Dinner & The Double Bass

Photos of this entire event leave to desire. This one isn't great of JJ and our niece, but look at the blackboard menu. It's huge and complicated. Also, you can see a reflection of the restaurant, small but elegant, too. 

On the evening of Le St. Valentin we met our niece and nephew in the theatre district --a scroungy part of northwest Paris close to Pigalle--to dine and then attend a much talked-about one-man play, La Contrabasse (The Double Bass) afterward. As you might guess dinner on the town is just as important as any play and although the neighborhood was iffy the restaurants were quite nice. Obviously, the numerous theaters in the area, including the pitiful Theatre du Nord Ouest, provide nightly patrons.

Chefs usually limit the number of "places," as they do the number of servings for each dish. One will hear from the establishment's one-and-only waiter/waitress, "Je regrette, Madame/Monsieur, we are out of that." Or, "We have only one piece of Tarte aux Prunes left." Maybe, "We only have 2 servings of the duck remaining." This is a good thing because it means that this restaurant doesn't prepare industrial quantities, that it serves as if for a large family, and that the chef is demanding. 

It occurred to me during our stay this last time that most chefs of small restaurants generally work two long shifts a day, lunch and dinner. They buy provisions at the open market, not a supermarket. The menus reflect the seasonal produce and availability of specialty items. It's still much the same as it always has been with the added advantage of kitchens full of marvelous gadgets--many of which are French inventions, to make cooking easier and to improve textures & quality.  We diners converse with the waiter for our order, and he mediates with Le Chef. In this way we dine our way through about 1500 to 2000 calories of wines, breads, hors d'oevres, entrées, cheeses, and desserts. Most of us take an expresso so that we won't sleep during the show.

La Contrabasse was a suggestion from our Sister-in-Law who lives in Blois, sizable town in the Loire Valley. She listens to France Musique classical radio quite a lot, had heard talk of the play, & read some good reviews. The raves were not only about its unique content - the life and times of an orchestral contrabasse player, but also an outstanding performance by the solo actor, Clovis Cornillac. The thing that makes this play attract notice is that it is comic, requiring a good comic actor, but it also is the rather sad tale of his limited existence. As the actor yanked us between laughter and pity, we learned a lot. Aristotle would have been proud! Kudos to Patrick Suskine of Parfum fame, known to English readers as The Nose. This writer, described as having the nature of a hermit crab, came out just long enough to communicate with the Parisian producers. This strange play is a success, but I'm not sure how long it will run or if the house receipts will keep it going for long. After all, the subject is recondite. 

Getting into the hall with everyone else was an ordeal. While the Le Theâtre de Paris was more standard than Le Theâtre du Nord Ouest, it was nevertheless, close & stuffy with steep stairwells from street to vestibule, and from the vestibule into the hall. Patrons were allowed to check their heavy wraps, but alas there was only a lone front-of-house guy to take care of everything. We kept our coats and stuffed them in our narrow seats. The orchestra section was poorly raked & seats placed just so the heads lined up to obstruct view. My niece and I had giant nobs right in front of us, so that we spent the entire play dodging from left to right, yet still we managed to enjoy the play. 

Without ado, no music, no announcement (turn off your cell phones and don't take photos), the houselights barely subdued, & not even the traditional three loud knocks from backstage, the curtain opens on this slouchy guy ironing a white shirt stage left, and his large instrument propped on a chair downstage right. The set is a bare necessities man-cave with a closet containing only his black & whites for work, nothing anywhere attractive or nice.  I honestly wasn't sure the play had begun because the actor simply began addressing the audience in the most casual sort of way. I guess one should never forget that all the same this character is a fiddler! One wondered if the unique usher was also the stage manager, "Psst! Clovis! Let's get started. The crowd is a bit noisy tonight, but if you just get it rolling they'll shut up."

And shut up we did. Except for laughing, we were a rapt audience. For and hour and three quarters with no intermission, we listened as we learned some history of the instrument, its importance in ensemble playing, and at the same time its "lower status," when compared to some other instruments. We were privy to the life of a frustrated, low-paid at €1500 per month, kind of fonctionnaire (government servant). From the outset he showed us his fridge which was filled with only cold beer in pop-top cans. Beer obviously dulls his unhappiness. Our actor opened and swilled about 10 of these before the final curtain. 

This bass fiddler is not a happy man. Overworked & grossly underpaid, he can only pine away after the cute little first flutist who, of course, doesn't know he's alive. He must live in Paris close enough to the rehearsal and performance halls where rents are high. He had to have his apartment expensively soundproofed. Caught between all the requirements of présence et perfection, he doesn't even have time to practice. His routine, suffocating existence is that of a person who really never loved playing bass fiddle in the first place. He only just fell into this professional slot because of circumstances that he never controlled. 

You'll be saying, "This wasn't funny at all." But, you'd be wrong because comedy is, in fact, sadness masked with humor. It is funny to watch this ungraceful, sloppy, self-indulgent, moderately thick-set bass player, pouring out his heart to us, playing only one long,  tenuous, demonstrative note on his ominously present jumbo instrument. 

This single thin-toned, long note has no art, no movement, no enthusiasm, or expectations. Musical notes should never be static, they should "go" somewhere; and when this doesn't happen there is no art and no music. Should we come to understand that our bass fiddler is a representative of our monotone lives? Close to the play's end we are sure that he's not going to "work" tonight. He's quitting because he's so fed up. Yeah, right. He'll be right there onstage the next night basking in 20 minutes of unabated applause. 

Corneille Up Close & Personal

From the grandest of Paris’ theaters we attended Pierre Corneille's Le Cid in surely one of the humblest. From gilded and cushy red velvet seats we were surrounded by raw gray stone and worn, faded blue velvet, straight-back seats on a single backboard, cast-offs for sure. This make-do theatre was once a rather vast basement of a larger structure. 

Here Ol' JJ is reciting verses of Le Cid that he learned in Lycée. Note the "throne" and the cross that I mentioned. But, the audience walked down those stairs under the arch, mostly in the dark. That was far upstage. Okay, so there were some levels for the actors to move around on. 

From the busy street we entered a small inner courtyard, always a calming surprise. At the very back was a small sign with an arrow indicating the entry to Théâtre du Nord Ouest (Theatre of the Northwest) Surely its name didn’t inspire anticipation.  We timidly pushed some double glass doors and entered a run-down vestibule. There was a skinny, hirsute, old man behind a high desk who was obviously taking care of ticketing. There was no one else to usher or give programs. He routinely pointed toward an open archway as if he thought all spectators should know where to go. The hallway was poorly lit and on a flight of stairs going down, so we proceeded with caution for a short distance. Suddenly there was some dim light and we discovered that we had, in fact, made an upstage entrance. But, just as soon we perceived where the audience would be seated facing center stage, on five well-defined tiers about 20 seats across in a stark, straight line. The first row was only about six feet from the first and only step-up of a thrust, semi-circular stage-of-sorts.

The proud Spanish King in street clothes. Notice the spot light.

The play began about twenty minutes later than announced, but, that was fine because it obviously takes about that long for spectators to settle in. Also, I was beginning to realize that curtain time is never punctual in France.  The first 3 rows were filled by mature spectators while the remaining rows were filled with high school students. On the stage was an oversized unpainted, wooden arm chair with a high back, just behind it a crude cross, & down stage left, a wooden park bench. There were some ancient spot-lights off-stage right and left, & a short string of overhead lights. That was it. We were about to take in the most controversial play of the 17th century in an atmosphere of utter meagerness and austerity. 

Corneille’s Le Cid was called a tragi-comédie. I suppose it’s tragic because there is a death, and the conflict would indicate certain death of the protagonist at the end. It’s a comedy because this doesn’t happen and the ending is very satisfying. Corneille’s play was wildly popular when it came out in 1637. It stirred up a huge controversy with the purists of  L’Académie Française because it violated  the rules of classical play writing: unity of time, place, and action. And there was no such thing as a tragi-comédie. It was either or, never both. At a time when the French intellectual elites were working hard to codify the language and set literary standards this pipsqueak playwright dared to write a play that defied the new protocol. 

Despite the less than stellar environment the play began with a bombastically, ecstatic  Chiméne darting around the stage in diaphanous  bright orange; she was going to marry Don Rodrigue, a great & famous warrior. Her next entry about 20 minutes later was in a severe, opaque, black gown. Her high spirits morphed into loud wails of unabated grief after she received the news (offstage!) that her father had been killed in an honor duel by the same Don Rodrigue.  The remainder of the play was devoted to the need for Chimène to avenge her father’s death by obtaining retribution from the King who should order Rodrigue’s death. There was no entr’acte & the play lasted over 2 hours. The actors, a bare minimum cast of about 7, who were all costumed from the second-hand shop, gave their all. In a subplot the Infante (King’s daughter) wanted Don Rodrigue for herself & was making the most of Chimène’s great chagrin. Don Rodrigue was prostrate with apologetic grief which Chimène refused to accept, even though he had no other choice but to duel for his father’s honor. Chimène’s aging nurse tried to talk sense into her charge who spewed venom for 2 hours. 

....No seriously, We noticed that all the actors who were interacting with Chimène stood at least 6 feet away from her to keep from being sprayed. We even wondered if the front row spectators got hit every now and then. The high-schoolers dared to snicker from their comfortable distance. Someone from a front row hissed at them, “Silence!” Chimène remained undaunted & continued her triple forte declamation throughout, not seeming to care about the spittle that she produced or where it landed. This young 20-ish actress was a striking, statuesque, Grecian brunette, but she obviously needed some serious vocal coaching. Plus her acting could have used a strong dose of reticence.   

Le Cid is a play that is universally studied in French lycée and many students must memorize a long speech of alexandrins, French classical verse. With only a little primitive lighting & staging, no ambient music, few sound effects,  the play (despite an over emotive Chimène) held together, each scene well-played and leading to a rational dénouement (conclusion). Don Rodrigue did not marry the Infante who was way too noble for him. The King did not claim Le Cid's head just to please the unreasonable Chimène. Besides Don Rodrigue a.k.a. Le Cid, was already a great war hero & Spain still needed him to fight more battles. 

Not a great photo. This is Chimène's "father" (also in street dress after the show) who does a bang-up job of insulting Le Cid's father....with several slaps of the glove and long vituperations. You will glimpse the rows of seats to the left under the spot light & the stair stage exit just to the left. Note that pitiful stage light still glowing upper right. 

Molière's Dom Juan at La Comédie Française

Guess who.

On a recent stay in Paris JJ & I were able to attend 3 plays. The first was Molière’s Dom Juan at La Comédie Française. This is not my favorite of the Molière canon, but JJ contends that it is probably Molière’s most profound work.  Sadly, there were very few presentations & then the play fell into obscurity, much the same as a modern Broadway flop. Even these days French theatre producers know that Dom Juan is a hard sell when compared to Molière's raucous comedies.

Hallway: Marble busts EVERYWHERE!

Let’s put this in perspective. My choice would have been one of the comic plays, but when reserving from overseas, one gets what La Comédie is running. There is no doubt that just attending a play at La Comédie it's half the experience: old, roomy and historical, plush deep-red velvet seats and gilded extended balconies: an awesome facility. Whatever Molière was playing was a secondary consideration...pour moi!**

Would I lie?

But, maybe it wasn’t for the French audience who paid a pretty euro to hear Molière’s sublime alexandrines* so artfully delivered by brilliant, seasoned actors, whose voices ring out with no microphones. As the play got underway I was surprised at the reigning silence. In contrast to American etiquette, these Frenchies hardly tittered at jokes or stage business, & they never applauded until the curtain came down before an entr’acte, of which there were two. For Frenchies, I thought they were surprisingly reserved. Think about it. Americans think is nice to applaud at the close of a scene and to laugh appropriately to communicate their pleasure to the actors. (Oh well!) However, at the final curtain, the applause broke out and I didn’t think it would ever stop. The curtain opened about 10 times (yes, it did!) for elaborate bows, and then the audience began to clap in cadence for about 10 more curtains and bows. It was like they had kept it all pent up & then they just exploded. I began to feel sorry for the cast who must have been exhausted. 

All these empty seats will be filled by curtain.

But, Ole JJ was livid. The “enlightened” director decided to change the ending, though he did not change the text, which would have truly been a scandal. However, he changed it with stage “business.” Dom Juan did not go to hell, as he should have. When stage-hell opened up the Dom just ran off the stage with his trusty servant Sganarelle, free to perpetuate his evil deeds on more unsuspecting women. JJ and #7 agreed that the play was pointless if there was no justice rendered against the Dom. 

Pour moi, a simpleton, Molière’s great art with words and humor was to be found in the various scenes where the Don was trying to seduce women, noble or otherwise. The moral lectures of Sganarelle given to his wayward master are maximally philosophical and entertaining.  Molière’s brilliant word-play is easily enhanced by traditional 17th century stage business. & though the acting is mildly suggestive, it never becomes vulgar. In the world of Louis XIV all that is vile, bloody, or crude takes place off-stage, hence, the emphasis on beautiful, witty, or descriptive language. 

Imagine! This is THE very ARMCHAIR in which Molière had "une attaque" while playing the Imaginary Invalid (a tirade against M.D.'s of his times. He was carried off-stage to his apartment close-by where he died. Art imitating life? 

Call me shallow. It was all grand to me. The actors were scintillating. The sets and costumes a delight.  Even if I’ve never understood the attraction of this Spanish myth there was still a lot to enjoy.  

*French version of iambic pentameter
**La Troupe de La Comédie Française is an institution which was formed soon after Moliére's death. The actual hall which bears the name in these photos is a much later, lavish construction than Moliére ever knew. 

Class Three: Obit for our Bulldog

I have no idea when I wrote this. I even wondered if I was the author.  Other writers in the family loved Winston as much as I. Alas! This is now an obit for a wonderful family pet. May he rest in peace.

Class Three

We own a dog of pure breed. His appearance inspires fear. With his head larger than the rest of his body, his great mouth and jowls, and mighty folds around his piercing black eyes, little children shriek when they see him as they hold their mother’s skirts. His bark is deep and loud. He slobbers! Anyone imagines that his attack would be brutal. 

But the truth is that our dog wouldn’t hurt a flea. He is a perfect companion for children, although he might not protect them. Think not that he is stupid. He knows his mind.  He does exactly what pleases him. He will brave hisses and claws to raid the cats’ bowls. His show of affection to his masters is wet, powerful and long! If he doesn’t want to go out he hides and when found refuses to budge. Is it any wonder that he’s an English Bulldog and his name is Winston.

We were not original in our choice of name. The English Bulldog is emblematic of the famous British statesman of WWII. The stereotype has stuck and who would daresay that it is a bad one? Here’s the rub. How many normal individuals want to be compared to a dog?  

I’m not sure if Winston Churchill had a class three occlusion*, but this dog always does. Most people don’t particularly find this bite attractive. Men might accept it because it was once a symbol of strength and courage. Women consider it an affliction. It makes their appearance homely and witch-like. While the Hollywood camera typically prefers a prognathic jawline, the Class Three is overkill. 

It is now possible with advances in oral surgery and orthodontics to correct what is commonly known as an under-bite. A surgical procedure comes first and will shorten the mandible or lower jawbone.  Some extractions might be necessary in order to fit the smaller lower arch of teeth under the upper larger arch. After surgery, orthodontic treatment ensues. The results are spectacular. Et voila! A Hollywood smile. 

But back to the one for whom a class three is always à la mode...Winston. Hollywood be damned! He’ll stick with his Class Three.

*There are also Class 1 and Class 2 occlusions.