Berowne’s 124

For Three-Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday
It was a few years ago that I published my Ophelia post; I’m glad to have this chance to run it again.
In the play “Hamlet,” Ophelia sings:
“Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime…
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.”
Now, why would Ophelia sing such a song? It wasn’t Valentine season – what she sang made no sense.

Beautiful Ophelia is portrayed in the early scenes as a demure and dutiful daughter, but she suffers one traumatic event after another. Prince Hamlet, the man she loves, brutally rejects her, and she later learns that her beloved father has been killed by that very man. It is all too much for her – she goes insane. The loss of her sanity perhaps serves as a buffer against her life’s misfortunes.
The sequence of Ophelia’s madness is one of the most powerfully dramatic scenes Shakespeare ever wrote.

Demure Ophelia, now totally disheveled, comes before the King and Queen, who are horrified at what they see. She’s babbling, speaking nonsense:
“They say the owl was a baker’s daughter.”
Interesting point. Shakespeare projects a sense of unity here because in his plays when jesters, fools, clowns, and as far as that goes genuinely crazy people, come up with bizarre, nonsensical speech, there are often good reasons for what they’re saying.
For example, Ophelia, making her transition from sanity to madness, is probably remembering a legend she had been taught as a girl about the importance of generosity.
It seems that, years earlier, when Jesus Christ was visiting Britain – which, by the way, is a bit of a stretch because you can be pretty sure he never did – he was wandering about, as he was wont to do, and he got hungry. Short on cash, he stopped by a bakery and asked the daughter of the baker if he could have just a crust of bread.
The daughter reasoned that she and her dad were operating a business, not a charity for vagrants, so she turned him down.
Well, because of her stinginess (and also perhaps because the person in question was, after all, the Messiah), she was turned into an owl. A lesson for everyone. Who would want to be turned into an owl? (As the owl itself might say: Who?)
In addition Ophelia, in her lunacy, sings some, for her, indecent ditties:
“Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes
And op’d the chamber door.
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more."

Later, Ophelia dies by drowning. When the body is made ready for burial, her loving brother says:
“Lay her in the earth
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring!”

(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings)

For Three-Word Wednesday, Magpie 123 and ABC Wednesday

One of the advantages, if there are any, of having reached an advanced age is that one was alive when great historical events took place.
I remember what a shock it was for those of us in the military when they exploded the atomic bomb in ’45.
Putting aside the moral question of whether they should or should not have done so, for me, after nearly four years’ service mostly in the south Pacific, it meant that I’d finally get to go home.
A few years earlier, in the American film industry, there was also a huge explosion, almost equaling the atomic bomb in importance.
It was titled “Citizen Kane.”
As I’m sure you know, there are those who claim that this movie was the greatest film ever made.
As a guy very interested in cinema I tried to learn all I could about Orson Welles, the young genius who made the picture. I know, “genius” is a term that should be used sparingly, but the more I learned about this wunderkind the more I thought it might be appropriate.
I mean, come on. An established, and sought-after, professional theatrical producer-director while still a teenager? Responsible for wildly innovative Shakespeare on Broadway…
Not to mention his radio production of “The War of the Worlds,” the most famous broadcast in the history of radio, which scared the bejasus out of thousands of Americans who heard it and who were convinced that very unpleasant not to mention ghastly critters from outer space had come to pulverize the general population and they had landed in Grover’s Mill, New Jersey.
But topping all this was the atomic bomb I mentioned earlier, the film about Charles Foster Kane.
I studied Welles’ career for years and I have come to a reluctant conclusion. Let me explain.
In the years after “Kane,” Orson made other films. I saw them and I was puzzled.
Movies like “Touch of Evil.” When I saw his later motion pictures, I found myself asking, Orson Welles made this? Of course, I realized Welles was hampered by film industry front-office types, but even so the difference in quality was striking.
Then I had a Eureka moment, I read about how “Kane” was made.
For his first movie, Welles found a script-writer who was writing radio plays for “The Campbell Playhouse” named Herman J Mankiewicz. The idea was to write a sort of expose of – you might even call it a taunting of - William Randolph Hearst, and Orson told Mank, as he was called, to come up with a first draft of a screen play.
Mankiewicz did and Welles worked on it.
“Citizen Kane” was not an Orson Welles film; it was an Orson Welles-Herman J Mankiewicz film. Perhaps because I was a script-writer and taught script-writing for years, I was impressed that the motion picture industry accused Orson of greatly underplaying the Mankiewicz importance to the success of the movie.
Mind you, I’m still one who claims Welles was a genius. The script aside, it was he who whose distinctive directorial style created a marvelous new, for the time, film experience.
In these days when X-rated movies are considered to be almost middle-of-the-road, it may be hard to remember a time when Orson’s film style was regarded as revolutionary. There were his unforgettable camera angles and his wildly innovative use of sound (which he had learned during his days in radio). The fact that he knew little about how to make a movie turned out to be an advantage.
He wanted a long shot with the background and foreground both in focus; he was told such a lens didn’t exist. Build it, he said; and they did.
I’m with those who believe that “Kane” is one of the greatest films ever made, but it wasn’t just Orson’s movie; it was an Orson Welles-Herman J Mankiewicz co-production.
(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings)

Magpie 122

For Three-Word Wednesday and ABC Wednesday
Mad Men in the Mud
Ron: Okay, enough of this chit-chat. Remember, Phil Irving, who we hope to God is going to be a new client for us, is coming here tomorrow. Believe me, this will be sort of the Olympics for this agency – go for the Gold!
Blake: Just as background info, Phil Irving’s first name isn’t, by the way, Philip. His parents were from the old country and they named him “Felix.” Felix Irving. So he uses “Phil.” Naturally, there’s a temptation to make a joke about Felix the Cat; avoid that at all costs. He also hates the phrase “the mud guy,” which competitors call him and which we must also avoid. He markets excellent products, especially the “I-Deal Galoshes,” which happen to be very successful and profitable; they could pay the salaries of quite a few of us in this agency for years.
Ron: The “I” in “I-Deal” of course refers to Irving. As you probably know, his slogan is “Wet and Wonderful: The I-Deals, THE Galoshes for 21st-Century Mud!”
Blake: Good God, will he expect us to use that? Can’t we come up with something a bit more – euphonius?
Wendell: Well, euphonius guy I know, so you work on it. (Chuckles)
Blake: How does that help, Wendell?
Ron: There’s some bad news. He wants us to put both his wife and his - er - friend to work in the same commercial.
Wendell: Wow.
Ron: Enough of that. Now, here’s our little list of “don’ts” for tomorrow when Irving’s here. No reference to the famous Cat. No use of the phrase “mud guy.” Try to act like top professionals, not people wandering about in a fog. And let’s make an effort to show great interest in the contributions of both Mrs. Irving and Phil’s friend Miss Mullen – er, what’s her first name?
Blake: Candee; she has two “e”s at the end.
Wendell: Bet that’s not all she’s got at the end.
Blake: How does that help, Wendell?
Ron: By the way, Edna, Mrs Irving believes she has a career as a writer. She wants to write the copy for the commercials. Uh – you have anything to say to that?
Edna: As head of the copy department, I’m speechless.
Ron: Don’t worry. It’ll be a struggle but here’s how we handle it. We say how much we look forward to working with her. After you get her scripts, try – I mean really try – to use some lines of hers in what you write, so she gets the idea that she was at least seriously considered. I hope that will satisfy both her and her husband.
Edna: For me, it will be like trying to write with manacles on my wrists.
Wendell: Which we may yet get around to.
Ron: And there’s another bit of bad news. Mandee – er – Sandee..?
Blake: Candee.
Ron: Yes, Candee. She would like to be the voice-over announcer.
Wendell: Holy guacamole! How do you plan to handle that?
Ron: Oh, I have a plan. I got to be the head of this agency by knowing how to handle just these types of emergencies.
Blake: I’ve been in this business for thirty years, made hundreds of commercials. Never, and I mean never, have I worked on a commercial which had both the client’s wife and his girlfriend in it.
Kit: At any rate, I’ve put together a whiz-bang Powerpoint to show him.
Ron: Powerpoint? You’re going to present a slide-show to illustrate how we make commercials? I'm too lenient with you guys; I told you to make a sample commercial.
Kit: There wasn’t time. Hey, it’s going to be a great presentation. It will knock his galoshes off. It’s got some great music and some faux animation in it.
Wendell: I just hope we don’t wind up with a faux paycheck.
Blake: Ron, have you ever thought of just standing up to Irving and saying, Sir, we are a top professional advertising agency and we will do a great job of promoting and selling your product. We’ll continue to do a great job if we don’t have to hire a client’s relatives and friends. Have you ever thought of that?
Ron: Have you ever thought of not eating?

For Three-Word Wednesday, Magpie 120 and ABC Wednesday

("U" is for "Ungrateful")

I was immediately reminded of someone by the above picture – the Fool.
(In Shakespeare circles, when you say “the Fool,” it usually means you’re talking about old King Lear’s personal jester.)

As I’m sure you know, back during the Middle Ages and right on up to Renaissance times, if you were big enough, politically or aristocratically – or if you were just plain rich – you usually had one of these guys in your employ.
Your own David Letterman on your payroll, cracking wise on command.
The grand personages of that day would regard the jokesters almost like pets; they were usually tolerant of anything the fools might say so often they’d say things no one else could get away with.
They were expected to make slyly quasi-insulting remarks about their masters. Queen Elizabeth, who owned a couple of them, once rebuked one of her fools for being insufficiently severe with her.
Certainly, in the vast collection of unforgettable characters Will Shakespeare created, King Lear’s Fool stands out.
You know the story. The old King, getting to the age where he knew he’d soon be cashing in his chips, didn’t just resign; he gathered his family around him (three daughters) and divvied up his kingdom so they'd all get a share. Each girl had to prove her love for him first.

He got a rude surprise when two of them, Goneril and Regan, who had spoken most emphatically about how much they loved the old guy, managed to forget all about that once they got their hands on the real estate. These two fictional characters have come to be famous over the years as exemplars of ungrateful children.
A large portion of the play has to do with what happened to King Lear after that, with his faithful Fool at his side, the jester constantly reminding him of how dumb it had been to give away his kingdom – and with it his fortress and power.
Fool: “Mark it, Nuncle. Can you tell how an oyster makes his shell?”
Lear (wearily): “No.”
Fool: “Nor I, neither. But I can tell why a snail has a house.”
Lear: “Why?”
Fool: “Why, to put his head in it – not to give it away to his daughters and leave his horns without a case.”

Old Man Lear began to get pretty irritated with the constant biting comments, but he knew that no matter how difficult things became his faithful jester would stay with him, no matter what, when almost no one else would.
Fool: “That sir which serves and seeks for gain
And follows but for form,
Will pack when it begins to rain
And leave thee in the storm.
But I will tarry; the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly.”

As for King Lear, there’s a mist out on the heath as he wanders about, and it turns into a violent storm. He has his jester with him; the Fool is almost like a bulky package Lear carries with him every step of the way.
As I’m sure you’re aware, we have pretty much the same situation today. Leading politicians and candidates often have what might be described as jesters on their staffs, writers who are charged with providing droll remarks so the candidates will come across as good-humored, folksy types.
Lately, however, it’s almost as though they don’t understand the basic principle. From time to time these days, it’s the political candidate, not the hired writer, who acts the part of the Fool. :-)

(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings)

For Three-Word Wednesday, Magpie 119 and ABC Wednesday

("T" is for "trite")

This week we take up the work of Edward Hopper, one of America’s best-known realist painters.
A century ago Hopper had visited Paris, had studied the emerging art scene there in all its forms, but he came down with a style that was all his own. History has shown he was vindicated; his realism is successfully rooted in the presentation of the familiar, the commonplace – we might even say the trite.
But his sharp lines and large shapes, the unusual lighting, create a special meaning and mood.
As for this week’s prompt, a critic said of Hopper: “he achieves such complete truth that you can read into his interpretations of houses any human implications you wish.”

In this prompt the house is seen as very quiet – perhaps there’s even a hint of stagnation – but there’s a psychological impact to the scene. That impact comes from the dark, lowering background, which seems to raise a sinister threat.
When I viewed the picture above I thought of the quiet home life of one of Shakespeare’s most famous couples – the Macbeths.
Surely Lady Macbeth is one of the playwright’s most fascinating creations.

Well before greed and ambition caused the wild, melodramatic actions of the couple, before the killings began, they had a solid loving relationship.

The critic Barbara Everett wrote that, far from being strange bedfellows, “The Macbeths are probably Shakespeare’s most thoroughly married couple. He addresses his wife with extra care, as ‘Love’ and ‘Dear wife’ and ‘Dearest Partner of Greatness’; she is everything to him.”

The public usually thinks of her as a scheming and evil force – which, admittedly, she became. But Lady M originally brought to their life a sense of calm, of order, of practicality. The heart of the tragedy is the destruction of their marriage. She changes. She becomes the one who moves Macbeth to brutality: the killing of King Duncan.
She uses a phrase that stayed with me for years after I had first studied the play. To get her reluctant husband to act, she says, “Screw your courage to the sticking-place!”
Now that was interesting. What was the sticking-place?
Well, if you’ve ever done wood-work, say as a hobby, ever created end tables or chairs or whatever, you have had the experience of using a screwdriver to drive a screw into wood. You twist the screwdriver and turn it and finally it sticks and it will turn no more - that’s the sticking place. She wanted her husband to gear his courage up to that point.

Finally, however, Lady Macbeth is not able to live with her basic error, with what she has done. She has put her image of their future where her conscience should have been. Her nerves go jingle-jangle: her life finally becomes a long, endless nightmare. Barbara Everett: “And she can’t live with it; it stops her sleeping ever again.”
(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings.)

For Three-Word Wednesday, Magpie 118 and ABC Wednesday

("S" is for "Ships")
There it was, the prompt for this week.
A yellow clown, yellow clown…
What could I make of this? What word association, what event could I be reminded of that would allow me to post something of interest?
Then I remembered, speaking of events, the ceremonies held last week in connection with the sinking of the Titanic in 1912.

The details of the Titanic disaster are now well known. The largest ship afloat at that time; it was the last word in comfort and luxury.
What on earth would a “yellow clown” have to do with that tragic event?

You may be aware that just ten or so miles away from the huge passenger liner as she foundered was another ship lying still in the water, the Californian. The captain of this vessel was one Stanley Lord. He had no idea when he went to bed that evening that beginning the next morning he would become one of the most reviled and most ridiculed ship’s officers in maritime history.
The newspapers of the day, around the world, told his almost unbelievable story, and began calling him names.
He knew the vessel ten miles away was the famous Titanic. He knew that it was firing rockets, which should have been recognized as signals of distress. He told his crew to contact the liner with the Morse lamp and ask what’s up, well aware that almost everyone on his ship was a novice when it came to operating that new-fangled gadget. If the Titanic got a message, their answer was not understood on the Californian. Cap’n Lord rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.
The only man on the ship who really knew Morse code was the radio operator – radio operators were called “Sparks” on the ships of that time – and he had signed off earlier and gone to bed.
Some time later the skipper’s sleep was interrupted again. His second officer was now very concerned. There had been a total of eight rockets fired off on the other ship; something should be done. Captain Lord was getting irritated; people kept bothering him. He said he knew all about the rockets. Use the Morse lamp again, he ordered, and went back to sleep.

The Californian was a ship similar to freighters I have served on. It was the same length and capable of the same speed – if “speed” is an appropriate word for 11-12 knots. It was a humble vessel indeed when compared with the majestic Titanic.
The more I learned the more I realized that Cap’n Lord was actually a pretty good seaman. In the middle of a very dark night – moonless – with small pockets of ice (known as “field ice”) all around, which meant there was a possibility of icebergs, he decided to bring the Californian to a stop and just sit there and wait for morning. With daylight he could find his way south out of the field ice and get on with his trip.
Which, of course, is what the Titanic should have done.
Later Lord was called a coward – a yellow clown? – because it was claimed he had been afraid his ship would have been damaged by the ice if he had tried to get over to the passenger liner. One suggestion was that he was a sociopath; he knew people were dying there by the hundreds and he just didn’t care.
Because of the sinking of the Titanic, the world learned what a remarkably haphazard system then existed for safety at sea. There were no standards or regulations as to the firing of rockets; they could indicate distress or, especially on passenger liners, entertainment. In the future radio operators should be on board all ships and regular Morse code watches kept.
What a morning that must have been aboard the Californian when, some time after six am the crew woke up and went to breakfast. Sparks then went up to sign on and start his day’s work; his shock must have been extreme with the searing knowledge provided by the excited messages on the wire - that a few hours earlier over 1500 people had lost their lives just a comparatively short distance away. And that the Californian could have saved them all.

Captain Lord hurriedly started his engine and headed for the scene of the wreck. His spirit was willing but his flesh was weak. Another ship, the Carpathia, had arrived there earlier and saved some 700 lives. Here’s a picture taken from the Carpathia of the Californian arriving to be part of the rescue effort – arriving some five hours too late. The Californian rescued nobody.
As I mentioned, I believe Steven Lord was a capable ship’s master. However, his great, fatal, mistake was when he was first awakened and told the other vessel was firing off rockets. He should have immediately gotten his radio operator out of bed and ordered him to sign on and find out what was happening with the Titanic. That simple move would probably have saved over 1500 lives.

(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings.)

For Three-Word Wednesday, Magpie 117 and ABC Wednesday

"R" is for Relationship
This week’s prompt reminded me (it always reminds me of something) of the time a few decades back when I received a marvelous assignment from the French Government Tourist Office – to make a film on Provence.

That, as I’m sure you know, is the magnificent region in the south of France, named Provence because a couple of thousand years ago the invaders from Italy knew it as a Roman province.
The region still has that combination of sunbaked earth and startlingly blue sky, enlivened with vivid splashes of color, that made it so popular with artists.

It’s a region where you can find farmers who make their living growing lavender.
I decided to make Arles, one of the key cities of the area, my headquarters while shooting the film because of a couple of guys who made it their HQ too: the one reponsible for this week’s prompt, Paul Gauguin, and his friend – for a while at least – Vincent van Gogh.

Two very different types, with two very different styles. Above, Gauguin; below, van Gogh.

By the way, forgive the digression, but have you ever asked a true, native-born Dutchman how they pronounce van Gogh? It’s worth doing. They pronounce it, as nearly as I can reproduce it on my keyboard, “fan HOACHCCCHHH.” (Be sure to wear rain gear.)
To get back to one of my usual interminable stories, I have always been fascinated by Paul Gauguin.
After living a comfortable life as a stockbroker, and you know how comfortable they are, he one day packed it all in and decided to devote his life to painting.
He headed down to, of all places, Arles, and teamed up with Vincent v G. They could, the two of them, remake the art world of that time.
As it turned out, however, living with Vincent was no day at the plage. In the beginning they were good friends. But gradually Gauguin changed from a fawning admirer to a critic and van Gogh did not appreciate his suggestions as to how he could improve as an artist. They soon quarreled often.
Fact is, Vincent’s mental health was obviously deteriorating. At one point he went after Paul with a razor.
Speaking of razors, it was about this time that there occurred the famous episode of van Gogh’s ear. To get the facts sraight, he did not cut off his ear. He just cut off the lower part of his left ear lobe. He wrapped the severed tissue in newspaper and handed it to a prostitute named Rachel, asking her to "keep this object carefully."
What Rachel had to say to him in response is not known.
Gauguin left Arles, and a few days later Van Gogh was hospitalized. They never saw each other again.
However, the heavily melodramatic relationship of Vin and Paul aside, Arles was, and still is, a splendid town.

They’ve got a genuine Roman colosseum that’s a stunner.
I shot some of my film in it, photographing a bullfight.

As you might expect, what with the laid-back atmosphere of Provence, the French version of a bullfight is a bit different from that of Spain. The bull doesn’t get killed; he has a little strip of cloth that he juggles between his horns and the “bullfighters” risk their lives to navigate right up to the animal, snatch that thing off his forehead and then jump over the fence and into the stands before the bull can gore them to death. A weird sport but fun to watch. This may be where Al Gore got his name.
(Submitted also to Sunday Scribblings.)

For Three-Word Wednesday, Magpie 116 and ABC Wednesday

"Q" is for Quartet

What spurs imagination? What creates creativity?
With me, a word person, it seems to have a lot to do with word association.
When I stared at the prompt above – the beauty of the scene, the river and its banks – it’s the last word that struck me.
Banks…
And suddenly, for no good reason, the following wild scene, featuring a quartet of characters, poured itself out from my keyboard.
Rank Bobbers
Arlene, Bank Teller: “May I help you, sir?”
Lew: “Yeah. Here, read this note.”
Arlene: “Good heavens! You’re not kidding?”
Lew: “Not kidding, no. This is a holdup; I have a weapon. Make this easy on yourself and everyone else. Keep quiet and put all the money there in a bag, then hand it to me. No one will be hurt.”
Arlene (who is visibly trembling): “I’m so nervous.”
Lew: “Sure, I’m kinda nervous myself. But it’s real simple. Money in the bag, bag over to me.”
Vinnie, who’s standing next in line after Lew: “What’s going on here?”
Lew: “Nothin’. We’re havin’ a banking transaction. Be patient; it’ll only be another minute.”
Vinnie: “Hey, you’re Lew Bruschetta!”
Lew: “What? Who the hell are you?”
Vinnie: “Never mind who I am. You have no right to do this! This is our territory.”
Lew: “You’re with the Passaic family?”
Vinnie: “Right. And Edgemere Road is ours. So you better beat it.”
Lew: “We’re okay for Edgemere Road as long as we stay on the east side.”
Vinnie: “God, you’re dumb! This is the west side.”
Arlene: “Is it all right if I sit down? I feel faint.”
Lew: “What? Yeah, sure. Have a glass of water. Take some long, deep breaths."
Vinnie: “Just not while you're drinking the water."
Lew: “To get back to what we were talkin' about, I can’t go to the guys with nothin’. Tell you what we do: we’ll split whatever we get fifty-fifty.”
Vinnie: “Fifty-fifty? You’re the one who screwed up. Make it forty-sixty.”
Mr Cosgrave, Assistant Manager: “May I help you gentlemen?”
Lew: “We’re just discussing opening a checking account.”
Mr C: “I don't mean to dampen your enthusiasm, but I’ve been listening to your discussion; it didn’t seem to have much to do with checking. (Lowers his voice.) Listen, I can be of real help to you guys; I have entrance to the main vault. All you can get out here are small bills.”
Vinnie: “And what’s in it for you?”
Mr C: “Split it three ways – we each get a third.”
Lew: “Whatever happened to honesty in this country?”
Vinnie: “Whaddya say? Let him in on it?”
Lew: “Sure, why not. He can lay his hands on some real dough.”
Vinnie: “Okay, it’s a deal. But – what about her?”
Mr C: “Who, Arlene? Don't worry; she’s smart. She knows it’ll be much safer for her if she says nothing about this to anyone. Right, Arlene?”
Arlene: “Right – as long as we split it four ways.”
(Also submitted to Sunday Scribblings.)