a chamber opera in one act
LINK TO SYNOPSIS.
Program Note (full):
The opera is my own adaptation of a play of the same title by renowned Polish dramatist Sławomir Mrożek (1930-2013), whose works written during the height of Soviet power offer a biting critique of life under an oppressive regime, often disguised in surreal circumstances. Although comical and absurd on its surface, the work is ultimately a dark condemnation of the limits of freedom under the totalitarian state, pointing the spectator towards larger, existential questions of power, human dignity, and the decline of traditional systems of value.
The score is designed, in part, around a constellation of motifs that animate the vibrant events of the story while alluding to Mrożek’s deeper message. Two such motifs appear in the work’s mercurial opening measures: the arpeggio of the bayan (Russian accordion) that begins the opera and the plodding, deviously simple fragment of a march that follows, introducing the character Mr. A. Both gestures recur, in various guises, over the course of the opera. But it is the second idea, the martial theme—a mundane oscillation of strict eighth-notes, punctuated by repetitive marimba strokes, stupefying interjections from the ensemble, and occasional blasts of the police whistle (a veritable procession of fools)—that time and again calls the listener back to the initial predicament of the scenario: two men, trapped in a room.
Like characters in Beckett (Waiting for Godot, 1953) and Ionesco (The Leader, 1960), to name two eminent practitioners of absurdist theater, A & B stumble for explanations in the face of mysterious circumstances and offer each other hollow assurances: “There’s no cause for concern . . . We must use sound reasoning . . . Let’s establish the facts.” But the facts are impossible to decipher, including the possibility that leaving their implied captivity might be as effortless as arriving—just exit through the doors, described in the stage directions as being left “slightly ajar.” Ah, were it that simple! What follows is an outlandish, labyrinthine debate on the nature of freedom, which stalls any attempt to escape. Mr. A. goes so far as to argue that not leaving confirms his basic freedom, the freedom to choose to leave or to stay.
In this way, the lively (if slightly moronic) leitmotif of our two protagonists suggests a far deeper imprisonment: in the hands of their own circular logic and socially-conditioned submission. In these passages, and others, the music might place the listener somewhere between Shostakovich’s never-realized anthem for the Soviet State Screw Factory and the Twilight Zone.
The first motif, on the other hand, the bayan arpeggio, takes on a more nuanced musical meaning. It is a gesture of euphoric opening, a broken chord unfolding upwards, a question mark. Indeed, later in the work, this very arpeggio accompanies the literal opening of a door, introducing the final appearance of the maniacal Hand. More significantly, however, the chord can be heard throughout to underscore the dramatic impetus of the opera. In Part I, for example, Mr. A decisively sings out the bright notes of this chord, as a melody, at the precise moment that he arrives at the doomed conclusion that the men should not attempt to flee the room (“This is just what I was coming to. Our main task now is to preserve our calm, and dignity. After all, our freedom is in no way limited”). As the doors “close slowly” and lock on this sanctuary for unintentional nitwits, however, we discover that Mr. A’s seemingly boundless optimism (amusingly portrayed in his aria, “What is Freedom?”) is in fact gravely misguided. In this way, the chord in question comes to embody the essence of the men’s false hope—the pipe dreams that plague their discourse and eclipse any possibility of escape.
In Part II, the chord resurfaces as a vocal melody at one of the most pathetic moments of the opera, when Mr. A. justifies the removal of a belt to Mr. B, so it won’t become a noose:
Mr. A: This is a good sign! If the dear Hand doesn’t want us to hang ourselves, this means that it wants
to keep us alive!
Of course, there are no goods signs in this lurid parable, just occasional lapses into illusionary interpretations of the moment, meant to buoy up a spirit that has been ravished by abuse. Summoning the lascivious boisterousness of a fin-de-siècle Pigalle cabaret, filtered through my own twenty-first century lens, waltzes, rumbas, and cake-walks accompany the men’s degeneration into blind submission.
The opening chord reaches its apotheosis near the end of the opera. Here, the two misters, in a final attempt for mercy so characteristic of the era, decide to apologize to the Hand:
Mr. B: We sincerely beg to apologize for . . . for . . . (Whispering to Mr. A.) For . . . what?
Mr. A: For walking, for going ahead, for everything in general . . . .
In these moments, the chord makes a frenzy of appearances, overwhelming the character’s vocal melodies and the bayan part. Handcuffed together, our denuded heroes “ceremoniously” kiss the Hand. As a second Hand impinges on the scene, the men are anointed with “conical cardboard hoods,” dunce caps, the evening wear of Modern Man.
Clearly, the Operatic Theater of the Absurd, like other blackish comedies, works by putting us in a suspension of laughter and smug superiority until, through the back door of consciousness, the horror filters in. That stretching—between the comic and the nightmarish—accounts for the intensity we feel, the brain seared upon opposing spits: a revelry of tortured synapses.
Sławomir Mrożek: the Man Behind the Curtains
According to several scholars, Sławomir Mrożek, who sadly passed away in 2013, stood as the most significant playwright to emerge from Poland since the Second World War. Already by 1969, the Hungarian-born dramatist and critic Martin Esslin (widely remembered in the discourse of dramatic criticism for coining the term “Theater of the Absurd”) suggested that among many avant-garde writers to come to prominence in postwar Eastern Europe, “Mrożek is undoubtedly the most considerable in his achievement to date.” Since then, the late scholar and playwright Daniel Gerould has called Mrożek the “preeminent playwright-satirist of Eastern Europe.” And in her recent biographical and critical account of the author’s career, Mrożek-scholar Halina Stephan explains how Mrożek stands as Poland’s most significant, and widely performed recent dramatist—whose “plays and short stories published in Poland between 1957 and 1963 appealed to such a wide audience that the phrases ‘straight from Mrożek’ or ‘Mrożek himself could not invent that’ were commonly used to describe real-life situations.”
And while Mrożek enjoyed the status of literary celebrity in his native Poland, most of his works have been embraced by the international stage as well. Since the 1960s, his works have been greeted with particular enthusiasm by audiences in New York, London, and Paris, where, during the height of the Cold War, spectators relished the alacrity with which Mrożek satirized contemporary social mores while pointing to larger, existential questions of power, freedom, and the decline of traditional systems of value. As Stephan remarks, the significance of Mrożek’s boldly irreverent style, particularly in light of the severe limitations imposed on writers of the Eastern block, appealed to a Western audience: “Mrożek’s original attractiveness in the West had come from the fact that he appeared as an absurdist writer from an isolated society that seemed to have lost all sense of humor under an oppressive political system.” Indeed, one might identify Mrożek’s early international popularity as critical to the writer’s enduring success. Following his bold letter of protest of the invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, many of Mrożek’s works fell under a ban in Poland and other Soviet satellite states in the years that followed. During this time, Mrożek supported himself largely through performances of his dramatic works in the West. Indeed, for much of his life, Mrożek lived as an expatriate, which included extended sojourns in Italy, France, and West Berlin (1963-1987) and culminated in the author’s move to Mexico (1987-1996).
Today, Mrożek’s dramas premiere at prestigious Western-European theaters and are produced throughout the world, including performances in North-America, Central and South America, throughout Europe and Scandinavia, Australia, Japan, India, and more. Nearly all of his plays have been translated into English, French, and German, and a number into Spanish, Russian, and other languages. Chicago’s Chopin Theater featured Tango, Mrożek’s most celebrated work, as recently as 2006, a production which followed a run of STRIP-TEASE in 2003, under the auspices of the Chicago Humanities Festival.
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