In the Middle of the Road Was a Stone
Dear Anton Pavlovitch,
Do you remember my theory on why there have been so few (three in all, if I remember it well) good film versions of your plays? I think film directors feel intimidated because they are so much in awe of you and almost inevitably end up messing things up.
There! One of the totally absurd aspects of someone born in 1952 (much as IMDb insists that it was in 1953) writing letters to someone who died in 1904 is of course the number of things likely to make the recipient say, "What? Again? Look at that! I'll be damned if I know the meaning of "film version," "film director," or "IMDb," though I very much doubt you would put it that way. More likely, you would come up with another wonderfully concise and absolutely breathtaking speech an amazing character would make in the sunset about the question of generational gap.
Anyway, as soon as I learned that in 2000 a film version of The Cherry Orchard came out by Michael Cacoyanis, a director I have always admired, I started hoping he had joined the club of the lucky few who had made a good film out of a Chekhov play. I should have known better. In spite of having Charlotte Rampling as Lyubov and Alan Bates as Gaev, this movie had practically no distribution. I only heard about it now. I got hold of the DVD (there! Against the sunset, Piotr Alexeievitch will look more soulful than ever, as he says to Maya Andreyevna, "I look at those strange symbols, DVD and the like, I mean, and feel so empty, Maya Andreyevna") and watched it in all haste. How disappointed can you get. What a mess! Even the perfect casting of Rampling in her early forties, beautifully dressed and photographed, doesn't come to the rescue. Halfways through it became unbearable. It was a relief to stop it and turn to cable instead, where Tom Hanks as Captain Philips bailed me out of boredom. ("I assure you, Maya Andreyevna, I've never heard the name Tom Hanks in my whole life. I would remember if I had. It sounds like a brandname having to do with hair tonics").
But I'll be damned if I know why I'm telling you all this, Anton Pavlovitch. Must have something to do with my chronic sleeplessness having now reached appalling proportions. Or perhaps my brains are suffering the side effects of hair tonics. Nah. I'd have to wear hair tonic for that. I don't.
Let's change the subject: Miss Lisa posted an interesting Facebook entry ("Mercy on me, Maya Andreyevna!") asking people to tell her what word doesn't seem to go from their minds. I sent her a comment:
Some time ago the constant presence of Ms Lisa Haynes in my mind made me start feeling guilty for giving so little attention to poetry. So one day I was at a bookshop I like to go to because it's this rare treat: a megastore that is really tasty in every way: ALL the books are wonderful (otherwise they wouldn't be there),the design of the shop itself is elegant, with a very high ceiling and a second floor where there are special rooms for workshops, a marvelous coffee-shop, and one of the best DVD/Bluray shops in Rio. Next stop, the Nirvana.
So, there was I at Livraria da Travessa, when I heard that voice again, "Whatashame! When was the last time you bought a poetry book? Worse, when was the last time you read a poetry book?" I almost bought the collected poems of Alexei Bueno, a poet I admire, whom I met socially once to be taken aback to find out that his then wife was the daughter of one of my most beloved teachers, the woman who taught 'body expression' at the drama school I attended, to whom I owe so much, because I was 19 when she taught me how to make up for my tendency to stiff on account of all the problems I have with my spine so as not to look stiff on the stage. But Alexei Bueno's book was atrociously expensive, or perhaps I am a penniless Joe who shouldn't aim at the Alexei Buenos of this life.
In the end I came out of Nirvana with two modestly priced volumes: a reprint of the first book by Brazil's (and mine) most beloved poet, Carlos Drummond de Andrade, originally published in 1930, including the amazing poem with which, at 28, Dummond blew away everything that preceded him and made Brazilian poetry start again from zero. In 1965 it was translated into English by John Nist with the following results:
In the middle of the road was a stone
was a stone in the middle of the road
was a stone
in the middle of the road was a stone.
I shall never forget that event
in the life of my so tired eyes.
I shall never forget that in the middle of the road
was a stone
was a stone in the middle of the road
in the middle of the road was a stone.
The other book I bought was a bilingual (English/Portuguese) edition of some poems by Auden. In honor of such an impossibly long comment, my word to Lisa was "concision."
[Alone centerstage, Maya Andreyevna hears the sound of someone falling and then a long cry of pain. On his way to his master's dasha Piotr Alexeyevitch stumbled over a stone in the middle of the road and fell.]
Do you remember my theory on why there have been so few (three in all, if I remember it well) good film versions of your plays? I think film directors feel intimidated because they are so much in awe of you and almost inevitably end up messing things up.
There! One of the totally absurd aspects of someone born in 1952 (much as IMDb insists that it was in 1953) writing letters to someone who died in 1904 is of course the number of things likely to make the recipient say, "What? Again? Look at that! I'll be damned if I know the meaning of "film version," "film director," or "IMDb," though I very much doubt you would put it that way. More likely, you would come up with another wonderfully concise and absolutely breathtaking speech an amazing character would make in the sunset about the question of generational gap.
Anyway, as soon as I learned that in 2000 a film version of The Cherry Orchard came out by Michael Cacoyanis, a director I have always admired, I started hoping he had joined the club of the lucky few who had made a good film out of a Chekhov play. I should have known better. In spite of having Charlotte Rampling as Lyubov and Alan Bates as Gaev, this movie had practically no distribution. I only heard about it now. I got hold of the DVD (there! Against the sunset, Piotr Alexeievitch will look more soulful than ever, as he says to Maya Andreyevna, "I look at those strange symbols, DVD and the like, I mean, and feel so empty, Maya Andreyevna") and watched it in all haste. How disappointed can you get. What a mess! Even the perfect casting of Rampling in her early forties, beautifully dressed and photographed, doesn't come to the rescue. Halfways through it became unbearable. It was a relief to stop it and turn to cable instead, where Tom Hanks as Captain Philips bailed me out of boredom. ("I assure you, Maya Andreyevna, I've never heard the name Tom Hanks in my whole life. I would remember if I had. It sounds like a brandname having to do with hair tonics").
But I'll be damned if I know why I'm telling you all this, Anton Pavlovitch. Must have something to do with my chronic sleeplessness having now reached appalling proportions. Or perhaps my brains are suffering the side effects of hair tonics. Nah. I'd have to wear hair tonic for that. I don't.
Let's change the subject: Miss Lisa posted an interesting Facebook entry ("Mercy on me, Maya Andreyevna!") asking people to tell her what word doesn't seem to go from their minds. I sent her a comment:
Some time ago the constant presence of Ms Lisa Haynes in my mind made me start feeling guilty for giving so little attention to poetry. So one day I was at a bookshop I like to go to because it's this rare treat: a megastore that is really tasty in every way: ALL the books are wonderful (otherwise they wouldn't be there),the design of the shop itself is elegant, with a very high ceiling and a second floor where there are special rooms for workshops, a marvelous coffee-shop, and one of the best DVD/Bluray shops in Rio. Next stop, the Nirvana.
So, there was I at Livraria da Travessa, when I heard that voice again, "Whatashame! When was the last time you bought a poetry book? Worse, when was the last time you read a poetry book?" I almost bought the collected poems of Alexei Bueno, a poet I admire, whom I met socially once to be taken aback to find out that his then wife was the daughter of one of my most beloved teachers, the woman who taught 'body expression' at the drama school I attended, to whom I owe so much, because I was 19 when she taught me how to make up for my tendency to stiff on account of all the problems I have with my spine so as not to look stiff on the stage. But Alexei Bueno's book was atrociously expensive, or perhaps I am a penniless Joe who shouldn't aim at the Alexei Buenos of this life.
In the end I came out of Nirvana with two modestly priced volumes: a reprint of the first book by Brazil's (and mine) most beloved poet, Carlos Drummond de Andrade, originally published in 1930, including the amazing poem with which, at 28, Dummond blew away everything that preceded him and made Brazilian poetry start again from zero. In 1965 it was translated into English by John Nist with the following results:
In the middle of the road was a stone
was a stone in the middle of the road
was a stone
in the middle of the road was a stone.
I shall never forget that event
in the life of my so tired eyes.
I shall never forget that in the middle of the road
was a stone
was a stone in the middle of the road
in the middle of the road was a stone.
The other book I bought was a bilingual (English/Portuguese) edition of some poems by Auden. In honor of such an impossibly long comment, my word to Lisa was "concision."
[Alone centerstage, Maya Andreyevna hears the sound of someone falling and then a long cry of pain. On his way to his master's dasha Piotr Alexeyevitch stumbled over a stone in the middle of the road and fell.]