Posts Tagged ‘Broadway’
“Mangoes will make you forget anything but mangoes”*…
… Or not. As Christin Bohnke explains, sometimes a mango is more than just a mango…
What happens when ideologies are destroyed? When beliefs that shaped generations dissolve overnight? In the wreckage of old traditions, new symbols are created, and meaning is projected onto what was previously trivial. But not all of these new symbols are coherent or easily legible. Some are outright weird. Few events in history demonstrate the absurdity of political symbolism as clearly as the Mao Mango Mania that swept China during the infancy of the Cultural Revolution.
In 1966, Mao Zedong, Chairman of the Communist Party and China’s supreme leader, set in motion the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, a campaign to realign China with his revolutionary vision. His goal was to transform society, both economically and ideologically, by purging everything deemed traditional or capitalist. Over the next ten years, the Cultural Revolution changed the country in profound and painful ways, leading to more than a million estimated deaths as well as to immense human suffering.
Historian Lü Xiuyuan describes the period between 1966 and 1968 as the most destructive years of the entire movement. Following Mao’s directive to destroy the “Four Olds” (ideas, cultures, customs, and habits), his paramilitary youth groups, the Red Guards, swept the country with violence. They identified, tortured, and killed so-called “counterrevolutionaries,” raided temples and schools, and destroyed priceless artifacts. In 1968, university campuses, middle schools, and other public spaces became the sites of bloody battles, not only between Red Guards and alleged counterrevolutionaries but also between revolutionary factions. The chaos of the “Red Terror” couldn’t continue indefinitely, so Mao determined that Chinese workers would help suppress the Red Guard, restore order, and continue the revolution in a more measured manner. In this endeavor, Mao was helped, improbably, by a box of yellow-fleshed fruit.
In August 1968, a visiting foreign minister from Pakistan, Mian Arshad Hussain, gave Mao a box of mangoes as a gift during a state visit. Presenting mangoes has a long tradition in Pakistan, but in China, the fruit was virtually unknown. Mao passed the box to workers occupying the Tsinghua campus in Beijing, who were attempting to control the Red Guards stationed there. The scholar of Chinese visual culture Alfreda Murck writes that the mangoes carried an implicit message: from now on, the workers, not the Red Guards, would be in charge of education and the transformation of China in Mao’s image.
According to Murck, even Mao could not have anticipated the consequences of his gift. Because the mangoes came from the supreme leader, they were transformed, in the eyes of the workers, from a simple fruit into an object endowed with attributes of the divine. William H. Hinton, the author of Fanshen, compiled eyewitness accounts of workers who reported staying up all night, touching the mangoes, and marveling at their new station as protégés of the Chairman. Using the momentum, the official party cadres concocted a propaganda campaign surrounding the mangoes, workers, and Mao, and in doing so, according to the political scientist Richard Baum, effectively signed “the death warrant of the Red Guards.”
Quickly, the Red Guards were disbanded, many of them sent for reeducation in the countryside where they labored and lived alongside rural peasants. By contrast, the workers who received Mao’s mangoes, a sign of his favor, were energized and became Cultural Revolution leaders. Yet, their promotion was an illusion. True power lay with the People’s Liberation Army. Despite, or because of that, the workers—and the mangoes—played a significant role in official propaganda in the months to come.
When the workers returned to their factories after putting down the Red Guards, Mao had a fresh mango delivered to them. Workers held welcoming ceremonies for the fruit, preserved it in wax, placed it on altars, and bowed to it when walking by. In one factory, the fruit was boiled down into sacred mango water; each devotee drank a spoonful. From there on, the cult of the mango escalated. Wax and even plastic mangoes were quickly produced in Chinese factories and appeared all over the country, often displayed in glass cases. Images of the mango adorned plates, wedding gifts, and cigarette packages. It was stitched onto blankets, and propaganda teams armed with wax replicas were sent into the remotest corners of the country to spread its lore. More than seventy different types of mango badges to stitch onto clothes were given away for free or sold at a low price to those who couldn’t afford more expensive mango-themed items. Alongside the mangoes were mentions of Mao’s selflessness and love for the people (though no reference to the fate of the Red Guards), and many badges bore the slogan “With each mango profound kindness.”…
… During the 1968 National Day parade in Beijing, the mango was front and center. At least three mango-themed floats participated in the parade, decorated with slogans that emphasized the significance of the working class, as well as a colossal white statue of Mao. The parade reinforced the importance of Mao as the supreme leader and the mango as a symbol of his power.
According to development studies scholar Xing Li, Mao viewed ideology as the primary means of mobilizing the masses and driving change, putting special emphasis on themes such as dedication, self-sacrifice, and hard work. The mango was a perfect vessel for Mao’s “love” for the workers. Unlike already established symbols such as the peony, peach, or pomegranate, the mango had no preexisting meaning in China and, importantly, no association with emperors or divinity. Quickly, rumors spread that mango trees only blossom every century—or every thousand years, according to others—and that eating the fruit would bring about a long life, similar to the peaches of immortality that feature prominently in Chinese legends. Mao’s refusal to keep the mangoes for himself was therefore seen as a great sacrifice on behalf of his people.
The veneration of the mango coincided with a high point in Mao’s personality cult. In the 1960s, one billion copies of the “Little Red Book,” a collection of Mao’s quotes, were printed. The book had to be waved and quoted at the beginning of each workday and whenever someone made a political statement. Mao was everywhere. And so were his mangoes. They became inextricably linked, and criticism of one meant criticism of the other. Murck tells of a dentist in Sichuan province, for example, who, after seeing a mango paraded through his town, said that the fruit resembled a sweet potato. He was arrested, tried as a counterrevolutionary, marched through the streets, and executed. His children were sent to the countryside for reeducation. Given the serious consequences of even the slightest criticism, it’s impossible to say how many people genuinely participated in the mango cult and how many complied out of fear.
Political movements need symbols to foster cohesion and emotional connection, but for these to thrive and remain, they must have at least some internal logic, cultural coherence, or tradition. The mango was an artificial symbol, created randomly, and the people’s devotion to the fruit must have been at least partially performative. By 1969, the mango cult had already begun to decline; it was no longer featured in official campaigns, although the sheer volume of mango-themed products ensured that it didn’t disappear entirely until the mid-1970s. After Mao’s death in 1976 and the 1980s reassessment of his personality cult, it became acceptable to discard mango ephemera that some Chinese still kept in their homes, or more prudently, to repurpose the wax mangoes as candles. Because the mango was so closely linked to Mao, it couldn’t remain a meaningful symbol without him.
Still, the mango as a political symbol never entirely faded. US-based Chinese author Ha Jin, who served in the Chinese army at the time of the Cultural Revolution and has been an outspoken critic of the Chinese government, wrote in his 2019 poem “A Sacred Mango:”
The mango was exhibited in the center of the hall.
We lined up to look at it
and to show our gratitude and respect.But that night some curious child tasted the fruit
and was not caught.
Our mayor, frightened and outraged, said,
“Damn it, if I knew which son of a rabbit bit the mango
I would turn his whole family
into counter-revolutionaries!”But what could we do?
We substituted a wooden mango for a real one.For Ha Jin, as for others, the mango remains not a sign of Mao’s power, but a reminder of the Cultural Revolution’s absurdity and the arbitrary labeling of counterrevolutionaries. Despite being a short-lived propaganda tool, the mango’s symbolism endures as a testament to the irrationality of Mao’s extreme personality cult.
Commercial production of the mango in China began around that time, but only really accelerated in the 1980s. Although some people still recall the mango cult and spoke about it in their interviews with Murck, today the meaning of this particular fruit is largely forgotten, and the mango, far from symbolizing Mao’s eternal love and sacrifice for the working class, has transformed once again. This time, into a refreshing summer treat…
A fleeting cult built around a fruit exposes the logic, and illogic, of Mao’s personality cult: “When Mao’s Mango Mania Took Over China,” from @jstordaily.bsky.social.
* Eve Babitz
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As we pare away the peel, we might send decorative birthday greetings to Maria do Carmo Miranda da Cunha; she was born on this date in 1909. Better known by her stage name, Carmen Miranda (and her nickname, “the Brazilian Bombshell”), she was a successful singer, dancer, and actress.
As a young woman, Miranda designed clothes and hats in a boutique before making her debut as a singer, recording with composer Josué de Barros in 1929. Miranda’s 1930 recording of “Taí (Pra Você Gostar de Mim),” written by Joubert de Carvalho, catapulted her to stardom in Brazil as the foremost interpreter of samba. In 1939 she was invited to Broadway by producer Lee Shubert, and quickly lured from there to Hollywood, where she made 14 films in as many years.
Miranda did much to popularize Brazilian music and raise American awareness of Latin culture, for which she has been honored (e.g., with a museum) in Brazil. Here, she is largely remebered for her style, in particular for her large “fruit hats.”
“If vaudeville had died, television was the box they put it in”*…
Perhaps… but as Laurie Winer explains in an excerpt from her Oscar Hammerstein II and the Invention of the Musical, at a time when immigrants were pouring into the United States from Eastern and Southern Europe, the vaudeville circuit became a venue for the expression of those arriving cultures– and ultimately gave us so much more…
The term ‘melting pot’ comes from the theater — it was popularized by a 1908 drama with that title about a Russian composer who loses his family in the 1903 Bessarabia pogroms, emigrates to America, and falls in love with the daughter of the officer responsible for his family’s murder. Such was the compression of migrants in the first decades of the new century. In fact, about fifteen million eastern and southern Europeans arrived in the United States between 1900 and 1915. In 1907 Ellis Island received its highest number of immigrants in a single year, processing more than one million arrivals. In the public sphere, all these cultures introduced themselves on the stages and in the audiences of vaudeville, the American equivalent of the British music hall.
Willie Hammerstein managed the country’s premiere vaudeville house from 1904 until 1913, so his son Oscar II grew up at the epicenter of a cultural mashup unlike anything that had come before. In an oral history he recorded for Columbia University, Oscar remembered going to his father’s theater, the Victoria, every Sunday, where the performers taught him everything he needed to know about comedy and pacing.
Ticket prices were low and audiences comprised many nationalities. Since a good number of performers and spectators alike had escaped famine or pogroms or the social rigidity of the Old World, their evenings together at the theater were fueled by a giddy sense of possibility, both for themselves and for their new country. For instance, ‘It Isn’t What You Used to Be, It’s What You Are Today’ was a staple song for comedian Al Shean, born Abraham Adolph Schönberg in Germany in 1868.
From the 1880s to the early 1930s, peaking from 1905 to 1915, vaudeville presented a unique parade of cultures. Here is where theater became integral to constructing a multihued American identity, a space to figure out who we were and who we wanted to become. A dictionary defines vaudeville as ‘a comedy without psychological or moral intentions,’ and it was this very insignificance that lent the form its power.
With political correctness a concept far in the future, ethnic stereotyping was the entire point of acts like ‘Harry Harvey, the Quaint Hebrew Comedian,’ ‘The Original Wop,’ ‘The Wop and the Cop,’ ‘9 Orientals 9,’ ‘Two Funny Sauerkrauts,’ and ‘The Sport and the Jew.’ Al Shean’s sister Minnie managed and sometimes acted with her five sons, later known as the Marx Brothers, who presented several nationalities in one family. Their first stab at ethnic comedy was an act from 1911 or 1912 called ‘Fun in Hi Skule’: Groucho, playing a thickly accented German teacher, tried, and failed, to control his students, including Harpo (representing the Irish in a bright red wig), Gummo (with a Yiddish accent), and Paul Yale, who played a gay man with a limp wrist. (Chico, who would play the Italian, had not yet joined the act.) Groucho remembered the skit as a big hit, evoking lots of laughter.
In 1905, journalist Hartley Davis wrote an appreciation of vaudeville in Everybody’s Magazine, declaring it to be the ‘most significant development in American amusements of the last decade’:
There is a cheerful frivolity in vaudeville which makes it appeal to more people of widely divergent interests than does any other form of entertainment. It represents the almost universal longing for laughter, for melody, for color, for action, for wonder-provoking things. It exacts no intellectual activity on the part of those who gather to enjoy it; in its essence it is an enemy to responsibility, to worries, to all the little ills of life. It is joyously, frankly absurd …. Vaudeville brings home to us the fact that we are children of a larger growth. It supports the sour Schopenhauer theory — one of those misleading part truths — that life consists in trying to step aside to escape the immediate trouble that menaces us.
Later, when the musical evolved to embrace virtually any subject that could be broached by a play or novel, it kept something of this cheerful frivolity. Even tragic and historically illuminating musicals, like The Scottsboro Boys (2010) or Shuffle Along (2016), employ the percussive delights of tap or the offhand elegance of a hat-and-cane number, if only to emphasize the cruel distance between representation and reality. That these songs are performed on the very stages that hosted legends like George M. Cohan and the Nicholas Brothers adds a visceral link between the past and present.
An era’s popular culture can tell us more than its high art, though critics at the time often have trouble seeing it. About vaudeville, most contemporary commentators sniffed. For instance, critic and playwright Channing Pollock wrote in 1911 that vaudeville ‘addresses itself to amusement seekers incapable of giving, or unwilling to give, concentrated or continuous attention.’ For his part, J. Brooks Atkinson of the New York Times enjoyed the Yiddish-accented vaudevillians Potash and Perlmutter’s 1926 play Abe and Mawruss (God Forbid!), but allowed that the act ‘makes no pretense to mental clarity.’ Audiences, less exacting, showed up to absorb the jabs and jokes, and the country expanded itself nightly in their laughter. In this way vaudeville provided context and backstory to the progressive nature of American theater and its playwrights, from Eugene O’Neill to August Wilson, Tony Kushner, Anna Deavere Smith, and Lin-Manuel Miranda.
In Willie’s day, a typical vaudeville bill consisted of nine acts, the order of which spilled over into the Broadway musical of the 1920s. First up was a ‘dumb act,’ mimes or dancers or animals, so that latecomers would not annoy fellow audience members too much, just as, on Broadway, the introductory song was a throwaway having little to do with story, such as it was. The biggest names-acts like Will Rogers, the Three Keatons, or Mrs. Patrick Campbell — took either the third slot or the penultimate place, just as, on Broadway, songwriters reserved their most rousing treat, known as ‘the eleven o’clock number,’ for second to last. And the evening ended with something graceful or otherworldly, like an equestrian or trapeze artist, an act that sent the audience out into the night feeling buoyant or revived…
On one of the under-appreciated gifts that immigrants have given America: Vaudeville, from @lauriewiner.bsky.social via @delanceyplace.
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As we tread the boards, we might send entertaining bitrthday greetings to George M. Cohan; he was born on this date in 1878. A playwright, composer, lyricist, actor, singer, dancer and theatrical producer, wrote more than 50 shows and published more than 300 songs during his lifetime, including the standards “Over There,” “Give My Regards to Broadway'” “The Yankee Doodle Boy” [AKA “(I’m a) Yankee Doodle Dandy”], and “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”
Known in the decade before World War I as “the man who owned Broadway,” Cohan is considered (with Oscar Hammerstein II) one of the fathers of American musical comedy. He got his start performing with his parents and sister in a vaudeville act known as “The Four Cohans.”
“Just remember: Abraham Lincoln didn’t die in vain, he died in Washington D.C.”*…
Ken Goffman (better known as R. U. Sirius, the co-founder and first editor of the seminal Mondo 2000) on an equally-seminal comedy group…
If you were a college student or Western counterculture person in the late 1960s-70s, the albums of Firesign Theatre occupied more space on your shelf and in your hippocampus than even The Beatles or Pink Floyd. If you were an incipient techno-geek or hacker, this was even more the case. Firesign was the premier comedy recording act of the very first media-saturated technofreak tribe.
In his tremendously informative and enjoyable history of Firesign Theatre titled Firesign: The Electromagnetic History of Everything as told in Nine Comedy Albums, author Jeremy Braddock starts by giving us the roots of a band of satirists that started out (to varying degrees) as social activists with a sense of humor. He shows them slowly coming together in Los Angeles while infiltrating, first, the alternative Pacifica radio stations like KPFK in Los Angeles, and eventually, briefly, hosting programs in the newly thriving hip commercial rock radio stations of the times, before they lost that audience share to corporatization.
Braddock takes us through the entire Firesign career and doesn’t stint on media theory and the sociopolitics of America in the 20th century that were a part of the Firesign oeuvre.
For those of us out in the wilds of the youth counterculture of the time, without access to their radio programs, it was Columbia Records albums that captured our ears and minds, starting with Waiting For the Electrician or Someone Like Him in early 1968. Their third album, Don’t Crush That Dwarf Hand Me the Pliers sold 300,000 right out of the gate and, in the words of an article written for the National Registry in 2005, “breaking into the charts, continually stamped, pressed and available by Columbia Records in the US and Canada, hammering its way through all of the multiple commercial formats over the years: LPs, EPs, 8-Track and Cassette tapes, and numerous reissues on CD, licensed to various companies here and abroad, continuing up to this day.” As covered toward the end of the book, they have been frequently sampled in recent years by hip-hop artists.
My introduction to Firesign came as the result of seeing the cover of their second album How Can You Be In Two Places At Once When You’re Not Anywhere At All in the record section of a department store in upstate New York. It was the cover, with pictures of Groucho Marx and John Lennon and the words “All Hail Marx and Lennon” that caught my eye.
It was the mind-breaking trip of Babe, as he enters a new car purchased from a then-stereotypical, obnoxiously friendly car salesman, and finds himself transitioning from one mediated space to another, eventually landing in a Turkish prison and witnessing the spread of plague, as an element of a TV quiz show.
The album ends with a chanteuse named Lurlene singing “We’re Bringing the War Back Home.” This was all during the militant opposition to the US war in Vietnam. Probably few listeners would have recognized “Bring The War Home” as the slogan of The Weatherman faction of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), but Braddock gets it, like he gets the seriousness of Firesign’s satire. Indeed, Braddock notes that several reviewers, writing with appreciation about one of their albums, averred that its dystopia was “not funny.”
Most fans would agree with me that the peak of the Firesign run on Columbia Records was the exceedingly multivalent Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers and the futuristic, AI-saturated I Think We’re All Bozos on this Bus, which I note in this interview predicted the future better than any of the self-described futurists of the 1970s. But to apprehend the richness of those two psychedelic assaults on the senses and on the idiocracy of its times, you will need to read the book and listen to the recordings or at least read this interview…
Read on for his conversation with Jeremy Braddock: “Firesign Theatre: The Greatest Satirists of 20th Century Media Culture and its Techno-romanticism were… Not Insane!” from @rusirius.bsky.social and @jbraddock.bsky.social
* Firesign Theatre, How Can You Be In Two Places At Once When You’re Not Anywhere At All
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As we cherish canny comedy, we might recall that it was on this date in 1932 that Walk a Little Faster opened on Broadway at the St. James Theatre. A “musical review with sketches,” it featured “April in Paris” (by E. Y “Yip” Harburg, who seven years later provided all of the songs– including “Over the Rainbow— for the film The Wizard of Oz) and writing by S. J. Perelman (who had just scripted the Marx Brothers films Monkey Business and Horse Feathers).
“Every day is Halloween, isn’t it? For some of us.”*…
Tomorrow’s the big day– by some counts, the second biggest holiday of the year. The National Retail Federation’s annual Halloween survey of more than 7,900 consumers found 72% plan to celebrate the holiday with 67% of those planning to hand out candy. We’ll an average of $103.63 (about $4.62 less than last year’s record of $108.24), the survey found. In total, Halloween spending is expected to reach $11.6 billion, with candy sales at an estimated $3.5 billion.
Axios on how those sugary purchases are allocated…
Chocolate is America’s favorite Halloween candy, with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups once again the top choice in an overwhelming majority of states, according to data from Instacart.
The big picture: The chocolate peanut butter candy was the top-selling candy in 40 states based on Instacart grocery sales last year. Chocolate was a key ingredient in eight of the top 10 candies.
After Reese’s, regular M&M’s were the next most popular candy andthe favorite in northwestern and midwestern states like Montana, Nebraska, North Dakota and South Dakota. Peanut M&M’s were the most purchased Halloween candy in Hawaii, Idaho and Utah, Instacart found.
… Reese’s is also the reigning king of Easter candy, with its eggs ranked as the top purchased candy and cups the No. 3 candy, based on 2023 Instacart data.
Candy corn was the most-searched candy in 34 states between Sept. 3 and Oct. 3, according to Google Trends. Candy corn accounts for 84% of all searches around Halloween candy, according to Captify search data shared with Axios…
– source
The estimable Ernie Smith weighs in on the mawkish mock maize as part of a meditation on Butterfingers…
… In the process of my research into the fragility of Butterfinger bars, I ran across an interesting fact about trying to recreate Butterfingers in your own kitchen that I didn’t think fit into the above narrative, but is worth diving into separately. Simply put, one of the most popular ways to make homemade Butterfingers involves using candy corn. It apparently does a good job of recreating the flavor of a Butterfinger, if not the exact texture.
The nice thing about candy corn, in the context of this recipe, is that it includes most of the main ingredients of the toffee part of butterfingers. That makes it possible to greatly simplify the recipe for people who want to make Butterfingers at home. (Plus, the orange-and-yellow parts of candy corn make for a decent food-coloring match to the innards of Nestlé-era Butterfingers, even if the cornflakes, key to the texture, aren’t part of the recipe.)
Now, finding out that candy corn can be used as a key ingredient in a Butterfinger recipe is sort of like finding out that your favorite dessert is made of candle wax. (Fun fact: Despite its generic-seeming nature, it’s mostly sold by a single manufacturer, Brach’s.)
But there’s a method to the madness.
See, when broken down, candy corn is made of fondant and confectioner’s glaze. Another way of putting it: A piece of candy corn is essentially the candy form of the chalky icing used on wedding cakes, which is then covered in waxy insect secretions. Awesome.
Find that last part kind of gross? Well, you should stop eating Milk Duds, Whoppers, Raisinets, and jelly beans, because they all use it. You’ve been eating food-grade shellac all your life and didn’t even know it.
So, let’s spend a minute talking about shellac: The fact that so many candies use this is actually a significant problem for the globalization of candy. In India, for example, it’s likely to leave out entire classes of consumers, as shellac isn’t considered vegetarian. Periodically, as noted in this 2009 Scientific American piece, we’ve looked for alternatives to confectioner’s glaze, but given that it remains a surprisingly large industry to this day—a recent Business Insider video put the sector’s value at $167 million. (Ironically, shellac was discovered in India, and remains the largest manufacturer of the material.)
If you’re OK with all that, making your own Butterfingers at home is apparently way easier if you use melted candy corns as a base. Just note that shellac isn’t usually part of the ingredient list..
– source
Apposite: “Stephen Follows on the horror movie boom.”
* Tim Burton
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As we dish out the delights, we might recall that it was on this date in 2003 that a thousand Halloween costumes were inspired– Wicked premiered on Broadway. A musical with music and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz and a book by Winnie Holzman, it is a loose adaptation of the 1995 Gregory Maguire novel Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, which in turn is based on L. Frank Baum‘s 1900 novel The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and its 1939 film adaptation.
The show was nominated for ten Tony Awards in 2004, including Best Musical, Book, Orchestrations, Original Score, Choreography, Costume Design, Lighting Design, Scenic Design, with two nominations for Best Actress – for Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth. Menzel won the Best Actress award, and the show also won the Award for Best Scenic Design and Best Costume Design (notably losing Best Book, Original Score and ultimately Best Musical to Avenue Q). The same year, the show also won 6 Drama Desk Awards out of 11 nominations, including Outstanding Musical, Book, Director, and Costume Design.
“Don’t let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot”*…
Composer Frederick Loewe (left) and lyricist Alan Jay Lerner in a 1956 photo
In the preparation for the Broadway debut of Camelot— on the heels of their shared successes with Brigadoon, Paint Your Wagon, My Fair Lady, and Gigi— the relationship between the creative team Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe began to fray…
By the end of the week Fritz and I were seeing less and less of each other. Irritations and differences between us that had been long forgotten and were of little consequence at the time had now become the subject of questions by interviewers. Our replies traveled from mouth to mouth and by the time they reached us they were unrecognizable distortions. If we had stayed steadfastly and constantly together as we always had in the past we would have laughed, rowed, or shrugged, but in the end gone on about our business. We did not. I do not know why we did not. I may have thought I knew then but whatever I thought, I am certain I was wrong. I have a feeling the reason was far more insidious, something of which neither of us was aware and which affected each of us in different ways. I have a feeling it may have been too much success.
Success, as I mentioned earlier, can be a creative stimulant. It encourages reaching in and reaching out. But it can also take the concessions of collaboration and call them compromise. It can embitter as often as it elates and inflates and it can weaken as much as it toughens. It can magnify faults and unearth a few new ones and its only virtue is when it is forgotten. Perhaps I was too disdainful of the words of others and Fritz too vulnerable. Perhaps I misinterpreted our differences as lack of support and he misinterpreted mine as heroics. Perhaps. Perhaps not. I will never know. Too much was never said. In the end we were a little like the couple being discussed in one of Noel Coward’s early plays. “Do they fight?” said one. “Oh, no,” said the other. “They’re much too unhappy to fight.”
From the memoir of Alan Jay Lerner, The Street Where I Live, via the ever-illuminating DelanceyPlace.com.
* Alan Jay Lerner, Camelot
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As we contemplate collaboration, we might send dramatic birthday greetings to James Maxwell Anderson; he was born on this date in 1888. A playwright, screenwriter, author, poet, journalist, and lyricist, Anderson had a string of theatrical successes (e.g., What Price Glory, Key Largo, Bad Seed, Anne of a Thousand Days), adapted his plays and the works of others and created original works for the screen (e.g., All Quiet on the Western Front, Joan of Arc, Ben-Hur), and wrote the book for two of Kurt Weill’s productions (including Knickerbocker Holiday, the standout number in which, “September Song”, became a popular standard).
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