Self-Indulgent Tripe
It's just verging on 02:00 as I set cursor to , because I can't stop thinking about this.
It seems that Stanford is putting on http://www.stanford.edu/dept/drama/1011_productions/barbara.html">a production of Major Barbara. However, it seems all the performances are sold out, and the only remaining chance to get in is to show up early and get on the will-call list. Knowing how my fortunes generally fall, I probably won't get in to see it.
And the thought that has been occupying me is: I may not actually want to.
Some personal history: Back in my senior year of high school, I managed to force aside academic expectations and got in to drama class. That year we produced Major Barbara -- hardly the stuff of high school productions, to be sure, but it's production was our drama teacher's Master's Thesis (her name, contributing further to my embarrassment, I have utterly forgotten). I played the role of Charles Lomax ("Oh, I say!"), a supporting character for whom the term, "Upper-Class Twit," is entirely apt. However, as rehearsals went on, I quickly realized that the role of Andrew Undershaft, the play's central character, had most of the really good lines.
And, you know, fair enough. I didn't want the major role, as in many ways I was still finding my legs. But there was this one bit in the play where it was obvious to me how it should be played, and not merely because there was a note in the script supporting my interpretation. Undershaft is talking with his son, Stephen, about Stephen's decision to enter politics, and Undershaft corrects his misconception as to where the real seat of power lies:
Now it was plain to me that that should be played with a touch of haughty arrogance. But the young man who was playing Undershaft was doing pretty much the whole role in a sort of urbanely aloof affectation. There was no energy or power behind the bits that seemed to demand it. Whether that was his idea or the director's instruction, I've no idea.
Anyhoo, for some reason, the whole play stuck with me. I've always had a strong attraction to the performing arts -- for at least as long as I've been fascinated with computers -- but for reasons I can't really articulate, I keep obsessing on this particular play. Since high school, I've irregularly picked it up again (you can http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3790">download it off Project Gutenberg) and run it through in my mind, how the various characters would be played, and how I might play Undershaft. For the last twenty years I've turned the ideas over many many times, and have arrived at a fairly firm notion of how they look and behave in my head.
But the Stanford Drama department aren't computer geeks who sit alone and fantasize about stuff. It's composed of performing arts professionals -- people who do it for a living. There is no question in my mind that the realization and performance will be nothing short of excellent. And after assembling in my mind so many ideas and images after so many years, I would probably come away from the performance being very very depressed, having been shown, at long last, how it's properly done.
It seems that Stanford is putting on http://www.stanford.edu/dept/drama/1011_productions/barbara.html">a production of Major Barbara. However, it seems all the performances are sold out, and the only remaining chance to get in is to show up early and get on the will-call list. Knowing how my fortunes generally fall, I probably won't get in to see it.
And the thought that has been occupying me is: I may not actually want to.
Some personal history: Back in my senior year of high school, I managed to force aside academic expectations and got in to drama class. That year we produced Major Barbara -- hardly the stuff of high school productions, to be sure, but it's production was our drama teacher's Master's Thesis (her name, contributing further to my embarrassment, I have utterly forgotten). I played the role of Charles Lomax ("Oh, I say!"), a supporting character for whom the term, "Upper-Class Twit," is entirely apt. However, as rehearsals went on, I quickly realized that the role of Andrew Undershaft, the play's central character, had most of the really good lines.
And, you know, fair enough. I didn't want the major role, as in many ways I was still finding my legs. But there was this one bit in the play where it was obvious to me how it should be played, and not merely because there was a note in the script supporting my interpretation. Undershaft is talking with his son, Stephen, about Stephen's decision to enter politics, and Undershaft corrects his misconception as to where the real seat of power lies:
STEPHEN [springing up again] I am sorry, sir, that you force me to forget the respect due to you as my father. I am an Englishman; and I will not hear the Government of my country insulted. [He thrusts his hands in his pockets, and walks angrily across to the window].
UNDERSHAFT [with a touch of brutality] The government of your country! I am the government of your country: I, and Lazarus. Do you suppose that you and half a dozen amateurs like you, sitting in a row in that foolish gabble shop, can govern Undershaft and Lazarus? No, my friend: you will do what pays US. You will make war when it suits us, and keep peace when it doesn't. You will find out that trade requires certain measures when we have decided on those measures. When I want anything to keep my dividends up, you will discover that my want is a national need. When other people want something to keep my dividends down, you will call out the police and military. And in return you shall have the support and applause of my newspapers, and the delight of imagining that you are a great statesman. Government of your country! Be off with you, my boy, and play with your caucuses and leading articles and historic parties and great leaders and burning questions and the rest of your toys. I am going back to my counting house to pay the piper and call the tune.
Now it was plain to me that that should be played with a touch of haughty arrogance. But the young man who was playing Undershaft was doing pretty much the whole role in a sort of urbanely aloof affectation. There was no energy or power behind the bits that seemed to demand it. Whether that was his idea or the director's instruction, I've no idea.
Anyhoo, for some reason, the whole play stuck with me. I've always had a strong attraction to the performing arts -- for at least as long as I've been fascinated with computers -- but for reasons I can't really articulate, I keep obsessing on this particular play. Since high school, I've irregularly picked it up again (you can http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3790">download it off Project Gutenberg) and run it through in my mind, how the various characters would be played, and how I might play Undershaft. For the last twenty years I've turned the ideas over many many times, and have arrived at a fairly firm notion of how they look and behave in my head.
But the Stanford Drama department aren't computer geeks who sit alone and fantasize about stuff. It's composed of performing arts professionals -- people who do it for a living. There is no question in my mind that the realization and performance will be nothing short of excellent. And after assembling in my mind so many ideas and images after so many years, I would probably come away from the performance being very very depressed, having been shown, at long last, how it's properly done.