The Critic : The Sylvan River (3)

The first performance of The Sylvan River was over. 

 

Conversation between myself, Cecile and Chris & Charity Snow-Warren was warm and animated as we relaxed in the small theatre box, basking in the post performance glow.

The door to the box opened and a smiling face appeared. Darcy Fielding.

 

"Ooh. A bit snug in here! Room for a little one?" He didn’t wait for a response and joined us. "Well, Jack, Chris... that was alright wasn't it?"

We laughed. "Is that going to be your review headline, Darcy?" said Chris.

"It's a thought." He rubbed his chin in mock consideration. "No. I can do better. Congratulations, you two. And Cecile, Charity. Are you proud of your husbands?"

Cecile winked at him. "Oh, they're alright."

Charity giggled. "We're delighted, Darcy. I hope Mister Foxworth has cheered up, though."

"Hmm? Why?"

Chris explained Grant Foxworth's earlier visit to our theatre box, then went on to give details.

"Professor Coldwater is somewhat of a purist when it comes to high literature. He'd written an insightful book about the original Sylvan River poem. Very useful in my research."

"Go on, although I think I know where this is going," said Darcy.

"Right. When the play was written based upon the poem, whilst it told the general story, it became more of a character piece. Which was fair enough. It was a play and the actors needed to have something to work with. But arguably some of the finer nuances of the poem were... lost."

"I remember," said Darcy. "With Prof Coldwater being an authority on the poem, the Sylvanian Times asked him to review the premiere of the play. Slated it."

"He pulled it to pieces," nodded Chris. "Hated it."

 

"Oh," said Cecile, "but the play was so popular."

"Very much so," said Chris, "which didn't go down too well with the Professor. He thought his reputation was being ignored."

"Ah." I understood Grant Foxworth's reaction. "And now this Professor is reviewing our musical."

Everyone was silent. I was the first to speak. "When will it be published?"

"The Times has its entertainment reviews in the Tuesday edition," said Darcy.

"Bit of a wait, then," said Charity. She wasn't giggling as she said this.

"Aw cheer up!" Darcy looked at each of us. "The waiting is bound to be the worst part, not knowing what the Professor said. That said, I have a mate at the Sylvanian Times. She'll let me have a preview, I'm sure. Try and forget about Bertram Coldwater. As soon as I know something, I'll tell you. In the meantime concentrate on what matters. Did the audience enjoy it?"

Chris smiled. "They certainly did. With all those curtain calls."

"Well then." He looked into the auditorium. "It's more or less cleared down there. Shall we make a move?"

 

Chris and I briefly called in to congratulate the cast but we didn't see Grant Foxworth. He was busy somewhere, but I figured I could phone him tomorrow. We didn't stay long because we were aware Angelica, Rowan and the others would be waiting at the bus.

We made our way out of the theatre we walked to the bus. Figwort was there with his parents, the Nettlefields and Everton Hopkins. The boy ran to me, eyes shining.

"Uncle Jack! Wasn't it great!"

 

I laughed. Here was the only critic we needed.

o 0 O 0 o

It was late when we arrived back home, and after a short conversation with Merlin we went straight to bed. Our children were already supposedly asleep, as despite their protestations, Eliza and Merlin had insisted they shouldn't wait up for us. They could hear about the premiere tomorrow. That was the plan, but that didn't stop both Beverley and Brendan briefly popping into our room to kiss us goodnight.

 

At breakfast the next day the children pressed us to describe all that had occurred at the theatre. It was lovely to see their reactions but they weren't fully satisfied. When they asked if they could go and quiz Figwort I realised the opinion of their contemporary might do the job. They disappeared as soon as we agreed. 

 

When talking to the children we didn't dwell on Grant Foxworth's fears. As it transpired, we didn’t have long to think about it as we had a visit mid morning from Darcy. He had a piece of paper clutched in his paw.

 

"Well, my friends - do you want to call Chris over or should I tell you first?"

Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised at Darcy's efficiency but I was. "Your newspaper friend came through on a Saturday? You have a copy of the review?"

"Was there any doubt, Jack?"

"I suppose not... maybe we should wait for Chris..."

Cecile took the paper. "We'll read it now."

Of course she wouldn't wait. Darcy sniggered, so I turned to him. "How did you get it so quickly, Darcy?

 

"Never mind that, Jack," said Cecile, already beginning to read. "Listen..."

 

The Sylvan River - A Musical Journey

Premiere at the Palladium Theatre, Calico New City

Reviewed by B J Coldwater (Prof. Lit.)

When a play loosely based upon the beautiful epic poem The Sylvan River was first given a public airing, I was less than complementary with my newspaper review.

The public had another opinion. It was sobering given my depth of knowledge of the subject, but I learned from the experience. I still believe that the approach by the playwrights was unfaithful to the original, but I now understand their intent: to take the general story and create a character piece that the general public might enjoy. It may even have prompted some to investigate the poem, which I find gratifying.

Time has flowed like the proverbial river and now a new version of the tale has appeared, to wit: A musical production.  As I put pen to paper, my intent to stem a natural bias, I reflect upon what I witnessed at the Palladium Theatre an hour ago. 

Was it literature? Was it a crass attempt to capitalise upon the popularity of the play by throwing in a handful of tunes?

Neither. Although to be fair, it was nearer the former. I admit I was pleasantly surprised by this production by Grant Foxworth. He has engaged writers that managed to retain and improve upon the characterisation exposed in the play, whilst cleverly returning to the underlying meaning of the original poem.

I do not mean to say that it is a carbon copy of the poem, but the structure is consistent. The glaring omissions by the play were not repeated. The tale is all there. In fact, I will go further. The development of the role of the fisherman was a masterstroke. It has made even me reconsider some of the poem's intent in a different light.

I have not yet mentioned the music; unusual since it is, of course, a musical! I believe the songwriters understood the poem. The melodies evoked the full spectrum of emotion, meaning the performers did not need to overact and the narrative did not need to exaggerate. Everything gelled. Many of the lyrics are quoted directly from the poem but the additional words harmonised with the original text. As for the tunes themselves, I am not a musician, but I found comfort combined with an unfamiliar familiarity in the songs. By this, I mean to say that I knew I hadn't heard the tunes before, but they felt like I should have.

I researched the songwriters afterwards and discovered that they had composed some of the songs on a Lionel Grand record. One that I possess and enjoy! Butterglove and Snow-Warren are names to watch.

To summarise, The Sylvan River: A Musical Journey was a success. Recommended. 

Cecile looked up. Darcy was grinning. I became aware my mouth was agape.

"Wow," I said.

"I know," said Darcy. "Good, eh?"

"And it's going to be published like that?" said Cecile.

Darcy nodded. "It's a pre publication draft as the Prof handed it over, but my friend says they rarely edit Professor Coldwater's stuff. Especially when they ask him to write for them."

"When Chris sees it..." I began.

"You want to watch?" laughed Darcy.

"Of course," said Cecile. "Why should you have all the fun?" 

"The fisherman stuff was his idea too," I said, and I thought back to my original meeting with the backers, convincing them to include Chris in the contract.

"We should go over to their house right now," said Cecile.

I had a thought. "I should phone Grant Foxworth and tell him the news. He was in a state last time I saw him."

"Ah, please don't," said Darcy. "I'm showing you this preview as a favour. My friend shouldn't have leaked it. I know you'll keep it secret before Tuesday's publication, but I don't think Grant will be able to do that."

"A secret?" said Cecile. A sigh. "Better not tell the children then."

Darcy and I spoke in unison. "No!"

 

o 0 O 0 o

So that is the tale of our first musical. It's been part of our lives for well over a year but I suspect it will endure a while. I certainly hope so. Lionel Grand is delighted that we did it, and I think he'll ask us to write more for him. I hear Corbett Mulligan still maintains an interest too.

Ah. What's next, I wonder? 

o 0 O 0 o

The Performance : The Sylvan River (2)

It was the day of the first performance of The Sylvan River - A Musical Journey.

Darcy Fielding had arranged the transportation to Calico New City and the passengers were all excited to be going on the bus. Our driver was Everton Hopkins, experienced in long-distance journeys and dedicated to keep his passengers happy.

Speaking of passengers, here is a list of those who went. Mayor Ramsay Nettlefield and Mayoress Caprina Nettlefield had acquired VIP seats in the theatre. Darcy was in the Press Area, of course. Figwort Ivory had kindly been given a seat with the artist Maudie Fox-Brown, so his parents Rowan and Angelica were going, not to the theatre but purely on the bus journey. That left me and Christian Snow-Warren as the reason for going (!) accompanied by our lovely wives Cecile and Charity.

I won't dwell on the journey as that's not the point of this tale. I'll just say that Everton made the hours on the road an enjoyable experience. A sing-a-long, a quiz and travel games were preplanned so we arrived at the car park quicker than we anticipated.

It was an experience seeing the front of the theatre; the Palladium Theatre had the name of the musical displayed for all to see. 

Figwort was delighted to point out where my name was shown alongside Chris's. 

He was chatting about this until he left with Maudie Fox-Brown and the Nettlefields. Darcy left us and we went to find our seats.

o 0 O 0 o

We had settled in our reserved theatre box and Cecile and Charity were looking at the show programme, discussing the actors and singers documented therein. The orchestra were tuning their instruments, adding to the anticipation.

Chris nudged me. "Excited, Jack?"

"It is a pretty good experience, pal. Let's hope they sing in tune."

He laughed. "Trust you. Well, we won't have long to wait."

Our wait was interrupted when the door to our theatre box opened and our producer Grant Foxworth entered. He seemed a little flustered. 

"Sorry to bother you, but there's a better view from here."

Chris and I exchanged glances.

Grant moved to the front of the box and peered down into the stalls. His muzzle twitched as he scanned an area of the audience. My curiosity was piqued but Cecile was the one to speak.

"Who are you looking for, Mister Foxworth?"

"I heard there was someone in the press section..." he muttered.

 

I moved to his side and followed his gaze. I saw Darcy down there reclining in his seat, and by coincidence he was looking around the auditorium. He must have seen me as he waved a greeting. I pointed him out to Grant.

"That mouse in the yellow clothing - the one waving - is my friend Darcy Fielding. He is representing our local newspaper. Is that the press section?"

Grant looked in Darcy's direction and he obviously found the subject of his searching nearby.

"Oh no. Bertram Coldwater. It's true. The Sylvanian Times has engaged Bertram Coldwater as a critic. This is dreadful..."

He left the theatre box with his head in his paws. Charity inclined her head in his general direction. "A bit theatrical, isn't he?"

Chris chuckled. "Goes with the territory, love."

"Who in Sylvania is Bertrand Kowalter?" I asked no one in particular. Chris poked my ribs.

"That's Bertram Coldwater, Jack. Wash out your ears. Professor B J Coldwater. Author of 'A psychological analysis of epic poetry'. I'm sure I've mentioned him to you."

"One of the books you read when researching the Sylvan River?"

"See? You were listening."

I pondered this as we settled back into position. "So why is Grant tearing out his whiskers about him?"

The orchestra had finished tuning up and an expectant hush had fallen over the audience as the theatre house lights began to dim.

Chris sat back in his seat. "I'll tell you later."

 

o 0 O 0 o

I had no need to worry about the quality of the singing. I'd heard most of the performers in an earlier rehearsal and their tentative vocalising had been workmanlike and showed promise. Now, their voices resonated around the theatre with strength and confidence that showed no evidence of first night nerves.

From the first song they had interpreted our songwriting efforts better than I could have hoped. Chris mouthed to me, "in tune," and I grinned like an idiot.

I'd not really been involved with the acting element of the production but I was impressed. As were Cecile and Charity. They were perched on the edge of their seats during the dramatic moments. The writers had done an amazing job and the performers were reflecting the narrative with a whole gamut of emotional displays. Credit was due to the director for linking the two.

I became aware of my breathing. Maybe I was excited after all! The analytical part of my mind was saying, "you're part of this," and the other part was saying, "wheeee!"

From time to time I noticed Cecile smiling at me - an expression I recognised as pride. Usually bestowed on our children for their little successes, this time her pride was firmly at my door. This was a memorable evening.

o 0 O 0 o

I should - at least - mention the parts of the production that stood out to me. Redwood Robinson was a charismatic lead playing the Traveller, providing a link between the wonderful singers on his journey.  It is a buzz when I hear my melodies performed by fine musical voices, faithfully interpreting the meaning behind Chris's lyrics. Some parts exceeded my expectations.

The young actor singing the role of Paulus Pigman (the apprentice dredger) brought out the intended humour of his song and punctuated it with a hilarious jerking dance that appealed to the audience.

"I dredges smelly stuff, I dredges mud.

I shifts the silt so that the banks don't flood.

I gets quite messy from the gook down there...

Icky sticky quicky slicky - I don't care!

No. Oh. Oh - 'cause I...

Keep the water flowing. I keep the current going.

Part of me is knowing

that I show my expertise. 

My boss's trust is growing. My self esteem is glowing

For to keep the water flowing

Is a way of life for me."

With the one-time interest of the famous baritone Corbett Mulligan, I could not help but visualise him in the role of Anton the Woodsman. When the actor (Bernard Grizzle) portraying the character appeared and he opened his mouth to sing with a rich tenor voice I knew my original pitching of the song had been well conceived. I became aware of Cecile watching me and smiled at her.

"The river is a friend to me; it shares my heavy load.
Oh, take me through the greenwood, past the weeping willow tree 
The woodland watches over us - an ever-changing road.
Oh, take me through the greenwood where my lover waits for me"

We had accentuated the role of John the Fisherman, and when we saw the bear cast in the role, he more than fulfilled our hopes. His deep voice resonated with the warmth of a calming mug of cocoa. 

"I'm John. I fish. I take my time.
I settle down. I cast my line.
I wait until they nudge my bait
But bide my time, I need to wait.

 

In darkness I will go upstream
To wait; for some - an age it seems.
I know the salmon will return to spawn.
Caught in my paws before the dawn."

o 0 O 0 o

There were more highlights but, suffice to say, I was so happy I was in a haze. I had forgotten about Grant Foxwell's earlier worries and Chris hadn't mentioned it during the interval.

It was after the brilliant finale and three curtain calls when the curtain had dropped for the final time. We had decided to remain in our box until most of the audience had cleared. Chris and I had received warm hugs from our wives, and then Cecile and Charity had insisted on a post mortem on various aspects of the production. We didn't care. In our eyes it had been a success.

To be continued...

o 0 O 0 o