Caution! This Is Not An Opera Review.

I’ve been experimenting with the idea of writing reviews that somehow tinker with the thing reviewed; so, a play review of a play, a BettaKultcha presentation of a BettaKultcha event, a mass coordinated semaphore review of Frankenstein’s Wedding, that kind of thing. I really wanted to write a comic operatic response to the production of Cautionary Tales I saw recently at The Howard Assembly rooms. There was no way I could do justice to it really. The words are by one of my favourite writers, Hilaire Belloc (actually, G K Chesterton probably is my favourite, but they were a bit of a team) adapted and directed by Pia Furtado with music by Errollyn Wallen. It was described as “music theatre for naughty children,” and there were lots of kids there – all very well behaved, however, and rivetted to the performance, which was genuinely funny, a bit scary at times, and really engaging. When it ended I could easily have watched it again, it was that good. I was gripped by Belloc’s words, and the sheer ludicrousnous of the tales of Karmic comeuppance; a girl gets flattened by a falling statue because she slams doors and makes people jump, a boy gets eaten by a lion because he runs away from his nurse, and another kills a footman, a groom and a still maid (I’ve no idea what the heck a still maid was or did, or even if they ever existed) in a freak ballon accident and gets a bump on the head . . . delightfully daft. I thought it might be nice to play with the idea of someone going to opera, expecting to endure an edifying experience, but actually enjoying it . . . the moral being don’t have fixed class or culture based notions about the sort of experiences that might be enjoyable. A bit lame, I know. And I never finished the thing owing to being a bit busy . . . but here’s how it started. First, Belloc’s into:
And is it True? It is not True.
And if it were it wouldn’t do,
For people such as me and you
Who pretty nearly all day long
Are doing something rather wrong.
Because if things were really so,
You would have perished long ago,
And I would not have lived to write
The noble lines that meet your sight,
Nor B. T. B. survived to draw
The nicest things you ever saw.
then mine . . .
it’s just a fact, you know it’s true
opera’s not for the likes of you!
if your school was comprehensive
it’s a cert you’ll be defensive
say it’s just a bloody racket
load of crap and costs a packet.
If you live in a council flat
and somehow you discover that
you’ve won tix to the op-er-rah
you’ll say it is too lah-di-dah.
You won’t go, but perhaps you should
it might even do you some good.
Then the first verse of Cautionary Tales. . .
JIM,
_Who ran away from his Nurse, and was eaten by a Lion._
There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside,
And little Tricycles to ride,
And
read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo–
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.
You know–at least you _ought_ to know.
For I have often told you so–
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim’s especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!
He hadn’t gone a yard when–
Bang!
With open Jaws, a Lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted “Hi!”
The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat
he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
“Ponto!” he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion’s name),
“Ponto!” he cried,
with angry Frown.
“Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!”
The Lion made a sudden Stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper’s
Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!
When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:–
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, “Well–it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!”
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James’ miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.
And my beginning . . .
There was a bloke whose name was Phil
Who lived up high on Beeston Hill
amongst the Leeds United fans
where paths are strewn with crumpled cans
and roads are lined with traffic cones
each day when there’s a match at home.
One day Phil walked against the flow
towards the opera house did go
feeling as he passed the masses
a traitor to the working classes
and not quite right as he prepared
to hear some sounds that made him scared.
Arriving at Leeds Grand Theatre
he met Penny, tried to treat her
to wine or beer but found it hard
(the bar takes cash not credit card.)
Finally settled with a drink
Phil went upstairs with time to think
about the show they must endure –
three hours at least, or even four
was for opera mandatory
around some deeply dotty story
sung in French or even Russian
(Phil now wished he’d brought a cushion!)
Had they time to score more booze?
Would it be noticed if he snoozed?
Is it considered crass to tweet
– he promised he would be discreet!
These were the thoughts that swilled around
Phil’s mind . . .
you can see where this is going at least. Instead of death, mayhem, tragedy, the end is some kind of cultural epiphany . . . opera ain’t that bad! Well, it still surprises me!

Cautionary Tales! - Hilaire Belloc - Errollyn Wallen - Opera Nor

I’ve been experimenting with the idea of writing reviews that somehow tinker with the thing reviewed; so, a play review of a play, a BettaKultcha presentation of a BettaKultcha event, a mass coordinated semaphore review of Frankenstein’s Wedding, that kind of thing. I really wanted to write a comic operatic response to the production of Cautionary Tales I saw recently at The Howard Assembly rooms.

Cautionary Tales! - Hilaire Belloc - Errollyn Wallen - Opera Nor

There was no way I could do justice to it really. The words are by one of my favourite writers, Hilaire Belloc (actually, G K Chesterton probably is my favourite, but they were a bit of a team) adapted and directed by Pia Furtado with music by Errollyn Wallen. It was described as “music theatre for naughty children,” and there were lots of kids there – all very well behaved, however, and rivetted to the performance, which was genuinely funny, a bit scary at times, and really engaging.

Cautionary Tales! - Hilaire Belloc - Errollyn Wallen - Opera Nor

When it ended I could easily have watched it again, it was that good. I was gripped by Belloc’s words, and the sheer ludicrousnous of the tales of Karmic comeuppance; a girl gets flattened by a falling statue because she slams doors and makes people jump, a boy gets eaten by a lion because he runs away from his nurse, and another kills a footman, a groom and a still maid (I’ve no idea what the heck a still maid was or did, or even if they ever existed) in a freak balloon accident and gets a bump on the head . . . delightfully daft.

Cautionary Tales! - Hilaire Belloc - Errollyn Wallen - Opera Nor

I thought it might be nice to play with the idea of someone going to opera, expecting to endure an edifying experience, but actually enjoying it . . . the moral being don’t have fixed class or culture based notions about the sort of experiences that might be enjoyable. A bit lame, I know. And I never finished the thing owing to being a bit busy . . . but here’s how it started. First, Belloc’s intro:

And is it True? It is not True.
And if it were it wouldn’t do,
For people such as me and you
Who pretty nearly all day long
Are doing something rather wrong.
Because if things were really so,
You would have perished long ago,
And I would not have lived to write
The noble lines that meet your sight,
Nor B. T. B. survived to draw
The nicest things you ever saw.

then mine . . .

It’s just a fact, you know it’s true
opera’s not for the likes of you!
If your school was comprehensive
it’s a cert you’ll be defensive
say it’s just a bloody racket
load of crap that costs a packet.
If you live in a council flat
and somehow you discover that
you’ve won a night at the op-er-rah
you’ll say it’s far too lah-di-dah.
You won’t go, but perhaps you should –
it might even do you some good.

Then the first verse of Cautionary Tales. . .

JIM,

_Who ran away from his Nurse, and was eaten by a Lion._

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside,
And little Tricycles to ride,
And

read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo–
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know–at least you _ought_ to know.
For I have often told you so–
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;

And my beginning . . .

There was a chap whose name was Phil
Who lived up high on Beeston Hill
amongst the Leeds United fans
where paths are strewn with crumpled cans
and roads are lined with traffic cones
each day when there’s a match at home.
One day Phil walked against the flow
towards The Grand in Leeds did go
feeling as he passed the masses
a traitor to the working classes
and not quite right as he prepared
to hear some sounds that made him scared.
Arriving at Leeds Grand Theatre
he met Penny, tried to treat her
to wine or beer but found it hard
(the bar takes cash not credit card.)
Finally settled with a drink
Phil went upstairs with time to think
about the show they must endure –
three hours at least, or even four
was for opera mandatory
around some deeply dotty story
sung in French or even Russian
(Phil now wished he’d brought a cushion!)
Had they time to score more booze?
Would it be noticed if he snoozed?
Is it considered crass to tweet
– he promised he would be discreet!
These were the thoughts that swilled around
Phil’s mind . . .

you can see where this is going at least. Instead of death, mayhem, tragedy, the end is some kind of cultural epiphany . . . opera ain’t that bad! Well, it still surprises me!

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