Household Opera

Something scary for Halloween

Inspired by The Little Professor's annual posts about scary Victoriana and James Hynes' Halloween reading and viewing lists (which, this year, includes a YouTube link to a filmed version of one of my all-time favorite ghost stories, M.R. James's "Oh Whistle and I'll Come to You, My Lad": w00t!), here are a few recommendations of my own, just in case you need something to get you in the proper Halloweeny mood.

• "The Midnight Express," by Alfred Noyes. A story with a recursive twist like a Moëbius strip, about reading, about the uncanny (and how), and about the way some things are just inexplicably terrifying. The descriptions of the boy's candlelit room late at night, and the deserted railway station, have stuck in my head for years.
• "August Heat," by William Fryer Harvey. A very short, rather stark little story that packs an enormous punch in its last line.
• "The Beckoning Fair One," by Oliver Onions. One can read it as an allegory of the destructive effects of certain fantasies about "ideal" women; simultaneously, it's a very effective horror story. We're in the main character's head, and we see what's happening to him long before he does. One of those stories that make you want to break through the fourth wall and scream "Get out of that house NOW!"
• I'm pretty sure I've seen "The Specialist's Hat," by Kelly Link, recommended in a few other places. I don't care; if you haven't read it, you should. It's the kind of story I wish I'd written: eerie, sad, nonlinear, and hauntingly unexplained, like a cross between a haunted house story and a prose poem. (There's also an audio version at Miette's Bedtime Story Podcast.)
• Not available online but worth tracking down: "The Summer People," by Shirley Jackson. It isn't as well known as her short story "The Lottery," or as overtly shocking, but the atmosphere of menace is amazing. A couple decide to stay at their summer cottage for a month longer than they usually do. All the locals warn them that nobody ever stays past Labor Day. But what could go wrong? Well, they were warned...
• Film recommendation: The Eclipse, dir. Conor MacPherson (2009). A quiet, understated Irish horror movie with some unexpected satire DNA (the haunting takes place during a literary festival, and the movie alternates between scare-the-pants-off-you moments and sendups of the world of writers). I'm a bit of a wuss where movie horror is concerned, and parts of this were almost beyond my scariness tolerance level—but I kept watching, through my fingers, because Ciarán Hinds' performance is so moving and lovely.

Happy Halloween!

The convergence of film and opera, or, What I did on my summer vacation

I'm back from my Santa Fe trip, which was just about the ideal vacation. (I only wish I'd been there longer than a long weekend. Next time. And there'll definitely be a next time.) Two eminently enjoyable nights at the opera, in the open air with the mountains in the distance; two magnificent sopranos;* excitingly unfamiliar architecture and landscapes everywhere; excellent New Mexican and Spanish food; a little Georgia O'Keeffe; lots of walking around; the fortuitous discovery of a good used bookstore; and more sunshine than I've seen in New England for ages. How beautiful is Santa Fe? Well, see for yourselves; I took pictures.

I ended up spending a lot of the trip thinking about the convergence of opera and the movies. I'd been looking forward to The Letter, the second opera I saw, for more than a year — ever since last spring's blogger meetup and Met HD broadcast expedition with Terry Teachout, who wrote the libretto and who's been blogging the whole process of writing the opera with composer Paul Moravec. The Letter was originally a short story by Somerset Maugham, which he then adapted into a play, which was made into a movie starring Bette Davis. The visual vocabulary of this production was explicitly and deliberately cinematic and film-noirish. (Some of the musical vocabulary sounded cinematic, too; once or twice I thought of the score of Vertigo.) At one point, Patricia Racette puts on a broad-brimmed hat and a white trench coat straight out of the ending of Casablanca. And, like the movie, the opera starts with six gunshots and a dead guy on the veranda.

It was both intriguing and at times quite startling to see film conventions and operatic conventions collide. Especially because film conventions tend to be so visual and camera-oriented — the close-up, the blackout, the flashback, and so on — and operatic conventions are so closely associated with the stage; even the chorus is a holdover from ancient Greek drama (as interpreted by sixteenth-century Florentines). The overall effect is to defamiliarize both sets of conventions. There are surging strings in the scene between the adulterous lovers, but there are soaring voices as well. There are flashbacks and cinematic lighting, but there's also a stage set that's constantly being shifted before our eyes. And Patricia Racette's character in The Letter is very much in the film noir femme fatale mold, until she starts singing arias — and suddenly she takes on the kind of inner life you get from intensely operatic music, but not so much in actual film noir, where the femme fatale character is usually a) tough as nails and b) something of a cipher. But the worlds of opera and film noir seemed quite close to each other by the end of the evening.

The interesting thing was that I had some of the same thoughts about La Traviata on my first night in Santa Fe, in large part because the director emphasized Violetta's distance from polite society by playing up the "wild party" aspects of Act 1 and Act 3. Noticing that the costumes were vaguely late 19th-century except that all the women's dresses were slit up the front to allow for can-can style leg-flashing, I thought "Hey, they're borrowing from Moulin Rouge!" And then I thought "Well, that's appropriate, since Moulin Rouge borrowed most of the plot of La Traviata." Later on I recalled that Baz Luhrmann is also a theater director who's done a fair amount of opera. All of which made the chorus's little performance-within-a-performance at the beginning of Act 3 ("E Piquillo un bel gagliardo") seem even more metatheatrical.

I'm not surprised that opera and film might converge, especially in the age of opera on DVD and movie broadcasts like the Met's, which have the added benefit of highlighting the acting chops of singers who can act for the camera. I'm sure there are purists on both sides who won't like that idea, but as for me? I'm a fan of both film and opera, and I have a thing for hybridity, not to mention that eminently 21st-century genre, the mashup.** And I say, long may it last; I can't wait to see what's next to emerge from the collision.

* I love Patricia Racette, who got to act up a storm in this production. I love Natalie Dessay even more. Some of the reviewers have been saying her voice isn't big enough for Violetta; I can see that, but in the end, if it's not already obvious from this post, it's the theatricality of opera that draws me as much as the music does. And I don't think I'll ever forget the way she laid Violetta's soul completely bare for us, bit by bit, at the end of Act 1, or the devastatingly quiet remoteness of her "Addio del passato." (I had to take advantage of the prolonged applause afterward to blow my nose honkingly a few times.)

** One of the books I was reading on the plane was Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. 'Nuff said.

A favorite-movie alphabet

I saw this meme over at Easily Distracted and liked it so much that I'm stealing it. The rules are simple: name a favorite movie for each letter of the alphabet. So here are mine.

After Life: I'm reluctant to give any summary, because any summary would make it sound cheesy. Just go watch it if you haven't already.

Babette's Feast and My Beautiful Laundrette (tie): I can't decide. Both of these are on my desert-island list. I considered putting My Beautiful Laundrette under M, but M was crowded with possibilities already. Runner-up: Bull Durham.

The Company: The first of several Robert Altman movies on the list (see also G and M). I love the scene with Neve Campbell's character playing pool by herself in the bar.

Dark City: This one makes the list largely for the amazing Edward-Hopper-esque visuals, but I don't care.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind: I've watched a lot of movies about memory, some sublime (see After Life) and some crappy (the lame adaptation of William Gibson's Johnny Mnemonic comes to mind). This one is definitely on the high end of the scale.

The Full Monty: Especially for the scene where they start unconsciously rehearsing their chorus-line routine while waiting in the unemployment office. Or perhaps Fargo, mostly for Frances McDormand: "Oh for Pete's sake, he's fleeing the interview. He's fleeing the interview!"

Gosford Park: Altman has a way of taking well-worn genres (the war movie, the Western) and doing things to them you never expected. Here he turns the English country-house murder mystery inside out.

High Fidelity: "That's the worst f$!@ing sweater I've ever seen. It's a Cosby sweater. A Cosssby sweatah!" Jack Black is my favorite thing about this movie. If I'm ever in a band, I want it to be named Sonic Death Monkey.

Italiensk for begyndere (Italian for Beginners): I never thought I'd enjoy a Dogme95 film so much.

What to pick for J? The dark and disturbing Jacob's Ladder, which messes with your head seven ways to Sunday, or the much sunnier and happier Juno? Or I might just cheat a bit and say (Being) John Malkovich.

The only thing I can think of for K is Kind Hearts and Coronets, with Alec Guinness as a whole series of members of a wealthy family who get bumped off one by one by the protagonist. It's been a while since I saw it, but I have fond recollections.

Life Is Sweet: I had to get some Mike Leigh in here somewhere, and this is one of my favorites. But I could also have gone with the Lord of the Rings trilogy considered as one massively long three-part work.

McCabe and Mrs. Miller: As the Lorraine Bowen song goes, I'm in love with Julie Christie (she makes me go misty). Runners-up: Magnolia, Memento, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Moonstruck, and Moulin Rouge!. (Criminy. Do all my favorite movies start with the letter M?)

North by Northwest: Hitchcock obsession, I haz it (see also under V for Vertigo).

O Brother, Where Art Thou?: Love George Clooney in this one. And the soundtrack. And the Homeric intertextuality. And everything about it, really.

Party Girl: Every librarian's favorite movie! Also, I'll watch Parker Posey in nearly anything.

Queen Christina: Because it has Greta Garbo in 17th-century drag, assuring one of her courtiers "I will not die an old maid. I will die a bachelor!"

Le rayon vert (The Green Ray): Oddly, I'm not really a fan of Eric Rohmer's movies in general, just this one. It's hard to say why I love it. Not much happens apart from the main character screwing up her summer vacation plans. But you watch it a few times and you realize that not a single detail or shot or bit of dialogue is superfluous, and the ending feels like a miracle. Runners-up: The Royal Tenenbaums, and, on a totally different note, Romy and Michele's High School Reunion.

Singin' in the Rain and The Station Agent in a tie for S. Also Sunset Boulevard.

Trois Couleurs: Rouge: The whole Three Colors trilogy, really, but if I have to pick just one, then definitely the final one.

The Usual Suspects: Because it made a huge impression on me the first time I saw it, even though I suspect it probably doesn't hold up to repeated viewings as well as I once thought.

Vertigo: I went through a huge Hitchcock phase there for a while, and while it's no longer the obsession it once was, Vertigo was the movie that started it, and to this day it's way up there among my favorites. Runner-up: Velvet Goldmine.

Wonder Boys: There's just something about this movie that makes you feel like you're living inside its world. Also, Michael Douglas is brilliant as the pot-smoking, pink-chenille-bathrobe-wearing novelist who can't finish his enormous novel, and the writing workshop scenes crack me up. Runners-up: Wait Until Dark and The Wicker Man (the original version; I avoided the remake because I suffer from an allergy to Nicholas Cage).

X is the letter that gets left out of every abecedarium. Mine is no exception. (I just didn't like The X-Men enough to consider it a favorite. Or eXistenz, for that matter.)

Y: Like Tim, I think it's probably cheating to put Y tu mamá también for Y. But without it I'm Y-less, and I really liked it. So I'll cheat.

Z: Zéro de conduite? Zazie dans le Métro? What is it with French movies about rebellious children with titles that start with Z? (Actually, neither of these are on my all-time favorites list, but I wanted to have a Z.)

So there you have it. Feel free to spread the meme!

It's man devouring man, my dear!

...And who are we to deny it in here?

Or, in other words, Sweeney Todd was fantastic. I had my doubts about the casting of Helena Bonham Carter as Mrs. Lovett, but the waifish quality she brings to the role really works, even though I had Angela Lansbury in my head as the ur-Mrs. Lovett. Alan Rickman is so deliciously evil as Judge Turpin that I almost didn't want him to get killed off. And Johnny Depp somehow made me not care that he can't really sing, which takes some doing, as you can probably imagine.

Also, I keep wanting to start singing "These are probably the WORST pies... in LONdon..." at random intervals. Actually, I'd forgotten how many of the songs have high earworm potential — be forewarned. But don't miss it — unless you're squeamish about cinematic gore and/or cannibalism, in which case you might want to avoid the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.

What I'll be watching over winter break

My winter break starts tomorrow. W00t! I'm looking forward to leisure reading, sleeping late, making headway on my sweater-in-progress, prodding tentatively at the poetry-and-spatiality project, and getting in all the moviegoing I missed out on during this insanely busy fall. In particular:

• Sweeney Todd, because I'd want to see it no matter who was in it, and there's something weirdly fascinating about the thought of Johnny Depp as the Demon Barber of Fleet Street*
• There Will Be Blood, because Paul Thomas Anderson is on my Directors to Watch No Matter What list, and I heard such an ecstatic review of it on the radio that my expectations are now all built up
• I Am Legend, because "The World Without Us with zombies" is a premise I can't resist
• and I may try to catch I'm Not There, because I have a feeling I won't want to miss Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan

Alas, I've heard so many distressing things about The Golden Compass, mostly from people who know and love the books, that I'll probably give it a miss. This would be a good time to reread the books instead.

What are you going to see over the holidays, Reader?

* Best line from Anthony Lane's review in the New Yorker, in reference to Johnny Depp's white-streaked shock of hair: "If you had sat Susan Sontag down and broken the news that not everyone in New York reads Hegel, you would have got the same effect."

One project down, three to go.

There are still a boatload of projects waiting to be done, but I've finished my final website project for my web design class: a guide to movies about opera. I had a lot of fun working on it, and I think I'll most likely keep it going after this quarter is over. If you're interested, let me know what you think!

Coming attractions

Wow, after what seemed like a long cinematic drought, there are suddenly lots of movies I want to see. I caught Volver on my last day of vacation; though I wouldn't quite put it among my all-time favorite Almodóvar films (Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, All About My Mother, Bad Education), I still liked it quite a bit. It's got family drama galore, a ghost who may or may not be a ghost, a mystery that gets resolved at the end, Carmen Maura (it was so good to see her again), weirdly beautiful village landscapes, an inconvenient corpse, and Penelope Cruz showing her acting chops. Also a really gorgeous song, which is where the title of the movie comes from.

Also on the to-see list: Pan's Labyrinth (which I thought was here already, but is still listed as "coming soon"), Children of Men, The History Boys, and possibly Notes on a Scandal. Plus I've been hearing lots of good things about Dreamgirls. What's on your to-see lists?

RIP, Robert Altman

I was at the reference desk this afternoon when I heard one student say to another, "Oh no, did you hear? Robert Altman just died." Then one of my colleagues stopped by the desk and asked if I'd heard. We both said words to the effect of "He's one of my favorite directors ever." I watched A Prairie Home Companion a few weeks ago, and noticed that it seemed uncomfortably like a goodbye; maybe it looks that way more in retrospect. It's hard to say what I love so much about Altman's movies (I still haven't seen all of them), but if I had to pick something, it would be his way of setting up a scene and then lingering unexpectedly on a face in it until you realize you've never fully seen a face before. There's a strange sense of watching a quiet but incredibly rich moment in the character's life, almost as if one were eavesdropping. Like Lily Tomlin sitting in the crowd in Nashville, or Emily Watson leaning back in the bathtub and smoking a cigarette in Gosford Park, or Neve Campbell playing pool in The Company, or practically every scene in the saloon in McCabe and Mrs. Miller, which is probably my favorite.

I think I'll be watching McCabe and Mrs. Miller again soon. Rest in peace, Robert Altman, and thank you.

Afternoon at the movies

Overheard at the screening of Capote I saw this afternoon: "That certainly wasn't a movie for homophobes, was it?" No, indeed. I love overheard audience commentary.

Seriously, though, see it. (Spoilers ahoy, for those of you who require warnings of that type.) Philip Seymour Hoffman demonstrates not only his commendable acting chops, but his total fearlessness about taking on and then completely inhabiting characters who aren't likeable. You never quite know whether his Truman Capote genuinely feels for the murderers he's writing about, or is using his intimacy with Perry Smith to further what he feels will be his most important book, or is being driven by his sense of identification with the killers, or some combination of all three. You actually see him switch back and forth; there's a moment where he consciously shifts gears from Perry Smith's friend who visits him in jail to Professional Writer Who's There For The Story, and it's chilling, but it also makes you recall all the previous scenes that suggest otherwise. "Jack says I'm just using Perry," Capote remarks at one point. "He also says I fell in love with him. How he can believe both of those things I don't know." But the brilliance of this movie is that it does make you believe both of those things.

I thought for a little while that it was going to turn into one of those "writers sacrifice everything, including their humanity, for their Art" biopics, but, thankfully, it's a lot messier than that. Near the end, when Smith and Hickock have been executed, Harper Lee tells Capote that maybe he couldn't save them, but "the fact is, you didn't want to." And that's exactly it: he cares about Smith enough to be wrecked when their execution goes forward, but he cares about the book too much to really help them and thus leave the book unfinished. And he knows it. His wordless self-loathing at the end of the film is almost, but not quite, too much to stand. I think I'm going to be rehashing the whole thing in my head for a week.

I've been following PSH's career ever since he stole all of his scenes in Boogie Nights. Long may he continue to get the leading roles. And then there's Catherine Keener as Harper Lee, so understated that you almost miss how great her performance is. Seriously: see it.

Yes, it's true. I am a great big sap.

Via Clancy and Shakespeare's Sister comes today's survey question: Which movie scenes always make you cry (and which ones always make you laugh)?

Here are my Guaranteed Waterworks moments:

Casablanca: the scene where everyone stands up and sings the Marseillaise (which is nearly everyone's favorite tear-inducing scene, apparently).

The Return of the King: the beacon-lighting scene, and Sam lugging Frodo up Mount Doom, and, for that matter, quite a few parts after that. (Told you I was a big sap.)

The Shawshank Redemption: when Tim Robbins' character broadcasts the duet from The Marriage of Figaro to the entire prison and all the convicts stop in their tracks and look up, trying to figure out where the music's coming from. Though this has as much to do with the choice of music as with the scene itself.

Grand Illusion: de Boeldieu's deathbed scene, especially the part where von Rauffenstein snips the one flower off his scraggly potted geranium. And Maréchal and Rosenthal's reconciliation after their quarrel on the way to Switzerland.

Babette's Feast: the very end, when the dinner party breaks up, and the sisters tell Babette that in heaven, she'll get to be the great artist she was meant to be on earth. And we see that all the characters have had to set aside their ambitions and become something other than what they wanted to be, and yet there they are, looking up at the stars, looking at each other. That gets me every single time.

The reliable laughter moments are more frequent and thus harder to list off the top of my head. However: too many scenes in O Brother, Where Art Thou? to enumerate, and pretty much all of Jack Black's dialogue in High Fidelity. And I am geeky enough to still chortle at Monty Python after all these years. (Favorite bit from The Life of Brian: "You don't have to follow me! You're all individuals!" Crowd, in unison: "Yes! We're all individuals!" One lone voice in the background: "I'm not.")

If we expand it to include books as well as movies: The last few paragraphs of Joyce's "The Dead" always, always make me choke up ("Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland..."). And — oddly, considering what a heathen I am — so does Milton's Nativity Ode, especially stanzas 12 through 16 or thereabouts, and the very ending of Paradise Lost. If we expand it to include music, I invariably start to weep partway through the trio in Act 3 of Der Rosenkavalier (to pick one among many instances), not that regular readers of this blog don't know that already.

Over to you, Reader. What are yours?