Monday, August 15, 2011

Stephen Fry, Stephen Fry


Since this is a lovely and balmy day,
Let's look at a certain man today.

Not just any man, you see
But a man who is funny, ho ho ha hee.



Stephen Fry, Stephen Fry
When you come on public television,
it's almost like I die.





















When you talked about Wagner
and Hitler and such,
I saw your green jacket
and just liked it so much.

You lost a lot of weight there,
you great big kermudge,
But I'm glad you found a shrink or
your brain might now be sludge.
























Stephen Fry, Stephen Fry
When you go off to Bayreuth it just makes me cry.
When you sat down to play that piano so great,
It made my heart kaboom and palpitate.

And you surely got my sympathy vote
When you tried to hit one key and got the wrong note.


And when you did that show on bipolar disorder,
It made me just pack up and run for the border.



Stephen Fry, Stephen Fry
You drive me all nutty, I don't know just why.
Maybe you're crazy, that's part of your myth,
And even if you're gay I just wait for your kith.

























I found out at last why girls like you so,
And boys of course too, vo-do-de-o-do.
Your face is all craggy, it looks so unique
Like Easter Island or a great mountain peak.





















Yes, you have that Stonehenge look, you know
That makes the women moan very low.



I don't know how you do it, so effortless it seems,
So forever, silly person, you will dwell in my dreams.





http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.com/2012/01/synopsis-glass-character-novel-by.html

Man Plays Fire Extinguisher!


The Worst Thing I Ever Saw On Public Access TV


Sunday, August 14, 2011

Cavalleria Rusticana as you've never heard it before



This was another instance of coming in the back door: I was trying to find the name of one of those old penny-arcade flip machines where you put in a penny or a nickel and turned a crank and looked in a little window and a big revolving thingammy with photos attached to it flipped around and provided a crude kind of motion picture. These were peep-show things that often showed mildly dirty movies, all of 30 seconds long. I couldn't find the name of it, so couldn't really get any information or see any YouTube clips on it. At some point, having gone through zoetrope and a bunch of other names I can't remember because they were so weird, gizmatrons and walbergerscopes and stuff, the name mutoscope popped out.


A funny thing to call it, but that's what it was. The few existing functional mutoscopes are pretty pathetic to look at, the photos all rotten at the edges like the underside of a mushroom. Women dance around with scanty clothing on, a man touches a woman's leg, two women get into bed and tickle each other, etc. Hot stuff. Ministers and arbiters of morals thundered against them:

Public response

In 1899, The Times printed a letter inveighing against "vicious demoralising picture shows in the penny-in-the-slot machines. It is hardly possible to exaggerate the corruption of the young that comes from exhibiting under a strong light, nude female figures represented as living and moving, going into and out of baths, sitting as artists' models etc. Similar exhibitions took place at Rhyl in the men's lavatory, but, owing to public denunciation, they have been stopped."


A collector's site describes the contents of one such reel, "Birth of the Pearl" which "pictures a nude woman rising from a seashell and standing." The site notes "this reel has some damage to a whole chunk of photos. They are all in a section where there was full frontal nudity and the cards are quite worn off."

Pretty hot stuff, eh? But then I started to think about a movie I saw eons ago (EONS, EONS!: see former post) called Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull's History Lesson. I had a thing for Joel Grey then, and he looked plain sexy in this, with a full beard that was obviously real. He looked downright Biblical in it, and I lusted. Anyway, at some point one of BB's girl friends trucks a sort of musical contraption into the Wild West show. It was a big ornate wooden cabinet with a revolving metal disc in it, and it played this unearthly music. It took me a while to track these down, too: they turned out to be just music boxes, except with exotic names like 27 Inch Regina (which, come to think of it, sounds vaguely obscene). I think they produce a sound from another time, lyrical and sweet, reminiscent of antique merry-go-rounds and Victorian parlours with tweeting canaries. The tuning is actually pretty good on these two, and the pieces complex.

I don't know who made these, or how, but it must have been quite an art. I LOVE the clatters and bangs at the start and finish, reminding us that these are, after all, hunks of tin. A marvel of design and musicianship. The way the notes decay or die off is sweet and bell-like, making the notes float into each other in a way I find enchanting.

And again

1888 - Oldest surviving film: Roundhay Garden Scene


The First Movie


Eon? . . .eon?. . . eh?


OK, this is really a weird one (as if my other posts aren't - ). I've been collecting oddities to write about, but it was such a ragbag that nothing came together. (Why does no one talk about having "nerves" any more? Why is it always a fancy diagnosis like cyclothymia or post-traumatic stress? Why don't we have lumbago, quinsy, grippe - and how can diseases just disappear like that)?

But it didn't gell, or jell, or turn to jell-o or whatever else it's supposed to do. Except for one thing.

The word luncheon.

What's the deal with luncheon? We don't have a breakfast-eon, a bruncheon, or a dinnereon. What is the -eon supposed to mean? It seems to imply a get-together to have lunch, usually kind of a fancy one. So is that what the suffix -eon means?


Uh, that depends.

I had to go on a Wik-tionary somewhere to get a list of words ending in -eon: and they are plentiful. But finding common ground is difficult.

One that popped into mind was puncheon. I remember the long narrative poem The Pied Piper of Hamelin by Robert Browning which, when the Piper began to play, exhorted the rats to "munch on, crunch on, take your luncheon":

"And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out 'Oh, rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce and inch before me,
Just as methought it said 'Come, bore me!'
- I found the Weser rolling o'er me."


I "took" this poem in about Grade 3, and mostly didn't understand the more lumpy vocabulary, which of course was never explained. This poem was meant to be read aloud in one long blurt. I see now that it was nuncheon, not luncheon which was used to rhyme with it. But what the hell is a nuncheon?

I always assumed a puncheon was a sort of barrel that had sugar in it, but it isn't, it's just a long piece of wood or some sort of tool for engraving (a "punch"). But Browning got away with it, I suppose, through poetic license.



I had to look up nuncheon because it was just too weird.

nuncheon 1353, "slight refreshment," originally taken in the afternoon, from none "noon" (see noon) + shench (from O.E. scenc) "draught, cup."

Oh yeah, so nuncheon is taken from "cup". My ass it is. And what the hell is a shench? Was there a fourth member of The Three Stooges?

I might as well make my own dictionary of eon-suffixed words, and I will, right now, before I've even had my coffee.

There's eon, the granddaddy of them all, and we won't bother with what that means. I like truncheon, which sounds pretty violent, and trudgeon, which surely is somehow related to bludgeon except that you walk on the person. Dudgeon is a good one, used with "high" and meaning someone leaving in that well-known vehicle, a huff.

Neil Dudgeon, born Doncaster, South Yorkshire,
                      England


I was mostly interested in words that might somehow relate to luncheon, that is, the suffix eon added to a known word to somehow extend it, formalize it, attach it to fund-raising for various diseases. There's a nickelodeon, an extinct term for dirty movies of the early 1900s that lasted a couple of seconds (see example, above, 2-second original plus extended version). Nickel plus odeon. The word was resurrected for a children's TV network. But that doesn't quite solve it, because we still have the problem of odeon.

Od. Eon. I don't get it, do you?


So let's go on to pantheon. You have your panth, meaning you juth-t can't get your breath, or miniature panthers getting together for a luncheon (or nuncheon). From there it gets weird, and I have to say I don't know exactly what it means, and I'll be damned if I'll look it up so early in the morning. For now we'll just say it means a whole lot of stuff, the entire pantheon of whatever.

Does anyone know what a widgeon is? Is it sort of like a widget? Is it some strange sort of pigeon, maybe a widowed pigeon? A pigeon dressed in black (going to a fundraiser)?























Chirugeon. A kind of dinosaur, maybe. Chirugasaurus Rex.

Gudgeon sounds like a wad of hard old gum you find stuck under your desk. Ewwwwwwww.

Ieon. Come on, now.

Mezereon must be something archaelogical, some sort of terazzo plaza for sacrificing young goats or children or something. Or else something awful from another planet, like kryptonite.



Pereon is part of a woman's body.

Surgeon is hard to take apart. Sur being, what, above in French? Surge means something quite else. But there's that eon part, like a gathering together. Psychosurgeon, cryosurgeon, supersurgeon, plastic surgeon, all of them give me the willies.

Odeon. Did I get to that one? Isn't that some big old place, one of those old theatres the town council is forever threatening to tear down to put up condos? We still have Cineplex Odeon, as if the theatre association still hangs on by a thread.

But it still means coming together, doesn't it? Even for a really short movie, and a nice bite of something for your nuncheon.



Saturday, August 13, 2011

A pool of stillness: Barbara Bonney's Ave Maria

Ave Maria - Fantasia 1940


In the garden of good and evil



As usual, this started out as something else: I got thinking of a documentary film I saw years and years ago, in French and overdubbed with English narration - I think it was called Once Upon a Time - all about the European influences on Disney's animation. In other words, how much he stole from other sources: other animators, literature, music, etc. etc. And never more so than in Fantasia, his high-toned, high-falutin' animation of "classical" music. This was the kind of movie that kids squirmed through, bored, or scared (the dinosaurs in Rite of Spring; the scary creatures, ghosts and skeletal horsemen in Night on Bald Mountain).

I tried to find the original documentary, came up empty (it barely exists on DVD, and only in Europe and only in French. I shall have to wait.) Then I thought about Night on Bald Mountain, one of the most celebrated pieces from Fantasia, and how many images Disney "borrowed" from Murnau's creepy classic from 1926, Faust.

The hideous horsement (whom I saw on TV many years before, an isolated clip that only made sense to me 25 years later); the big scary guy wit' da wings, and lots of other stuff. But I didn't want to post a 9-minute clip from Fantasia, so then I got watching the Ave Maria that follows after: try as I might, I can't diss this, as the animation is so utterly otherworldly. Yes, Disney is strutting his animated stuff, saying, look, have you ever seen animation like this? No. And we never will again.

But THEN I found this rendition of Ave Maria by Barbara Bonney, and I have to say it is the finest I have ever heard. I heard her sing Peer Gynt many years ago (in fact I still have a recording of the complete work, with Norwegian dialogue) and loved her voice, but I have to say I never cultivated her properly, so it's good to hear this.

The visuals in this are crummy, but that makes you shut your eyes and really listen. THIS kind of good really could defeat Faust's evil forces.

(Sorry this came out in such awkward order. The video kept disappearing or half-appearing or otherwise getting screwed up, so it's under the post A pool of stillness: Barbara Bonney's Ave Maria.

Night on Faust's Mountain

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Women and sangria: or, how not to be a writer


A friend and colleague of mine,  Matt Paust, recently passed along a link to a post on Open Salon by Ann Nichols. It recounted the ordeal she faced as a little girl, already deeply devoted to the written word, who was forced by a shallow substitute teacher to write an inane assignment called "I am a Lost Penny". When it came time to read outstanding pieces to the class, hers wasn't included: the teacher didn't get it, so she concluded there was nothing to get. Unfortunately, this is the kind of reception writers face throughout their lives. Agents don't get it. Publishers don't get it. Editors especially don't get it. But like fools, we carry on.


I emailed Matt today as per usual, and this piece (below) evolved into another writer's story. In no other field are there so many wanna-be's, so many people who talk about writing but don't really do it, who read how-to's but don't really follow them, who attend endless classes but don't ever risk their work to someone else's eyes/mind.

If and when you do, you're in for it. Unless you're one of these rare instant phenomenal successes (and I know a few of those who have flamed out after one novel), you struggle and toil and chop your way through the underbrush, occasionally finding yourself in a howling wilderness of loneliness and despair. Welcome to the wonderful world of being a "real" writer.


The reward? Occasionally being able to dump it all out in words that are meaningful. That post about "someone's" sister was a huge catharsis for me. Since then I've thought of other details. But just being able to sit down and pour it out was reward enough, at least for the time being.

This is already longer than my email to Matt (and I've tinkered with it since), so here it is:


This whole penny thing has got me going on the only time I joined a "writer's group" called Women and Words.  I lasted two sessions. I was the only one who had written a novel or, in fact, had anything published (mostly newspaper columns and book reviews, with the odd poem in a lit. mag.) Someone came up to me and said, "Are you Margaret Gunn?" Not sure what happened to the "ing".


Anyway, we all had to go around the circle telling everyone what we had written and what were working on. When I mentioned my novel (which by the way never did see print), there was a sort of muted, fireworks "ohhhhhhhhhhh," tinged with "who the hell does she think she is?". It was weird. Were they impressed, or merely embarrassed?

There was a nice little old lady in a print dress, introduced to me as "our poetry expert", whose appreciation of poetry went back to the late 1800s. A few people read their poems out loud, almost all written in rhyme and meter.

THE EAGLE

The eagle flies
so high in the sky
In power and might
and not showing any fright
If God could fly, the bird
Would carry a holy word
And I'd fly on his wings
As my soul there would sing.



The universal response was "ohhhh, how LOVE-LYYY!". Then a young black woman, dressed rather edgily with spiky earrings, read a very strange but raw, edgy poem in a Jamaican accent. There was a silence. "Oh, that's different," said the old lady.


It surely was.

When I talked about the novel, a woman asked me instantly, "What's the conflict?" I felt ill. I didn't know what she was talking about. "The" conflict. She had been to too many writing courses, read too many how-to books. And the books. They were touted, one after the other, as the one we had to have to learn such-and-such a technique.

I remember wondering, why not just pick one and do what it says? But commitment to your craft was measured by how many shelves you had filled with these things.


But then came an actual project, a book they were self-publishing as a fundraiser. Great! I thought, a book of the group's short stories or excerpts from novels or memoirs. But it wasn't that at all. It was a COOKBOOK, and they wanted a recipe from me by next week. I don't know why I came back. The next week was almost all socializing. We had been assigned something to write (one lady seemed to be in charge, practically holding a wooden ruler to rap our knuckles if we stepped out of line), but no one mentioned it because no one had done it except me.

We were told to choose a character we wanted to develop in our fiction, then list absolutely everything about that person. "You have to know where he lives, what he does, how he dresses, what he likes to eat, where he grew up, everything." There must have been something wrong with me, because when I start writing fiction it's a process of finding out about my characters, and knowing everything from the get-go would bore me to pieces.


But never mind, no one had done it anyway. It had been forgotten. People talked about their kids, and something called "sangria". It seems the group got together between sessions to have a sangria party and get drunk.


Oh, and one more thing. A timid young woman pressed a few poems into my hands and begged me to comment on them and be brutally honest. I should have just said, "Oh, these are LOVE-LYYY!" without even looking at them, but I made the mistake of reading them and commenting as kindly as I could, making sure I pointed out some strong points. These were written in rhyme and meter and seemed to be about some sort of illness, and God and angels. When I gave her my comments, her eyes were brimming with hurt. "Oh, it's OK," she said. "I'm manic-depressive. It's one hundred per cent genetic, I got it from my mother, I didn't have a bad childhood or anything. My psychiatrist encouraged me to write these while I was in the hospital." 

I felt like I'd stomped on a bunch of baby chicks. Now I think writing can't be taught. The native lust for wordsmithing is in you from birth, but then you have to do an awful lot of flexing and honing.


It's like being an athlete. If you're born with poor reflexes and a caved-in chest, you won't make it, but if you never work out or train, you won't either. And you have to WANT this and want it and want it and want it and want it and want it. And not have sangria parties behind other people's backs.


 

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
    It took me years to write, will you take a look