Gilbert & Sullivan: An Appreciation

 

Since high school I have been an unabashed fan of the light operas of W.S. Gilbert, who wrote the lyrics, and Sir Arthur Sullivan (no relation) who wrote the music. Here they are shown in a cartoon, Gilbert at left. Their operas go in and out of fashion — currently out except for the occasional production of the always popular “Pirates of Penzance” by high school and local theatre groups.  

Virtually forgotten are two Gilbert & Sullivan offerings that are particular favorites of mine, “Patience, or Bunthorne’s Bride” and “Yeoman of the Guard.”  The former was first performed in 1881, not long after the pair had a smash hit with “The Mikado.”  It was the first theatrical production in the world to be lit entirely by electric light.  The opera is a spoof of the aesthetic movement of that period in England that paid homage to “art for art’s sake” rather than for any pragmatic ends.

The story revolves around two foppish poets, Reginald Bunthorne, “a Fleshly Poet” and the Archibald Grosvenor, “an Idyllic Poet.” A photo shows them on stage; Bunthorne is standing. The first act opens with a chorus of women singing “Twenty love sick maidens we…”   All are in love with Bunthorne, who adores reciting his “highly aesthetic” poetry to the fawning women.  Among his admirers is Patience, a lowly milkmaid.  Bunthorne dominates the first act, until the very end when in a pivotal moment Grosvenor shows up declaring:

“I am a broken hearted troubadour 

Who’s mind’s aesthetic and whose tastes are pure!”

The lovesick maidens are immediately attracted:

“Aesthetic!  He is aesthetic!”

To which the Idyllic Poet replies:

 “Yes, yes—I am aesthetic, and poetic!

That is enough for the fickle maidens to abandon Bunthorne.  They sing to Grosvenor:

Then, we love you!

Leading up to this moment the music has been romantically lush.  Now comes a quartet involving the maidens, Patience, and the two poets that is truly memorable — and the curtain falls.  The second act continues Gilbert’s clever foolery, again to Sullivan’s appropriate music.  In the end Grosvenor shucks off his poet’s garb for a business suit and the lovesick maids decide to abandon the aesthetic pose and become “everyday young girls.”  Although Jane still claims to be aesthetic, she rejects Bunthorne for a Duke.  Although the movement satirized in “Patience” is ancient history, deflating pomposity has enduring appeal.

“Yeoman of the Guard,” subtitled “The Merryman and His Maid,”  is a later offering from Gilbert & Sullivan.  Set in the Tower of London, above, during the 16th Century, it has dark overtones quite different from the frivolity of their earlier work. For example the action takes place at a prison, with a leading character under sentence of death.  Critics consider Sullivan’s score to be among the finest music he composed, however, and the overture continues to be popular as an opening  for orchestras.

The “merryman” is Point, a court jester, in love with Elsie, a singer, who performs with him.  Elsie, who needs medicine for her sick mother and for money agrees to marry Colonel Fairfax, a man being held in the Tower who is to be beheaded the next day.  After Point facilitates the nuptials, Fairfax escapes and a whole series of events ensue, many designed to elicit sympathy for Point.  In the end, Elsie turns away from Point finally to marry Fairfax, who has received a reprieve.  Point sings: 

“It’s the song of a merryman, moping mum,

Whose soul was sad and whose glance was glum,

Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,

As he died for the love of a ladye.”

The stage directions then say that as Fairfax and Elsie embrace, “Point falls insensitive at their feet,” and the opera concludes.  Some have interpreted the ending to mean that Point dies, certainly an unusual ending for a light opera.

Other commentators think the jester merely faints.  Whatever the interpretation, with elements reminiscent of both Puccini’s “Tosca” and Verdi’s “Rigoletto,”  “Yeoman of the Guard” is a far cry from Gilbert & Sullivan’s early comic operas.

My hope is that as fashions in musical entertainment come and go a future generation will discover the joys of Gilbert & Sullivan and revive these operas on stage.  In the meantime many of them, including the two reviewed here, can be found on CDs.

Who Killed Pakistan’s President Zia?

 With the exception of days in Indochina during the Vietnam War, only occasionally have I been caught up in political crises abroad. In that genre perhaps the most notable event was my trip to Pakistan in 1988 to develop a proposal to support U.S. business development efforts there.   On my second day in Islamabad, I was having drinks at the home of a former USAID colleague, when the phone rang.   His daughter answered.

“Dad,  they want to talk to you.

“Get the number and tell them I will call back,” my host replied.

“Dad, it’s the Embassy,  they say it is urgent.”

When he returned, his face was ashen.   “The President’s plane has crashed on takeoff.  He was aboard with the American ambassador, Arnie Raphael.  Both are dead.”

The President was Mohammud Zia ul-Haq, the same Zia who had insulted Carter, winked at the burning of the American Embassy by a mob in 1980,  and ordered the execution of his predecessor,  Zulfikar ali Bhutto, despite the pleas of international leaders, including the Pope.   The general was widely known as the Bad Zia among American diplomats to differentiate him from President Zia of neighboring Bangladesh, known as the Good Zia.

There ensued an almost surreal five days during which the U.S. embassy strictly decreed that all Americans should stay in their hotels.   Television showed scenes of wild emotion among crowds surging here and there.  At the same time, with all shops closed, streets downtown were empty and quiet.  I was unable to visit the USAID Mission.  It was closed.  Nor could I visit the quarters of local collaborating organizations and potential subcontractors.

A Pakistani businessman whom I had hired to help me arrange appointments was a member of the inner circle of Benizir Bhutto, later to be Prime Minister herself.  As Pakistani and world leaders memorialized Zia with words of praise,  Benizir was quoted in the Islamabad press expressing a few tepid words of sympathy.

“What is she really saying behind the scenes?”  I ask my contact.  

“The Lady  [as he always referred to her] says that justice has come to the man who murdered her father.”

In this atmosphere of heightened tensions, the Embassy advised all Americans to stay off the street.  A quiet service quickly was conducted for Ambassador Raphael, whom I had never met, shown here at his swearing in by President Reagan.  He was buried in a local cemetery.

I found it possible to do business only by asking contacts to meet me in the hotel lobby.  A half dozen contacts visited to discuss the project over the ensuing days.  Even that traffic stopped as the day of the funeral approached.  There was nothing to do but watch on television from my hotel room as wild expressions of grief and political turmoil gripped Pakistan.

As these tumultuous events were unfolding, my head was throbbing with the worst toothache I have ever experienced.   Quickly running out of aspirin, I went searching for more.  There were only two tablets in the entire hotel and no way of going anywhere to get more.   Forced to substitute by sucking on ice cubes made from tap water, I soon compounded my misery by bringing on  “Mohammed’s revenge.”

The moment I stepped aboard my Pan Am airplane bound for the U.S. it was like waking from a very bad nightmare.  The attendant quickly brought me aspirin and the trip home was blissful.  The USAID project for which I had ventured to Pakistan, however, subsequently was cancelled.  My trip had been a wild goose chase.

No conclusive proof exists on why Zia’s plane went down.  There have been plenty of theories:   a suicidal pilot,  a nerve gas bomb in the cabin,  a sidewinder missile launched from the end of the runway.  Because the airplane was a U.S.-made C-130, suspicion fell on Americans. One or two individuals who wrongly have thought me a covert member of the “Company” have suggested that my presence in Pakistan at that time was more than coincidental.

My response:  “The CIA is not in the habit of killing the American ambassador.”  But then again maybe I do not see enough movies.

Note:  Above is Ambassador  Raphael as his swearing in by President Reagan.