Once on this island, there was a terrible storm...

As always, fervent apologies for my slackness in updating--I've been busy since early June directing two back-to-back musicals and am now recuperating! With that I'll wade right into today's topic:

Man v. [Mother] Nature

The Empire State has had some rare visitors in the last year--a couple of genuine, honest-to-God hurricanes. We get plenty of wet weather [and how!] but hurricanes are a relative novelty. Even Sebastian Junger’s Perfect Storm, a massive weather system that spanned the Outer Banks of North Carolina to the Grand Banks off of Nova Scotia [where the Andrea Gail went down]

and which hit Massachusetts very hard indeed, was mostly a mésalliance between an unnamed tropical cyclone, a good ol’ fashioned nor’easter, and the remnants of Hurricane Grace.

The reason hurricanes are rare in the northeast is because tropical storm systems, which generally start to form off the northwestern coast of Africa in the late summer months, derive their energy from one essential element—warm water. New York and New England are far enough north that usually by the time a storm has traveled all the way up here over several days, it has started to cool down and hence lose its cohesion and so, unlike the Atlantic South and the Gulf Coast, the New York area is generally protected.

However there was one notorious exception 1938, a September storm that devastated Long Island and Points North (in fact it is still New England’s most destructive, deadly storm). This was before the United States Weather Bureau had started trying out official naming systems, and so the 1938 storm had a plethora of sobriquets, including:

• the Great New England Hurricane
• the Yankee Clipper [gotta wonder how Joltin' Joe felt about that one!]
• and my favorite--the Long Island Express.

I first became interested in this bit of meteorological history when I came across a child’s book of famous storms—according to the book, this hurricane got its locomotive nickname because of its incredible speed. Hurricanes have two kinds of speed metrics--wind speed within the storm, and how fast they actually move across the land. Most hurricanes travel relatively slowly, around 15-20 miles per hour. The Long Island Express, in contrast, moved at a whopping 70 miles an hour, zooming up the length of the Atlantic coast, from Cape Hatteras in North Carolina to New York in six hours. When it finally made landfall, it slammed into the coast so hard, seismographs on the other side of the country picked it up. In other words, it literally shook the continent.


Needless to say, in those ancient days before radar and when meteorology was in its infancy, Long Islanders had no way to expect this monster. One famous story about the Express tells us of a man who received in the mail that morning a barometer that he'd ordered. But upon opening the package he was annoyed--his new device was apparently already broken, as it was a clear beautiful day out and yet the reading seemed to be stuck on the lowest level:

Hurricane.

The Express also ripped the coastline asunder, its fury shaping a permanent reminder in Shinnecock Inlet, which was carved into the barrier island south of Long Island as the storm tore through.

New York City started on an island and is surrounded by rivers, tides, bridges and seawalls--and yet for most of our history we’ve been able to take that uneasy relationship with Mother Nature for granted. Denizens of the Gulf Coast, the Caribbean, Florida could have told us--ignore the power of the planet at your peril. All very well for King Lear to shake his fist at the skies:

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout...

…but the white cliffs of Dover didn’t really have to worry about storm surge.


PSA:

Occupy Sandy is a boots-on-the-ground organization that is helping areas in the New York City area that have been devastated by Hurricane Sandy, including Red Hook, the Rockaways and Coney Island. Please consider volunteering with them--if you can't offer your elbow grease, you can help by donating through their gift registry on Amazon. Every generator, every blanket, every flashlight helps--let's rebuild our wonderful city!

Prince Albert got married last weekend!

Ah, the principality--such a delightfully European invention, toy countries like Lichtenstein and Andorra, tiny fiefdoms and dukedoms. Monaco is my favorite, a beautiful bauble of a city-state, nestled against the seacliffs and redolent of Mediterranean glamour and mystery. Monaco is ruled by what has to be the most ridiculously good-looking royal* family in existence, all lustrous dark hair and long legs and full lips. The Grimaldis are less inbred than most royal families (and how! See The Prince and The Laundress, below) and their efforts to improve the princely gene pool has certainly borne impressive results.

Princess Caroline

Princess Stéphanie Even my autograph is sexy.

Charlotte Casiraghi, Caroline’s daughter, who somehow manages to be even MORE gorgeous than her mother.

The newest addition, Her Serene Highness Charlene, The Princess Consort of Monaco. Yep, another hideously unattractive Monagesque princess! You have to admire Prince Albert for taking one for the dynastic team with such a hag ;)

The men are more of a mixed bunch—Albert has lost some of his hairline but strongly resembles his beautiful mother, Princess Grace. (And is a multiple Olympic athlete to boot, which by definition makes him completely hot.)  Albert's father, the late Prince Rainier, was not exactly an Adonis, but oozed suavity and Mediterranean charm. Luckily his grandsons are there to pick up any aesthetic slack.

Andrea and Pierre Casiraghi, the sons of Princess Caroline

And the romance! The marital history of the Grimaldis reads like an unpublished Anthony Hope novel by way of Harold Robbins.  Rainier claimed the throne of Monaco through his mother, Princess Charlotte, the daughter of Prince Louis II. The Princess had actually been born illegitimate, however and the sleight of hand required to give her a title was borne of a succession crisis involving Monaco and its German cousins—no one wanted the throne to fall into German hands. Why, you may ask, didn't Prince Louis ever marry Charlotte's mother? Because his mistress was a laundress—a laundress! It’s all so deliciously 19th century.


Now any student of history recognizes that it is fairly common--encouraged, even--for princes to sow their wild oats and sire a few royal bastards**. It is, however, decidedly less common for their sisters to do likewise, but Princess Stéphanie*** has done her best to challenge this double-standard. Not only were all three of her children born out of wedlock, but she refused even to identify the father of her youngest! You have to admire that kind of cool indifference to propriety—“nice customs curtsy to great kings,” indeed.


Félicitations à Prince Albert II et son belle mariée, la Princesse Charlene!


*I'm using the term royal in the colloquial sense--correctly, the Grimaldis are not royal, they are princely (as the sovereign of Monaco is not a king, he is a prince).

**Prince Albert has two ( that we know of!)—Alexandre and Jazmin Grace, who is currently a student right here in New York City.

***I have a strong affection for Stéphanie and her complete lack of pretension. Running away to wait tables? Stooping to conquer with her bodyguards? And why does she get away with it? Because she’s a rock star. (Literally.)

What's *Your* Favorite Wonder of the Ancient World? (Part I)

I had an encyclopedia series as a child, the Golden Book series.  I used to curl up with one of these in my Mom's papasan chair and read from beginning to end, which is how I first learned about the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.  I loved the idea of a complete, neat little set and the simple, somewhat stilted illustrations fired my imagination.

(Someone on the Golden Book editorial staff must've had a classical background--there were tons of articles on various Greek and Roman figures, including one of Diogenes with his lamp.  I clearly remember the entry on Damocles, looking up to see the sword hanging above his head.)


(From memory--I promise!)

• The Statue of Zeus
• The Colossus of Rhodes
• The Alexandria Lighthouse
• The Mausoleum
• The Hanging Gardens of Babylon
• The Temple at Ephesus
• The Pyramids at Giza

When I was a child, my favorite Wonders were the statue of Zeus and the Colossus--I think I probably thought of them as huge dolls and then their glamour, what with all that gold and precious gems, fascinated me as well.  Just imagine sailing across the Aegean Sea and seeing that flash in the distance, the light shining off that enormous golden figure, standing against the sun.  Helios, incarnate, towering over the people of Rhodes.  The sad thing is, the Colossus only lasted 56 years before an earthquake destroyed it.  Not quite three generations grew up in its shadow, basking in its protective glory--and then an earthquake toppled their patron and its fragments were scattered about the harbor.

Two vast and trunkless legs…
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies...

The earthquake happened in the 3rd century BC--and for the next 800 years, people from all over the Mediterranean, including Pliny the Elder and Strabo,  came to marvel at the remains.  The Rhodesians wouldn't rebuild; they were afraid the earthquake* was a sign they'd offended their sun god.  And so he lay there in the harbor for 800 years.   The Colossus was the shortest-lived of the Wonders--but perhaps no other has so seized the popular imagination... albeit in error!  Though typically pictured standing, as Emma Lazarus put it,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land          

The Colossus was NOT in fact built standing astride the entrance; the statue was either standing  beside or overlooking the harbor.  For one thing Rhodes would've had to have closed down the > harbor during construction (which was obviously economically unfeasible) but more importantly, engineering technology at that point was not advanced enough to build such a statue.  And so Maarten van  Heemskerck's lovely, detailed, hand-painted 16th century illustration          

is imaginative rather than accurate.  An image of genius indeed--Shakespeare references this Colossus at least three times, most notably in Julius Caesar who is described as a man who




...doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about...


Three different eras are telescoped into one in this passage--Shakespeare's time toward the end of Elizabeth I's reign (ca. 1599), the last year of Julius Caesar's life (44 BC), and finally some two hundred years before, when the Colossus was still standing.  Each with their particular set of attitudes, expectations, connotations, unspoken associations...and the picture of that bronze statue burning gloriously through them all, still evocative.


And as Lazarus's poem title ("The New Colossus") indicates, the Statue of Liberty was an homage to the Rhodes Helios.  Both pedestalled metal statues, both facing east (like cathedrals, in fact, now that I think of it!), both invoking light, both as monuments to Liberty and Freedom (the Helios was built in thanksgiving for Rhodes having resisted invasion during the chaotic period after the death of Alexander the Great).  Lady Liberty is wearing considerably more clothing than the Colossus is usually portrayed, however!  Well, I suppose Rhodes is hotter than New York City.


Here in our sea-washed sunset** gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning and her name
Mother of Exiles...


*The Rhodesians needn't have felt singled out--this being the Mediterranean, most of the seven Wonders were done in by earthquakes eventually


**Since Liberty faces east, this is an odd note.


Next, Part II: Nebuchadnezzar landscapes his city within an inch of its life, all to get some sugar.

Macbeth and Battle Tactics in the Hebrew Bible

I'm pursuing two main projects for the next couple of months:

•       studying Laws of War in the Middle Ages at Columbia, and
•       dramaturging Macbeth for the White Rabbit Theatre Company here in Manhattan.

Both of these ventures are taking up an enormous amount of time, not helped in the slightest by my need to over-prepare, over-write, over-ruminate.  But then anything worth doing is worth doing thoroughly, and it's fascinating how these two projects are informing each other.  Of course the real Macbeth, the actual Scottish King who reigned during the 11th century, has popped up already in one of my texts for class.  I say this carefully, since Macbeth is a personal favorite of mine--but the poor guy got a bit of a hatchet job.  The real king reigned for quite some time, 17 years, and his predecessor Duncan was a young man killed in battle, not murdered in his bed.  But Shakespeare was not an historian; he was a dramatist and a courtier, and used this rather obscure king to explore the concept of violence as a political tool, the idea of human nature and the impact of personal choice and to ingratiate himself further with the Scottish king of England, James I.

*I like to wonder what her first name is--something beautifully Scottish perhaps, like Elspeth or Margaret or Catriona.  And I always wondered--is Scottish noble/royal nomenclature different from that of the English?  In Richard III, Richard is referred to as Gloucester, his title, until he assumes the throne.  Why is Macbeth not noted in the script as Glamis first?

At any rate, another Macbeth catch was a bit more obscure.  Last Wednesday the subject of the lecture was classical sources (such as Biblical) that may have influenced medieval military theorists.  Specifically we were looking at codes of war in the Hebrew Bible, and examined a passage in Deuteronomy--the injunction against laying waste to trees during a siege.  We examined several different possible interpretations of this passage (the first was from the King James Version):

• Thou shalt not cut them down for the tree of the field is man's life/food to employ them in the siege.

• For is the tree of the field a man, that they should be besieged by you?

• Is the tree in the field a man, to enter before thee into the work of the siege?

Then this one jumped out at me:

• ...instead you shall make use of the trees to go before you in the siege.

In Macbeth Malcolm is the one who has the idea of cutting down the trees of Birnam Wood and carrying them in front to hide their forces.  Of course it's a fairly common tactic in guerrilla warfare as well, and although I love the idea of Malcolm getting the idea from Deuteronomy it's perhaps a stretch to think that he was poring over the KJV (how meta would that be in 1611!) or the Douay-Rheims for inspiration while in exile in England.  Still it's a neat little reminder of why I find military strategy so interesting--it never changes.  What worked for the Hebrews, worked for Malcolm's rebel army.  Just like what worked for the Roman army when confronted with Pyrrhus's elephants, worked for the fighters of the Rebel Alliance when confronted with the A.T.A.T.'s in the Battle of Hoth.