Archives for 2004

I’m about to leave the office to spruce myself up to see Luciana Souza and Regina Carter perform at Symphony Center tonight. As if that weren’t enough, I’ll be heading out to the suburbs Sunday for one of Paul Taylor’s too infrequent Chicago stopovers. What can I say? Sometimes I lead the life of Terry. Full reports on Monday.

Here’s something you probably don’t know: Evelyn Waugh revised several of his novels, some quite extensively, when preparing the uniform edition of his books that was published in England in the early Sixties. Don’t be embarrassed–many of Waugh’s most ardent American fans are unaware of these revisions. The reason for their ignorance is that the editions of Waugh’s novels that have circulated most widely in this country, the Little, Brown trade paperbacks, are straight reprints of the first American editions.

I mention this because I only just discovered that the Everyman’s Library edition of Brideshead Revisited, the novel Waugh edited most ruthlessly, not only reprints the revised version but includes an introductory essay by Frank Kermode in which Waugh’s changes are discussed at length and in detail.

Also included is the preface in which Waugh explained why he trimmed Brideshead:

In December 1943 I had the good fortune when parachuting to incur a minor injury which afforded me a rest from military service. This was extended by a sympathetic commanding officer, who let me remain unemployed until June 1944 when the book was finished. I wrote with a zest that was quite strange to me and also with impatience to get back to the war. It was a bleak period of present privation and threatening disaster–the period of soya beans and Basic English–and in consequence the book is infused with a kind of gluttony, for food and wine, for the splendours of the recent past, and for rhetorical and ornamental language, which now with a full stomach I find distasteful. I have modified the grosser passages but have not obliterated them because they are an essential part of the book….

I knew about these changes but had never actually seen the revised version of Brideshead, so I picked up a copy of the Everyman’s Library edition and read it day before yesterday en route to Minnesota. As I read, I found myself agreeing with Kermode: “On the whole most readers, I think, would agree that the purgation of the first version–not over-rigorous, for reasons Waugh suggests in his Preface–makes for improvement: the final version of the novel is preferable.” My guess is that those who dislike the book intensely (as many readers do) won’t find the revised version all that much more persuasive, but swing voters might well be nudged into the pro-Brideshead column by Waugh’s shrewd pruning, while admirers will find it fascinating to see what he chose to cut.

On the other hand, I do admit to regretting the loss of certain delightfully ornate touches, especially in Waugh’s description of Anthony Blanche, the character based on Harold Acton. Here is Blanche in the original version of Brideshead:

This, I did not need telling, was Anthony Blanche, the “aesthete” par excellence, a byword of iniquity from Cherwell Edge to Somerville, a young man who seemed to me, then, fresh from the sombre company of the College Essay Society, ageless as a lizard, as foreign as a Martian. He had been pointed out to me often in the streets, as he moved with his own peculiar stateliness, as though he had not fully accustomed himself to coat and trousers and was more at his ease in heavy, embroidered robes; I had heard his voice in the George challenging the conventions; and now meeting him, under the spell of Sebastian, I found myself enjoying him voraciously, like the fine piece of cookery he was.

And here he is in the revised version:

This, I did not need telling, was Anthony Blanche, the “aesthete” par excellence, a byword of iniquity from Cherwell Edge to Somerville. He had been pointed out to me often in the streets, as he pranced along with his high peacock tread; I had heard his voice in the George challenging the conventions; and now meeting him, under the spell of Sebastian, I found myself enjoying him voraciously.

I do think the second version is an improvement, but I miss those last eight words! It’s as though Henry James had started with the New York Edition of The Portrait of a Lady, then edited it down to the original version. Remember his celebrated description of Caspar Goodwood’s kiss? In the original, it was just one crisp sentence: “His kiss was like a flash of lightning; when it was dark again she was free.” By the time of the New York Edition, it had mushroomed into a full paragraph:

His kiss was like white lightning, a flash that spread, and spread again, and stayed; and it was extraordinarily as if, while she took it, she felt each thing in his hard manhood that had least pleased her, each aggressive fact of his face, his figure, his presence, justified of its intense identity and made one with this act of possession. So had she heard of those wrecked and under water following a train of images before they sink. But when darkness returned she was free.

I’d say James got it right the second time, wouldn’t you? Sometimes less is just…less. But not when it comes to the revised version of Brideshead Revisited, which I commend to your attention not only as a generally superior literary experience but also as a little-known chapter in the history of aesthetic second thoughts.

– A music critic writes:

I was wondering if you could recommend a single Balanchine DVD to this scandalously ill-informed balletomoron.

You have two choices:

(1) Balanchine, on Kultur, is a first-rate, smartly written PBS documentary from the Eighties containing excerpts, some of them extended, from most of the major Balanchine ballets. Watching it on TV was what inspired me to go see New York City Ballet for the very first time.

(2) Nonesuch has just put out two DVDs called Choreography by Balanchine containing performances by New York City Ballet, overseen in the studio by Balanchine himself. Start with the one that contains The Four Temperaments and Stravinsky Violin Concerto. These performances, originally shown on PBS’s Dance in America in the Seventies, introduced untold numbers of viewers to Balanchine. The visceral impact of theatrical dance can only be suggested on the small screen, but the Choreography by Balanchine telecasts were extremely well-directed and give a surprisingly good sense of what the ballets look like on stage. (The Balanchine documentary on Kultur contains snippets from most of these performances.)

Ideally, you should watch both DVDs, but my guess is that either one will at least pique your interest.

– A reader writes:

In thinking about your new book on George Balanchine, and your coverage of dance generally: could you display on the Web site, or provide a link to, a dance score? I’m sure most people have seen a music score, and know what music looks like written down. But I think few of us, me included, know what choreography looks like written down (at least I assume it’s written down!). What does a dance look like on paper? I’m sure many of us would like to see what this looks like.

Gladly. To see an introductory example of dance notation, go to the Dance Notation Bureau’s Web site, then click on the “Notation Basics” button in the left-hand column. You’ll see a brief explanation of Labanotation, the most widely used form of dance notation. You can find out more about dance notation by exploring the rest of the site.

I should add, however, that choreographers themselves rarely if ever use dance notation. Most of them don’t even know how to read Labanotation, much less write it. Instead, they demonstrate the successive moves of a dance to the dancers in the studio, and the finished product is documented by videotaping a complete performance. Notation comes later, if at all. Similarly, older dances are usually revived not by way of notated scores but through a show-and-tell process, with archival videotape available as a backup in case of memory lapses. This is why so many ballets of the past are now “lost”: they were neither videotaped nor notated, and once they ceased to be performed on a regular basis, the steps were gradually forgotten.

Unlikely as it may sound, certain dancers are capable of carrying all the steps of a ballet in their heads, Fahrenheit 451-style, and teaching them to the members of a company that has never before performed it. Sometimes they may remember a dance better than the choreographer himself: Balanchine, for example, forgot the steps to Le Tombeau de Couperin after he made it, and it was only because Rosemary Dunleavy remembered them that the ballet was later revived and documented for posterity. (In return for this feat, Balanchine left Dunleavy the rights to Tombeau in his will.)

From a jazz singer:

I am on the final pages…and in love with Balanchine…and though I have seen so little of his work, I know so much more.

From a modern-dance choreographer:

Your masterful way of clarifying the slippery matter of imagery in dances–ones with or without a plot–is particularly impressive, and learning more about Mr. B’s life was fascinating.

From Library Journal:

A volume as sleek and elegant as the dancers in a Balanchine ballet. Intended as an introduction rather than a full-scale biography, this book goes right to the essence of the Balanchine aesthetic, offering artful observations and insightful commentaries on several of the master’s pivotal works…

All in the Dances: A Brief Life of George Balanchine, now available in bookstores and on line.

Around the blogosphere:

– In The Common Review, the magazine of the Great Books Foundation, editor Daniel Born makes a case for reading and teaching the not-quite-great books:

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night, the story of a psychiatrist who marries one of his patients, receives less attention than it should because The Great Gatsby shines so brightly in the firmament. Tender Is the Night does not have the hypnotic symbolic power or poetically distilled form of Gatsby. It is not quite so well made. It is an example of that kind of novel that Henry James characterized as a “loose and baggy monster.” All the same, it conveys emotions of loss and the breakdown of relationships that make it in some ways more of a human chronicle than is the perfect aesthetic artifact that is Gatsby.

I always felt that Tender Is the Night made more trouble for me as a reader than the more or less perfect Gatsby, and that trouble–at least at a certain time in my reading life–made it more interesting. I wish Born had said a bit more, both on this and some of his other points, but despite feeling truncated the piece is well worth reading. Thanks to Dust from a Distant Sun for the link.

– Ms. Tingle Alley unearths Mark Twain’s incensed reaction to a Victorian biography of Percy Shelley, Edward Dowden’s 1886 Life of Shelley. Dowden was much in Shelley’s thrall and seems to have raised more eyebrows than just Twain’s in brazenly defending the poet’s monstrous behavior toward his first wife Harriet, who ended a suicide. Interestingly, Matthew Arnold registered the same objection to Dowden’s exculpatory treatment of Shelley, though not nearly so acidly or entertainingly as Twain:

On the 9th of November 1816 Harriet Shelley left the house in Brompton where she was living, and did not return. On the 10th of December her body was found in the Serpentine; she had drowned herself. In one respect Professor Dowden resembles Providence: his ways are inscrutable. His comment on Harriet’s death is: “There is no doubt, she wandered from the ways of upright living.” But, he adds: “That no act of Shelley’s during the two years which immediately preceded her death, tended to cause the rash act which brought her life to its close, seems certain.” Shelley had been living with Mary [Wollstonecraft Shelley] all the time; only that!

I can’t go into detail about it just now, but I have a pet theory that the narrator of Henry James’s 1888 novella The Aspern Papers was partly modeled on Dowden. I’m hoping Carrie’s find may give me more ammo. Whether it does or no, it’s still Twain, and fine reading.

Law prof blogger Ann Althouse has a keen eye for the absurd. She writes here about discovering that the DVD of the flesh-eating-zombie flick 28 Days Later (a movie I rather liked) includes:

Alternative theatrical ending with optional commentary

Alternative ending with optional commentary

Radical alternative ending with optional commentary

I don’t think I liked it quite that much.

Previously, Ms. Althouse delighted me with her inspired time-saving dinner idea.

No more blogging from me today or tomorrow. I’m flying to Minneapolis at lunchtime to speak about the future of classical radio at a workshop for radio producers that’s being hosted by Minnesota Public Radio’s Classical Music Initiative. It should be fun, and I expect I’ll post some of the speech on my return.

On Thursday night I’ll be heading straight from the airport to Mama Rose’s to hear Mary Foster Conklin sing “Under the Covers: A Tribute to Peggy Lee’s Mirrors.” That’s something I don’t normally do (to put it mildly!), but I’m a big fan of Conklin’s and don’t want to miss the gig, so I figure I can hump my garment bag for an extra hour or two before staggering home. You come, too.

(For more information, go here.)

See you bright and early Friday morning, unless I sleep late.

“Sol Hurok, who had assembled the Kabuki company, was the most exuberant and confident impresario of any I ever met. I hardly knew him then, but later, in New York, I met him with David [Webster] and found that his stories of the past–‘Once, when I was in Paris with Ysaye, Busoni was going after dinner to accompany Melba and Chaliapin in some songs…”–however unlikely, were all true. Hurok had known everybody, and had represented half of them. He had become an institution in New York, and David told me he was once there when Hurok said, ‘Can’t you stay on a day? On Thursday I have my annual party for the critics–champagne and caviar and all that.’ David asked him why he bothered; he could hardly expect them to give him a good notice rather than a bad one merely because he gave a party for them. ‘Of course not,’ said Hurok. ‘But there are two ways of writing a bad notice.'”

The Tongs and the Bones: The Memoirs of Lord Harewood