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Friday, November 8, 2024

Eugène Ionesco | Rhinocéros / 2012

growing horns

by Douglas Messerli

 

Eugène Ionesco Rhinocéros / performed by the Théâtre de la Ville-Paris, Royce Hall, University of California, Los Angeles / the performance I saw was on September 22, 2012

 

Although I read Ionesco’s acclaimed play when it was first published in English in the early 1960s, I had never seen a theatrical production of the work (and only clips from the 1974 American film), so I jumped at the chance of attending the performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall by the Théâtre de la Ville-Paris in French (with English language subtitles).

     Yet, I left the theater, despite having finally seen one of the best plays by one of my favorite playwrights, slightly disappointed. That sometimes happens, even at brilliant productions: one is tired or slightly distracted for reasons other than the play one is observing. Here, part of the problem simply lay in the fact the distance between the translation board and the stage was vast enough that it was hard to follow the stage action and still read the English, and the constant vertical motion of the eyes often distracted me.


     More importantly, however, is that Ionesco’s play, often touted as his best, is a parable that, once it has asserted its major premise has little place else to go. Los Angeles Times critic Charles McNulty quoted Kenneth Tynan: Ionesco is "a brilliant, anarchic sprinter unfitted by temperament for the steady, provident mountaineering of the three-act form." Also, having seen this production, I now wonder whether other plays such as his early short works (including the unforgettable The Chairs) and later works such as The Killer and Exit the King are not simply more profound works. At the heart of Rhinoceros is an important but quite simple warning of cultural conformity, and in the wake of World War II (the play was written, we must remember, just over a decade after the end of the war) Ionesco’s Rhinoceri—whether two horned or one—perfectly encapsulated the cultural betrayal of everyday citizens who suddenly embraced Fascism and Nazism. 

      But there are deeper problems with director Emmanuel Demarcy-Mota’s production of the Ionesco play. His version is absolutely brilliant when it comes to the ensemble scenes. The second act scene in the local, small-town newspaper office, where characters react en masse to the increasing gossip about the beasts roaming the city and, soon after, despite Botard’s (Jauris Casanova) argument that there can be no such animal in France, discover that another employee, Boeuf (so his wife reports) has become a rhinoceros and is threatening to stampede their very offices. The marvelous mass movements of the characters as their desks, chairs, and bodies go spinning with the charges of the beast, are evidence of this company’s brilliant group acting.


     And there are numerous other moments of excellent performance, particularly in Bérenger’s speeches and the logician’s perfectly absurd discussion of the difference between African and Asian rhincoeri. Yet, in perhaps the most important scene of the play, as the sensitive Jean (Hugues Quester in this production)—completely opposed to the rhinoceri transformations—gradually is transformed into just a beast, the work loses focus as he is transformed behind a plastic door where we see only the outlines of his facial shifts. As I mentioned previously, I did not see Zero Mostel’s 1961 rendition of Jean, but in the movie and in descriptions of his New York performance I recognize significant differences which made this early interpretation, a true theatrical wonder. In a fascinating article in the Jewish Daily Forward by Mostel’s nephew, Raphael Mostel describes the events behind the Broadway production:

 

                      The scene Z is most remembered for in this play is the

                      one in which he transformed into a rhinoceros. Ionesco had

                      envisioned the transformation happening behind a curtain,

                      and the actor bursting through with a rhino mask. But Z

                      could perform the most astonishing physical feats — whether

                      reducing Johnny Carson to hysterics by placing a proffered

                      cigarette on his brow and somehow getting it to roll all around

                      his face until it fell into his mouth like a pinball machine, or

                      doing a Dada-like imitation of a coffee percolator. And he

                      wanted to make the frightening transformation with his face

                      and body in full view of the audience.

 

As reviewer Jack Kroll wrote of that performance in Newsweek: “Something unbelievable happened. A fat comedian named Zero Mostel gave a performance that was even more astonishing than [Laurence] Olivier’s” (Olivier had performed the role in London).

       Just such an “astonishing” individual performance is what is missing in this otherwise capable French rendition. One might even suggest that few companies could have better portrayed the kind of mass hysteria which is at the heart of Ionesco’s play.  But, as Bérenger, himself ponders, it is not just the masses wherein these transformations are taking place, but in the individual hearts. Jean stood against the rhinoceros invasion at the very moment he begins to grow, in his very reasonableness, more and more lenient. Even while attacking the beasts, he grows more and more sympathetic to their plight, to their odd differences. And in that very allowance of human empathy he is himself destroyed. That is perhaps a more frightening statement than the fact that some individuals have turned into beasts, the idea that one cannot ever permit the thought that there may be some good in these transformations actually allows the transformations to take place. And seeing that struggle up close and in person is crucial to the structure of the play.

      In the end Bérenger is left alone, like Miles Bennell in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, with no one to tell his tale to except, perhaps, the audience. And it is we who must determine, accordingly, whether he is mad or sane.

     Demarcy-Mota’s production focused more on the chorus, all of whom allowed the transformation to occur, than upon that man set apart. But then, that is part of the problem with Ionesco’s engaging parable; it is more fun to watch a pack of charging rhinocerori than a non-capitulating loner shouting abuses at them.

 

Los Angeles, October 5, 2012

Reprinted from USTheater, Opera and Performance (October 2012).


Cole Porter, P. G. Wodehouse and Guy Bolton, revised by Howard Lindsay, Russell Crouse and later by Timothy Crouse and John Weidman | Anything Goes / 2012

pure poetry

by Douglas Messerli

 

Cole Porter (music and lyrics), P. G. Wodehouse and Guy Bolton, revised by Howard Lindsay and Russell Crouse, revised again by Timothy Crouse and John Weidman (book), Anything Goes / the production I saw with Diana Daves was on December 1, 2012 at Ahmanson Theatre, Los Angeles

 

The musical Anything Goes has been rewritten so many times, adding Porter’s songs from other musicals while subtracting several of the original songs, that one might almost describe what I witnessed the other day as a shadow of its first conception, even if, arguably, the layering revisions have burnished it into a better work. Most of the changes, however, have been to the story, and since the silly couplings and un-couplings of the work hardly matter, it is hard to be interested in the “ur-text.” I will be glad to except Timothy Crouse’s and John Weidman’s assurances that they were “purists” “but only to a point.” What is important is that they restored as much of Porter’s score as they could, adding only three wonderful Porter songs “Friendship,” “It’s De-Lovely,” and “Goodbye, Little Dream, Goodbye.”



      The story, in fact, pretty much lives up to the musical’s title, the characters almost changing partners willy-nilly. This time round nightclub singer (former evangelist?) Reno loves Billy, Billy loves Hope, Hope pretends to love Lord Evelyn Oakleigh but really loves Billy, Lord Evelyn loves Reno, Elisha Whitney loves Evangeline Harcourt, and Erma loves everybody. Enough said. The book—whatever version you choose—makes soap operas, by comparison, look like grand operas. “Frothy” is the appropriate word.

      Yet this chestnut has been immensely popular since its 1934 opening in New York, running 420 performances even during the great depression, and reappearing in successful productions in England and New York in 1935 (261 performances), 1962, 1987 (784 performances), 1989 and 2011 (521 performances). What I saw was a sold-out performance of the touring version of the 2011 production. Why has it succeeded again and again?

     The answer, quite obviously, is not just a cast of talented singers and dancers (a requirement of course!) but Cole Porter, who in this and other works turns what might have been tin-pan ditties into pure American poetry. Sure, the music itself is spritely and often borders on a kind regularized jazz. But those words! No one, not even Stephen Sondheim, can write as wittily idiomatic lyrics while pulling his audiences into a kind of licentious world that hints of everything from adultery and drug addiction to sexual orgies and open homosexuality, with his characters simultaneously hoofing up innocent-seeming line dances across the stage.

      The fun begins with this show’s very first song, “I Get a Kick Out of You,” where Broadway libertine Reno Sweeney (the talented Rachel York) tells Billy about her frigidity concerning everyday life:

 

                                      I get no kick from champagne.

                                      Mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all,

                                      So tell me why should it be true

                                      That I get a kick out of you?

 

                                       Some get a kick from cocaine.

                                       I’m sure that if I took even one sniff

                                       That would bore me terrific’ly too

                                       Yet I get a kick out of you.


     The whole idea of sexual excitement being likened to a “kick,” compared to champagne and cocaine would be unimaginable in Irving Berlin’s near-Puritanized romances. Berlin could be funny, even witty, but couldn’t be funny, witty, and naughty at the same time. When Berlin’s characters said they loved someone they meant it, for all time. For Reno and numerous other characters of Porter’s world love my haunt one, even torture one, but it was seldom seen as permanent and could even be an everyday occurrence, something to traffic in, something someone might what to “buy”—just like champagne and cocaine.

     Or consider the wonderful shifts in the notion of “friendship” in the song titled that. It begins as a song of spirited support of one being for another, in this case the musical’s two major “hustlers,” Reno and Moonface Martin (the 13th  most wanted criminal):

 

                                If you’re ever in a jam, here I am

                                If you’re ever in a mess, S.O.S.

                                If you’re so happy, you land in jail. I’m your bail.

 

     But gradually as they each try to outdo one another in imagining life-saving necessities, the song becomes a kind of contest which reveals that underneath their “perfect friendship” there is not only an open competitiveness but a true hostility:

 

                                 If they ever black your eyes, put me wise.

                                 If they ever cook your goose, turn me loose.

                                 If they ever put a bullet through your brain, I’ll complain.

 

The lyrics grow even more outlandish as they imagine the worst for one another:

 

                                 If you ever lose your mind, I’ll be kind.

                                 And if you ever lose your shirt, I’ll be hurt.

                                 If you ever in a mill get sawed in half, I won’t laugh.

 

It finally ends with imagining each other being eaten by cannibals, in which the second half answers “invite me.”

     These are not the words of supportive human beings, but of criminals who might turn on each other in a minute. Plumbing the unconscious depths of Americans’ fascination with violence—notably present in the entertainments of the 1930s—Porter has created almost a paean to the macabre, a world wherein people land up in jail, put bullets through brains, lose their minds, get sawed in half, and are consumed by cannibals, lines somewhat reminiscent of William Carlos Williams’ observation “the pure products of America / go crazy” and Allen Ginsberg’s opening line in Howl: “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked….”

     Hearing once more the musical’s title song, “Anything Goes,” I realized that, again, the most important thing about this work is its lyrics—which unfortunately, in the quick-paced rhythms, got somewhat lost in York’s rendition; suddenly it became clear to me that the original Reno, played by Ethel Merman, with her emphatic pronunciations of every word, may have been the perfect Porter interpreter—ensuring that the audiences heard every one of Porter’s quips.

     Like the peeved reactions of conservative parents through the mid 1960s, Porter presciently reiterates the very same issues of change in his opening refrain:

                                 

                                    Times have changed

                                    And we’ve often got a shock,

                                    When they landed on Plymouth Rock.

                                    If today,

                                    Any shock they should try to stem,

                                    ‘Stead of landing of Plymouth Rock,

                                    Plymouth Rock would land on them.

 

     The song goes on to explain the topsy-turvy morality of the contemporary world:

 

                                     The world has gone mad today

                                     And good’s bad today,

                                     And black’s white today,

                                     And day’s night today,

                                     When most guys today

                                     That women prize today

                                     Are just silly gigolos

 

    Porter might almost have added: “Or are gay today.” Porter does add himself, indirectly, to that list:

 

                                     Good authors too who once knew better words,

                                     Now only use four letter words

                                     Writing prose, anything goes.


     The near-incessant repetition of the word “today” simply reiterates the inescapable contemporaneity of it all, the insistence of this song’s presentness without past or future. Porter’s world—at least in this musical—is without guilt or consequence, a godless place where “grandma’s who are eighty” sit in nightclubs getting “matey with gigolos,” where “mother’s pack and leave poor father” to become “tennis pros,” and “The set that’s smart / Is intruding in nudist parties in studios.”  It is a world we all imagine we live in or, at least, might have liked to have lived in, even if the truth is something far different; and for that reason, the elderly audience with whom I sat at the matinee performance, instead of being even slightly taken aback, leaned forward with complete enthusiasm, as the cast tap-tap-tapped.

       In such an “anything goes” atmosphere Porter was freed up to even question the normal structure of his songs, to query and even challenge the standard introductory lead-ins and normalized language of Broadway music:

 

                                     [hope]

                                     I feel a sudden urge to sing

                                     The kind of ditty that invokes the spring.

 

                                     [billy]

                                     I’ll control my desire to curse

                                     While you crucify the verse.

 

                                     [hope]

                                     This verse I started seems to me

                                     The Tin-Pantithesis of a melody.

 

                                     [billy]

                                     So spare us all the pain,

                                     Just skip the darn thing and sing the refrain…      

 

Of course, what they sing is “delightful, delicious, de-lovey, delirious” in its de-construction of the English language, letting themselves go in thrilling, drilling (de-de-de-de) of words that suggest being out of control.

     Porter’s lyrics almost always seem to be slightly over the top, about to spill over into pure ridiculousness as they finally do in “You’re the Top,” where the same couple, Reno and Billy, again in an attempt to outdo one another, compare each other with almost anything that comes to mind, from the Louvre Museum, to a symphony by Strauss, to a Shakespeare sonnet and even Mickey Mouse, blithely jumping across the bodies of outstanding individuals, expensive drinks, glorious visions of nature, national institutions, celebrity salaries, to end in marvelous industrial creations, moving across the whole society as if it were all of one piece—not unlike Williams in his Spring and All. *

 

                                        You’re the top!

                                        You’re Mahatma Gandhi.

                                        You’re the top!

                                        You’re Napoleon Brandy.

                                        You’re the purple light

                                        Of a summer night in Spain,

                                        You’re the National Gallery

                                        You’re Garbo’s salary,

                                        You’re cellophane.**

 

     Never has the simple metaphor been used to such an extreme example! At one grand moment the couple compare each other to the great romantic poets only to suddenly drop into the most banal of American consumer products:

 

                                         You’re Keats.

                                         You’re Shelley,

                                         You’re Ovaltine. (,)

 

hinting at the purist poetry possible!

 

*Compare, for example, these lines from Williams’ Spring and All from 1923:

 

O “Kiki”

O Miss Margaret Jarvis

The backhandspring

 

I: clean

    clean

    clean: yes . .  New York

 

Wrigley’s, appendicitis, James Marin:

Skyscraper soup—

 

Either that or a bullet!

 

**Surely it is not coincidental that in the very same year as the Broadway production of Anything Goes, 1934, Four Saints in Three Acts, Gertrude Stein’s and Virgil Thomson’s noted opera, premiered in Hartford, Connecticut, the set festooned with cellophane. The opera had been previously performed in Ann Arbor in a concert version in 1933.

 

Los Angeles, December 4, 2012

Reprinted from US Theater, Opera and Performance (December 2012).

 

 

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