Theatre Life

Hello Gentle Reader

The wings and the rafters are all painted black, paired with equally mourning drapes and curtains which hang on hooks, which can be maneuvered and moved to conceal and reveal. Tucked away are the discarded realities of the past. They sit in varying stages of disassembly. The castle wall has fallen under siege; cut out clouds collect dust; a sofa sits in waiting to be retrieved or worst donated; other random assortments have since lost any sliver of identity or purpose, what were once flowers are now twigs of peeling green paint, a bed frame now kindling for a bonfire, an extinguished sun, burned out and forgotten. The crew of assembly and dismantling sits on crates off to the side, smoking cigarettes. Their coveralls caked with dust, their eyes glazed with boredom. The scene is set. This time a chapel and wedding.

Hidden in a corner, sits the costume closet; there tailor and seamstress are played by a singular individual. They pin, prick, snip and sew the uniforms and outfits of the characters. In a sense, they essentially create the characters. Costumes are the defining impressions of a character. Clothes define the character. Here they also starch and iron the players of the play. For example: the groom waits down below in the dressing rooms—the dungeon as it’s colloquially and playfully called. He paces back and forth. His groomsmen sit in absentminded dazes. None of them speak, they only stand; as there are no lines for them to recite or rehearse. Meanwhile the groom mumbles under his breath, as he paces the room. He’s all but ready, with the exception of his trousers. They were wrinkled in transport, and would not be suitable for the opening night—let alone any night. So, they were urgently rushed to the costume closet, whereupon they were greeted with needle like fingers and silent scowling sewn lips. Immediately they were pressed and ironed before being placed on a hanger. This carelessness is not easily forgiven. Trousers or no trousers, the groom is summoned to the costume closet. There everything must be inventoried and inspected. The groom is ordered to strip further, until he's left solely in his underwear. Everything must be inventoried and inspected: jacket, waistcoat, shirt, tie, cufflinks, and boutonnière. Everything is accounted for, and with no blemishes discovered the groom is ordered to get dressed there on the spot—one arm at a time; one leg at a time. Afterwards the needle like fingers: poke and prod, then straighten the tie, and ensure the boutonnière is symmetrical. The groom can breathe easy, after standing around in varying stages of dress and undress. 

In the left wing the bride waits. She whispers her lines. Her bridesmaids busy themselves by flirting with the crew men, who all but ignore such sugared delights. She is overcome with white. Her dress bellows out all around her in a fog of lace and silk. A bit old fashioned for her taste. Yet she can’t complain due to the corset cinched up from her waist to her ribs. Her face is poorly masked by a wedding veil; supposedly a symbol of her virtue. Though, in all reality she hadn’t been a virgin for quite some time. It’s not about her; no, it’s about ‘the bride,’—someone who is a virgin, and in complete adoration of ‘the groom.’ He was an easy lay, and a lazy one at that. She knew she could have done better. But today they get married. He has her ring in the right wings. It has glitz and it has glamour. But like everything else it’s all smoke and mirror, an alchemical play of light and shadow. After it sparkles and the curtain drops for the next scene, the ring ends up back in the costume closet—back into those needle fingers and scowling sewn lips—where it will be repurposed for another production at some other date. Perhaps even for some other bride.  

Above it all sits the almighty; a spider like creature that’s perched on its catwalk and wired web, complete with bulbs, speakers, knobs and toggles. It is the absolute controller of lights and sound. The one who brings the day and ends the night. The only one who makes the wind howl and the rain fall. They accentuate the characters; they wash and bathe the stage in the light only they can provide. They illuminate the scrim with the appropriate mood; from red with anger, to blue with sadness, to green with envy or greed, to blush or pink with love and romance. The same colours repurposed to signify and allude to the weather and seasons: blue for rainy days, green for spring, yellow for summer, red for autumn, grey for overcast days, and white for winter. Tonight’s production is simple enough: white and pink; it all fits into the chapel and the marriage. As the audience will take their seat and as the production gets closer to its beginning, the almighty will transition and transport the spectators to the private and manufactured world on stage. One just haphazardly constructed together. A world populated by superficial characters, portrayed by down and out of luck actors. Throughout it all, the almighty oversees the transition of worlds; they ensure the weather is cooperative, and the world is displayed with perfect illumination, never requiring further elucidation.

Below is the stage manager, which is charged with maintaining peace and order, as well as being the sole ambassador and son of the almighty. When or rather if, the almighty chooses to speak it is only to the stagehand, who is expected to relay the information or give the marching orders. They are expected to round up the troops, ensure everything is in place and ready before releasing the curtain, from then on: its fingers crossed, as no direction can be given and no corrections can be offered. Already the stage manager has shooed away the bridesmaids, while giving the crew of assembly and dismantling the sofa to sit on in the alley, and if they so desired they could burn the bedframe kindling as well as the other disused landscapes. The groom, oh the groom in varying stages of dress and undress; just so those sewn scowling lips twitched with sadism. Once he was dressed he is rushed to the right wing and his groomsmen immediately beckoned. The bride complains her corset is too tight; but it is too late for any adjustments, as the groom occupied the time with liberal leisure. The almighty calls. Curtain is in five.

The groom fidgets with his tie. The bride wonders if she can breathe and speak. The bridesmaids grab their bouquets. The groomsmen lounge. The first match is struck in the alley, and lost worlds burn; all the while the crew of assembly and dismantling smokes cigarettes and play cards. Soon the same hammers that nailed the world together, will pry them loose; and everything begins anew. The stage manager takes their seat at their desk. The script is open, the blocking clear, and the directions simple. The productions scaffolding is secure, now it’s up to the costumes to come alive on their characters. The curtain raises; the almighty washes the stage in white and pink. Enter the groom and bride, followed by their groomsmen and bridesmaids. in the costume closet work has already begun. A police officers uniform is being stitched and sewn, while a prisoner’s suit hangs in the background.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Yu Guangzhong, Dies Aged 89

Hello Gentle Reader

Yu Guangzhong (also spelt: Yu Kwang-chung) died at the age of 89 years old on the fourteenth of December, from complications related to pneumonia. Yu Guangzhong was a revered and respected writer, publishing seventeen collections of poetry, along with twelve collections of prose. Yu’s poetry was noted for its deceptive simplistic style, while engaging readers with empathetic themes, such as: the poignancy of nostalgia and homesickness, the bitterness of a lost home, and the pains of exile. These themes gathered great followings with readers in Taiwan—especially former soldiers and former government workers, who had all fled mainland China to Taiwan, after the Chinese Civil War and Mao Zedong proved victorious and instituted communism.  Yu Guangzhong then gave voice to the displaced and disenfranchised people who had lost the civil war.  Yu Guangzhong’s essays often took a different turn then his poetry; his essays where noted for his humanistic approach to life, his humour, an always appreciative wit, and his continual interest in literature and art both Eastern and Western. Hong Kong University, Yu Guangzhong was internationally acclaimed for his command and knowledge of traditional Chinese language and literature as well as modern, he was noted for his efficiency and fluency of the English language, as well as a noted translator. Beyond the English language, Yu Guangzhong spoke French, German, Italian and Spanish, and often used this different languages and linguistic traditions to juxtapose the Chinese language.

It is sad Gentle Reader, when a great writer dies, it seems only then do we discover them and then find their work is difficult to find.  Yu Guangzhong appears to be a worthy and great poet, but it is unfortunate that it is only now do we discover him and his work.

Rest in Peace, Yu Guangzhong.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

William Gass, Dies Aged 93

Hello Gentle Reader

I’ve always imagined William Gass, John Ashbery, and Harold Bloom to be of similar temperament with regards to their careers and how they have influenced American literary tastes and cultures over the latter half of the twentieth century. These three pigeons sat and guarded their ivory tower; only allowing the selected to view its chambers and inner sanctum. John Ashbery died back in September of two-thousand and seventeen; and now the American critic, short story writer, and casual novelist: William Gass, has also died, at the age of ninety three. Gass gathered attention in the late sixties and early seventies with his short stories, which were known for challenging the form, and were often considered dreamlike and surreal. However, it was his essays and academic writings which many found more appealing about the writer; which he often lamented with regret and sadness as he preferred to write fiction then concentrate solely on non-fictional pursuits. Between the nineteen-seventies and two-thousand and twelve, William Gass had published seven collections of essays, whose themes were abstract and academic in nature, they asked questions of language and the novelist format, as well as the idea of the metaphor among other eclectic but literary niche subject matters. Despite being considered an engrossing and engaging academic, Gass was often dismissed by other critics and academics, due to his constrain perspectives, and his redundant recitations. Gass refuted and refused to indulge in the thought that literature acted as a mirror or reflection of society; he preferred to dig deeper, into the elemental core of novels and books, and deconstruct and dismantle literature to its most elemental features. For example: William Gass proposed and argued the sentence was a cerebral universe of consciousness, belonging not to the reader, or society, or even the author, but rather the book itself. His philosophical and academic arguments were perhaps reminiscent of the conspiracy theorist uncle, or the philosophical junkie nephew who mutters and talks as if he has unlocked the secrets of life and the universe, but in the process has lost all sanity and reasons, and cannot articulate his thoughts in any coherent manner. Ever the radical, Gass never ceased to debate, lecture, and defend his opinions, perspectives, and essay; though sadly this contrarian and radical thoughts often made him a polarized and controversial character; one both praised and ridiculed, and more often than not left on top bookshelves to collect dust. William Gass was perhaps too poetically pedantic with his literary pursuits; though this did not hinder his small successes and his publishing career. Now with his death William Gass’s criticism and radical perspectives will once again being renewed reviewed, as others will attempt to deconstruct and understand the cerebral consciousness hidden within the sentences.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Kazuo Ishiguro and his Nobel Road

Hello Gentle Reader

A Nobel Laureate’s lecture is a speech in which they deliver and offer their insights and thanks to the world. There lectures may help explain their thought processes, and how their experiments may have incubated grand results and scientific break thoughts. Others offer biographical stories, anecdotes, and personal thoughts about their field, others raddle the cage or make grand political and sociological gestures where they express disdain and disgust tyranny, totalitarianism, authoritarian governments past and present, and warn about repeating history. All the while, others tell or read stories.

Kazuo Ishiguro’s Nobel speech: “My Twentieth Century Evening – and Other Small Breakthroughs,”—is riddled with biographical sketches, anecdotes, thoughts, musings, theories admittances of influences, and thanks. Ishiguro begins his speech by mentioning his younger self back in the late seventies, whereupon it would be difficult to categorize him socially or racially; at the time he was twenty four years old with long hair complete with a dropping bandit style moustache. His accent was polished by the south of England, peppered with the vernacular and dated slang of the hippies. In other words, compared to the visiting Japanese people of the time: Kazuo Ishiguro was a product all of his own. He confessed to being more interested in discussing football or the newest Bob Dylan album; and when the inevitable questions arose about his heritage, Ishiguro mentioned slight impatience and he explained: he did not have any thoughts or opinions about Japan, as he had not set foot on the island nation since he was five years old.

Memory courses through Kazuo Ishiguro’s Nobel Lecture, moving from one defining point to another point of similar interest. He admits without a trace of irony his goal of becoming a rockstar by the age of twenty, but as mentioned before: he did not have the constitution or style to be a stage performer; before digressing his first two novels which imagined a Japan of his imagination and thoughts, at which point Ishiguro reveals his unique childhood and upbringing, whereupon the middle class expectation of an English child were placed on him as much as they were on every other child of his community—though he was a curiosity of sorts due to his unique foreign appearance and family. His parents viewed themselves more as visitors then true immigrants, and often expected to return to Japan, it was even theorized that Kazuo Ishiguro would move back to Japan and spend his adult life in Japan. This did not happen; but the Japan of his dreams and imagination did not escape his mind, as his first two novels were attempts at creating a international form of literature, one which moved above post-colonial thought. Yet after these two novels; Ishiguro decided to explore a unique England, one engulfed with rigid stoicism and unemotional duty, which leads to profound sadness. From there came his novel “The Remains of the Day.” His Booker Prize winning novel and often considered his breakthrough novel.

While in Tokyo, Ishiguro mentions a unique question proposed by a member of the audience: the audience member had presented Ishiguro with the question of what will he work on next, but mentioned that all his work to date (at the time) had been concerned with the individuals who lived through great social and political upheaval, but it was mainly concerned with the individuals response to the external climate of the time. Ishiguro has slowly begun to move away from the individual perspective of the world, and instead transitioned towards relationships, such as his novel: “Never Let Me Go,” which traces the fleeting and brief lives of three people who are genetically designed to have their organs harvested. The relationships and how they interact with each other made the novel heartbreaking and devastating as it asks serious questions about the future of humanity.

Ishiguro closes his lecture by standing by the importance of literature, welcoming the younger generation of writers, their thoughts, their ideas, their formats, and their styles of writing; before thanking the Swedish Academy and the Nobel Prize for retaining itself as being a beacon of hope for humanity, which continues to shine and inspire scientists, peace activists and politicians, as well as writers.

Though no tone of the greatest Nobel lectures ever presented to the Swedish Academy; Ishiguro’s lecture follows the path of his novels, moving from memory to memory, in which he attempts to displays his perspective of the world, and at the same time give thanks to the Swedish Academy, as well as maintain the importance of literature in a world with increasing impatience and little attention span to spare. It was not one of the worst Nobel lectures viewed—as Elfriede Jelinek’s is often perplexing and confusing, as it is a long monologue in some Beckettian tradition; and it was not riddled with the vitriol of Harold Pinter who attacked with nihilistic anger the politics of the era; but it lacked the concise and precise language of Herta Müller, as she discusses tragedy, oppression, and resilience in the face of political upheaval. Then again it was not dry long and rambling as Kenzaburō Ōe’s lecture, which could bore one to tears. Yet it missed the wit and lightness of touch of Wisława Szymborska who evaded the subject of poetry with a sly dance, and not once ever dipped into something too revealing or confessional, always keeping a safe distance between personal allegory and intellectual conversation.

In three days, Kazuo Ishiguro will finally receive his Nobel Medal and Diploma from the hands of the King of Sweden himself, afterwards with his fellow Laureates, he will be enjoy the banquet and festivities as the Nobel week.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary