Play vs. Film

      Funny, we hear and read a lot of discussion about "novel vs. film" and the faithfulness of the latter to the fomer, but not so much "play vs. film," unless it's Shakespeare or some other stage classic. Lately, though, I've been curious about some of the plays my favorite films are based on.

     I just finished reading Susan Sandler's Crossing Delancey, for instance, a play about a young Jewish woman living and working on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, who is infatuated with a self-absorbed writer while being gently courted by a Lower East Side pickleman. I love the 1988 film adaptation starring Amy Irving and Peter Riegert, and although the play differs somewhat (there is no David Hyde Pierce character in the play, for instance), I quite enjoyed it, almost as much for the differences as for the play itself. The biggest thing I would miss if I saw a production of the play is New York -- the film makes the city a character in itself, and you get a real sense of the uptown/downtown lifestyle conflict in the story. (Of course, now you have to watch the film, if you haven't already, in order to know what I'm talking about!) However, I imagine the stage version, which calls for three small sets on the stage at once and has the main character moving from one set to another and back again, would have a more personal, immediate feel, and the character's struggle between her downtown roots and her uptown ideals would be reinforced by the proximity of the different sets. At any rate, both film and play are sweet romantic comedies and worth the time to watch/read.

     Some months ago, I read Philip Barry's Holiday. The  1938 film version starring Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant is one of my favorite of both actors' films: Hepburn is wistful and strong-minded in a role that seems tailor-made for her, and Grant exudes down-to-earth charm. There is an earlier version (1930, with Ann Harding -- whose performance earned her an Oscar nomination -- and Robert Ames), but it isn't available for commercial purchase. The 1938 screenplay by Donald Ogden Stewart stays quite close to Barry's stage script, so if you only see the movie and never read the play, you wouldn't really be missing out. Much of the film feels very "stagey" anyway, especially the scenes in the playroom. (No, the Kate Winslet/Cameron Diaz film, The Holiday, is not based on the Barry play!)

     At the moment, I'm reading The Time of the Cuckoo, by Arthur Laurents (pronounced "Lawrence"). The lovely 1955 David Lean film, again starring Kate Hepburn, this time teamed with Rossano Brazzi, is another great favorite of mine. As in the Crossing Delancey movie, the location (in this case, Venice) is itself a character, and Jack Hildyard's cinematography is sigh-invoking. I see on the film's IMDb page that the author H. E. Bates co-wrote the screenplay with Lean, but that Donald Ogden Stewart had an uncredited hand in it. It's a wonderful screenplay, of course, but the stage script almost reads like a novel -- Laurents, in his stage directions, writes illuminatingly about his characters so as to make them even more vivid for both actors and casual readers. In fact, one almost wishes Laurents had written a novel instead of a play; I think the story would make a wonderful novel, something perhaps Elizabeth Bowen could well have done. If you like the film, reading the play would be very much worth your time.

Music Monday: Hough Plays Rachmaninov

     For twenty-five years opera dominated my adult life, so much so that I drifted completely out of the solo pianist loop that had dominated my youth. During my operatic career, I hardly ever listened to piano rep, and when I did, I always listened to the artists I loved as a young student -- Rubinstein, Vásáry, Arrau, Kempff, Brendel, de Larrocha. For decades, I knew nothing of contemporary concert pianists; didn't even know any names, other than Murray Perahia, and I only knew him because I chanced to see him once on television.

     Since leaving both opera and monastic life, I have slowly gotten reacquainted with pianists and piano rep. I have permitted myself the joy of listening to others, something I deprived myself of for some years after quitting the keyboard. It was just too painful for me at first; but I've since not only learned to listen without yearning to play again, but to embrace, and indeed to love, listening. It has made my quiet life brighter and more beautiful.
     Stephen Hough (for those who don't already know, it's pronounced "huff") has become not only my favorite living pianist, but also a personal hero, and I owe my discovery of him to another of my personal heroes, David Hyde Pierce. In an interview in some publication or other, can't remember which publication, the interviewer asked David what are the first five things on his iPod. One of them was Hough's album of the complete works of Rachmaninov for piano and orchestra. I decided to trust David's taste (since he himself is an accomplished amateur classical pianist) and ordered the CD. I fell instantly in love with Hough's playing and have since been ordering his CDs right and left, and viewing all the videos I can find of him on YouTube.

          REAWAKENING

          for Stephen Hough

          In this smooth sameness of days, I listen
          to music I have always known and hear
          new song; notes once hidden within, unvoiced
          by pedal's haze, leap out to touch a nerve,
          compelling me to fracture the surface,
          to reconcile clarity and turmoil,
          to acknowledge the unexpected grace
          that glints beneath the ash of sacrifice.
          Something linear calls the artist forth,
          bids him provoke; in the end, sanctify
          the underscoring vigor in these days
          that pass andante, legato, serene.
          Is it sameness, after all, challenging
          the spirit that sleeps even in waking?

          © Leticia Austria 2012

     Unfortunately, as far as I've been able to find them, videos of Hough's Rachmaninov can only be had on YouTube in chopped-up live performances. Here, in three parts, is his performance from the 2001 BBC Proms of the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, with the BBC Symphony Orchestra, Leonard Slatkin, conductor.

Mary, Martha, and ... Milton?

     The 29th of July is celebrated in the Catholic Church as the Feast of St Martha. You will recall, of course, that Martha was the hyperactive housekeeper who was anxious to make Jesus comfortable, and her sister Mary was the reflective introvert who was content to sit at his feet and listen to him.

     Mary and Martha have long served as prototypes for the two basic kinds of religious life: Mary is the model for the cloistered contemplative nun, while Martha is the model for the active sister who remains in the world to teach, nurse, or evangelize. Both are necessary to the world; indeed, they are essential, and represent the two crucial apostolates in the church—prayer and action. One cannot succeed without the other; but, as Jesus himself said, "Mary has chosen the better part." Prayer is the key to a real relationship with God; it is the world's silent mover and shaker. For this reason, I'm saddened that there are people, and, yes, even some Catholics, who deride the contemplative religious life. Some even deem it "unchristian." I can only surmise that they are either grossly misinformed about the life, or simply refuse to understand it. After all, it has been a part of the Christian church since its very beginning and even before.

     The reason I thought of Milton (the poet, that is) is that I was reading an essay this morning from Ann Fadiman's wonderful book Ex Libris. The essay, entitled "Scorn Not the Sonnet," is written in two parts; the second part deals with the author's father and the rapid decline of his eyesight due to acute retinal necrosis. Fadiman's father was an editor and critic; that he was suddenly no longer able to read text could have been a real setback for him, had his daughter not reminded him that Milton wrote Paradise Lost after he went blind. Ann and her father then remembered Milton's great sonnet, "On His Blindness."

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

     When I was in the monastery, our chaplain at the time, who was a great lover of literature and extremely well-read, quoted the last five and a half lines of this sonnet in one of his homilies, in reference to the contemplative vocation. He said that there are times when it's difficult to pray, times when our fervor grows disconcertingly dim, when meditation and contemplation are fraught with distraction and dryness. Though we are aware of this when it happens, we can do little but carry on as best we can and wait for God's help, remembering that even our feeble, seemingly unfruitful efforts are precious to him and may do good somewhere to someone, without our knowing.

     Contemplatives are Marys, still and silent in the Lord's presence, waiting for him to speak and pondering his word. Contemplation is the highest form of prayer; its mysterious power helps sustain and nourish the Body of Christ, his Church. "They also serve who only stand and wait."

Saturday at the Opera

     Some weeks ago, I did a post featuring the great Italian baritone Alessandro Corbelli, with a video of his performance of Germano's aria from Rossini's one-act opera La Scala di Seta. (Also in that same post is a really delightful video conversation with Corbelli, Joyce DiDonato, and Lawrence Brownlee.) Another charming scene from Scala is the duet of Giulia and Germano, which I post today -- this video, like the one of Germano's aria, is extracted from the Schwetzingen Festival's 1990 production staged by Michael Hampe (available on DVD), which features, along with Corbelli, Luciana Serra as Giulia, David Kuebler as Dorvil, Alberto Rinaldi as Blansac, Jane Bunnell as Lucilla, and David Griffith as Dormont. Gianluigi Gelmetti leads the Radio-Sinfonieorchester Stuttgart.

     Brief synopsis: Giulia is secretly married to Dorvil (he gains access to her room at night via the titular silken ladder), but her guardian has arranged for her to marry Dorvil's friend Blansac. To get out of the engagement, Giulia plots to put her sister Lucilla in Blansac's path, knowing that, since he is an incurable womanizer, he'll make a play for her. She suspects Lucilla of having a crush on him, anyway. Giulia enlists the aid of the servant Germano, who'll do anything for her because he has a crush on her. 

     This extract begins with Dorvil (Kuebler) making his escape from spending the night in Giulia's(Serra) room. Dormont (Griffith) and Lucilla (Bunnell) enter with the news that Blansac (Rinaldi) is expected for a visit. Germano (Corbelli) then enters to announce their guest, and after Dormont and Lucilla exit, Giulia waylays Germano, using his infatuation for her to persuade him to help with her plan. 

     Luciana Serra, I have to say, is not one of my favorite singers -- she has pitch issues, uses too much straight tone for my taste, and I just don't think the basic tone is appealing. But she's a deft comedienne. Corbelli is at his best here, displaying seamless legato, handsome tone, and absolutely stunning coloratura (the best I've heard from one of his voice type). His characterization is adorable. Gelmetti takes a pretty breathtaking tempo in the second part of the duet, and his two singers have to stare him down, but they cope admirably. 

The Questionnaire

     I used to watch Inside the Actors Studio faithfully, but when on one episode I heard James Lipton vehemently and unfairly disparage the acting of opera singers (a huge generalization on his part, I might add), my enthusiasm for the show took a sudden and irreversible nose dive. I haven't watched it since.

     At the end of every conversation, Lipton asks the guest actor ten questions that he borrowed from the French series Bouillon de Culture, hosted by Bernard Pivot. In lieu of a real blogpost (in other words, until I think of a topic for a real one), I thought I'd post those questions here, along with my answers, and you all can mull over your own answers -- though perhaps mulling wouldn't be the thing, as one is supposed to answer each question spontaneously. 

What is your favorite word? Love. I know, cheesy -- but true.

What is your least favorite word? Two-word phrase, actually. At this point in time, it's the phrase "bad boy."

What turns you on? Certain kinds of music, especially Baroque and Mozart. To me, beautiful music is one way God speaks to his people.

What turns you off? Materialism and shallowness -- though, rather than saying they turn me off, it would be more accurate to say that they make me sad.

What sound do you most love? I prefer complete silence, but lacking that, I'd have to say a lone mockingbird singing his heart out.

What sound do you most hate? The pounding megabass on a loud stereo. It's hard to listen to God through all that sense-numbing racket. For me, anyway.

What is your favorite curse word? I try not to curse, but I can't help laughing when I hear someone say "bollocks."

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? I'd really like to try being a contemplative nun again (if one can call that a profession), but if God says no, then I'd like to be a writer, not just of poetry, but prose as well, fiction and non-. I've wanted that since I was a little girl.

What profession would you not like to attempt? Politics.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you enter the pearly gates? "Welcome home. Everyone you ever loved is here."

The Freedom of Routine

     A Facebook friend of mine sent me a private message the other evening at around seven o'clock. It was a long message, requiring from me a rather detailed response. I wrote back that same evening just to tell her that I would write her a proper response the following day, as "I have to shut down my computer now, per my self-imposed schedule." The next morning, I found a response from her, asking me to tell her, if I were willing, why I have a self-imposed schedule. I thought it an interesting question.

     I have noticed in the past few years that I feel bit discombobulated if my daily routine is disrupted. The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I've become a slave to routine -- but on further reflection, I believe rather that my routine is my freedom, and anything that disrupts it infringes on that freedom. I realize this may seem completely upside-down to most people. But, to paraphrase a well-worn adage, one's man's prison is another man's freedom. Let me try to explain.

     Most of my readers know that I worked in opera for many years, most of them at Houston Grand Opera. Now, I don't know how other companies operate, but at HGO the schedule for any given day during production (i. e., the rehearsal period and performance run of a show) is determined only the day before: every afternoon, the following day's schedule and assignments is printed and distributed. This means that, during production, one is unable to make plans outside the opera house more than a half-day in advance. (Doctor's appointments and such are the exception; one fills out a release form to be approved by the administration.) Furthermore, one is basically "on call" -- extra rehearsals, time changes, and coachings often come up with little warning during production periods.

     The first ten or so years, I was perfectly fine with this scheduling policy. Opera was my whole life; I had no friends outside the business, no steady love life to speak of, and I considered anything other than my work to be an unwelcome distraction. Only in my last few years in Houston did I feel suffocated by the capriciousness and unpredictability of the production schedule. This had little to do with my reborn faith and monastic vocation, though I was frustrated that I couldn't attend Mass as often as I liked. No, I felt that my creative capacity, which I knew extended beyond opera, was being stifled by the demands of my work. Quite simply, there were other things I wanted to do, that I wanted to do since childhood.

     Monastic life taught me the value of routine and the freedom that can be derived from it if used correctly, in the right spirit. The horarium, with the Divine Office as its skeleton, is strictly adhered to but never suffocating. When the bell calls you to chapel to pray the Office, you must stop immediately whatever you are doing and obey "the voice of God." This isn't in the least frustrating or maddening -- because you stop out of love. That's what I meant by "the right spirit." Everything -- whether it be prayer, study, meditation, cooking, laundering, gardening -- is done for love of God and for his glory. And it is this love that gives you freedom. It frees you from selfish ambition and the pressure that it bears; it frees you from being dissatisfied with the results of your labors because it also teaches you that the means is of equal importance as the end, and that effort is its own reward. I wish I had learned this while I was at HGO. I think it would have made those last years easier.

     Paradoxically, I found my creativity thrived within the confines of the horarium. Because I was learning to let go of ambition and success, my poetic muse of old reawakened, I learned basic bookbinding, and I also rediscovered a small talent for drawing and composing. These gifts were still there, lying dormant for so many years, and I was grateful that God gave me the chance finally to use them, but also that the horarium kept me from becoming bound to them.

     With my latest calling as co-caregiver for my father came the necessity to impose some semblance of a routine upon myself, if I was to remain reliant on prayer for strength and patience. Though my father could sometimes be unpredictable as to when he'd wake up in the morning, I found I was fairly safe if I set my alarm at 6.30 for praying the Office of Readings and Lauds. If Dad got up before I started, I'd get his breakfast and settle him at the table, then start the Office. If I heard Dad get up after I started, I heeded St Vincent de Paul's advice and made the getting of Dad's breakfast my prayer for the morning. The rest of the day, unless Dad had a doctor's appointment, easily accommodated the other hours of the Office, plus praying the rosary. I made myself take my evening shower, and go to bed, at the same time every day. Routine, and having more or less set times for prayer and meditation, kept me sane. If I didn't have those things, I'd have become a slave once more to caprice and unpredictability. 

     Now that my father has entered eternal life, and it's just me and my mother at home, I continue to keep my routine and to enjoy the sense of peace and freedom it gives me. I shut down my computer no later than 7pm, because I know I'm perfectly capable of playing with it till the wee hours, and if I allowed myself to do that, I'd never do anything else -- in the same way that working at the opera allowed me so little time to do anything else.

 

Reunion

     Once upon a time, there was a restaurant in New York City called Saloon. It was conveniently situated across from the Metropolitan Opera -- one could go there for a late supper after a show, if one was not especially particular, just hungry. Since I've never lived in New York, but have only gone there to play auditions for the Houston Grand Opera and the HGO Studio, or to see a show at the Met once in a blue moon, I've actually eaten at Saloon more often than at any other New York restaurant. I realize Saloon is long gone, but then I've only been to New York twice since I left HGO. So I'm really waxing nostalgic right now.

     Back in my pre-monastery dark ages, when I was still secular and pagan (!), I was watching an episode of Sex and the City, in which Carrie goes to Saloon after a long absence to see if a particular waiter with whom she had a tryst was still working there. As I watched, I realized she was sitting at the very table where I had a post-opera supper with a singer friend some years earlier. This friend is one whom I rarely see, and when I do, it's usually only for a few hours or a couple of days, so each reunion is very precious. Consequently, I remember almost every detail of every one. It wasn't difficult, therefore, to write a poem about that late supper at Saloon.

     REUNION

     Tonight, at least,
     I see you -- in a candle's light suffused
     by ruby glass, the undulating arc
     cocooning us while headlights pierce the streets.
     The noisy years between remembering
     and living flesh are silenced by the voice
     I hear this moment, and I catch its words
     like colored moths, to pin them in a frame
     when daylight comes.

     Tonight, at least,
     you know me -- not the ink of written word,
     the masquerader hiding in plain sight,
     but sound and breath that waited out the page
     for temporary incarnation.  Yet
     what I intend to say is left unsaid,
     gray fumes dispersing in the wavering light.
     I only say the words that can survive
     when daylight comes.


     INCONTRO

     Stasera, almeno,
     ti vedo - nella luce di una candela soffusa
     da un vetro rubino, l’arco ondeggiante
     a proteggerci mentre i fari trafiggono le strade.
     Gli anni rumorosi tra il ricordo
     e la carne vivente sono zittiti dalla voce
     che ora sento, e ne catturo le parole
     come falene colorate, per appuntarle in una cornice
     quando la luce del giorno viene.

     Stasera, almeno,
     mi conosci – non l’inchiostro d’una parola scritta,
     la maschera che si nasconde in piena vista,
     ma suono e fiato che attendevano fuori alla pagina
     per provvisoria incarnazione. Finora,
     ciò che ho inteso dire è lasciato non detto,
     fumi grigi che si disperdono nella luce vacillante.
     Solo pronuncio le parole che possono sopravvivere
     Quando la luce del giorno viene.

     Italian translation by Federica Galetto
     © Leticia Austria 2011
     [first published in Italian and English in La Stanza di Nightingale]