The Music of Last Night

A shady avenue, Pere Lachaise

I love the Phantom. That would include Gaston Leroux's muddled novel (and any and all references to the Opera Garnier) and Lon Chaney's enduring silent masterpiece. I can even manage a kind of esteem for Claude Raines 1943 version--which is more of a vehicle for the awkwardly wooden Nelson Eddy than anything--though I found it mostly high camp from the first time I saw it as a teen. And then there's the mother of all Phantoms: Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical, The Phantom of the Opera. 

Phantom can inspire a fair amount of eye rolling and dismissive scoffing, with the non-infatuated complaining vehemently about a cloying score and syrupy romance. The critics will point to pedestrian lyrics and derivative story lines. To those people I say read no further as the following paragraphs will make your teeth hurt.

So, now that I'm chatting with you, perhaps a similarly afflicted fan of Phantom, who could believe it was celebrating a 25th Anniversary this fall? I certainly couldn't as it seems as the music, the show, the story has been part of my life since the very beginning. I'd guess that most of us who are fans recall our first Phantom experience with a kind of reverence.

It was 1989 in Toronto, at the Pantages Theatre, and there were a number of us attending the show as guests of a Canadian friend of my parents who kindly brought us all as part of his birthday celebration. I'd been to plays before, but this was spectacle on a completely different level. This was major. My father wasn't feeling well the evening of the event and I remember thinking that NOTHING, not a thing on this fair earth of ours short of nuclear Armageddon, was going to keep me from the Pantages that evening. (Selfish only child alert!) Let the record reflect that the entire PaperTyger clan did indeed attend--including a well-known artist friend who was in the party and decided to dress casually--and in a baseball cap (!!)--for the evening. Yes, the cap stayed on for dinner and the entire show. Yes, I was mortified. This was an event, an occasion! What did I wear? A cream silk charmeuse blouse with passementerie detail and a black moire silk skirt. In retrospect, that's not all that important, but it does go to show the extent to which that evening imprinted on me. The pageantry, the soaring orchestrations, glorious voices and lush costumes...all of it left me a little in awe. And I mean real awe. The kind you experience the first time you walk into Yankee Stadium or Fenway Park; the first time you see a great horse race in person; the first time you lay eyes on your favorite painting a few inches in front of you. Awe. The rich Irish tenor of Colm Wilkinson gave voice to The Phantom and even though I'd already committed every nuance of Michael Crawford's London performance to memory, Wilkinson's portrayal stuck with me. It's the Toronto cast album that holds priority on my iPod these many years later.

After Toronto, well, the obsession only grew. I wore out at least one set of cassette tapes listening to the entire score over and over--in the car and at home--and I even learned to play a few of the songs on the piano. Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again sounded plaintive and melancholy when played on an old piano, but the real show stopper, the impressive opening organ theme, was reserved for the ca 1914 Aeolian pipe organ at Mayowood. I was a summer tour guide at the time and nothing impressed the tourists like a few bars of a Bach organ fugue or, better yet...the instantly recognizable opening chords of Phantom of the Opera. Between tours I'd play little bits of Phantom, assured that any ghosts in the mansion would appreciate my musical efforts.

22 years later, I write this having just returned from seeing the 25th Anniversary production at my local multiplex. (The actual performance was staged at London's Royal Albert Hall last weekend.) There were so many things to love about the production, and the one thing I will say is that the team at Royal Albert did a phenomenal job adapting large, complicated, and difficult scenes/sets to their stage. I didn't love some of the camera work and I thought the costumes in some cases looked less rich than in the various stage productions I've been to, but nothing that really detracted from the experience for me. The leading performers were outstanding. Sierra Boggess IS Christine Daae and Ramin Karimloo's Phantom was a delicious combination of sensuous and poignant. For a musical to have the staying power that Phantom does, it needs to resonate with audiences, and this show continues to do so. For a musical to celebrate a 25th Anniversary people need to love your characters and music and want to see it anew, and that's something of a feat in itself.

OH...and the best part? The "gathering of Phantoms" at the end of the show. Once the anniversary cast had taken their well-deserved bows, Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber came out and brought with him the original London cast and production group as well. I was scanning the London cast for Sarah Brightman and Michael Crawford, but didn't see them. Then, Sir Andrew announced that Sarah (whom he still calls his "angel of music") had agreed to sing. She came out with classic Phantoms including my Phantom, Colm Wilkinson and proceeded to sing The Phantom of the Opera main theme with all of them. CHILLS. I had chills. Michael Crawford was on stage as well but did not sing, which while disappointing, was maybe for the best. He looked great but he also looked rather overwhelmed and overcome with the emotion of the day. There seemed to be nothing but love and good will on the stage as they looked out at the audience's standing ovation.

 I'd actually planned to be on my soapbox tonight and writing on a totally different subject, but I left the theatre feeling so much nostalgia that I couldn't let it pass without a small acknowledgment. On my first trip to Paris a couple of years after Toronto I couldn't wait to get to the Opera Garnier. The Musee d'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame--they'd all still be there (and be visited later in the week), but I needed to see the Paris Opera first. And on a subsequent trip to Paris I had Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again streaming liltingly through my head as I walked up and down the shady lanes of favored haunt Pere Lachaise. Phantom--in all of it's many incarnations--has managed to thread itself into unexpected corners of my memory, for which, in all cases, I'm most genuinely pleased.

If These Walls Could Talk--A Glimpse Into a World Long Gone

This morning as I was scrolling through my always-interesting Twitter feed I noticed a piece posted by Valerie (aka @swannoir27) about a Paris apartment that had been shuttered for some 70 years.  The link pointed to a piece in the UK Telegraph newspaper about a valuable piece of art that was found within the flat and had recently sold for 3 million or so dollars at auction. The painting itself is interesting, if not more than a little over the top, but I found myself far more interested in everything the article did NOT mention and despite my best intentions to accomplish other things, I’ve spent much of today daydreaming over this long-abandoned Paris flat. There's a link to the Telegraph piece HERE and a link HERE with more photos to the lovely The Paris Apartment blog; plus THIS link with a few more images of the flat.)

The newspaper article mentions that the apartment had been closed up since before World War II--when the owner fled to the south of France--and it remained unoccupied until the owner died sometime in 2010. That means that this space was, for all intents and purposes, a kind of time capsule--a “through the looking glass” place that existed in its own time--free from the march to modernity that we've all been part of. Untouched, from what I can figure out, through the D-Day invasions at Normandy, the liberation of Paris, and V-E Day. It’s a kind of silent witness…if those walls could talk.

Then imagine being the first person to open that door after 70 years--in my romantic mind it would have been a little like when Howard Carter first peered into the wonder that was Tutankhamun’s tomb. The photographs give us a tiny glimpse at what appears to be a place that was left abruptly. Had the occupant fled Paris, or merely left it for a safer existence in the south? Why did she never return? The rent, taxes, and other fees were continually paid, but apparently the owner, the granddaughter of Marthe de Florian, never went back after vacating the flat. Can you imagine having a comfy flat in the middle of Paris and not using it...for 70 years? This is a mystery as delicious as your favorite French pastry! 

Some of the furnishings and items that we can see in the photos are rather remarkable, others typical of early 20^th century life. Attractive chairs and artwork in various states of framing are prominent in the pictures, as is the fantastic mirror that dominates the left side of the image. Even though there’s visible water damage, some of the wall coverings look to be a once-lovely damask and there appears to be some impressive plasterwork or carved wood moulding as well. The tall windows and heavy draperies belie a once elegant space with marble fireplace mantles and beautiful old carpets. Even the harsh angle of the walls as they meet in the corner evokes the quirky appeal of the quintessential Paris flat. There's an adorable stuffed Mickey Mouse toy (and is that a Porky Pig doll I spy behind him!?) sitting at the feet of an extraordinary stuffed ostrich--more than likely purchased from the famed Parisian taxidermy shop Deyrolle.

What I’d really love to see photographs of, though, are the contents of the kitchen, bedroom, or bathroom. What kinds of potions and tonics (in my imagination they are in charming, flowery bottles with glass stoppers) lined the glass shelves of the bathroom? Were there beautiful tiles on the walls so typical of many early 20^th century baths? In the kitchen were there ancient tins of spices and bottles of liquor and spirits? Did a bottle of Veuve Clicquot happen to be stashed away in a cupboard for a special occasion? Perhaps there were piles of fashion magazines from the period, filled with the latest couture and haberdashery. One article does mention a number of calling cards from prominent individuals of the time--another treasure of a bygone era--as well as piles of love letters held together by ribbons of various colors.

There are so many things I want to know about this apartment, about the woman who occupied it--or didn’t, actually--for all those decades. I’m sure the contents were carefully inventoried and cataloged by a wonderfully bureaucratic French official, but I hope that someone else was there to document it all as well. I’d love to have a French writer’s take on the place and how it was allowed to exist out of time for so long. This apartment is a time capsule of the most wonderful sort and a veritable feast for any historian, archivist, curator or writer. The real story of this space is likely better than any fiction writer could conjure, but I wonder if we’ll ever know?

Not so long after stumbling upon this piece I read Roger Ebert’s poignant (and wonderful) review of the forthcoming Secretariat film. At one point during the review he mentions that his beloved friend and long-time co-host Gene Siskel used to say that, “his favorite movies were about what people actually do all day.” I immediately thought it was precisely that feeling which resonated so strongly and moved me so about this abandoned apartment. It was a scene from a day in the life of a pre-war Parisienne, a glimpse into a world long gone. 

Having Wonderful Time, Wish You Were Here...

Happy St. Valentine's Day to one and all!

Earlier this morning I was flipping through my postcard collection looking for something all Valentiney and sweet. While I found some lovely floral arrangements--complete with gold glitter in some cases--with detailed embossing, there was nothing covered with cupids or hearts. (I'd later realize those are probably in Minnesota with my mother as she used them as inspiration for a quilting project, I think.) No worry, the bouquet of roses I did find served my purpose just fine.

I used to be a much more avid postcard collector than I have been lately, but I've still managed to pick up a few over the past couple of years in little wayside shops or even on e-bay. Some of them are quite fun and I'll try to post them here now and then or as the spirit moves me.

As an opener though, a couple of favorites that have a little story to tell...

Any (either) of you who have read my earlier pieces know how much I love Paris. I came upon these postcards one afternoon at a shop in my hometown of Rochester, Minnesota. They are at first glance, perfectly nice photos of Paris...Sacre Coeur and The Opera. But what compelled me to buy them was the little near short-story on their reverse sides. It's hard to see on the Opera Garnier card which was damaged in a move, but both cards are addressed to a loved one, a misspelled Ahmie rather than Amie. (If you enlarge the photo below you can read Bill's note to his Ahmie.) I surmised Bill was a GI in Paris and he'd bought a pack of cards to send home to his wife or girlfriend. The back of the Opera card reads: Ahmie: I didn't get to see this building. It is one of the nicer buildings in Paris I guess. It was in the collection I bought so on to my honey. Love Bill. The reverse of the Sacre Coeur card reads as follows: Ahmie: Another place I didn't get to see. Maybe I will get a chance one day. What ever [sic] it is looks pretty good. Love, Bill. 

I remember being charmed at how nonchalant our Bill was about the structures, surely two of the most famous and most recognized buildings in the City of Light, but not to our GI. His comment that Sacre Coeur "looks pretty good, what ever it is" is really charming. 

And then there's the handwriting...Bill had really lovely handwriting for a man...in fact, it is almost too perfect. At any rate, this little glimpse into a couple, whether they were married or just young lovers, is delightful to me. I can almost imagine the girl, Bill's Ahmie, showing the cards to her friends and remarking on how kind it was of Bill to think of her or how Bill would've enjoyed the cosmopolitan delights of Paris. A delicious little reverie for St. Valentine's Day, no? 

Odds and Ends: Jacksons (Feline, Equine, Human) and Lautrecs and Durers, OH MY!

Ahhhhh, Paris. After my New Year feast of Croque Monsieur and French Onion Soup Gratinee (all homemade, thank you very much!) I thought I'd probably sated my Parisian cravings for a while. Yeah, that was wishful thinking on my part.

I have two big Atget and Brassai photo books that are in a pile of oft-perused books that I thumb through when I am in need of inspiration. Nothing gets my thoughts back to where they need to be like the wonderful art photo books...trouble is, they also can distract me to a ridiculous degree. It's a fine line, for me, the one between distraction and inspiration, apparently.

Imagine my joy then when I was reminded that I still hadn't been to the well-received Lautrec exhibition at the MFA in Boston. (This is another example of the days getting away from you when you are a freelancer.) So I am off to Boston tomorrow for a day spent at one of my favorite sources of inspiration, The Museum of Fine Arts. Happily there's also a very nice room full of Durer prints that I've seen once but can't wait to see again, so it'll be very good fun. I also hope to pop over to The Gardner, if there's time, as it's another great spot to soak up some inspiration.

So that's the Lautrec/Durer part of the piece...what, I can hear you all (both) asking is the Jackson reference about? Surely you are not writing about the King of Pop, I can feel you thinking...and heaven help us, you're not going to pontificate about Jess Jackson and Rachel Alexandra, are you??

I am not. I am speaking of VERY different Jacksons.

We're (and by mean WE, I mean all the horse folks out there) are looking at the newly minted three-year-olds to see who might be on Derby Trail. Horses will come and go from the "trail" and some of the prep races are viewed more intently than others, certainly.

Last year, at a time when my mother had given away my piano (yeah, I'll need therapy for that for a while) I saw I Want Revenge run a stunner of a race in the Wood Memorial. He had a horrible start and rallied to win beautifully and it just seemed a perfect fit...I did, after all, want a little revenge for my mother and the piano fiasco and this horse was amazing...so I Want Revenge became my Derby horse. I was of course sad when he was injured, and then really was horrified to hear the whole story behind his injury.

Needless to say, in addition to the normal way of looking at a horse race, i.e. past performances and pedigrees, I also like a horse that catches my imagination in some way.

Flip the calendar pages forward to today. It's Stonewall Jackson's birthday--and I know that because (a) an old museum boss of mine who had worked at VMI would always alert us to the day and (b) my beloved tabby cat was named Thomas Jonathan "Stonewall" Jackson Moscowitz Davidusky Schmenckmann--so it's just stuck in my head.

Thus it is, on Jackson's birthday, that I am made aware of a horse, a terribly game one, too, named Jackson Bend. Yup...Jackson Bend on Jackson's birthday. Turns out, after watching a video of his race at Calder, he stumbled out of the gate just like I Want Revenge did...and he's a goer. He's being pointed toward the Holy Bull stakes...here's a link to the Miami Herald piece about the highly regarded Jackson Bend. How can I not make him my Derby hopeful with all these coincidences and hunch possibilities?

(Thanks to @wowhorse who is better known as Ghostsnapper--http://ghostsnapper.blogspot.com--for her link to Jackson Bend this morning!)

And now, a shameless photograph of my beloved Jack Schmenkmann, whom we lost on September 11, 2008. I miss his Rolling Rock bottle green eyes and mischievous little furry presence every day.