ARTISTIC VANDALISM

Bellini’s Norma takes place in 50 BC among Druids in Gaul, which is probably why the Royal Opera House chose to populate it with SS soldiers. The props are made of hundreds of Christian crosses. Characters include choir boys pushing a giant incense burner.

The ugliness of the stage is a proper illustration of the stage director’s own mind. It is all the rage, these days, to “modernise” stage sets and costumes of operas. Cosi fan tutte was recently played in contemporary costumes (well, almost).

What’s the point ? Are spectators too thick to understand what Bellini and Mozart had in mind ?

I could well accept a certain amount of stylisation and streamlining of costumes, but not a deliberate attempt at making them both ridiculous and ugly. Stage directors obviously think of themselves a being so much smarter than the original composers and librettists. They want to “improve” on Bellini and Mozart. Why don’t they also grab brushes and pots of paint, go the Louvres or the Hermitage and “improve” Vermeer’s or Renoir’s paintings ?

The subliminal messages of this cultural vandalism are on at least 3 levels :

1.      1. People in those days were silly. 2. We are so much better than they were. 3. They didn’t know how to convey the universal appeal and message of their works, so here we are, doing it for them.

What sort of sterile, nauseating, mutual-admiration society is now gravitating in the world of arts ?

You want something revolutionary and aggressive ? Fine : create it yourself, but don’t disfigure previous masterpieces. Trouble is : you are quite incapable of actually creating anything, are you not ?

Book review : Crawdads.

Delia Owens’ "Where the Crawdads sing" is a best-seller. It doesn’t just say so on the cover : it really is a best-seller, and I am very glad that it should be. It’s got everything : social consciousness, condemnation of racism, exposure of domestic abuse, a detective story, a court drama, scathing exposure of snobbery, but also displays of generosity, kindness and humanity.

The main character is Catherine, nicknamed Kya. She is brutalized by an alcoholic father whom everyone avoids, including her own mother. In the end, she is left to live alone in a shack at the age of six, in the middle of the North Carolina marshes. Somehow, she manages to survive. While doing so, she unwittingly becomes an expert on marshland : its waterways, vegetation, fauna and marine life.

You would think that the good, righteous, church-going citizens of Barkley Cove, the nearest small town, would instinctively have organized help for this abandoned child… Not a bit. She is “white trash”, barely above the status of animals. Kya shows up at school, one day, only to be ridiculed and rejected by the other children. The teacher, who could have shown some Christian compassion (makes you wonder if there is such a thing) does nothing to discourage the little bullies. Kya will never go back to school after that. Paradoxically, the only person who develops a soft spot for Kya, is the county truancy officer. She can’t help admiring the ingenuity and survival skills of the child.

Kya grows up alone, with the reputation of a being a wild child. Soon, she is known only as The Marsh Girl, which means, of course, that when a young brutal and arrogant football player is found dead, she becomes the ideal suspect.

Two rays of sunshine in her dark life : Tate, a boy who is a few years older than her, and who teaches her how to read and write. There is also a black couple who run a small boat service station cum grocery shop on the wharf.

Kya loves, understands and studies the marsh ; to the extent that she manages to have several books published on the subject.

What props and sustains the plot and the characters, is Delia Owens’ style. Such beautiful, fluid, poetic prose ! As a reader, you are made to see, hear, smell, taste, touch and feel the mash. To the five senses Delia Owens ads the sixth sense of dreams and exaltation. She is not just a great writer : she is also a scientist. Her style is clear ; the structures of the story are impeccably constructed, all the way to the unexpected twist at the end.

We have more than a masterpiece, here : we have what will become an American classic.

Esclavage

Mes ancêtres les Gaulois (ou Juifs, ou Espagnols ou Irlandais) se sont battus entre eux sans pitié pendant des milliers d’années. À l’époque romaine, ils ont nourri les tigres et les lions des arènes, ainsi que le sadisme des spectateurs. Ils ont été condamnés à ramer sur les galères. Ils ont été esclaves des riches Romains.

Au Moyen-Age, ils ont continué à être les esclaves des riches et des puissants, même si on les appelait serfs. Le vocabulaire ne change pas la réalité. Ils travaillaient pour leur seigneur douze heures par jour, et n’avaient pas le droit de sortir de leur village.

Avec l’arrivée des usines, on a cessé de les appeler serfs. On disait ouvriers, mais c’était encore la même chose. Leurs enfants, parfois enchaînés aux machines y peinaient toute la journée, 7 jours sur 7.

Deux mauvaises actions n’en créent pas une bonne, ni trois mauvaises actions, ni quatre, ni mille ; mais quand un Africain vient me regarder sous le nez, et me serine pour la énième fois : « Mes ancêtres ont été envoyés en esclavage », je peux le regarder dans les yeux et lui répondre en toute honnêteté : « Les miens aussi ».