I am the very model of a charismatic candidate,
I have thwarted ev’rything the GOP has planned to date.
From starting as a dark horse, I’ve become the odds-on favorite
Saying I will build a wall and then force Mexico to pay for it.
And though Establishment Republicans think I am despicable
Ev’ry charge they level at me has proved totally unstickable.
And even though I’ve said disgusting things about my progeny—
And made so many statements that are dripping with misogyny–
By thwarting ev’ry action that the GOP has planned to date,
I’ve proved myself the model of a charismatic candidate.
My “Apprenticeship” in showbiz has undoubtedly done well for me–
I am so telegenic, all the major networks fell for me.
My domineering manner plays so well when I’m debating folks
It doesn’t even matter that I sometimes tell degrading jokes.
Believe me, folks, I’m so very, very big-league entertaining
That I have no need coherent policies to be maintaining.
I’ll be so much like Reagan, it will make your head spin, I insist–
Heads will spin so much it will all be like the film The Exorcist.
Since I’ve thwarted ev’rything the GOP has planned to date.
I am the very model of a charismatic candidate.
In fact, when I know whether Judges “sign” on “bills” or not—
When I’ve decided what to do with all the immigrants we’ve got–
When I’ve some idea what is and isn’t Constitutional–
When I’ve proved my economic plans are not delusional—
When I have shown I will not always act impulsively–
When I behave towards women just a little less repulsively–
In short, when I have turned into my very living opposite–
You’ll say a better candidate has never run for office yet!
Though all my civic knowledge is just stuff I learned in real estate,
I am sure a brand-new wall will make our location really great.
And since a country is the only thing I’ve yet to brand to date,
I am the very model of a charismatic candidate!
I remember when I first read the libretto to Gilbert and Sullivan’s Ruddigore. I was familiar with the “Big 3” Savoy operas–Pinafore, Pirates and The Mikado, but Ruddigore was the first of the others that caught my attention–probably because of the name and the fact it had ghosts in it. But as I read it, I was absolutely blown away by how good it was. This is hilarious, I thought. Why isn’t it as famous as the others?
I’ve always loved Ruddigore the most of all the operas from that point on. The picture-gallery coming to life and Sir Roderick’s chilling song, the gorgeous madrigal at the end of Act I, the “Matter trio”, the brilliant plot resolution which is so, so much cleverer than those in Mikado or Iolanthe.
But while I loved Ruddigore, I never saw or heard a production that quite matched how it looked and sounded in my head. There are lots of good ones, to be sure, but never one that lived up to what I always wanted the show to be.
Until now.
To be precise, this performance by the Stanford Savoyards still isn’t exactly the Ruddigore of my dreams. It’s somehow better. These people are amazing.
Where to begin? The lady who plays Mad Margaret is incredible–she truly seems mad; without straying too far to the point where she becomes just pathetic. She somehow captures both the humor and the pathos of the role and balances them perfectly. Despard is absolutely splendid as a manipulative, but not wholly un-feeling bad Baronet. Richard Dauntless is excited and energetic without being over-the-top. The fellow who portrays Robin does a great job as the meek-but-moral farmer, who is, I think, the greatest of all Gilbert’s heroes. Sir Roderick is properly confident and threatening as the leader of the ghosts, and in his second scene, seems extremely fond of his old love, Dame Hannah, who is also terrific.
They are all perfect; exactly as I pictured the characters in my mind.
And then you’ve got Rose Maybud. She is better than I imagined. The actress transforms Gilbert’s two-dimensional caricature into a still very funny, but also very human and sympathetic woman. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to so completely alter the character while still remaining completely faithful to the script, but somehow she did it.
You’ll notice I haven’t mentioned the music. That’s because I’m not musically savvy enough to really talk about it, but I know what I like, and I love the way they handle the score here.
There are so, so many moments I could point to as examples of why this is a triumph of theatrical magic 125 years in the making. Watching the whole thing is really the only way to grasp it, but if I had to pick one scene, it would probably be in the Act 1 finale, at about the 1:21:10 mark, when Robin is trying to hand Rose the veil that she dropped at the revelation Robin is the bad Baronet of Ruddigore, and she refuses it.
It’s a funny set-up–the woman who defines her whole life by a book of etiquette is breaking up with the man who has just been revealed to be rightful legal holder of the accursed title of that requires him to commit a crime a day–except on bank holidays. It’s absurd and ridiculous and funny. But you know what else? There’s some real sadness in that scene–I automatically feel sorry for Rose and Robin, even though it’s all silly, and I know it’s all going to end happily anyway.
Sentiment and silliness. Horror and humor. Love and legalese. All these elements are mixed perfectly by the performers, into a unique blend.
That, my friends, is what the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas are all about.
(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.
I get uneasy when I read academic literary analysis that focuses heavily on what elements of a story are supposed to symbolize. Symbolism is definitely a device that artists use, and to some extent all art is trying to say something about “life, the universe, and everything” by using its own elements as representative of some larger idea.
So, we know symbolism is used. What we don’t always know is what the author was symbolizing or why, and unless they explicitly say so somewhere, the only way to figure it out is through educated guesswork. And sometimes, we don’t even know if s/he was trying to symbolize anything.
This being so, it’s awfully easy to make up almost any symbolism you like and call it an analysis. Let me give you an example of what I mean, with a faux-analysis I just made up of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Grand Duke:
The Grand Duke is an allegory about the failure of democracy. It shows the rightful ruler of the state of Pfennig-Halbpfennig deposed by the rabble (actors–commonly considered a “low” occupation then.) The actors, on taking over the government promptly seek to “revive the classic memories of Athens at its best”. The ancient Greek theme is chosen to represent Democracy because it was in ancient Greece that Democracy was created.
The ultimate theme of the story is how Democracy–a.k.a. mob rule–ruins the Aristocracy. The fake aristocrats hired by the Prince of Monte Carlo are the most obvious example of this. In the end, order can only be restored when the rightful ruler is placed back in charge.
This interpretation does rely on actual evidence from the play–the actors who take over really do dress as ancient Greeks, the commoners who attempt to impersonate aristocrats are portrayed as buffoons, and the opera ends on a happy note only when the original Duke resumes his reign. So, I think this is a theoretically possible interpretation.
Is it actually likely that this is what W.S. Gilbert had in mind when he wrote it, though? Highly doubtful. It seems much more likely that he had the characters remake the government in the image of ancient Athens because he had worked up a clever song about it, and he made the Prince of Monte Carlo’s entourage an uncouth band because he thought it was funny. Anyone familiar with the piece will have a hard time believing it was trying to make any major statement about forms of government.
People say authorial intent doesn’t matter, and to an extent they’re right–I can believe that people would insert certain ideas in stories without being conscious of it. But when you have symbolism that, however “logical” it seems, takes you so far away from the obvious character of the work in question that it gives you pause.
I remember reading about the theory that L. Frank Baum’s novel The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was an allegory about the Populist movement. There is a lot of detail in this theory, and it is pretty thorough, but there’s no evidence that Baum intended it. According to Wikipedia “it is not taken seriously by literary historians”. I wonder why. They take flimsier theories seriously.
As you know from this post, I enjoy alternate interpretations that run contrary to the creator’s ideas. but still, no matter how plausible you make the case, at a certain point you have to acknowledge it when your interpretation takes you far from what the author originally meant.
Its population grew and withered, congealing and dispersing.
But still its edifices remained, even as the yellow stars leered upon it.
And its citizenry perished.
The great edifices which held them remained, dead to the universe which they seemed to mock, and which in turned condemned them to the obscurity of the infinite ether.
For the beings that had made it were gone, as decay seeped and disease encroached upon it, but it did not die. Its angles were abhorrent, and as the tides broke upon its empty port, the water flowed into the abysmal streets.
The orange sky loomed before that titan abode, which was indifferent and hostile all at once, for it had no soul, but only reflected the insecure arrogance of its bygone builders.
To us, it was insane. To the universe, it was merely an incident.
And all at once its foundations crumbled, and its materials were enveloped again into the dread Cosmic void’s simmering cruelty. Petulant and unmeaning, it sank into the vistas of unfathomable chaos, against which all unnatural bulwarks moan.
This is a prose poem I wrote a long time ago, while under the influence of Lovecraft. It’s very, very much like the end of Nyarlathotep–not as good, of course–but so much like it that it frankly verges on plagiarism. Plus, there are some other highly Lovecraftian phrases throughout it. I would feel bad posting it without making this clear, even though I don’t think it actually includes any lines from that apocalyptic and mesmerizing piece.
Writing un-rhyming poetry does not come naturally to me at all. I think this is because what I know of poetry, I learned mostly from reading W.S. Gilbert’s verse, and consequently most of my techniques are designed for that sort of thing.
Actually, speaking of imitation, I wrote some early poetry that was flat-out mimicking Gilbert. Not that I stole from him, exactly, and in any case I never published any of it, but I would just take his general idea and try to see what I could come up with that served the same function. It always made me feel woefully inadequate. The only thing I remember fondly from these efforts was writing the beginning of a verse which I imagined being delivered by some comic-villain attempting to rationalize his evil deeds, and explain he’s “just misunderstood”:
“Take, for instance, the Mephistopheles:
People whine about how awful he’s.
Yet, if you’ll examine the pertinent facts,
You’ll find that the Devil’s one of your classier acts!”
I was so proud of those first two lines. But I never could get beyond that to make an actually funny poem.
Back to the un-rhyming poetry, though. Nyarlathotep isn’t quite that, I suppose–it’s more like a very hypnotic short story. But for some reason, it just takes more of an effort to make myself write poems that don’t rhyme than ones that do.
These videos (here’s the original) amaze me. To be able to set those economic theories into rhyme–fairly good rhyme–and still have it be coherent is a feat I would have thought none but W.S. Gilbert could achieve.
Admittedly, the videos are a little biased in Hayek’s favor, but still, they are well done.
I’ve long believed it to be one of Gilbert’s best works–yes, you read that right–and each time I listen to it, I notice new facets of it that reaffirm that belief. It may not be his best lyrically, but it contains some of his best characters and cleverest satire, in my opinion.
Maybe it is a bit too long for the theatre; although certainly it never bothered me. But I honestly think that it’s brilliant enough just as a piece of writing. (You can find the libretto here.)
I’m listening, by the way, to the 1976 D’Oyly Carte version, which is quite good except for the fact that it doesn’t include the dialogue. (I wonder if this goes back to the length issue–maybe if it had been shorter they would have included at least some of it.)
“Not only is this [the lyrics] terrible, dated, and irrevocably attached to an oddly specific incident that Francis Scott Key suffered through during the War of 1812 — it is a question. As a nation, whenever we sing this anthem, we are asking whoever is listening if our flag is still waving. “We saw it last night when there was a lot of artillery fire,” we are saying, ‘but hey, is it still up there? Could you check?'”
I must protest! I think this is rather clever. Whether or not Key intended it I don’t know, but it works as a metaphor. As opposed to being a jingoistic hymn to national excellence, the anthem compels us to check the state of the flag–i.e. pause for reflection on the country, and think about its current state. To think, in other words. At least, that’s how I interpret it.
Having said that, I will admit that the syntax of the song is quite confusing, especially in the middle. I know nothing about music, so I can’t comment on that aspect of it.
I will also say that I personally believe the anthem generally sounds better sung by men than by women. (I hope that doesn’t seem sexist, and yes an exception must be made for Whitney Houston) Perhaps because it was originally a drinking song it was composed with men in mind. Like I said, I don’t know anything about music, I just know what I personally like.
Finally, I can’t help but quote the song from W.S. Gilbert’s His Excellency, concerning a King who is tormented by his country’s awful national anthem:
Permit me to annoy you with a silly eccentricity of mine: I don’t like it when poets and songwriters use rhymes that don’t, as it were, rhyme. By this, I mean rhyming “name” with “lane”, or “town” with “around”, for example. (Incidentally, H. P. Lovecraft also complained about this in his essay “The Allowable Rhyme”)
I’m not necessarily saying this is wrong–who determines what is “wrong” in art, after all–but it does slightly irritate me. I suppose this is because the first time I ever paid attention to rhyming was when reading/listening to W.S. Gilbert’s lyrics and poems and he never (well, hardly ever) tried to rhyme things that didn’t actually rhyme.
Now, admittedly, I quite enjoy Warren Zevon‘s lyrics as well, and he committed this crime against rhyme quite often–probably at least once every song. So, I mean, I try not to be closed-minded about it. But at the same time, I think when people start deciding its okay to rhyme “mike” with “right” or some such, it seems to take the challenge out of it a little, maybe.
But then, I’m not a poet or songwriter, so I realize I’m really not in a position to make the rules on this.
(As a related aside, I did once think that it when be interesting if you used words like “lane” and “name” in poetry if they were incorporated into the structure of the poem itself–e.g., in a typical ABAB rhyme scheme, you could have all the A’s be rhymes and all the B’s be things like “lane” and “name”.)
On November 18th 1836, Sir William S. Gilbert was born. Probably best known for his collaboration with Sir Arthur Sullivan, he was also the author of the “Bab Ballads” and a writer of many comic plays, as well as a few serious ones.
As regular readers of this blog may know, I am huge Gilbert and Sullivan fan; but here I confess my appreciation is mostly for Gilbert. I have almost no understanding of music, though Sullivan’s seems quite good to me. But it is Gilbert whose work so fascinates me. As everyone who has heard them knows, his lyrics and dialogues certainly “bubble with wit and good humour“, but, even more remarkably: “winnow all the folly and you’ll find a grain or two of truth among the chaff“. Gilbert’s works, in my opinion, offer deeper insights into human nature than they are often given credit for.
On his memorial, Gilbert is called a “playwright and poet”. No doubt, he would laugh at the irony, for Gilbert himself hated the term “playwright”, preferring “dramatist”. But this unfortunate fact is made up for by the inscription, which reads: “His Foe was Folly, and his Weapon Wit”.
