Dispatch #5: Intimations
The Dispatch #5: 28th August 2020
Dear Claudette,
Last week I found the last copy of Zadie Smith’s latest book Intimations in my local bookshop and scoffed it on a bus ride. Written in April 2020 at the earliest, I am in awe at Smith’s (and her publishers’) sheer chutzpah and swiftness in selling an (admittedly tiny) book of essays about the coronavirus pandemic, during the pandemic (and no end in sight). Yet I also felt inordinately soothed by what I read there. Not because Smith gives any type of panacea to the problems that many of us face right now, but rather because she provides the opposite, because she is so transparent, so plainspoken about the world as we know it, right at this very moment.
Why do writers write, asks Zadie Smith in her opening essay. The answer she likes best is the seemingly most banal, yet truthful one: because it is something to do. In the pandemic, we are all in some ways looking for something to do, be it sourdough starters, puzzles, crochet or painting. We seek for what we can control in a moment where control seems more elusive than ever. As Smith describes, writing is one of the clearest examples of this impulse, where we take “the largely shapeless bewilderment and pour it into a mould of (our) own devising.” The Dispatch has been—for 8 weeks and I hope for much longer—my “something to do.” It has given me a lot of amusement, and I hope it does the same for you too, in some small way.
Also in this issue: literary podcasts, writing, beloved Disney lyricists, glass blowing, renaissance butt music and two-bean salad.
Much love,
Claude
Scribblings | Film | Television | Longform | Podcasts | Recipe
SCRIBBLINGS: HIERONYMUS BOSCH BUTT MUSIC
The internet can often seem like a sentient carbuncle, but sometimes it can be a weird, wonderful place. Exhibit A: Hieronymus Bosch Butt Music. Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights (c. 1490-1510) is a famous triptych of hedonism. Is it a panorama of human pleasure or damnation? It’s a question that has puzzled art lovers and critics for more than 500 years. But what is Butt Music and what does it have to do with Hieronymus Bosch’s painting? Well, amid a hundred tableaus in the painting, is the posterior of a faceless, reclining figure, on which musical notation has been imprinted on. Thanks to an eagle eyed musician, Amelia Herrick, this musical excerpt has been transcribed into modern notation, with which Jim Spalink has adapted and orchestrated to create: Hieronymus Bosch Butt Music. It must be seen to be believed. Also, note that this is something one should rarely commit to writing, but the YouTube comments on this video greatly enhance the experience.
FILM
I am convinced that my very first cinematic memory was 1993’s Beauty and the Beast. It stands to reason then that Beauty and the Beast is a kind of Rosetta Stone for things that I love almost 30 years on, of history, animation, fairy tale and musical theatre. And what we learn from Howard, the marvellous documentary about the lyricist and playwright Howard Ashman who, along with Alan Menken, co-wrote the music and lyrics to the soundtrack of not only Beauty and the Beast, but The Little Mermaid and Aladdin, is how central a role Ashman played in evoking the alchemical qualities of these classic Disney movies. It was his imagination that brought forth the 8 minute opening tableau “Belle” - a mini operetta of its own, as well as one of the most classic want songs in all of musical theatre: “Part of your World” in The Little Mermaid. What made Ashman so remarkable was his superb sense of both word-smithery and pre-natural taste, with which he combined acute emotional sensitivity and an exquisite understanding of character. It’s this distinctive combination that makes a song like “Somewhere that’s Green” from Little Shop of Horrors both brilliant satire and poignant portrait. The film is in many ways a terrific exegesis on the creative process, on the inimitable thrill of real, hard-won success and the spectre of failure that lurks behind every corner. What makes the film so compelling, as well as so devastating, is just how tragically abbreviated Howard’s life was, and the fulsome sense of what might have been (diagnosed with AIDS during the production of The Little Mermaid, Ashman would die before seeing either Beauty and the Beast or Aladdin as a completed feature). Yet the film makes clear that the world had, for a brief, kismet period, an artist of such insight that musicals on film (animated or otherwise) would be forever changed by his input, and for this, we can only be exceedingly grateful. (Disney+)
*****
Another film that reveals itself to have deeply embedded musical theatre DNA (though it doesn’t reveal this until the near end) is Noah Baumbach’s searing portrait of a marriage in formaldehyde, Marriage Story. At the beginning of Marriage Story, New York theatre director (Adam Driver) and Hollywood actress (Scarlet Johannson) realise that their marriage is beyond repair, and despite the residual affection they share for one another, the practicalities of divorce, and the manipulation of their doggedly ruthless lawyers (particularly a superb Laura Dern), means that the intended (to use Goop parlance) conscious uncoupling, corrosively implodes. The film is driven by smart and understated directing and writing on Baumbach’s part (how biographical is the film to Baumbach’s life is a reverberating question, one can’t help see parallels to Baumbach’s previous marriage to actress Jennifer Jason Leigh), as well as superb performances by both Scarlet Johansson and Adam Driver. In particular, Adam Driver’s rendition of a musical theatre classic is so moving, so compelling, that you almost wish Baumbach would, and really could, direct a musical that would make Howard Ashman (a great skeptic of the live action film musical) take notice. (Netflix)
*****
I’m thrilled that my favourite film of 2019 is finally available on an Australian streaming platform, so that I can direct you to it. Celine Sciamma’s lyrical historical romance Portrait of a Lady on Fire may seem on the surface to be a rather small, slow-moving film, a film so quiet that sound is never non-diegetic, so whenever the rare piece of music does appear, it seems to emerge like a thunderstorm. Yet the emotional scope of the film is much closer to the rumblings of thunder than a small flute of wind. Set in France sometime in the late 18th century, Marianne travels to an obscure inlet in Brittany, tasked with painting a marriage portrait of the elusive Héloïse. Héloïse, who is well aware that with the completion of this portrait she will lose the thin scrap of autonomy afforded to her as a woman, has refused to sit for any previous artists, so Marianne must pretend to be Héloïse’s walking companion, and attempt to complete the portrait only through covert, fleeting glances. What emerges is a friendship, and eventually romance, that was probably the most vividly realised portrait of love that I saw last year (the only other text that gives it the remotest bit of competition in this regard is Fleabag’s Season Two). But the film is much more than sapphic historical romance (not that sapphic historical romance isn’t entirely welcome). Instead, the film also emerges as a beguiling meditation of the role of art in the lives of women, of what riches we might have gained if women of the past (or even today) were allowed to emerge from the confines of artistic object, and become subject and collaborators (or creators) in their own right. But this might be a dreary, sentimental polemic if the film itself wasn’t so moving, so subtle and so beautifully figured. The final shot—which is really just an unbroken mid-shot of a person’s face reacting to music—is so powerful, is that you’ll likely be moved even in mere recollection of it, as I am now, as I write this almost a year on since I saw it in the cinema. (Stan)
TELEVISION
Noughts and Crosses, the TV adaptation of Majorie Blackman’s popular teen novels, looks, on the surface, like the run-of-the-mill dystopian franchises that so typified 2010’s restlessness, except that its high-concept premise makes it, at times, deeply resonant to the way we live now. Noughts and Crosses imagines an inversion of the history of the world as we know it. What if, Blackman posits, the colonisers of world history were Black Africans instead of white Europeans? It’s a tricky premise, and I’m not 100% sure it’s wholly successful here—in making white people an oppressed group rather than oppressor, is Noughts and Crosses yet another example of a story of race re-centred on white narratives? The thrill of Noughts and Crosses then lies in the ways its production team—many of whom are African/Black creatives—realises this conceit. The world-building is wonderfully textural. Watching it I was reminded of the joy I had while watching Black Panther. Yet the cleverest, most powerful aspect of Noughts and Crosses is the moment you realise that the show is not a dystopia at all. This is our world, as it is, it is only inverted— that the violence and oppression that the Noughts face every day, has only the most depressingly apt similitudes to our current reality. (Binge)
***
Slings and Arrows is the best television show about theatre-making and Shakespeare that everyone has largely forgotten. Created in Canada, Slings and Arrows is inspired by the machinations of a real Shakespearean Festival, The Stratford Festival. With three short seasons, each thematically built on a single Shakespearean play: Hamlet, Macbeth and King Lear, Slings and Arrows is marvellously written, and is as good an introduction to Shakespeare (or indeed, the messiness of attempting to combine commercial intent with something as unwieldy as theatrical art) as I can think of. The show is a sort of who’s who of great Canadian actors (including a young, luminous Rachel McAdams!), rooted by a mercurial and enchanting performance by Paul Gross as the slightly unhinged but undeniably brilliant Artistic Director. This clip of Gross as Geoffrey Tenant trying to explain Ophelia’s madness to an oblivious actor is a perfect example of the show’s ineffable mix of earnestness and emotional acuity. (YouTube)
***
My friend Renae introduced me to Blown Away as part of that curiously comfortable and cosy genre of reality shows that are structured like, and spiritually linked to, The Great British Bakeoff, but with a more obscure art form. In this case, Blown Away is for glass-blowing what GBB is for bakers and pastry chef aspirants. If you’ve only really considered glasswork as a sort of ersatz, chintzy sort of art form, Blown Away will totally change your mind on this. Here you’ll discover the power, instinct, skill and artistry required to create the seemingly most anodyne object as a drinking glass. Blown Away is entirely and totally bingeable, with episodes less than 20 minutes. If anything, Blown Away could have benefited for being stretched out, so we can see even more of the process. As it is though, Blown Away is riveting television, considering that at at any moment an extra puff of air, a too hard a tap can mean the difference between professional glory or elimination. (Netflix)
LONGFORM
“The misfit doesn’t climb in pursuit of safety, or profit, she climbs to tell stories, she gets off the ladder and onto the swings; swinging back and forth, sometimes aggressively, sometimes standing up on the swing, back and forth, in pursuit of only transparency, observing the changes, but wonders if these changes are taking place within a faulty system.”
Two years ago, Michaela Coel, the great English television writer and actor who created the uproariously and deliciously filthy Chewing Gum, gave a lecture that galvanised the British television industry: an incendiary, devastating, profound speech that was deeply damning of the virulent racism endemic within the entertainment industry (British or otherwise). With the deservedly glowing reviews of her latest show, I May Destroy You, I have been reminded again of this lecture, and of Coel’s extraordinary presence as a writer, of how lyrical a voice, how focused and productive and powerful is her anger. There is a revelation near the end of the lecture that devastates you, where you realise the extent of horror that Coel has endured. But by the time you encounter it you’ll already be in awe of Coel’s voice, and the clarity and the beauty of her words. Watch the lecture, or read in full here.
LITERARY PODCASTS
For the 15 years that I have been listening to podcasts, literary podcasts may be my particular weakness. Their appeal lies in cosy familiarity: they remind me of my own wonderful conversations with friends, and have an air of conviviality that only discussions of books can provide. Moreover, in my opinion, literary podcasts are the best way to find out about new books (barring newsletters of course). Here are my very favourites:
Literary Disco is the brainchild of teen tv heartthrob (no, really) Rider Strong, theatremaker and essayist, Julia Pistell, and writer and academic, Tod Goldberg. The trio met at a MFA program at Bennington College in the early 2000s and what makes the podcast special is that you really get a sense of the genuinely rich rapport and long-standing friendship between them. The podcast started in 2012, and I’ve been listening to it practically since the very beginning. In a sort of a strange way, my life feels enmeshed with the lives of these podcasts hosts. These podcasters have married and begat children, who are now starting to articulate their own literary preferences, and somehow, I have been a remote by also acute witness to it. But they have also been integral to the development of my own inner life. I can honestly say that my literary education has been truly shaped by the podcast, more than 170 episodes later. One of the best things about the podcast is how broad the scope of the types of literary texts and genres they consume. Literary Disco will just as likely review a Choose Your Own Adventure book or an edition of Sweet Valley High as they would My Brilliant Friend or Lincoln in the Bardo. Their non-fiction and poetry episodes are particularly edifying - I’ve been a long-time skeptic of non-fiction but LD’s episodes on non-fiction classics as Columbine or Five Days in Memorial or Two Essays about Iowa have totally converted me to the form. One caveat: the audio quality of this podcast leaves a lot to be desired, but the lo-fi nature of the podcast is part of its appeal. (Apple Podcasts)
Episode Recommendations:
Middlemarch in 5 parts: Literary Disco’s latest series, a quarantine read of Middlemarch, is fantastic. It’s kind of wonderful to see Rider and Tod, extreme agnostics of the Victorian novel, slowly over 5 episodes, fall more and more in love with the novel and become complete George Eliot acolytes. It’s the perfect listening if you’re thinking of doing a read of the great novel yourself.
Also The Overstory | Pillars of the Earth | Tiny Beautiful Things
***
Slate Audio Bookclub seems sadly omitted from Slate’s roster of regular podcasts, but the episodes that have been produced have all been largely excellent, filled with the type of gratifying analysis and insight that you want when you’ve finished a book, and just have. to. talk. to. someone. about. it. Recommended episodes include: Tenth of December, The Group, A Little Life and My Brilliant Friend.
***
Freedom, Flowers, Books and the Moon is a rather unwieldy title for a rather smart podcast from the Times Literary Supplement. The TLS, is one of the foremost English-language literary magazines but is also ludicrously expensive, which is why I get all my TLS news from its (free) podcast. Until just recently, the podcast was hosted by Stig Abell and Thea Lanaduzzi and they have a lovely, odd-couple type of chemistry. The podcast is generally more a literary news podcast, with interviews and discussions on whatever the newspaper’s features are for the week, but the broadness of it makes it a superb resource for interesting tidbits of all kinds. Recommended recent episodes include: A great interview with the historian and feminist Hallie Rubenhold on her incendiary, brilliant feminist reckoning of the Jack the Ripper myth, an interview with Shakespearean Academic James Shapiro on West Side Story, and an interview with Rebecca Langlands on what we can learn by studying an ancient Roman brothel in Pompeii.
RECIPE: TWO BEAN, TWO LIME SALAD
Yes, this is another Ottolenghi recipe. But when you encounter a salad that is so good, that it is one of the foremost things you remember from a seriously great wedding, attention must be paid. I first encountered this salad last year at a wedding of a very old, very dear family friend. In fact, her wife made the salad herself the morning of her own wedding, which I just think exemplifies of a sort of nonchalant, effortless type of cool to which I aspire to. In the midst of the type of constant, joyful hugging that happens at weddings, I found a way to sneak in an enquiry as to the origin of this salad to the bride. “Oh it’s from Ottolenghi’s Simple” she said, in that elegant way of hers. This was a very gratifying to hear, as I already owned the cookbook for several months. Since then, I have made this salad, many, many times.
So onto the recipe: Two Bean and Two Lime Salad. As the name suggests, there are two types of beans in the salad: French beans and edamame. Not only do you need two limes but the recipe also requests shredded kaffir lime leaves, the combination of which adds a kind of grandiose gesture of tanginess to the dish. If you are not a fan of coriander, garlic, chilli and lime, this is not the recipe for you. If you are, you’ll likely find the dish to be of incredible vibrance, as well as delightfully crunchy (in my opinion, all good salads must have an element of proper crunchiness). With a such a foundation, the Two Bean and Two Lime Salad a bit of a diva, a salad that refuses share the spotlight with any other strong flavour profiles. As a result, this dish is best served with something mild and fatty - grilled tuna or a similar white fish would be perfect, alongside something brightly effervescent, like a sparkling wine. As usual, I encourage to get thee to a bookshop and acquire a copy of Simple (you will not regret it) but also this recipe seems to be a true transcription of it!