For many, Memorial Day marks the unofficial start of summer, as people take advantage of the three-day weekend, and the hopefully mild weather, to celebrate.
Of course, Memorial Day itself is a rather solemn holiday, as we’re meant to honor the sacrifice of those who laid down their lives in defense of our country.
That said, this morning on “Sweetness and Light,” since there’s little “sweet” or “light” about war, I figured rather we’d take the hour to enjoy a little Memorial Day picnic, if you will.
I hope you’ll join me for an outdoor overture, a barbecue divertimento, a carousel waltz, some gazebo dances, a pickle-and-pepper rag, a teddy bear’s picnic, and, yes, even a musical moment of reflection for the fallen.
The first of the summer’s patriotic holidays is upon us. Wrap yourself in the flag and everything else in bacon, this morning on “Sweetness and Light.” The three-legged races and pie-eating contests commence at 11:00 EDT/8:00 EDT, exclusively on KWAX, the radio station of the University of Oregon!
It’s all about valor and sacrifice this week on “Picture Perfect,” as we anticipate Memorial Day.
Memorial Day has its roots in Decoration Day, established in 1868 to honor the Civil War dead. We’ll hear music from “Glory” (1989), inspired by the extraordinary courage of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw’s 54th Massachusetts Voluntary Regiment, an all African American outfit that distinguished itself in an impossible assault on Fort Wagner, near Charleston, South Carolina. The outstanding cast features Morgan Freeman, Matthew Broderick, and Cary Elwes, with an Oscar-winning performance by Denzel Washington. The poignant score is by James Horner.
Gary Cooper had one of his best roles as “Sergeant York” (1941), based on the true story of Alvin C. York, who went from backwoods hell-raiser to devout pacifist. After a period of soul-searching, York was able to reconcile his strong moral convictions with the unfortunate reality that sometimes it really is necessary to fight. He went on to distinguish himself on the battlefield and become one of the most-decorated soldiers of the First World War. The folksy score, evocative of York’s Tennessee roots, is by Max Steiner.
In director Michael Cimino’s “The Deer Hunter” (1978), three men from a small Pennsylvania steel town serve in Vietnam, then struggle to cope with the war’s psychological impact. The harrowing film, especially memorable for its scenes of Russian roulette in a P.O.W. camp, won five Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Director. Christopher Walken was honored with the award for Best Supporting Actor. Stanley Myers wrote the music. We’ll hear his famous “Cavatina,” performed by guitarist John Williams, not to be confused with…
… composer John Williams, who provided one of his sparser scores for “Saving Private Ryan” (1998). Steven Spielberg’s war-is-hell narrative yet manages to honor the sacrifice of the fighting men of World War II. The opening – a sustained “you-are-there” battle sequence on Omaha Beach – is unforgettable. Remarkably, it is presented wholly without music, Williams preferring to allow the tension of the mise-en-scène to speak for itself. Spielberg picked up his second Academy Award for Best Director. The film, however, inexplicably, lost to “Shakespeare in Love.”
I hope you’ll join me for music from these cinematic meditations on the costs and consequences of war, as we honor the valor and sacrifice of soldiers who died while serving in America’s armed forces, on “Picture Perfect,” music for the movies, now in syndication on KWAX, the radio station of the University of Oregon!
Clip and save the start times for all three of my recorded shows:
PICTURE PERFECT, the movie music show – Friday at 8:00 PM EDT/5:00 PM PDT
SWEETNESS AND LIGHT, the light music program – ALL NEW! – Saturday at 11:00 AM EDT/8:00 AM PDT
THE LOST CHORD, unusual and neglected rep – Saturday at 7:00 PM EDT/4:00 PM PDT
The following started out as a response to a comment made by Brennan Morsette at the bottom of yesterday’s Wagner post, regarding the immense pleasure he experienced viewing the Ring Cycle on PBS. But you know how I am. As I warmed to my subject, it grew to such monumental proportions that I decided I would just touch it up a little and use it as today’s post. I hope you will enjoy this reminiscence about Otto Schenk’s Ring and my subsequent experiences with bass-baritone James Morris.
If the Ring you’re talking about is the Otto Schenk production from the Metropolitan Opera, I too watched it on PBS, in the summer of 1990. Years later, in 2009, I caught a revival of “Siegfried” in the same production, live at the Met, with James Morris in his farewell run as the Wanderer (Wotan in disguise). He was in fabulous voice, which totally floored me, since in the interim he had developed some wear and, I thought, a dispiriting wobble. But that day, it was as if he sang with a fluency and vigor that befitted the Ruler of the Gods.
It was also the farewell run of the Schenk production itself, with its traditional staging and representational (as opposed to abstract) sets. A kind of Twilight of the Gods in itself, then, as it was likely one of the last of the traditional Rings to linger at a major opera house. Now it’s difficult to find any standard repertoire, least of all the Ring, in productions that honor the composers’ intentions, as opposed to glorify trendy directors and desperate companies grasping for grit and “relevancy.” We’re living in a decadent age, my friend, and woe betide anyone coming to the art form new. (Granted, the Met’s subsequent “seesaw” production, overseen by Robert Lepage, wasn’t exactly avant-garde.)
Not long after the PBS Ring aired, I actually wound up working with Morris at what was then the Opera Company of Philadelphia. He was in town to sing the role of the Count in “The Marriage of Figaro,” and I was an intern, who made $300 for three weeks’ work. Clearly, it was not sustainable! But I had a blast while it lasted, even if it was often quite stressful, as I was basically expected to do or solve anything that had to be done or solved. So I was running for coffee, renting trucks, searching the old Academy of Music for a prop sword. Largo al factotum, indeed! (I know, wrong opera, but same characters.) I had to be available in all three day-parts, because the rehearsal schedule would always be shifting.
One day, when they were blocking a scene with the Count, there were no supernumeraries present, so the stage director called me over, and I actually did rehearse a scene with Morris. It was hilarious, because I totally had no idea what was expected from me. I was just this enthusiastic kid, and Morris would chuckle as I’d overshoot my marks and reach over and rein me in.
He wasn’t always so jovial, however, especially once the performances started. I had no real authority, so all I could do, basically, was stand stage left with my headset and cue the singers to enter when I received word from the stage manager. Of course, the manager was completely unseen, feeding his instructions to me remotely through an ear piece. So Morris would be standing there, behind a flat, watching for my signal, and I’d have my hand in the air, waiting, my adrenaline racing. Finally, Morris would lose patience and just make the entrance himself. The stage manager (whose name was Batman, believe it or not), who didn’t have to look him in the eye, would take it philosophically and move the cue up in his score for next time. But it never seemed to be early enough for Morris and I was a wreck.
Fortunately, Morris’ wife, mezzo-soprano Susan Quittmeyer, was singing the part of Cherubino, and she was an angel. So whenever Morris would be fuming, she would intervene and calm him down. Once, a Wawa coffee was enough to restore me to his good graces.
I hasten to clarify that Morris’ reactions were in no way “prima donna.” He was one of the biggest singers in the world at the time, used to dealing with houses like the Met, and of course he was the most in demand Wotan of his day. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of the Ruler of the Gods! He was a professional who clearly cared deeply about his performance and he had justifiably high standards. Philadelphia was, let’s say, perhaps a little more relaxed than what he was used to (despite the fact he had graduated from the city’s Academy of Vocal Arts in 1971).
It was an interesting three weeks – at any rate, it has given me lots of stories! – but, as I say, as an intern, it simply wasn’t sustainable. Clearly it was going to take multiple productions for me even to squeak across the learning curve (like the Rainbow Bridge of Asgard), and I needed to figure out how to pay my rent. It was impossible to hold a second job, because of the ridiculous schedule. Anyway, I’m not sure I’m wired for that kind of stress.
Before things got too heated, I got Morris to sign my recording of “Das Rheingold” (pictured), which features the same forces as the PBS television broadcast. I was hesitant to ask him, and I’m not sure that Batman was thrilled, but Morris was delighted. And delighted is how you wanted him. He was a big guy, standing 6-foot-4, with a marked preference for blue jeans and large belt buckles. I would have pegged him for a Texan, but he was actually born in Baltimore. I’m including a link, below, to a segment about Morris that aired on “CBS Sunday Morning” a few years after I worked with him. The video is not the best quality, but there’s plenty of interest in it. You’ll get an idea of his street clothes at around 4:30.
Also in the cast of the Philadelphia “Figaro” was Justino Diaz, who had opened the “new” Met at its current location in Lincoln Center, back in 1966, singing opposite Leontyne Price, in the world premiere of Samuel Barber’s “Antony and Cleopatra” (which tanked – by all accounts, thanks to director Franco Zeffirelli’s excess).
One of my favorite moments in our “Figaro” was a scene in which there was all kinds of business with characters leaping out of windows and off balconies and I was backstage coordinating the sound effects. These involved shattering terracotta pots into a barrel. I was not allowed to do it myself, of course. It was a union job! (The same with costume changes. Once, the costumer was not in the wings at the right time, so I tried to assist one of the singers in a quick-change. She blew in right in the middle of it and brushed me aside. I could feel the chill emanating from her. I did not do it again. But I digress.)
Anyway, I found that by delaying the crash of the flower pots, I would get a bigger laugh from the audience. Otherwise, they would still be reacting to the leap itself. So every night, I would extend the drop time to an increasingly ludicrous degree. It was actually very funny. At one performance, things just got completely out of hand, and Diaz was hilarious in his reactions, as he was tossing stuff off stage, and the thuds were coming back so randomly. It was a good time.
The worst time was during the finale of Act IV, with all the principals on stage, everyone singing, the tension mounting, and everything pointing to the one moment when the Countess emerges from her disguise and the Count responds with true contrition and tenderness. It’s the most touching moment in the entire opera. Everything dies down to a hush, and there’s a moment’s silence before the Count sings. One night, at that very moment, a union laborer was standing in the wings and his watch beeped. Morris sang beautifully, but of course I could tell what was brewing and everything in me tensed. When he left the stage, it was like a near-death experience at the rim of an active volcano. Again, I couldn’t blame him, as he let fly some choice words for what he perceived, quite rightly, as the provincial working conditions. Awkwardly, the curtain calls followed immediately.
That was another issue on opening night, I remember, as no one had thought to organize in what order the singers were expected to take their calls. Leaving the singers to work it out for themselves is never a good idea!
In the end, it turned out to be a pretty good show, or at any rate a lot of fun. I remember the director (who was a piece of work, popping lozenges the whole time) came in for some criticism in the Philadelphia Inquirer. I think the production was a little too standard for the critic’s taste? Hey! It’s farce! There are only so many ways to hide people behind things. Lighten up!
Perhaps somebody who subscribes to the Inquirer would be so kind as to do a search and message me a copy of the review, if it’s archived. Try searching under Opera Company of Philadelphia, Nozze di Figaro, Marriage of Figaro, Academy of Music, Justino Diaz, and/or James Morris, 1990. I would be much obliged!
In writing this, I have taken care to leave out any of the backstage shenanigans that would get anyone today cancelled. Thank you, Brennan, for inspiring this pleasurable reminiscence!
I confess, at first I was a little hesitant to watch the documentary “Billy & Molly: An Otter Love Story,” given its National Geographic TV premiere earlier this month (now with other streaming options). Anything to do with animals always gets me right in the heart. Even if there’s not death, there’s bound to be separation, and nothing has the potential to devastate me like separation from an adorable otter. I was taken to see “Ring of Bright Water” when I was a kid, and I think it must have traumatized me for life. If the film doesn’t end with an otter wearing a houndstooth vest having tea with a guy, chances are I probably won’t be able to handle it.
I am proud of myself, then, that, the likelihood of sobbing be damned, I committed to viewing it. This artistically-framed, gorgeously-shot, deeply-moving film not only delivers on the promise of love, but is full of wonder and wit and, yes, depending on your level of sensitivity, pretty much guaranteed to have you furtively wiping away a few tears as it quietly restores your faith in humanity.
A lost otter turns up on a man’s dock outside his home in the Shetland Islands (the northernmost region of the United Kingdom). It’s undernourished and unsteady and wrestling to get meat out of a crab. The man, Billy, quickly deduces this must be the pup of a mother otter he had seen dead at the side of the road. He has no idea what to do, but he decides to name the pup Molly, and his little, loving gestures deepen into a kind of paternal bond. They also have evident effect, as Molly begins to regain her health and, in her way, repay the investment. Soon Billy and the otter are inseparable.
What follows is a parallel revivification of both their lives, and also a revitalization of the lives of Billy and his wife, Susan. The movie is as much about the human couple, who take turns narrating the film, as it is about the otter who changes them. Seesawing between patience and exasperation, Susan assists with the installation of a second freezer, as the first has been packed solid with haddock for Molly. At the same time, she shrewdly observes the transformative effect this unusual friendship is having on her husband. A later wrinkle, concerning the installation of WiFi, is hilarious.
The film’s tone is simple, occasionally wry, and unsentimental, as stoic as Billy is, in fact, understanding that all the warmth and emotion is inherent in the story itself. At points, narrative is stripped away entirely, and we are left only with the beauty of loving interaction. Okay, there are one or two places where you may be overwhelmed by cuteness. I don’t want to ruin anything for you, but just imagine what kind of shelter Wes Anderson might create if he were to befriend a wild otter.
There’s also an unflappable sheepdog named Jade, who just loves her ball so much, carrying, catching, and headbutting it everywhere (including in a highly-amusing, fabricated dream sequence).
Director Charlie Hamilton-James finds beauty everywhere. What could be less prepossessing than the idea of winter in sub-arctic Shetland, you might think? But Hamilton-James discovers poetry in raging black seas and austere crags, and amusement and philosophical reflection in a local ceremony involving the ritualistic construction and destruction of a Viking longboat.
It might be tempting to dismiss Billy’s job at a utility plant as soul-crushing. But again, Hamilton-James frames his visuals such as to imbue the hard hats, the file boxes, the blast furnaces, and the grapple claws with an appealing dignity. There’s organization and purpose to be found even in Billy’s tendency to fold his empty crisps bag into what any American school kid would recognize immediately as a triangular “football.”
Billy and Susan text back and forth during the course of his workday, as he checks in on Molly. In the meantime, Susan puts together the puzzle pieces of the widening scope of the otter’s freewheeling adventures.
The human race as a whole may be a lost cause, but every once in a while, one of us exhibits a little grace. That’s certainly the case here with Billy, and God bless him for it. I don’t care what this man’s politics are, how he worships, or what goes on in his bedroom. As Susan observes, “I would rather have a man who cares than one who doesn’t.” What’s important is that Billy cares about the right things.
He’s so laconic, he would never say so, but his love for Molly is evident from the start. She awakens his paternal instincts, as he does the best he can in the roles of protector and teacher. Ultimately, however, the dynamic flips, and it is Molly who opens Billy’s eyes to the expansive beauty of the world around them – there’s a point where he recognizes a dead animal as another being, “just like us,” as opposed to simply gull food – and he learns the important lesson that the supposed barrier between man and nature is, in the end, a fiction.
The film makes a powerful conservationist argument while at no point lecturing about conservation. What words are there to equal the persuasive impact of the sublime drone aerial footage and underwater photography? The images, the narrative, the moving simplicity of this love story between man and animal, all speak for themselves.
“Billy & Molly: An Otter Love Story,” at 1 hour and 17 minutes, is a lesson in trust and the appreciation of simple things and how powerful and transformative they can be. Human and animal, we’re all in the same boat – in this case, quite literally! – and everything is so exquisitely beautiful and fragile.
I can’t even make it through the trailer now without getting choked up. If you want to feel hopeful about people, our place in the world, and what it means to be alive, watch this movie.
I frequently get comments from people suggesting that I collect some of my posts for publication. Of course, I know they mean well, and I don’t doubt the quality of my writing, but I usually take these kinds of remarks with a grain of salt. After all, what long-term worth could Facebook posts, so many of them tailored to promote radio broadcasts or tie-in with other ephemeral events in the world of classical music, possibly hold?
But then on a major birthday anniversary, I’ll do a search and go back over my old posts about Richard Wagner (born on this day in 1813), for instance, and I’ll actually be intimidated by how good they are. How am I supposed to compete against the writer who produced those?
Sure, there are days when I’ll only have time to jot a few sentences, select an image, and include a link; but if I find myself with a good hour while my mind is still fresh in the morning, my goodness, how I can fly! Post after ever-loving post, distinguished by knowledge, wit, and flair. I could cut-and-paste any one of these and then get on with my day. After all, I am getting new readers all the time, and I don’t flatter myself that, even among the regulars, the posts are so memorable that they will linger in anyone’s thoughts after a couple of years. But I do try to keep it fresh and reinvent the wheel, or perhaps build a better mousetrap, when I can.
That said, coming as I am, off COVID, perhaps now would be a good time simply to offer a choice of a few past Wagner posts for you to enjoy as you may. Thank you for reading, and happy birthday, Richard Wagner!
Simon Callow, Wagner’s irrational frothing about the Jews, and migraines (written while suffering from a severe headache)
