Of Cupid, Murder and Mayhem
We’re up and about early this morning here; basking in the glorious Southern Californian sunshine. Summer decided to pay February a visit last week and the temperatures soared into the eighties. There was a time, not so long ago, when such a phenomenon would have awoken a bone deep despair and a bitter longing for the East Coast or better yet Europe where the seasons know their place. However an unlooked for shift occurred last year and I find myself utterly at ease with such antics, no longer tied to the memory of things as they once were. Everything changes and eventually our stubborn minds catch up to the fact and accept the notion of fluidity I suppose.
As with the weather so with life. With our son happily ensconced for a few weeks in the London Town he has missed so sorely, we find ourselves stretching and adjusting to this new act in the drama of parenthood. I now feel that a shadow part of my being is walking those London streets in tandem with him. After the past two years where the world has seemed frozen in place it is wonderful to have the opportunity to feel changes occurring on such a scale and to rest one’s mind for a little with the truth of impermanence.
In other ways the business of life rushes on here apace putting me always in mind of those immortal lines of the Bard, spoken by Juliet when she is eagerly waiting for nightfall and Romeo’s return,
Gallop apace, you fiery footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus’ lodging: such a waggoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately
The days themselves seem to me to be possessed of such fiery determination. As it is the day of St Valentine here, it is entirely appropriate to reflect upon the most famous young lovers in Western literature, no matter the tragedy of their ending. It will soon be time to sit down with our daughter and watch Baz Lurhmnan’s beautiful 1996 film version of Romeo and Juliet. When I watch the movie now I always smile. We were once as young as Leo DiCaprio and Clare Danes will forever remain in that movie. Ah the ravages of time!
I sit here in these early hours watching as my daughter creates Valentine’s cards for all of her friends. When we first arrived on these strange shores I found the manner in which St Valentine was celebrated here somewhat incomprehensible. Suddenly my five year old son was expected to give Valentine’s cards to his entire class! What chicanery is this, I asked my husband. Now, over a decade later and viewing the world through my daughter’s eyes I see the positive face of this piece of Americana. As a celebration of friendship, small acts of kindness and thought for others it is actually a rather lovely occasion.
However, do not get me started on the commercial aspect of this festival! As with pretty much every other festival in this infernally money and sugar driven realm, Valentine’s Day is simply an opportunity for shops to sell candy. This week the candy is pink and red, next week the shops will be re-stocked miraculously with the pretty pastel coloured candy which marks the celebration of Easter. And round and round on the merry-go-round we go. Of course any sensible parent here removes the candy from their child’s sticky grasp as soon as is humanly possible. One has to learn how to live in a place like this in a way which protects oneself and one’s family from its creeping degradation and despair. We are in the business of preserving the precious and open hearted innocence of childhood at all costs, no matter the opposition. And so our daughter happily designs her cards for her friends and chatters about her favourite holiday and I smile; all is good with the world.
Our greatest English poet is haunting my thoughts today for a reason that could not be further from Cupid and all his shenanigans. Last afternoon my husband and I snatched some rare time together. I had managed to find a movie theatre which was still showing The Tragedy of Macbeth. This was a discovery in itself in fact as I stumbled across a chain of independent theatres, one of which has been right under our noses in Santa Monica all along. Relaxed, with a quiet art house vibe, it was the perfect place for late afternoon viewing.
I have written before about my deep love for the Scottish play, stemming from some close reading I did with a brilliant English teacher many years back in my youth. This film version held us spellbound from beginning to end. Where to start really? Some first impressions. In black and white, with a muted background and minimalist sets, the setting served as the foil for the horror and human destruction, rendering the words of the Bard more powerful than ever. There was no battlefield blood or gore save what was reported through the early speeches and the tents of an army on the march soon gave way to the palace, full of shadows, geometrical arches and patterns of light and dark.
The ensemble cast was extremely strong. I fell in love with Denzel Washington all over again. The choice to cast Macbeth and Lady Macbeth with actors in their sixties, Washington and Frances McDormand respectively, was a bold one and gave the film a particular dynamic. They are both grimly power hungry but underlying all is a sense of absolute desperate weariness, as if this is their very last chance to seize greatness, no matter the cost. Washington’s face, so expressive nowadays of the experience that comes with age and life was at its most eloquent when he was in repose saying nothing at all. This Macbeth is no man in the prime of his life. He has seen it all and then some.
Shakespeare’s language itself was brought to life and delivered with a precision, familiarity and economy which prevented Macbeth’s staggering soliloquies from ever seeming like artificial set pieces. The filmography was exquisite and many of the visual images created by Joel Coen are frozen now in my mind’s eye, lent such power of course due to the minimalism of the set. Kathryn Hunter, the British actress who played all three of the weird sisters was an absolute delight. Her performance allowed for an entirely fresh rendering of these otherworldly malevolent creatures who can often seem stale if not treated with the imagination they require.
Sitting and contemplating this new addition to the film canon of Macbeth I realise that I will need to watch it several times to fully comprehend the depth of its power. Additionally it’s clear that one must have a firm grasp of the tradition within which Coen is operating in order to fully excavate his accomplishment. Versions of Macbeth by Welles, through Kurosawa to Polanski will be required viewing. It is fascinating to consider the hurdles and choices facing the filmmaker who decides to take up the awesome task of transferring the Bard to the big screen. Some of the challenges were precisely captured by the filmmaker Peter Brook who made the 1971 version of King Lear which I have yet to see:
The problem of filming Shakespeare is one of finding ways of shifting gears, styles and conventions as lightly and deftly on the screen as within the mental process reflected by Elizabethan blank verse onto the screen of the mind.
A lovely endeavour to look forward to, the watching of such pieces of art. I am quite sure that more will appear in these pages on the topic before too long. But for now, the rest, as they say, is silence.
