The Parsons Noseletter

IBy Lance Davis

NT. ESPN STUDIOS
Patrick McEnroe’s interview with
Francois Giscard Dupuis, President of
the French Open Organizing Committee.
PATRICK
We’re delighted to have with us Monsieur Francois Giscard
Dupuis, the President of L’Organization Francaise de Tennis.
The man responsible for this remarkable event. Welcome,
Monsieur Dupuis.
FRANCOIS
Merci, Patrick. I am delighted to be with you this evening.
PATRICK
Well, Francois. I think we have to begin with your thoughts
on the remarkable series of events today and how they might
play out in the coming weekend.
FRANCOIS
Well it will certainly be worth watching, I am sure, non?
(chuckle)
PATRICK
It certainly will. After today’s incident at the net.
FRANCOIS
Quite something, non? But that is France.
PATRICK
Absolutely. No love lost between Sharapova and Petrovic.
FRANCOIS
Oh? And why is that?
PATRICK
Well after the exchange between them at the net after the
match.
FRANCOIS
Oh, I thought you meant between Bennet and Fleurant.
PATRICK
Bennet and Fleurant? I’m sorry. Who are they?
FRANCOIS
The boys of the ball, Jaques Bennet and Jean Paul Fleurant.
PATRICK
The ball boys?
FRANCOIS
Mais oui. All of France is waiting to see what will happen in
the final match.
PATRICK
The ball boys?
FRANCOIS
But of course. All of France is in love with these boys. You
have the veteran Jaques Bennet, twelve years old, who had
such an injury today. Many doubt he will be able to return.
PATRICK
An injury today.
FRANCOIS
But of course today. Such exciting. Second set. Petrovic
serving. Bennet by the net in his, how do you say,
“signature” crouching. Staring straight ahead. Waiting for
his moment. Boom – the serve. Boom – he hears it hits the
net. Boom – already he is flashing across the screen; he is
scooping; he is on the other side. The complete turn and he
is ready to pounce again, in that way that has charmed all of
us in France for so many years.
PATRICK
He’s twelve.
FRANCOIS
Months.
PATRICK
So you don’t actually watch…
FRANCOIS
And on the other side we have Jean Paul Fleurant. Completely
different. Very young. Only ten years old but very fit, with
that cocky, devil may care style that has also charmed the
French, especially the young people, very much. And of
course, as these young Xtreme kids do now, preferring the
wrenching return to his own side and not crossing the court.
Of course it is risky, very difficult on the knees, but that
is his game. He is young and as I said very fit and, yes, can
get away with it. He is very exciting to watch. The girls
love him.
PATRICK
But…
FRANCOIS
And of course today we all saw.
PATRICK
Saw what?
FRANCOIS
Well the passing, perhaps, of the torch. The age catches up to
all of us, doesn’t it, Patrick? And we saw that, didn’t we?
There is Sharipova hitting into the net. And Bennet, perhaps
feeling the pressure a little, tries something new. He’s been
working very hard with a new coach, Slobodov the
Czechoslovakian, who was in the stands today, but I don’t
know that he is comfortable, shall we say, with these new
techniques. And we all saw him turn, and he was not
committed, and so he twists, and although he remained for the
match we all knew it was very painful and I must say he never
really was in the match after.
PATRICK
So…will he be there on Sunday?
FRANCOIS
Well this we do not know, eh? The trainers have said he
responded well to the treatment afterward. They did the IRM
and they say there was nothing there. Possibly some surgery
after the season, but they are still predicting he will be
able to go up against Fleurant. Now, whether there is some,
how shall we say, psychological “gamesmanship” going on, who
knows? (laugh)
PATRICK
And is this what the French are watching, really?
FRANCOIS
But of course, Patrick. For us, today, this is the enjoyment
of the Open. Otherwise it’s just a bunch of Slavic Amazons
wailing away at each other. We have seen that too many times
in the past. It is now boring to us.
PATRICK
Well that’s certainly something to think about. And about all
the time we have. We thank you, Monsieur Dupuis and good
night from Roland Garros.
FRANCOIS
It’s “Roland Garros”.
PATRICK
“Roland Garros”. That’s what I said, isn’t it?
FRANCOIS
“Roland Garros…”
FADE OUT

Friday, May 27 at 12:10

Saturday, May 28 at 7 PM

Lineage Performing Arts Center

89 South Fair Oaks, Pasadena, CA 91105

Chambord, 1670

In October, 1670, the French had just defeated the Turks and the Turkish ambassador had visited the French court with great hooha, so of course everyone was enamored of all things Turkish. King Louis XIV decided to take everyone out to the magnificent chateau Chambord for a hunting trip – a lovely time of the year in the Loire Valley, unless you’re a deer – and asked Moliere (playwright), Lully (composer) and Beauchamp (choreographer) to whip up one of those “comedie-ballets” he loved so much. “And put some Turks in it.”

Now the “comedy-ballet” was a form all it’s own, and from what I can make of it was like a sophisticated version of The Lucy Show. It must have taken hours, probably with breaks for crepes? There was a loose plot to the “book” – more schtick than plot – with lengthy interludes of song and dance. The book just happened to be written by one of the greatest comic writers in history, the music by one of the greatest composers, and the dance by the fellow who gave us the original five positions of the feet in ballet. (For more on the atmosphere of this kind of event, get the Gerard Depardieu film “Vatel” on Netflix. Fascinating.)

So it’s not one of Moliere’s “great comedies” like “The Miser” or “School for Wives” or “Tartuffe”. It’s more like something they all put together for The Kennedy Awards. And Louis loved these things, one reason being that he was a pretty good hoofer himself. And though these “comedie ballets” work very well on a level of “spectacle” you can almost feel the same tension brewing between the collaborators that happens in a high school, or for that matter, Broadway musical. The writer thinks the music is way too loud and too much, the choreographer wants the music to slow down for his dancers, the composer is seriously considering moving into “opera” where he only has to worry about sopranos. One fun thing is that Louis probably knew all this. Another is that they couldn’t leave. Another is that Moliere even comments on this tension in the play itself, pitting artists against one another.

The main object of ridicule, however, is the “nouveau riche” Monsieur Jourdain. The middle class, merchant class, in 17^th Century France was doing quite nicely. Trade had brought great opportunities to the empire and business was booming and its benefactors were challenging the  blanket authority of the aristocracy. The wealth that had belonged to the nobility was changing hands (the Revolution is only 120 years away) and fashion ruled the times. (One of the reasons Louis created Versailles in the first place was to drag all the nobility 12 miles outside of Paris, lodge them where he pleased, and set such a high mark for fashion and lifestyle that they were continually being financially challenged and indebted to him.) So Jourdain represents this new social climber, an uncultured and uneducated boor, who is trying to buy social standing. It’s a theme often repeated since Moliere in such American TV staples as “The Jeffersons”, “The Beverly Hillbillies and “Fresh Prince of Bel Air”. And of course “be true to your roots” is the lesson we all noddingly approve. Jourdain can take all the music, dance, fencing and philosophy classes in the world but he can’t – and the nobility sitting in Chambord really enjoyed this – buy “blood.” And thanks to Moliere genius, Jourdain’s obsession becomes a rich source of comedy, while poking fun at several ancillary targets – including the King’s Turks – along the way.

An interesting side- note is that Louis did not give his approval of the play at the curtaiin. He remained silent, which had immediate repercussions to Moliere’s well established reputation. His critics were quick to pounce, anticipating his imminent downfall. He himself, reportedly, stayed inside and away from the public. It wasn’t until after the spectacle’s second performance a few days later that the King remarked for all to hear that it was one of the most delightful pieces Moliere had ever presented for him. “I only reserved my judgment to be sure I wasn’t being seduced by the skill of your players.” And of course all the critics immediately claimed it was one of his best pieces ever. Welcome to Versailles, everyone.

I hope you’ll join us for this glimpse into a wonderful entertainment. In a one hour reading we can’t do justice to its splendor, but perhaps we can introduce an appreciation for a classical work that bears further investigation. – LD

Parson’s Nose Readers’ Theater presents “The Perilous Streets of Pasadena!”

Written by Dion Boucicault; adapted by Lance Davis

Friday April 22 at 12:10; Saturday April 23 at 7 PM

Lineage Performing Arts Center, 89 South Fair Oaks Ave., Pasadena, CA 91105

RSVP 626-403-7667, parsonsnose@mac.com; Running time 1 hour; Free (donations encouraged)

Some years ago  I toured in a summer stock production of “The Streets of New York” with Farley Granger and Orson Bean. What are the chances of that? It was a great favorite on the circuit. Today’s audiences readily enjoyed the interactive “boos” and “yays” of the melodramatic form.

“Streets” was written in 1857 by the great 19^th Century Irish actor and playwright Dionysus Boucicault, taken from a French play, “The Poor of Paris” by Edward Nus.  Boucicault added a “fire” scene to accommodate the popular demand for spectacle, and also changed the local references to the city it played, in London “The Poor of London,” “The Poor of Liverpool,” “The Poor of Dublin.” The word “Poor” was also changed to “Streets” in several productions.

Boucicault was a true man of the theater. Born in 1820 in Dublin to a relatively well –to –do family, he became an actor, then playwright and producer with a keen sense of the audience’s taste. The stock market crashes of 1837 and 1857 set the scene for the play. As in Dickens, the shocking financial reversals  of the wealthy and their newfound appreciation for the core values of the impoverished were favorite themes of the melodramas of the day. Boucicault also had an innate sense of comedy which we see not only in “Streets” but in his hit comedy “London Assurance” – revived  on Broadway in 2009 – and his career vehicle for the great 19^th Century American star Joseph Jefferson, “Rip Van Winkle,” which Parson’s Nose revived in 2005.

I hope you enjoy my version of the play. I think it’s in the spirit of Boucicault, though admittedly I’ve incorporated Parson’s Nose “panto” touches. It’s been great fun to insert, as he did, local references to Pasadena and its citizens. I’ve tried to offer it with a kind humor, and trust our audiences to receive with  same. Thanks in advance to Mayor Bill Bogaard for allowing the use of his name as the villain banker. I assured him that though Aloysius receives most of the “boos” in the piece his actions can be attributed not only to greed but to a misplaced love of his wicked daughter.

Please join us for an hour, bring your whole family, and relish the interactive cheers and hisses of our theater heritage.

“The Story of An Hour”

Kate Chopin (1894)

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will–as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that owuld belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they ahve a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him–sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door–you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”

“Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills.

Blow the Man Down, Bullies

Parson’s Nose at the Lineage Performing Arts Center

Friday Lunchtime Series March 25 at 12:10 (bring a lunch!)

Saturday Soiree March 26 at 7 PM

RSVP parsonsnose@mac.com or 626-403-7667

In 1980 I was summoned to Long Wharf Theater in New Haven by Ed Call, one of America’s most exciting directors, to be part of a play they called “Sea Plays” by Eugene O’Neill. Four one acts that took place on the S.S. Glencairn: “Long Voyage Home,” “Moon of the Caribees,” “In the Zone,” and “Bound East for Cardiff”. Ed said, “Tell him if he shows up he has the part.” And sure enough a company showed up for the first rehearsal that looked like the mug sheet at Rikers’ Island. Joey Tillinger, Long Wharf’s assistant director, said, “Well this is the butchest crowd we’ve had here in years.” To calm the rowdiness Ed hired a bevy of fine actresses, Nora Chester, LeClanche Du Rand and C.C. H. Pounder among them, to give the audience a sense of life’s beauty, however unattainable. The weeks proved fascinating as we delved into the rough, drunken, hard bitten lives of the men of the Glencairn, escaping their nightmares on a merchant freighter in 1915. O’Neill had himself been a merchant seaman so he knew the talk, the fears and loneliness of these outcasts, feverishly solving a crime  never committed.

Cut to 2000 and I’m teaching an acting class at Cal State LA and come across a piece “for women” called “Trifles” by Susan Glaspell, one of America’s premiere writers. Glaspell had been a reporter in Des Moines in 1910 and investigated a murder in a prairie farmhouse. Again, a story of hard lives and loneliness and a prairie housewife driven to despair, and of her two women friends who piece together the “trifling” clues to the reality of the case while their husbands bump about in the dark.

Cut to last year when I’m researching the season for Parson’s Nose and I find that both plays were performed in the newly founded Provincetown Playhouse in Massachusetts in its second summer of 1917. New works, detective stories of the prairie and of the sea, by fledgling playwrights who were to soon grow into full flight in the pantheon of American playwrights. I love the idea of Susan and Eugene sitting on the edge of a summertime Massachusetts wharf, drinking whiskies, excitedly discussing the day’s rehearsal at sundown.

Please join us for this glimpse into their world.

the S.S. Glencairn

SUBMARINE

by: Eugene O’Neill (1888-1953)

• Y soul is a submarine.

  My aspirations are torpedoes.

  I will hide unseen

  Beneath the surface of life

  Watching for ships,

  Dull, heavy-laden merchant ships,

  Rust-eaten, grimy galleons of commerce

  Wallowing with obese assurance,

  Too sluggish to fear or wonder,

  Mocked by the laughter of waves

  And the spit of disdainful spray.

  I will destroy them

  Because the sea is beautiful.

  That is why I lurk

  Menacingly

  In green depths.

“Submarine” is reprinted from the Masses, February, 1917.

Well we had a very exciting first weekend of “Cendrillon (son-dree-yohn)” with good audiences both matinees and evening. Interesting to note that we had more young people at the matinees, to be expected, attending with their parents or adults, which is what we’re about. We don’t play to or write for kids, but we do shows that kids will also enjoy, much like telling a joke that some kids will get and some won’t.

But another observation over the weekend was the ubiquitous presence of discussion of Gadhafi. Remember when he was younger and relatively good looking, and wore those Michael Jackson/Sergeant Pepper outfits and we all thought he was just quite odd? And today he’s ranting on from his bunker, surrounded by bodyguards who would rather be anywhere else, and warning us of the dangers of hallucinogens. I can’t help but think of our reading of “Ubu Roi” last summer and how many in the audience felt completely bewildered by Jarry’s “nonsensical” tale. Mad, ruthless, power-hungry dictator, his warlike and ineffectual sons, his alienation from both his people and his army.  And here it is. All happening in front of us. The classics shock us again.

Bullying, parental loss and alienation.
Love, belief and reconciliation.

Topics ripped from the Star News, the local PTA meeting or church bulletin? No, the ideas explored in a 17th Century work by Charles Perrault, the father of the modern fairy tale, in his classic work “Cendrillon (son-dree-yohn)”.
Parson’s Nose, the San Gabriel Valley’s acclaimed professional theater company “introducing classics,” now in its 11th season and based in Pasadena, is delighted to present its “story theater” (no frills- just brilliant) retelling of Perrault’s work in a world premiere translation/adaptation by Lance Davis for six performances on February 26, 27, March 5, 6.
Lise, a noble French girl, has her almost  idyllic life shattered by her mother’s death and her well meaning but distant father’s remarriage. Her new siblings are a study in bullying and recrimination. And only through perseverance, belief, and the magic of creativity can she break the bonds of her oppression.
We at Parson’s Nose believe classic works speak to us down through hundreds of years because they touch the sources of human emotion. We see our own stories and hear our own voices in these dramas. We laugh and cry at ourselves through the lens of Time, and find it comforting in a special way. The eight year old in each of us can be fulfilled, if only for an hour, on a Saturday afternoon. Please join us and be inspired.

Call 626-403-7667 or Go to http://www.parsonsnose.com

“Cendrillon (son-dree-yohn)” is sponsored in part by the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, the City of Pasadena Cultural Affairs Commission, The Pasadena Arts League, “and viewers like you.”

A couple of years ago my sister Terry sent my daughter Jemma a beautiful French book of Charles Perrault’s 17th Century story, with illustrations by Arthur Rackham. Of course I immediately took it away from her and began to work my way through the French myself. I was delighted by the illustrations, but moreso by the freshness of the original story. The mother and Lise are so close at the beginning. The father is distant but loving, more at home in his library in the chateau. The mother dies. The father sends Lise off to convent school. She returns to find Papa has found her a new family to share.

One of the things that struck me was the naivete of the father, the Baron. He was faced with raising a daughter approaching puberty on his own, in an empty house, something he was completely unprepared for. And his naivete allows him to make a dangerous and foolish decision. His life is in books, not the real world.

Another thing that had always struck me was the idea of the magic shoes. Something about them I couldn’t grasp. I know about the “vair”/”verre” theories, that the shoes were not of glass but of fur, an argument that now is shifting toward the original “glass” interpretation. But I thought there might be something else that would be meaningful to some. I gave Lise a slight defect of birth. One leg slightly shorter than the other. Certainly unnoticeable to her family, behind the garden walls, and to the good sisters of the convent who would never mention it. But to cruel sisters and their mother, anxious to gain the upper hand, it was a perfect target.

So the shoes make Lise whole. When she goes to the ball she is back in the safety of her mother. All is right with the world and her true nature can emerge. “It’s only a pumpkin if you believe it’s a pumpkin” becomes a truth to build a life on.

I think I have some surprises in the script that will give an alternative to Mr. Disney’s interpretation. We do the play in one hour with five superb actors – Marisa Chandler, Amanda Pajer, James Calvert, Michael Faulkner and dare I say myself playing – oh maybe 20 comic roles. It’s in a “story theater” setting that allows for minimum set and maximum imagination, and with such a cast, generous dollops of wit and pathos. We have music by Charpentier and Lully, contemporaries of Perrault, and Tom Peters, a contemporary of ours. We steal from the British panto tradition of cross-gender role-playing. Our light but bright touch costumes by our designer Holly Victoria allow immediate character identification. And we can finally use at least a part of the wonderful set idea sketched out by Tony Award winner Desmond Heeley years ago for our company and executed by Ms. Victoria.

In all it’s a family of artists telling a marvelously imaginative story to a family of audience. I do hope you’ll join us. And now I can give the book back to Jemma. Oh, I see Mary reading this now. Hello, dear.

Go to http://www.parsonsnose.com

for more information and link to tickets.

“Chekov One Acts: The Boor and A Marriage Proposal”

Friday Brownbag Series: January 22 at 12:10 PM

Saturday Soiree: January 23 at 7 PM

Reservations: 626-403-7667 or parsonsnose@mac.com

We’re delighted to be presenting our first effort from the hand of Dr. Chekov. He was an amazing writer. And I believe often misunderstood. I think he was an excellent comedy writer, a fact often overlooked in many productions of his work. At Minnesota I remember Mr. Robert Moulton, one of the most gifted professors I had the honor of working with, directing a production of “The Seagull”. The moment that stood out for me was in the scene where they’re all lounging outside, sitting on the swing, lying on the hammock, reading books or gazing. Seemingly endless silence. Then from off upstage right you heard a “thwock” and a slowly moving croquet ball rolled across the stage and off left. More silence. “Thwock” And a second ball rolls lazily across.

It underscored a wonderfully humorous poignancy that Chekov understood. Not unlike that of “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman” or the work of Truffault or Woody Allen. There is a pain, but often self – inflicted, that can be sad and funny. Someone once said that “Three Sisters” should be done as if Moscow were ten miles away. All the talk of “when we get to Moscow” becomes incongruous. And I’m sorry, but for all the chatter you begin to wonder when no one, no one, saves “The Cherry Orchard.” We are victims of ourselves.

In his light pieces of fluff, “The Boor” and “The Marriage Proposal” we see the sparks of Chekov’s coming incandescence. Terribly outrageous characters, in love with themselves, joyfully revel in their anguish. Passion is everything. Anything but the dull humdrum they’ve been tolerating. A very fun hour with Dr. Chekov.
Please join us!