:
Although unknown to us today, THE PRINCE OF PILSEN was extremely popular in its initial run 95 years ago. The musical comedy opened at the Tremont Theatre in Boston in May 1902, and had a considerable run there and on the road before opening in New York on March 17, 1903, at the Broadway Theatre, where it ran for 143 performances. It later enjoyed a run of 160 performances at the Shaftesbury Theatre in London. And, for the next 20 years, the musical was often produced in revival on Broadway and throughout America.
Composer Gustav Luders was born in Germany in 1865. A conductor turned operetta composer, Luders was formally trained in Germany and came to the United States while in his twenties. Once teamed with librettist Frank Pixley, the two would eventually have a respectable musical comedy career ending with Luders’ premature death in 1913. Although their musicals may not be remembered today, they certainly were known by composers of the golden age of musical theater. Today’s audiences are sure not to miss the similarities between the students’ music of THE PRINCE OF PILSEN and Sigmund Romberg’s THE STUDENT PRINCE. (In fact, PILSEN opened in New York the same season as the U.S. production of ALT HEIDELBERG, which was later to form the basis of THE STUDENT PRINCE.) One of their earliest efforts, THE BURGOMEISTER (written in 1900) tells the tale of 17th century Peter Stuyvesant falling asleep and reawakening in the year 1900 (38 years before that same character appears in the Maxwell Anderson/Kurt Weill musical KNICKERBOCKER HOLIDAY). Although Pixley and Luders achieved success with their next musical, KING DODO (1902), THE PRINCE OF PILSEN produced on Broadway the following year was their greatest triumph. They went on to create THE SO-GUN, a MIKADO-like operetta set in Korea, and WOODLAND, a strange tale with a cast of birds, both in 1904. But nothing the pair subsequently composed approximated the fame or fortunes of PILSEN.THE PRINCE OF PILSEN is a lighthearted tale with many familiar plot twists—familiar by even 1902 standards. Much like today, the turn-of-the-century audience for popular entertainment found comfort in familiarity. The plot concerns a case of mistaken identity: Hans Wagner, an American beer manufacturer traveling Europe with his daughter Nellie (and in Nice to meet up with son Tom, a naval officer) is mistaken for the Prince of Pilsen by a hotel concierge desperate to drum up business. Pilsen, by the way, is not only a city in Czechoslovakia, but also the root of the word “pilsner,” a light beer with a strong flavor of hops. And there lies the confusion. As can only be expected, the real Prince arrives with his friends from college, and decides to make the best of the opportunity by posing as a commoner.
Produced during this country’s greatest influx of immigrants, THE PRINCE OF PILSEN is a fine example of what I like to refer to as the “Ugly American” form of musical theater. Like many comedies and popular songs of the past century, the book and lyrics playfully poke fun at the accents and manners of foreigners and new U.S. citizens. Although not politically correct by today’s standards, this “Ugly American” device allowed an audience of mixed immigrants and new citizens to laugh at each other as they tried to assimilate American customs and language.
As was the custom, the dialog in THE PRINCE OF PILSEN was largely written in dialect, and it was up to our actors to decipher the hieroglyphics provided by author Frank Pixley. Make no mistake, the accents you will hear tonight were written to sound ridiculous. Strangely enough, for a story that takes place in Nice, there are no Italians in the plot, but the French, German, and British are lambasted for their accents and manners. In contrast, the employees of an Italian hotel and students from a Heidelberg university speak English without an accent, as does a Czechoslovakian Prince who, by the way, breaks into German from time to time. But, as is generally the case, the Americans never bear the brunt of the joke. The “Ugly American” device actually backfires because the story’s “real” Americans are stock characters, bland and boring, and can not possibly compete with their flesh and blood foreign counterparts.
The original authors of THE PRINCE OF PILSEN, along with other creators of early musical theater, did very little to assure that their material would be preserved for future generations. In fact, until the 1970’s, musical theater was not viewed as a serious art form that warranted research. Of course, much of that has changed today, but 95 years ago, no one thought that we would be interested in preserving a silly little musical. So, as was the custom in early musical theater, much of the scripted action was “suggested.” The script might state “whistling business” or “business with fountain” without defining the action. Since these scripts were developed for established performers, “business” refers to a routine that was part of that performer’s stock and trade. Somewhat like trying to put into words a physical routine of the Marx Brothers, the term “business” made it easier for future performers to adapt their own trademark shtick. Over the years, in lieu of an organized system, much of this material was passed on from performer to performer.I have other scores from this period, all discovered by accident: an incomplete copy of Pixley and Luder's WOODLAND (cited above), MISS BOB WHITE (by Williard Spenser, who provided the score for THE LITTLE TYCOON, arguably one of the first truly American musical comedies, and who was considered by some to have been the Rodgers and Hammerstein of his time), THE CHINA SHOP (by Arthur Penn, whose ROSE OF THE DANUBE was the first work discussed here -- I'm hoping to get a copy of the libretto to his MAMZELLE TAPS in the near future: it looks like a fascinating little piece of WW1 theatre), THE PINK LADY (with music by the incomparable Ivan Caryll) -- all of whom were huge hits in the day and now are all but lost to us. Hopefully, someday, someone will give these another look and dust them off for another shot, even if as concert pieces. I realize that we cant save everything from our musical theatre history, but -- much like the little operettas I blog about -- there's still much to admire in these nearly forgotten works.
Friday, December 19, 2008
We start this work with a brief prologue, to give the audience some background as to the mysterious piece of jade that figures so prominently in the plot-to-be. In a "voo-doo temple somewhere in darkest Africa", we see a pair of priests guarding a large solid-jade idol. There's a temple dancer, who gets a smattering of music before a "trader" (as he's listed) forces his way in, kills the priests, kills the temple dancer, then cuts one of the ears off the idol "and holds it aloft, laughing", as the curtain lowers for a moment.
Suddenly we're transported to a graceful Southern mansion where a fox-hunting party is in full swing. The cacaphony is interrupted by the news that Mary Ann, a "daughter of the Sunny South", is returning from a trip to Manhattan. Much merriment ensues, but the question mark remains: did John, her never-stated-but-surely-must-be-her beau meet her at the docks when her boat arrived? (Okay, point of order: the house is in Virginia. Surely they had trains?) An elderly renter, Downs, makes a few aimless jokes about not being a century plant, then tells three young bucks the secret of his success with the ladies: his uncanny ability to get a divorce:
I have started forth to woo
As all the other young man do
Some maiden fair of beauty rare
To be my cooing dove
But after years of matrimony
Now I'm paying alimony
All my extra spending money
Goes to former wives
I'll wager since I've told you this
Youll never leave your single bliss
A maiden's heart is like a blushing rose
Her affections changed by every breeze that blows
Tho she swears that she loves only you
With suspicion view each promise new
That in the future she'll be true
Hope you were making notes because that song is just riddled with foreshadowing.
Okay, it seems John didnt meet Mary at the docks. Bad move. His bashfulness will certainly get him in very hot water, and he's able to make a quick exit only moments before the lady herself gets her grand entrance... and not alone. While in New York, she met the dashing Horace Ferguson, who has intentions on her, and the very French Fanchon, who serves as her new maid (much to the ire of the house "mammy" Liza). John is almost forcibly dragged back on by Colonel Waverly, his uncle, and is none too pleasantly introduced to Ferguson."He's a tin horn sport with patent leather hair," John opines, "and a hoodlum. I'll bet he's from Chicago."
Well, in the midst of all this domestic drama, Liza brings out the Lucky Jade (Somehow, she's the great-grandaughter of one of the priests killed in the temple, but how she got it from the trader is a plot point never discussed) so she can tell Mary's fortune.
Mumbo, Jumbo, come back spirits, come back hants, come back to Mammy Liza. Ooooo... ah sees trouble. Ah sees money and a paper with a red seal. Ah sees a girl, an' ah hears guns, an' ah sees a man fall, then ah sees mo' money, a lot mo' money...
... which of course gets Ferguson's attention immediately (Oops, did we just give away something?). He makes a none-too-discrete inquiry about the piece of jade and offers to buy it "as a souvenir", but Downs discovers that that piece of jade is worth a thousand pounds to the British Museum.
Meanwhile, Mary Ann has ripped John a new one for not meeting her as promised. He responds by telling her, in a rush, that Ferguson is a bounder, not worthy of touching her hand. Nevertheless, she finds herself curiously attracted to a man who was, only seconds ago, "so brutal". But she's only momentarily distracted by that because now, if life werent so awful enough, the sheriff has shown up with a notice of foreclosure (Why, you ask? It's complicated), but the Colonel convinces him to wait on serving it until after the party they're having that evening. And if that werent enough, the Lucky Jade has been stolen! And you know what that means! Just all sorts of horrible things!
Still, a party's a party, so when the curtain rises on Act Two, everyone is having a swell time at this masquerade party Mary Ann is throwing to celebrate her own return home. Colonel Waverly accuses Downs of having stolen the jade, and when Ferguson intercedes, the Sheriff notices something "familiar" about him. Well, it seems Downs *has* stolen it, but at Ferguson's insistence -- and yet Downs, who knows about the reward money, has no intention of giving it to him. Still, Ferguson does manage to get it (through a singularly bizarre party game) and is almost ready to bolt when John accuses him of taking it (much to Mary Ann's ire at his insulting her "guest"). John decides to settle this in true Southern fashion: a duel.
Ah, but it gets even murkier: Ferguson has been working this so he and Fanchon can run off together (the cad!). John finds Ferguson and challenges him; Ferguson's insistent reply is that he "never miss(es)". And Mary Ann, the bubblehead, has listened to the entire exchange and never caught on.
Well, no one said operetta heroines were especially bright.
A storm hits, and everyone heads for their cars to drive home. Waiting for the party to disperse, John and Ferguson eye each other (with additional reminders that Horace never misses). John leaves to make final arrangements for their encounter, and Ferguson suddenly tries to bolt, confessing to the Sheriff that he's never shot a gun before. (The Sheriff doesnt seem especially concerned.)
John finds Mary Ann and sings her a little farewell. And Mary Ann finally realizes she's in love with him too.
And now he's going to get killed. Supposedly. Although we know he wont.
Well, turns out the bridge has been washed out, so everyone in the party comes back. Just as the duel is to take place, Downs proves Ferguson stole the jade -- and naturally Ferguson is happy to have the law take him away so he doesnt get shot. But wait! It turns out that John isnt just the Colonel's nephew: he's also the heir to the Frazier millions, more than enough to save the plantation from foreclosure. Somehow in all this, the bridge has been rebuilt, because the party all reprise their song about leaving, only moments before we make our escape as well.
If anything saves this piece, it's -- as usual -- the music. The script just reels from one plot point to another, utilizing every possible cliché... which I guess can be overlooked, since it is from 1929 and was no doubt inspired by the early film musicals. Aside from one truly funny scene between Fanchon and Mammy (in which the former rattles away in très perfect French while the latter is giving her what-for in her best mock-Southern-black), everything else just seems piled on, with every stock character you can imagine and with the chorus almost shoved on and off not so much by obligation of plot as expedience to give the heroine time and space to sing another solo. This becomes almost glaringly obvious during the final scenes, in which they're treated much like a bunch of chess pawns sprawled across the board.
The score, on the other hand, is a fun little romp, with fox trots and two rather charming ballads and the obligatory waltz. There's also a broadly sketched hint of Gilbert and Sullivan ("Maidens Yield", which almost feels written for, and jettisoned from, Iolanthe) and a very tricky little trio for our love triangle ("Three's a Crowd", which must have driven music directors crazy in rehearsal because of its convoluted structure).
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
It's time for the Barton College annual school operetta, which for years has been written by the head of the drama department. But this year's production is threatened when the dean of theatre comes down with a severe case of the measles. But calamity is averted when Anastasius Longword, head of the English department, and Samanthia Highnote, head of the music department, offer to collaborate. He may be an Elizabethan scholar and she may know no music more contemporary than Beethoven, but these two are determined to help Barton in its hour of need.
But, of course, there's more to their collaboration than just writing some operetta -- they met years ago in Venice... many years ago, to be frank. Since that time, they've had this careful distance between themselves, nothing more (or so they claim) than a "mutual admiration". Still, both are too frightened to say anything more and put their obvious adoration for each other into their work.
Problem is: it's terrible. The plot is blatantly ripped off from Romeo and Juliet, and Longword thinks that Samanthia will think him unimaginative and pedantic if he gives her this to score. But one of his students, John Warren, offers to send it to a friend of his in New York who works in musical theatre and can quite possibly modernize it for performance. At the same time, Samanthia fears she's out of her depth at writing this kind of music... until one of her students, Mary Allen, offers to... yep, send it to her friend in New York, who'll give the score a little snap and jazz.
Now, both professors are nervous as cats in that proverbial roomful of rocking chairs, as neither has a clue what the other has done. John and Mary assure them (separately, of course) that everything's going fine, and the work will arrive in time for the review by the board of trustees and faculty. It does, at literally the last minute. The school president asks Longword and Highnote to read the script, and they do their best to pretend that they know it by heart... even though neither has laid eyes on it before now. The students help out by offering to provide a singing chorus. And so we begin...
It takes all of a few minutes to figure out that Longword and Highnote had nothing to do with the "hotsy-totsy" opening number. While the students are elated to have something contemporary to perform, the president is more than a little suspicious. Well, wouldnt you know it -- just as Longword and Highnote are about to get it handed to them, John and Mary step forward and admit that they wrote it all... because, well, after all, their professors were just too classically minded to come down to the level of something like this.
Naturally, the president and trustees agree to let the show go on. John and Mary decide to extend their partnership into something more than just professional. And Samanthia gets to hear the words she's been waiting to hear since 1894. And with that, the curtain falls.
Much of the charm in WORDS AND MUSIC is swamped by an almost obsessive need on the part of the authors to sound "with it": there's no less than three "train" cheers and a school cheer that, because of the amount of patter in it, is positively murky. And yet, for something written in the 1940s, this -- like MOON MAIDEN, mentioned before -- sounds a bit older: a early 30s-era work, save for a few of the major production numbers, which suggests that Horswell and Lee had been tinkering with this for a while, and Wilson stepped in to make it performable.
Still, despite that, WORDS AND MUSIC has a sweetness to it, provided in large part by the long-thwarted romance between Samanthia and Anastasius. Both now in their 60s, their characters arent so much played for broad comedy as they are for a rather sympathetic look at love not quite long past. Longword, of course, is given his share of bad comic lines about growing old, all in a dodderingly ornate suggestion of academia gone to seed. His description of the proposed plot:
To begin with, the heroine Rosamund, is the Belle of the Nineties, and the hero Archibald jas just given her a ring. But her father, Sir Marmaduke Dillingwater, objects. Now Archibald is quite poor and Sir Marmaduke objects because he thinks he'll have to support Archibald. The lovers plan to foil Sir Marmaduke by eloping in the night. On the appointed night, Archibald climbs a rope which Rosamund has hung from an upstairs window. I've injected a bit of humourous incident right here. It seems that Rosamund in fastening the rope did it by merely closing the window down on it, and when Archibald reaches the top and taps on the window, Rosamund in a moment of forgetfulness opens it. The inevitable happens and her lover tumbles to the ground, making a considerable amount of noise in so doing. In the second act another elopement ruse is foiled, but in the third and last act Sir Marmaduke gives his consent so the elopement is unnecessary and they marry. Quite the surprise ending, dont you think?
But the authors are careful not to do the same to Samanthia -- instead, she comes across as a woman who knows she's loved far too long and not terribly well. You almost wish she had a song to express it, but she doesnt -- and maybe that's okay.
WORDS AND MUSIC also has five -- count 'em, five -- big dance production numbers, including something inexplicably called "Dance of Tomorrow", to be performed by "Eccentric Dancers". Another is a dance for a chorus of bakers ("Cream puffs or cookies, Jelly rolls or cakes/You're my sweet potato, For you my heart bakes."). For the rest, one is one of the train dances mentioned above, while the other two are given to the expected blackface comic relief - a "hoodoo dance" and a broom dance, to be performed by the janitors at the top of the second act instead of the usual entr'acte. WORDS AND MUSIC is actually crammed full of dance: every ensemble number has opportunities for everything from the "eccentric" to the traditional (and inevitable) waltz. The number performed for the audition of the new school operetta suggests a whole lot of tap in the background as the boys sing:
Ladies, listen, get an earful
News we have and not so cheerful
Of your futures we are fearful
You cant have your cake and eat it too
One thing, certain that is this thing
Just be sure that you're not missing
When you total up your kissing
Here's advice we freely give to you
Dont save your kisses
Till you're a missus
Cause a miss is as good as a mile
That any mister
Always misses a mess's sweet smile
Now dont be caught waitin'
No more hesitatin'
Just start in your datin' right now
So dont save your kisses
Till you're a missus
Cause a miss is as good as a mile
Taken for what it's worth, WORDS AND MUSIC is actually fun. My only wish is that we had a duet in it somewhere for Longword and Highnote, perhaps something they wrote together as intended for the show they didnt write at all. It could have been a charming moment of "old style" to contrast to the brassiness of the "modern". Like so many others of the genre, it would need expansion: the dance numbers could use more music, certainly. But as it stands right now, it's like looking back to another time that, in turn, looks back yet again.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
We're on the grounds of a small-time traveling circus, owned by the stalwart (and, to be frank, sometimes stupid) Toby Dunn. He's secretly engaged to Sally Squeezem, the daughter of the town banker, who holds a mortgage on the circus. When the banker finds out about the engagement, he disowns his daughter and threatens Dunn with foreclosure.
At the same time, Widow Marybelle Jaybird (where did Estelle get these names?) and her busy-body sister Eliza Slimmer, spend most of the play running after Marybelle's son Willie, who takes a ride in the circus' balloon, then leads everyone on a mad chase through the woods, and finally climbs down the chimney of... well, you'll see.
Toby and Sally plot to have the banker abducted and sent to Marybelle's house (because she has this thing for him: Lord knows why) before he can serve the foreclosure. They're assisted in this by two roustabouts, Inky (who's "coloured") and Dinky (who's Irish), but the plan goes awry and Inky is packaged up for the widow instead.
Ah, but now we have a mystery, because when the banker goes home, he finds the mortgage papers missing. He suspects Sally, but the widow suggests Inky, who's arrested and taken to jail (with no evidence, but this is 1925 we're talking about, I guess). But we find out that Willie (remember him?) climbed down the banker's chimney and used the mortgage papers to wrap up some fruit he stole. Sally and Toby are forgiven. Inky is freed from jail. Marybelle gets her banker. And the curtain falls.
Truly, I'm amazed that Estelle Merrymon Clark got as much work as she did. It had to have been because she and her husband were a package deal, and Palmer was such a good composer that the publishers felt they could tolerate Estelle's inanity. This one is no exception: the overture begins with a classic circus march and glides almost effortlessly from one number to another, but the opening chorus is almost painful in its search for rhymes:
This is the day of days for us
This happy, sunny day in June
All the pretty girls you see about
Have waited since the hour of noon
We have money too, Mister Ticket Man
Money we have saved all year
All tied up in our little kerchief
I suppose a dollar near
See, now the sun shines in the sky
We have left our clover field
Rolling hills and meadows too
Happy with the joy they yield
... and so on and so on. I mean, there are lyrics in this art form that can be pretty awful, but Estelle truly takes it to a new low. Yet her script rises only marginally above them: exposition laid on with a shovel on the first two pages of dialogue, adorned with gaglines such as:
WIDOW. (speaking about her husband) But he was happy most of the time. His picture hangs on the wall where I can see it, and he's always smiling.
ELIZA. Hmmph! So glad he's dead.
(Insert rimshot here, I suppose.)
Ah, but this brings us to our first Donizetti moment. As the widow and Eliza are being catty with each other in front of the banker, Willie has run off and hidden in the balloon. Drama ensues:
CHORUS. See the balloon is in the sky
Now tis gliding swiftly by
See its banners dip and rise
Like a bird it proudly flies
Like a deer it seems to rest
On the mountains' snowy crest
Now it drops beneath their height
Fading, fading from our sight
WIDOW (breathlessly, to an agitato) Where is little Willie?
Oh where is my child?
ELIZA. With the balloon or the lions wild.
WIDOW. Oh little Willie, he's with that balloon.
BANKER. Never fear, Madam, we will find him soon.
WIDOW. Little Willie's in the sky
He'll be an angel bye and bye
Wonder if he'll learn to fly
Up in the sky?
Oh my! Oh my!
CHORUS. Little Willie's in the sky
He'll be an angel bye and bye
Wonder if he'll learn to fly
Up in the sky?
Oh my! Oh my!
Yikes. As for minor characters, you might have guessed that the two roustabouts are played for comic relief. Just as we saw with THE PENNANT, in which a Jew gets ridiculed, now's our time for a little Irish fun, although it's not as merciless as drawing as we've seen handed to blacks throughout this series. The dialogue for Dinky is written for laughs, although he gets a (relatively) lovely tenor song in Act Two (again, thanks more to Palmer than Estelle). But poor Inky. All he wants to do is leave the circus and his (unseen) harridan of a wife:
Oh dis am no place fo' a chile lak me
So ah's gwine right back to Afrikee
Wha' my ancestors libed so lovin' and free
An' dey's al buried by a bamboo tree
Ah'll get me a spear an' some fedders too
An ah knows ah'll surprise 'em, deed ah do.
Don ah'll get me a gal wid a ring in her nose
An' she'll danceroun' on her bare little toes
Blubbidy Blue! Jiggledy Gee!
Shinny, shinny up a coconut tree
An' we'll ance to the tune ob de jujube
When ah gets back to Afrikee
Second verse and chorus adds a dancing troop "dressed as Hottentots". But we're not done yet: RINGS IN THE SAWDUST is a veritable embarrassment of riches. Consider Eliza's solo turn in Act Two:
A busy body I cant abide
I always want to run and hide
When Missis Jones goes by
When Missis Jones goes by
She borrows everything they eat
From buttermilk to sausage meat
Sometimes I nearly die
Sometimes I nearly die
... continuing relentlessly for three more verses and an extended chorus, propped up once more by a score that serves such lyrics far more than they deserve, which seems to be the case of the entire piece, unfortunately. Add to that a script outline that doesnt come anywhere near exploring the potential of the storyline: the banker's botched "abduction", so supposedly important to the plot, takes a mere couple of pages, as if to say "Well, we got that plot point out of the way, huh?" and features a sextet musical number that screams for development and gets none. Cap it off with a resolution that you saw coming on page 3, and all in all, it's like a ticket to a side show booth: lots of promise outside the tent, laughably nothing inside.
Friday, November 14, 2008
I stay awake at night pondering such questions, I assure you. Thank goodness the Clarks were here to answer it. I just wish they could have done so in a slightly less complicated way. This one has more subplots and counterplots and Lord only knows what all else to fill a dozen operettas, but the Clarks have managed - somehow - to fit them all into one almost-tidy little script.
So... to graze through the story -- Spenser Goodnow, student and only son of the industrialist Hiram Goodnow, has fallen into evil ways. How evil, you wonder? Drugs, perhaps? (It is, after all, the 1920s, so we're not too far from "Reefer Madness".) Alcohol? Gun running? Nope, not at all, dear reader. He owes money... and apparently not much, except that, again, this is the world of the High School Operetta, where everything is very, very good or very, very bad. His owing money, even if just a little, is very, very bad. Poor boy. So he plans on throwing one last blowout for his friends and then disappearing someplace until the heat is off...
... and then he meets Carrie. Sweet, old-fashioned Carrie, who's madly in love with Spenser but doesnt dare tell him because after all he's rich and she's poor and it would never work out. Still, the girl's smitten. So's he, but see, that's the thing: he cant tell her; she cant tell him.
Ah well, no one ever said operetta leads were especially bright.
Okay, so Dad finds out that Spenser owes a little coin. Once he calms down, he arranges, through Madam Lousie the Beauty Doctor (dont ask, I have no idea), who apparently works for Hiram as a snitch on Spenser, to pay off the creditors by giving it to one of Spenser's schoolmates, Porky, who's rumoured to be the son of the governor because he always has a lot of free cash on him. One of Spenser's other schoolmates, Tommy, an inordinately serious student who avoids even looking at girls if it's going to interrupt his studies, tells Spense that Porky is taking care of everything, and Spenser is happy that someone else is there to clean up his mess... until Porky blabs everything and Spenser now thinks everyone is out to get him and it's all just terrible. Now he wont accept the loan -- which has put Carrie in an awkward position, because she's told Spenser's creditors that he's acknowledging his debts and paying them. Her solution? She'll pay the bill, even though it takes every penny she has. She then turns around and tells Spenser to be a man for once in his life and get a job so he can pay her back.
Miraculously, Spenser picks up the gauntlet and redeems himself... entirely... within three lines of dialogue and an intermission. No more easy times for this boy, nossir: he's opening an auto repair shop, which is, of course, such a huge hit that he's able to repay Carrie and keep his grades up so he can attend commencement. But he hasnt been exactly kind about it because he thinks she was part of the plot (even though she wasnt), and the poor girl becomes so distraught that she decides to leave town, maybe find some other boy that needs a girl to pay off his ill-gotten debts. But Madam Louise (remember her?) stops her at the train station and confesses that she is Spenser's mother (Bet you never saw that one coming!) as well as Carrie's aunt (via a step-sister, so there's none of that icky incest problem). Governor Thomson shows up and reveals that Tommy is his son and that his boy has earned the ten grand promised him if he kept his grades up. Spenser gets Carrie. Tommy gets the "spitfire" Bobby (Yes, of course Bobby is a girl -- it's 1925, remember?). Porky gets... well, nothing, I guess. A warm, friendly hug from the Governor -- uh-oh....
And the curtain lurches to the floor.
I'll give you a few moments to catch your breath.
Okay, the songs in this epic. Spenser certainly shows his colours with his opening number:
Dainty little girls,
Like a string of pearls,
Scintillating gay and sweet,
Naughty imps I see,
In your merry dancing feet.
Mothers, keep your daughters far away from this boy. Fathers, keep your sons away from Porky:
China is the place I'm going
Where they wear their garments flowing
Eat chop suey, rice, and bouillon,
Drink tea they call the Oolong
But to me food shouldnt matter
Gee, it only makes me fatter
Now I'm just a perfect measure
For a China girl to treasure
Chinky, chinky China girl
Pompadou without a curl
Rosebud lips, dont we look sweet
Pretty little dancing feet
Sip our tea or flirt or fan
Smiling at you 'Melican man
We dont dance in twists or whirls
We are only China girls.
Dont you wish, Porky honey. But you can understand his need for such a fantasy world when you see what he has to deal with in real life. See, poor Porky is pretty much the school's escape hatch: always there to lend the money when they need it, but do they respond with thanks? Nope. As Spenser sings:
When I go walking down the street
With Porky as my ally
The people will declare
"There goes the millionaire"
They'll say my style is hard to beat
And though Porky's clothes are rather neat
They'll say he is my valet
They'll say he is my valet
And Porky'll take me for a spin
In a car not made of bumps and tin
Oh, I'm not telling what I'll do
When Porky pays my IOU
Is there something about that song that seems a little... disconcerting? Even more so when it's followed by a four-part hymn to money and how it can buy you all the right friends? This play, like BETTY LOU, really makes you wonder what the authors were thinking when they put it together, because everyone's almost obsessed with making a quick buck when they're not ripping off a friend. Tommy seems the noblest of our cast of academics-in-training, but even then you have to wonder where his father came up with ten grand as a graduation present, like perhaps he was raiding the public coffers a bit? In CARRIE COMES TO COLLEGE THE SEQUEL, do we find out that the Governor has been put in jail for theft? Does Porky exact a cruel revenge for all the abuse he suffered from his classmates? Does Bobby ever reveal that she is actually a he? Does Spenser's auto body shop steal from its customers as efficiently and thoroughly as Spenser ripped off his friends?? Does Carrie ever wear a dress that isnt gingham?
Maybe the Clarks didnt answer the questions at all. I'm gonna be awake for hours.
Monday, November 3, 2008
OH DOCTOR (1962) comes from the fevered brain of Walt Marsh, who provides book, music, and lyrics for this epic saga about a hospital producing a fund-raising show. The quasi-soap-opera plot (the head of nursing thinks she might be in love with a nightclub owner, but her intentions are thwarted by a less-than-pure coworker who has other plans for him) is just a springboard to fill out the time devoted to the "show-within-a-show" in the second act, where we see not only vaudeville-style numbers but "slices of real hospital life": the ambulance bringing in the drunken driver, the husbands waiting anxiously outside the delivery room. Mr. Marsh came up with this project after spending twelve years on the board at a hospital in Belleville, Illinois, and he apparently devoted considerable time to it. The book has not only the script but the more-or-less complete music score and a long introduction, in which Marsh tells us he's released the rights to any hospital that takes it on for fundraising purposes. Apparently, from what I can discover, no one took him up on his offer. I looked at the cover and assumed this was a Charles Ludlam-style spoof, something like one would have seen off-Broadway in the 1960s/1970s. No such luck.
Okay, let's get the story out of the way. As noted, it's about a nurse named Jane who, to supplement her apparently meager salary, owns a flower shop -- not one of those overpriced things you see in the hospital lobby; no, this is a sad little neighbourhood place that Jane has taken over because "people are like flowers: they look and shine their best when the have heaps of tender, loving care," after which she sings (in C -- everything's written in the key of C):
All through life's story,
Its pain and its glory
Are bringing life's lessons to you.
For kindness and sweet understanding
Make all the world seem bright and new.
Tender, loving care
Bring back the bloom to the roses,
Smiles to the ones you love dear,
Comfort and blessing cheer.
... and so on and so on. This happy little moment is just spoiled by the entrance of Pat, the Evil Scrub Nurse, who doesnt like that Jane has been palling around with Bill, the rich nightclub owner. Jane insists that it's all innocent, that she was at his apartment trying to get him to donate fifty grand to the hospital, but Pat's not buying it, especially when Bill comes in and makes his intentions towards Jane *very* clear.
Oh, it's looking hot and spicy already, right? Maybe even borderline tawdry. Okay, at the very least, tacky.
Well, now we're in the hospital administrator's office, and the current fund raising... well, it's not going well. Jane is concerned, yet Dr. Mason is optimistic in an FDR-dealing-with-the-Depression kind of way. Why, if folks just knuckled down and worked, gosh darn it, they could raise more money than they could ever possibly need! Then they sing about it, and you can just see there's more than just some professional relationship happening here. Poor Jane, having to choose between a grabby, hands-on nightclub owner with fifty grand and a resolute, moral, no-doubt-penniless-but-you-could shave-butter-with-that-chin hospital administrator who, as far as we can tell, doesnt have a first name. What's a girl to do?
This tortured tale is then set off to the side as we learn that the human body is worth, in 1962 dollars, about ninety-eight cents (in a song, of course). We watch in growing incomprehension as the scene shifts between the waiting room and the maternity ward, for no other reason than the fact that the author wants to show what people in hospitals do all day, I suppose. Then things get... okay, strange. The hospital board is having a meeting about the fund raising, and in the middle of it, one of the doctors gives a mini-lecture on proper technique for Kageling. What is Kageling, you ask? It's exercising a series of muscles that enhance sexual endurance. Very popular in the 70s, by the way. What does it have to do with fund raising, you ask? Not a thing.
Well, the fund raising show has started at the nightclub (Oh, did I mention that Bill decided to put his club at the hospital's disposal for that, in the hopes that he might get Jane in bed? I didnt? Pity.), and our first view is a production number called "Anatomy", something that, according to Mr. Walsh, "looks better on girls than it does on boys". I'm not suggesting Walsh is sexist... okay, yes, I am, because, according to the stage directions:
At conclusion of dance, the wife, full of life and vigor... sees her spouse bent, decrepit, with cane. The wife sings, condescendingly, "Anatomy looks better on girls than it does on boys."
This is followed by the scene in the ER, with the mini-morality play involving the drunken driver on her (Note, please: a woman driver; is anyone surprised?) near-deathbed, a "comic" scene involving Nicotine Anonymous, and a song a husband sings as he tries to get his various body parts to sleep... until his wife comes in wearing a sexy negligee, and then it's "Everybody Wake Up!" It wraps up with an absolutely bewildering number called "White Shotgun", which (I think) is supposed to be a serious comment about pre-marital pregnancy. It gets special blacklight effects, for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
But backstage, the love trapezoid continues, with Pat storming into Jane's dressing room (She has one, even though she doesnt perform -- go figure) and furiously ripping Jane's robe off, leaving her in bra and panties before a blackout. How not-very-nice of her!
Ah, but Pat's not finished, not by a long shot. She's also hired a couple of thugs to make it look like Jane stole the proceeds -- only to be double-crossed when the thugs steal the cash and beat her upside the head so hard she has to... here it comes... go to the hospital! Even though the thieves are caught, Jane feels just terrible about what happened to Pat and devotes her off-hours to sitting in Pat's room, holding her hand until she awakes from her coma.
Dont laugh; this is serious stuff, okay? I mean, the woman is in a coma.
Sure, the author is obsessed with women, in a shallow, hyper-sexualized kind of way that would seem more befitting a sixteen year old boy than the mature man in the photo on the back cover. He seems to take every possible opportunity to show the poor ladies in the cast in as few clothes as possible, including a shower scene for Pat. Looking at the relentlessly repetitive motifs of sex and women -- and taking into consideration that rather astounding cover photo of what easily could be a blow-up sex doll -- it makes you wonder if Marsh wrote this just so he could have a bunch of half-naked women onstage, all under his masterful command...
Well, it all sorts out happily: post-coma Pat gets Bill, Jane gets Dr. Mason (talk about your bouncing board relationships!), and we end with yet another rousing chorus of "Anatomy" before the curtain mercifully falls and the audience rushes out to burn down the first hospital they encounter.
Okay, some addenda. The book I have was autographed by the author and presented to none less than Morton DaCosta. DaCosta was a highly respected director and author whose work was seen both on Broadway and in Hollywood, and I suspect Marsh sent it to him in the hopes of seeing it on the Great White Way. How something from DaCosta's library wound up in a flea market in Burlington, NC, is one of those curious mysteries we shall perhaps never solve.
As for the work itself, there are only two Google references. One's an antiquarian book store that's selling this puppy for forty dollars, and I wish them luck in actually getting it. The other is, surprisingly enough, that OH DOCTOR was part of Ayn Rand's personal library, according to papers from her estate.
Now, think about that for a moment. The founder of Objectivism had this somewhat sleazy little musical in her personal library. Was it a gift from a devoted fan? Was Marsh her personal physician? (Not likely: they didnt live in the same town.) Did she have a "thing" for "playing doctor"? Should we entertain the vision of Ayn Rand in a fetching little "hello nurse" outfit? Or, more interestingly, was Rand thinking of making Atlas Shrugged into a big Broadway spectacular and was sourcing possible composers and lyricists, someone who could set "Who is John Galt?" in just the right key of C? The mind truly reels at the possibilities.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
I've been kicking around the idea of a book -- collecting these up and publishing them with an in-bound CD of the music to some of the shows. Being one who prefers to ask permission instead of forgiveness (which, in the legal world, can be real expensive), I started asking around to see if I could find out who owns what and how much of this stuff is still "owned".
One company (which shall remain nameless) turned my request over to the legal department of the company that handles all their distribution and perfomance rights, and the letter I received from this individual (who shall also remain nameless) was.. well, sad on one hand and astounding on the other. Bear in mind that most of these havent been performed for perhaps six or seven decades... but the way this lawyer framed it, he was protecting Gollum's precious, in terms so hardlined and sharp that I decided, hey, there's plenty of other stuff out there to work with. No need to fool with this twit.
So I got the government's online copyright research page... and then the true wonder of how flat-out twisted our copyright laws have become hit me in the face with a large frying pan.
Let's see -- you cant research anything published prior to 1969. For that, you have to contact the Copyright Office which, for a fee, will research it for you... with no guarantee that the information they have will be correct. Or, alternatively, you can travel to DC and go through their card catalogue, but -- again -- there's no reassurance that what you find will be the latest information. Something could have had it copyright renewed, and the card catalogue might not have it indicated as such.
So here I have a situation where several of these publishers dont even exist anymore... or else they were bought out by a larger firm, with no idea of whether or not the purchaser took their entire catalogue or just parts of it, leaving the rest fallow. In some cases, from what I've found, even the still-existing publishers dont know if their materials are still protected or not.
Folks, we're talking about stuff that's no longer performed and hasnt been for well over sixty years. These little things are just collecting dust in an archive somewhere, and trying to get information about them is next to impossible. Actually, no, it's on the other side of impossible: I have a score for an operetta written in 1921, and the Library of Congress wont release a copy of the libretto without authorization from the copyright holder... except that the company no longer exists, the creators are all dead, and the work hasnt been performed since 1922. So what does one do in that case?
For the bulk of the works discussed here, written in the 1930s, the situation becomes even more absurd. Pre-1937, the copyright would have fallen in one of seven categories -- or possibly two, since one would be for music, the other for a "dramatic work". Renewal of the copyright would depend on a half dozen different factors. Post-1937, it becomes even more chaotic.
Thank you, Mr. Disney. Much appreciated, sir. I hope you choke on your little mouse.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
The sudden death of Colonel Blair has left the Ride 'Em Hard dude ranch temporarily without an owner, and, despite the colonel's adopted son Larry Benson's claims that the colonel had a will, the ranch manager Jack Guldy doubts it. Enter the colonel's only living blood family, his niece Lettie, who's arrived because, if there's no will, she inherits it by being next of kin. Larry figures that Jack could profit if no will is found by buying the ranch cheap from Lettie, but Jack counters by saying that the colonel wanted Lettie to visit, at which point he'd marry her off to Larry.
Needless to say, that doesnt go over well with either Lettie or Larry (although, face it, you already know what's going to happen, right?).
Well, turns out Jack is sorta-kinda right because, unknownst to anyone, Cappy, the corral boss, has found the will, which does indeed state that Larry and Lettie inherit the whole thing *if* they fall in love and marry without any undue influence. Naturally, after a few minor complications, they do. Conveniently in the end, Jack is exposed as an escaped convict and returned to jail, followed by lots of singing and dancing and firing guns in the air. Curtain.
Okay, it's not quite as straight-forward as that. There's a whole roster of minor characters, like Tom, Larry's best friend, who impersonates an ex-sheriff named Arizona Tom (for no real reason, actually). He regales the "dudes and dudines" with wild stories of his various arrests over the many, many decades, and they just keep getting wilder and wilder. We also have Aunt Lavinia, who might be from the East but has embraced, as fully as possible, the Wild West lifestyle, as well as a supporting cast of Mexicans and Indians, all portrayed with shockingly little stereotyping -- in fact there's a gorgeous, four-part chorale about Mexico's cultural attachment to the land. Pity that the rest of the show didnt rise to that particular moment.
And what *is* sad, despite the potential here, is the quality of the lyrics, which borders ever so precariously on the golly-gosh-gee, downright awful. The opening chorus propels us atmospherically with:
This is a dude, dude, dude ranch
In the wild and wooly West
This is a dude, dude, dude ranch
And Arizona's best
This is a dude, dude, dude ranch
So, come on, men and gals
We shore are happy, happy
To be your cowboy pals
Ride 'em hard, cowboy
Ride 'em hard, cowboy
If you are out for play
You'll find us always gay
Welcome to our good ol ranch.
Aside from the fact that it doesnt scan very well (which results in music that's floundering around trying to make the stop-and-start lines work), I just cannot see *anyone* today getting through that with a straight face, sorry. What with the always gay cowboys riding 'em hard... well, sorry, but no, time has not been nice. But lest you think this is some innuendo-filled work, trust me that there are times when there's no innuendo about it, nossir. Consider, after Lettie has been told she's been brought out here to be married off. She goes into just fearfully high dudgeon, exclaiming:
How can you say that? A man with the cheapness to invite me out here, in order to make false love, for the sake of a will nobody can find!
She goes on and on about the whole "making love" thing quite a lot, which starts to suggest something not quite prim about Miss Lettie... but I suppose that's a discussion for another time. At any rate...
It's interesting looking at this and seeing so many echoes of OKLAHOMA: the willful and obstinate couple that wind up together, the villanous ranch foreman, the secondary romantic interest with its own comic obstacles to true love, and the late-middle-aged lady who acts more like a man than most of the men. There's also a big party scene at the top of Act Two that has a production number about the Wild West lifestyle. Obviously, things arent as fully developed as Rodgers and Hammerstein might have written, but the parallels are glaring. Were this and OKLAHOMA released today, I'm sure litigation would be flying around like crazy.
There's not much out there about Brown, save that he wrote a few other operettas, one with Cadman called HOLLYWOOD EXTRA. For himself, Cadman wrote "From the Land of Sky Blue Water" (yes, the song made famous by a beer commercial in the 50s and 60s). He studied native American music with the Omaha and Winnebago tribes in Nebraska and recorded several cylinders of indigenous music for the Smithsonian. He also founded the Hollywood Bowl Orchestra and was a principal soloist with them for many years, during which he also composed several movie soundtracks -- his work was considered at one point second only to Tiomkin. Given that he died in 1946, it's very possible MEET ARIZONA was his last work.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
I found the listing on eBay and thought, "Hmm, how cool. It's a stage version of an old movie musical." Well, no. Not at all. First off, it's a Vitaphone picture from Warner Brothers, one of three that Hammerstein and Romberg wrote together. Even though it's listed as a property now owned by Fox, no copies are known to exist.
But here's the deal: it's a screenplay coupled with the full score -- musical numbers, dance sequences, underscoring, the whole shot: a veritable cookbook for making your own movie, should you choose. It dictates pan shots and close ups and every fade in and every fade out. This wasnt something done for inhouse use at Warners: it was a commercially-available publication, which sold for the then-outrageous price of six dollars. I've never seen anything like this before. An acquaintance of mine runs a blog called Vitaphone Varieties (which can be read at http://vitaphone.blogspot.com/). He's seen three or four copies of this at various libraries in Brooklyn, and he too is just as puzzled by its publication as I am.
So what's this mystery piece about? Migrant farm workers -- and not the ones you think of today. Remember: this is 1931, when kids from college would spend the summer picking apples to make a few bucks and folks caught flat-footed by the Depression would drive from one farm to another to eke out a meager living. So our story revolves around two couples: Tommy and Molly and Gus and Gertie. The latter are down-to-earth folk, the kind that you know will get married and raise a bucketload of kids and be happy about it all despite everything. Tommy dreams of a life on the open road with his girl, but things change when Molly is offered the opportunity to go to New York to become an opera singer. Tommy is all noble about it, but you know inside that he feels like a whipped dog, because Molly just happens to be leaving on what he had hoped would be their wedding day. Nevertheless, he sends her on with his best wishes, even as the ensemble is watching Gus and Gertie getting married instead.
After a brief scene with a singing teacher in Rome, suddenly we're in the Metropolitan Opera, where Molly is making her debut as the title character in "Antonia", which, from what I can tell, is a riff on Norma: medieval England, lots of nobility getting into sword fights. Tommy has come to see her perform and winds up at the party afterwards, thrown by the mother-and-son team that took her to New York. The son, Jerry, is obviously smitten with her, for all the good it does him: this woman is now obsessed with her career. But she still remembers what a good voice her boyfriend had, so she convinces Tommy to sing a little something for this crowd of Fifth Avenue swells. Needless to say, it doesnt go well: Tommy might have been the Troubador of the Orchards, but in the big city, he's just another American Idol wannabe. Awkwardness ensues. He goes back to the orchards. She stays in New York.
Two years pass, and now she's making a concert stop in San Francisco. All of society is abuzz about her upcoming marriage to Jerry. Without telling anyone in her entourage, she heads out to the orchards for old times' sake and re-connects with Gertie and Gus, who now have three kids and are deliriously happy. Jerry finds her in the orchard and says, "Look, I know this place means a lot, so why dont we get married here? Right now?" Without bothering to ask if she'd like to do it, he dashes off to find a justice of the peace, while she reminisces about her carefree life as an apple picker -- and, of course, Tommy.
Well, guess who she runs into and who's been pining for her for two solid years and who's willing to pick things up where they left off way back when. For her part, she's more than willing to do so as well, and they head off for parts unknown in his truck as her fiancé and her manager are told by the farm doctor that she's lost her voice and will never sing again... except for maybe a lullaby. We see Tommy happily singing to his girl as she drives the truck into the sunset. Fade out.
A few facts about the film itself: it starred Margaret Schilling and Paul Gregory. Charles Winniger was the kindly old doctor that allows them to make their escape, and John Rutherford played the rich kid that wanted to marry her. I'm not that much into movies, so I cant tell you about the rest of the cast. The film was directed by Alan Crosland, who directed over sixty films, including the original Jazz Singer. Romberg and Hammerstein also worked together on New Moon and Red Shadow, two bodice-ripping historical operettas. From there, the two went their separate ways, with Hammerstein providing the screenplay to the you-have-to-see-it-to-believe-it Golden Dawn and Romberg a film version of Puccini's Girl of the Golden West. Both men realized that Hollywood was an intruiging idea and little more, and both left to return to work for the stage, with Hammerstein of course becoming half of Rodgers and Hammerstein.
It's not that CHILDREN OF DREAMS is a bad movie (well, as much as you tell from reading the screenplay, of course) but an eminently predictable one. Granted, since it was made in 1931, moviegoers probably still sat on the edge of their seats wondering if Molly and Tommy would indeed get back together (unhappy endings were still a possibility for romances back then), but it's still formulaic writing. The lyrics are, granted, early Hammerstein, sounding more like bad college poetry than anything else and certainly light years from the brilliance we'd see later in Carousel or South Pacific. As an example, her big aria in "Antonia":
Leave me not alone, leave me not alone,
Take not all I love, the only love I've ever known.
If you smile no more, then no more smile I.
No more does the moon arise
To see the day of summer die.
Do these eyes no longer see?
Can these hands no longer feel?
Arms that were so strong no longer crush me.
You die so drops the run from the breast of the sky.
So go, go I.
Goodbye, my love, good bye.
Oooo-kay... I dont think Bioto or Ghislanzoni had much to worry about.
And Romberg's work, as lush as it appears on the surface, is downright pedestrian, nowhere near the melodic beauty of Desert Song. The opera-within-a-movie (which apparently employed every major singer then at the Met to ensure authenticity of sound) is remarkably hackneyed, saved only by some choral work that hides the essential thinness of what's being performed. It's contract work from both of them and little more.
Still, we have this perplexing mystery of the score publication itself. I dont know if this was an experiment on the part of Warners to see if there would be interest in what really amounts to an overpriced souvenir or what, but it's the only one of its kind I've ever seen. I'd be curious to know if there are any similar items like this out there.