June 24, 2011

Last night at the Olivier it was a spectacular production of Ibsen’s Emperor or Galilean. The production could not have been more lavish, more indicative of a late work of an icon of the theater. The play itself is perplexing–not in its plot, for that was very clear-- but in knowing what impression one should come away with. It was the story of Julian the Apostate’s rise to and fall from power, and the problem is that every single character is insane. There are no opinions but violent ones, no options for action but bloody ones, no states of mind but hysteria. Where is one to find reason? “Away from these people” is the answer, I suppose, but what kind of playwriting is that? The opportunity is mitigated by Ibsen’s need to make a point, and making a point is ever the death of theater. The pagans are given the best argument, then hampered by having a megalomaniac as their spokesman. Emperor or Galilean is epic theater in several senses–one that it is grandiose and globe-spanning, but negatively in the fact that there are no human emotions recognizable on stage. There are Olympian gestures and titanic flight of rhetoric in which one may distantly recognize one’s emotions, but there is no real tragedy because there is no identification. It’s a battle of Christians and Pagan done in marble on a temple wall. Not that it wasn’t fascinating–it was–but that it makes a show of itself rather than offering anything to an audience. Julian’s sense of betrayal by Christ is fertile ground–which I might fully have shared–except that it becomes just one more moment of hysteria, as likely to be a delusion as a perception. A gorgeous evening, if of a play torn apart by its own inflexible intentions.

Met Rob in the street, and we went to O’Neills for drinks. We talked mostly about the ruin–so long in the making nobody remembers when it was not ruinous–of the Drama department, and about the jaw-dropping arrogance and ineptness of university administration.

Afternoon. Lovely slow breakfast coffee at a sun-drenched table across from the Philharmonic offices. Wandered then about London. Turns through Soho and Covent Garden. Decided against a 120 pound opera ticket, not sure whether I could stand that much Massenet. Wandered to a wonderful restaurant called Le Garrick, on Garrick Street, across from the famed Garrick Club. The “director” was a personable Basque named Lepelletier Charles, who took a liking to me, chatting me up, and bringing me a second entre to sample when the one I ordered was finished. What a ordered was a duck comfit with a kind of thick bean stew. What he added to it was black pudding and apples, and each was delicious, subtle and assertive in alternating bites. I am not the great gourmet of my time, but I’d recommend the place to anybody. And I will probably never need to eat again.