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(Act II is here. Many thanks to YouTube user John Burrows for posting it.)

As I have mentioned before, I really like Gilbert and Sullivan’s last operetta The Grand Duke. Historically, this is the operetta most G&S enthusiasts like least. And, I suppose, they have a few points in their favor, as in the sometimes very bad rhyming on Gilbert’s part. (e.g. “chooses/shoeses”) Some of the scenes, especially in Act II, do seem like they are badly in need of editing. Also, while he is a good character, the Prince of Monte Carlo in Act II seems to arrive out of nowhere.

But Gilbert’s talent for clever, clear and witty lyrics is not entirely absent, for surely Ernest’s memorable plea

If the light of love’s lingering ember
Has faded in gloom,
You cannot neglect, O remember,
A voice from the tomb!
That stern supernatural diction
Should act as a solemn restriction,
Although by a mere legal fiction
A voice from the tomb!

must rank with Gilbert’s wittiest. And even if it is a groaner, the ingenious lines: “In the period Socratic every dining-room was Attic/(Which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy kind)” is probably more amusing than any of the labored puns in H.M.S. Pinafore. Even second-rate Gilbert lyrics are, after all, still very pleasing.

However, I have always felt that Gilbert showed himself off at his cleverest as a writer in Grand Duke, if not as a poet. In fact, the whole premise of the “Statutory Duel” is as good an idea as Gilbert ever had for poking fun at the legal system. If Gilbert’s lyrical talents are a ghost–or rather, “ghoest”–of what they once were, he more than makes up for it with his inventiveness in plotting (Monte Carlan antics aside) and clever dialogue. (If you want to see Gilbert really being lazy, try Utopia, Limited)

As for criticisms that the text is overlong, well, that may be the case. It is possible that Grand Duke is very difficult to perform well, but certainly its story is quite enjoyable to read. Perhaps, that is Gilbert’s major sin here; crafting a story that was, in some ways, not suitable to his medium. As we shall see, however, in many ways Gilbert uses the medium’s conventions to marry form with thematic content in a very ingenious way.

I think it is one of Gilbert’s single best comedic stories; and (contrary to what you may think) a kind of culmination of his works. It is something of an irony that Gilbert and Sullivan, renowned for their “topsy-turvy” whimsicality, should have arguably their topsy-turviest piece ranked as a failure.

One of the major themes of Gilbert’s plays and poems is his annoyance at hypocrisy and artifice. His love of legalistic quibbles is only one manifestation of this, but really it is everywhere. Certainly, a major point in all his collaborations with Sullivan often draw on the idea that “Art is wrong and Nature right”, as Utopia Ltd. put it. But never is artifice and illusion more consistently targeted than in The Grand Duke.

Everything in The Grand Duke is about illusion, from Julia’s play-acting at “loving” Ernest as per contractual obligation, to the “legal death” mandated by the statutory duel, to Ludwig’s faux-Greek court, to the commoners pretending to be Noblemen in the pay of the Prince of Monte Carlo.

In this way, The Grand Duke attacks illusion and hypocrisy in a way no other G&S operetta ever did. From a thematic point of view, it is coherent; though admittedly a different kind of coherence than one might have been expecting from Gilbert. But it marries Gilbert’s dislike of society’s hypocritical conventions with the conventions of theater itself. Having satirized everything else, Gilbert is now mocking the very medium he’s using, often by having characters break the fourth wall, as Gayden Wren thoroughly lists in A Most Ingenious Paradox.

As to the characters, is there really another female role in all of the Gilbert and Sullivan canon as funny as Julia Jellicoe? Ruthlessly ambitious, cynical, calculating and bold character who also serves to lampoon stage convention. I’d argue she’s one of the best female roles Gilbert ever wrote.

When I first heard her Act II song, “So Ends My Dream”, I thought it seemed melodramatic and over-the-top, out of place with circumstances, considering she didn’t even really want to be the Grand Duchess that much. Then I realized that’s the point. Julia is a prima donna in every sense of the word; and so she only knows how to react in a theatrical way. She could actually be a tragic character, someone who doesn’t know how to have real emotions because they are so skilled at faking them. (It’s played for humor, but Julia’s claim that her love for her and Ernest’s hypothetical children will be “a mere pretence” is pretty chilling.)

All the other characters are amusing enough–Ludwig, the amiable everyman, Ernest the theater manager and the miserly Grand Duke Rudolph all have some good songs. And even secondary characters have much to recommend them, as in the notary’s dry wit, or the costumier and his hired “peers” bantering.

The Grand Duke is probably my next favorite of their comic pieces after Ruddigore, in spite of its flaws.

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[Sometimes I just get these ideas–I was thinking about the ME 3 ending, and it occurred to me how much its profoundly messed-up logic could have been improved by borrowing from a certain Gilbert and Sullivan opera. Then I realized they even had the perfect character to do so…]

INT-CITADEL–CATALYST’S ROOM

[Shepard has just met the Catalyst]

Shepard: Do you know how I can stop the Reapers?

Catalyst: I control the Reapers.  They are my solution.  Every 50,000 years, I have them wipe out organics who will create synthetics who would wipe out the organics.

Shepard: What? That’s insane!

Catalyst: The created always rebel against the creators.  The Reapers must wipe out all organics who are capable of creating synthetics.

[Enter Mordin Solus, who has survived the events on Tuchanka and secretly boarded the Citadel.]

Mordin: Allow me, as an old Gilbert and Sullivan fan, to make a suggestion. The subtleties of the Salarian mind are equal to the emergency. The thing is really quite simple – the insertion of a single word will do it. Let it stand that every organic shall die who doesn’t create synthetics, and there you are, out of your difficulty at once!

Catalyst: Oh.  Very well.

[Catalyst vanishes, Reaper invasion stops. The entire cast enters.]

FINALE-ENSEMBLE

LIARA

Hip hip hurray,

All is okay–

Ev’rything is copacetic!

There’ll be no death

Even for Geth–

Peace to all who art synthetic!

ALL

Though ’twas a general rule in times before:

“Created must oppose the creator”

This time around, we sought to fix

Problems caused by the synthetics.

CMDR. SHEPARD

We might have been

Like a machine–

It was nearly cause for panics!

But now a peace,

Has brought a cease

To the harvest of organics!

ALL

                                                      The three choices given this organic (alluding to Shepard)

All seemed just a bit tyrannic!

He’s/I’m Commander Shepard, here to tell

You/Us his favorite choice on the Citadel!

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Beneath the gloomy, empty skies

Of ancient Araby,

A forgotten army lies

Within the sandy sea.

The Warriors, once bold and proud,

Once arrayed in order splendid,

Are now a silent, bony crowd–

Their glorious campaign has ended.

Yet on the faint night wind is borne

An echoing ghostly call.

And from midnight to morn

The Kings of Night hold them in thrall!

Again the old formation rises,

And blazes boldly in the dark;

Each bygone soldier yet recognizes

As their old commanders bark.

They raise their swords, and heed the call,

And again the march will be resumed;

Until the dawn, when one and all

By the desert are again consumed.

What Desert Devils, unseen by human eyes,

Control this dread army

Beneath the gloomy, empty skies

Of ancient Araby?

Inspired by (but not exactly based upon) this.

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The setting sun cast a reddish glow on the Clock Tower

that loomed ominously upon the shore.

As the fishermen returned, a howl rose up

from the distant dark forest.

A few heads turned in the crowd,

and a few mutterings were heard.

But the noise was forgotten,

 as the torches were lit in the village streets.

As darkness fell, and storms clouds

obscured the faint crescent moon,

again the chilling howl was heard.

And then a cold gale blew across the lake

as the storm rolled near.

And amidst the lashing rains and howling wind

that assaulted the village dwellings

and uprooted the trees,

there was a sound of fluttering

as of wings, and a growling

like no sound any one had ever heard.

 And all the torches were extinguished

In the awful flood of death and ruin.

And when at last it ended,

and the clouds rolled past,

and the faint glow of dawn fell once more upon the streets,

only the Clock Tower still remained,

like a dead Titan, its hands twisted

in meaningless directions.

Not merely bent, but melted

in the awful nighttime storm

that had claimed all within the village boundaries.

And in the forest, all was quiet again.

(more…)

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Well, we heard the big guns roar behind the battle line;

Every member of the Corps, by our officer’s design,

Affixed his bayonet to his trusty laser gun.

The order, as of yet, had not come to anyone,

But we knew we’d have to charge at the foemen’s barricade,

So, in battle armor large, in a phalanx we arrayed.

Our satellites looked down at the enemy’s artillery

Which was set up in a town that our cavalry would pillory.

The UAV’s report went directly to the Colonel

(Who was resting in the Fort, with an injury internal)

The plan that he devised had been centuries rehearsed,

It would have been recognized by Napoleon the First.

But for every gee-whiz gadget, and with all of our  technology—

The upper management has yet to send us an apology.

The strategies they made were completely obsolete

And so our whole brigade met a horrible defeat.

All our battle droids broke ranks, and we knew our fate was sealed–

So we took our hover tanks and retired from the field.

(more…)

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So, I was working on a poem last night.  This is what I have:

He’s been sitting in this bar for the last fifteen years,

Waiting for the Devil to come make a deal for his soul.

Don’t bother to talk to him, I think that his ears

Are shot from all of this bad rock ‘n’ roll.

One more blood shot drink for the road… [This line contributed by Thingy]

Sitting in his battered car waiting for the ringing in his ears to stop

“What’s he waiting for?” he fumed. “All he need do is ask, I’ll come cheap.”

Starting up the car the road started swaying. A loud noise came from above.

He was buried under three stories when the earthquake finished.

With his spirit leaving he was met by a demon.

“This cannot be,” the man cried, “he hasn’t paid me for my soul!”

The demon laughed maniacally, “Why would he pay for something he already owns?” [These lines contributed by P.M. Prescott.]

I happen to really like these lines.  Unfortunately, I have no idea what to say next, or even if it should be funny, scary, sad or what.  But those lines are, in my opinion, too good to waste.

So, I am putting it out for you readers to work with.  If you can think of what comes next, put it in the comments, or alternatively post it on your own blog and let me know so I can link to it.

And sorry, there is no prize, in case you were wondering.

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In the gloomy, grim Midwest

One dark October day,

I rode along a hilltop crest,

Past a quarry cold and grey.

It was late that afternoon

And I turned to head for home;

When across the barren dune

I saw a figure roam.

I called to him, but no reply

From that figure reached my ear.

And I could not believe my eye

But then he seemed to disappear!

I started, then, upon the path

Down into the dark ravine,

Shuddering to think what hath

Lain long therein, unseen.

When once I reached the floor

The afternoon to night was turning,

But in the dark, I heard a roar

As of a massive fire burning.

And from the distance came a cry

That left me feeling sickened.

And feeling Duty bade me try

To help, my pace I quickened.

The night wind tore my cloak

As I passed trees all dead and rotten.

The smoky, stony place bespoke

A time long since forgotten.

The wolfpacks bayed and howled

From distant, lonely places,

The tree trunks leered and scowled

With twisted moonlit faces.

When that last fatal bend I rounded

I saw the mighty fire, and the rings

By which it was surrounded

Of leaping, grinning, cackling THINGS.

And at the center of the blaze

I saw that at which they chanted,

A sight I’ll not forget for all my days

And on my deathbed shall be haunted.

I turned and ran, in mindless fear,

My faith and reason torn in half.

As I plunged on, I nigh could hear

Those awful creatures laugh.

Now I try to live what life I can

On my lonely country farm;

A broken, shattered, frightened man

Who lies awake for fear of harm.

I will only go out in the day;

And sometimes, in my room at night,

I think that I can hear them, far away,

As they chant their Diabolic rite.

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Dead Tree at Night

A train whistle blows
And echoes over the forgotten graveyard.
In the dark of night, the West wind
Sweeps across the fields.
What gloomy tidings ride
Upon that ancient gale?
What long dead spirit voice
Cries out from the forgotten forests?
A shape, silhouetted against a sky
Faintly orange with distant city lights,
Moves slowly across the rise.
The colorless leaves fall
From the arms of their decaying towers.
And then the wind subsides,
But a dread chill persists
Upon this haunted land.

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[Inspired by a suggestion Thingy made in the comments on this post.  It kind of wound up being completely different than I expected when I started it.]

Of all the monsters men detest, one that stands above the rest

Is none other than the dreadful VAMPIRE!

By day a suave aristocrat, at night it turns into a bat;

Who can deny the fear that they  inspire?

But though frightful are these ghouls, they’re governed by some rules

That are overly complex and convoluted.

Bram’s well-publicized account of an evil, charming Count

In their mythology is deeply rooted.

Garlic is their kryptonite; put it ’round their crypts at night

And you’re safe from Dracula and from Carmilla.

When to destroy ’em it suffices to expose ’em to some spices–

Well, what happens if you feed ’em some vanilla?

And none of them appears in such surfaces as mirrors–

A property of theirs which is very unexpected;

Because it does not apply to the normal human eye

Into which their light is properly reflected.

If you’re writing vampire fiction, there’s a good deal of restriction

On the powers of your Nosferatu.

So, you’ll have to pick and choose from the rules you want to use–

Or at the very least, you sure ought to!

Where vampires are concerned, if there’s one thing I have learned

It’s that they can be whate’er you want.

They need not be tall and sleek, with a striking widow’s peak,

Nor need they be all pale and gaunt.

And if you think it’s queer that in mirrors they don’t appear

That’s a feature you can readily exclude.

They can go out in the light, have a normal appetite,

And just sit around a lot and brood.

Or again, if one desires,  they can make all their vampires

Behave like a roaming zombie horde.

Yes, there’s many ways of writing of these monsters so affrighting–

I just wish for one of which I wasn’t bored!

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Say “hullo” to Oswald Spengler,

The philosopher of doom.

 Step out of your offices

And listen to his prophecies

And you’ll be overcome with gloom.

Say “hullo” to Oswald Spengler,

Sit with him and drink some wine.

Listen to him quoting Goethe

As you look out on the Erde,

And watch the West decline.

Say “hullo” to Oswald Spengler,

World’s first Prussian Socialist;

He called for interactions

Between these sep’rate factions,

And alas, he got just what he wished!

Say “good-bye” to Oswald Spengler;

He’s a rather Gloomy Gus.

I don’t like him, nor need you,

And I think it’s also true

He would not think much of us.

(more…)