Sic Semper Tyrannis

So—YEAH.  Quite a week for history!  I keep seeing parallels in Osama’s death to the end of World War II, specifically in the spontaneous mass street celebration that accompanied Victory in Europe Day.  

[My favorite V-E story is how the two young princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret, actually slipped out to be part of the crowds anonymously, cheering on the King and Queen with the rest of the Londoners.  And apparently they’re turning this incident into a movie!    Kind of a real-life Roman Holiday, times 2!]

And it’s interesting that the fall of Berlin [and therefore the end of Third Reich] also happened at the end of April—but then, as I learned from Johnny Tremain,* “Armies always move in the spring.”   [Mostly I think due to practicality—it’s easier to march and to forage, for you and your horse, once the snow and ice melt and things start growing again.] And it seems people also rise up against tyranny in the spring--as in Prague Spring and our current Arab Spring, whose narrative is spooling out even now, yet to be tied up.  Interestingly, the Arab Spring may be a sign of Al-Quaeda's complete cultural irrelevance, a much worse fate to murderous ideologues than dying in battle.

And with the news reports coming out, I was wondering if they would release pictures of Bin Laden’s body, just in case. Fate took it two different ways with Mussolini and Hitler—Hitler’s body of course was completely destroyed and secretly buried after his suicide, whereas Mussolini was shot and strung up with his mistress** at a gas station in Milan, where Italian partisans vented their rage on their bodies.  Mussolini's body eventually ended up in Predappio.

It seems the US took the former route—Bin Laden was buried at sea, undoubtedly to prevent any shrines from being set up over his grave.

My mother called me Sunday night and told me the news.  While I was still on the phone with her, I checked Facebook, which was exploding—status updates, links to articles and videos.  ABC News was streaming live with commentary, and of course YouTube was loading videos of the celebrations in Times Square, Ground Zero and in front of the White House.  

All completely spontaneous—just like VE Day but with an electronic dimension that intensified and reinforced the public reaction.  So now the Internet is the new Trafalgar Square!

*Fantastic novel, one of my favorites.  Although it was one of the very first Newbery medalists, its underwritten tone and layered characterization suits it well for adults.  

     'This is the end. The end of one thing--the beginning of something else. They won't come back because there is going to be a war--civil war. And we'll win. First folk like them get routed out of Milton--then out of Boston. And the cards are going to be reshuffled. Dealt again...'

     Each time a shutter groaned, protested, and then came to with a bang, it seemed to say,  'This is the end,' and the words echoed through the house:  This is the end. This is the end.

     ...The house was still filled with midnight and ghosts, but as they closed and locked the heavy kitchen door behind them they saw it was close upon dawn.

     'It is like a funeral,' Cilla whispered, 'only worse.'

**I’m always taken aback by the fact that I share a first name with both Hitler’s mother and Mussolini’s mistress—Klara, Claretta and Clara.

Macbeth Redux (Hey, is that a dagger I see before m-oof!)

Loyal readers may recall my entry in January about the Scottish play and laws of war in the Middle Ages.  Our production closed two weeks ago and turned out quite well, all things considered.  This production was set in the '30s, with a more militaristic angle than is perhaps usually taken.  For most of the final week of rehearsal I was either away from the theater or helping out backstage, so I saw it all the way through for the first time only on opening night--and was treated to a most interesting...anachronism?  No, an egregious violation of the very laws of war I'm currently studying at Columbia!

Most people remember the last scene of Macbeth for the famous showdown between Mackers and his nemesis, Macduff:



          Macd. 

          Turne Hell-hound, turne.

          Macb.

          Of all men else I haue auoyded thee:
          But get thee backe, my soule is too much charg'd
          With blood of thine already.

Macbeth doesn't want to fight because he's already wiped out most of Macduff's family--though he has damned himself through his murderous deeds, he yet retains some vestiges of humanity.  This is important because Macbeth believes himself to be invulnerable: as he tells Macduff I beare a charmed Life, which must not yeeld/To one of woman borne.  BUT.  Macduff is about to reveal he himself was not in fact "borne"--his mother had an impromptu (and undoubtedly fatal, in the 11th century) Caesarean section (so-called because Julius Caesar was supposedly delivered that way--this is suspect, however) and hence Shit is About to Get Real.

In classic tragic style, Good defeats Evil:  Macduff kills Macbeth and displays his head to the other nobles and the Scottish army...

This one's for the groundlings.  For our production I suggested displaying Macbeth and Lady Macbeth hanging upside,
like Mussolini and Claretta Petacci at the end, but it's a little difficult logistically

...Malcolm is hailed as King and the State is made whole again.


But soft!--we have skipped over another death in Act V.  Before encountering Macduff, Macbeth runs into Young Siward, the son of the English commander who is helping out Malcolm.  Young Siward brandishes his weapon and challenges the Thane and is promptly killed by him, uttering the classic put down "Thou wast borne of woman."  This death is referenced later in the scene just before Macduff enters--Ross* tells Siward of his son's death, Siward mourns but at least his son died like a soldier, and so forth.  But our production added something--they dragged in a bound-and gagged Seyton, Macbeth's lieutenant, whom they'd captured near Young Siward's body (our production staged it so that Seyton carried off the body--the single most constant challenge of every Shakespearean tragedy is GETTING RID OF THE BODIES).  And Siward hauls off and stabs Seyton to death.  While Malcolm is standing right there!  My jaw literally fell open.  So the new regime executes bound prisoners of war?  Since we've established that Malcolm is morally superior to Macbeth, isn't this sort of...awkward?**


Obviously killing a bound POW is a violation of the laws of war--certainly for our culture and time, and for the '30s when our production is set.  And definitely for Shakespeare's time as well--Shakespeare's play Henry VI, Part III has a rather lurid incident in which Lord Clifford murders his prisoner the Earl of Rutland in the immediate aftermath of the Battle of Wakefield as the boy is begging for his life.  

This was seen as a Bad Thing by Shakespearean audiences.***

But the whole idea of laws of war, of regulating, through code and social expectation, how and when and whom to kill in warfare, is a dynamic construct.  In the actual Macbeth's time, the 11th century, laws of war were very much in a time of transition--the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as well as Asser's Life of King Alfred are depressingly rife with descriptions of Anglo-Viking battles in which everyone on the losing side is killed.  

Prisoners, fleeing soldiers, soldiers who surrendered--everyone.   But customs of war were starting to emerge around this time--how and why this happened is still being debated but after the Norman Invasion in 1066, the bloodletting seemed to have subsided for a little while (if for no other reason than because everyone was DEAD who might've caused any trouble).  The emergence of chivalry as a professional and caste code also had something to do with this.


*I feel kind of bad for Ross--all he seems to do is inform people of important plot updates!  He tells Macbeth he's been made Thane of Cawdor, he tells Macduff his family is dunzo...he's like the Billy Kostecki of the Scottish Play!

Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes
Savagely slaughter'd.
Oh, and Penny's knocked up.

**I mentioned this to the actor who played Malcolm and he said he always looked away during that moment.


***Shakespeare's source was Hall's Chronicle, which changed Rutland's age from the verified 17 to a boy of 12. 

 

Who Put the Fun in Family Dysfunction?

The other night I caught the premiere of the latest gorgeously shot, historical guilty TV pleasure, The Borgias, about the notorious Spanish papal dynasty.   

As I told my friend, "They had better not try to rewrite too much history--there is no possible way they could top what the Borgias actually did!"  My specialty being English history, I knew little about this family until I read William Manchester's A World Lit Only By Fire--a problematic book to be sure,* but worth a reading if only for his rundown of all the latest Borgia on-dits of the early 16th century.  The head of the family was Roderigo--later Pope Alexander Sextus [commence adolescent giggling here], who had four acknowledged children by his mistress, Vannozza.  Yes, you heard correctly--a Catholic prelate admitted having a mistress and children.  So much for chastity!  Of the children, the two best known are Cesare [who inspired Macchiavelli's Prince] and the lovely Lucrezia.

Detail from a mural in the Vatican--painted by Pinturicchio,
 the painter in Episode I for whom Guilia Farnese sits.
  Lucrezia was known as dolce ciera, "sweet face," in her youth.  
The Borgias must have had some Spanish Celtic blood way back--
that hair had to come from somewhere!

I must confess to being a bit of a Lucrezia fangirl.  She seems like a Renaissance version of Elizabeth Taylor, impossibly gorgeous but you can just tell she must've gotten sick of all the fawning and papal politics and just wanted to kick back with margaritas with her girl-peeps.  (She was close friends with her father's mistress, Giulia Farnese.)  And she's gotten an unfair historical rap (although the scholarship on this has been changing)--as deliciously scandalous as the image of the icy blonde femme fatale mixing her poisons may be, she was a pawn of her family more than anything.  15th/16th century Italian noblewomen had very little agency.


BUT.   Let's get to the juicy stuff--which alllll goes back to Il Papa.  As Cracked.com puts it in their article "The Five Biggest Badass Popes," 


Any story you've ever heard about crooked popes started with this guy. He bought the papacy with four mule loads of silver. He nailed Rome's most eligible bachelorettes. He made his 17-year-old bastard son an archbishop. He started wars, poisoned cardinals and took their money, and probably ate live frogs while feeding people to the Rancor.


 And--the Banquet of Chestnuts.  This was a Borgia gala right out of the movie Bachelor Party, "with chicks and guns and fire trucks and hookers and drugs and booze!"**  The guests included courtesans and high-ranking clerics--to get the action going, chestnuts were thrown onto the floor and the courtesans (whose clothing had conveniently been auctioned off) had to crawl on their hands and knees after them.  I'll leave it to you to imagine what happened next.  There were even observers standing off to the side, recording who and how and how long.  The only thing missing was a mule!

A Borgian orgy!

Oh, and that hint of incest between Cesare and Lucrezia you caught in the first episode?  Is based on fact.  Yes, Cesare and Lucrezia were the 15th century Italian version of Christopher and Cathy (shut up, I loved those books).  I'll leave the "Infans Romanus" affair to another post but suffice it to say, the Borgias kept it in the family.

*As fascinating as is his theory that the Pied Piper was actually a forest-dwelling murderer who preyed on children, there is no compelling documentary evidence to support it.  And no CITATIONS!  Bad Manchester!

**Okay, maybe not fire trucks.

A Fire In Greenwich Village

100 years ago 146 people, mostly young Jewish and Italian immigrant girls, many of them teenagers, died in a fire in Greenwich Village.


Previously the workers at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, a sweatshop located on Washington Place, had tried to organize the shop and improve the working conditions.  The owners of the shop, Isaac Harris and Max Blanck, vigorously opposed all effort at organization, even resorting to hiring men to physically beat the picketers.  Eventually they grudgingly agreed to some concessions, but insisted on locking the doors during working hours to prevent the seamstresses from sneaking out early or stealing.


A fire started on the 8th floor.  Fed by scraps of fabric, nurtured in the dusty, wooden, cramped surroundings, it spread extremely rapidly.

The top three floors of the Asch Building--the fire is alongside Greene Street. 

Workers frantically tried to escape the fire.  Some tried the rear fire escape--which quickly buckled under their combined weight and peeled away from the building, dropping them to their deaths.  Some tried the elevator--which was only able to make a couple of trips before the cables started melting.  Some even jumped down the shaft after the elevator. Some were able to run down one of the two staircases, but access to the other one was impossible--because the doors were locked.  And the foreman who had the key had already escaped.


The foreman with the key had already escaped--and left them locked up on the 9th floor.


The fire engines arrived immediately, but could do little because their hoses and ladders only reached up to the 6th floor.  The fire had attracted many observers--including a young Frances Perkins--but no one could help.  All they could do was bear witness.  All they could do was watch as doomed workers appeared framed in the windows, the flames behind them, and made the only choice they had left--how they were going to die.


Assistant cashier: [I see] my girls, my pretty ones, going down through the air.  They hit the sidewalk spread out and still.


Reporter: The last workers were trapped against the blackened windows, burning to death before our very eyes. The glass they were pressed against shattered. Down came the bodies in a shower -- burning, smoking, flaming bodies, with disheveled hair trailing upward.


It all happened so quickly--less than an hour from start to finish.  All those young girls falling from above.  All those families they never had--those husbands they never married, those children they didn't bear.  Those stories never told.  All those bodies lying on the wet ground, their faces turned to the evening sky.

The policeman who recovered the bodies along the sidewalks wept--some of them recognized the girls as the strikers they'd harassed and beaten the year before.  All that work, all that effort for the strike--for nothing.

Imagine having to identify your sister.  Your wife. Your uncle.


It was Mama's hair. I braided it for her. I know...I know.


Blanck and Harris, of course, denieddenieddenied.  They denied that they knew about the locked doors, they denied negligence, they denied all responsibility for the massacre whatsoever.  They were indicted, tried, and by smearing the testimony of one of the survivors because of her lack of fluency in English, and attacking another's truthfulness, were eventually found not guilty--legally.  The court of public opinion, as they say, was another matter entirely.

Blanck and Harris, and most other industrialists, protested the cost of the workplace reforms in the wake of the disaster.  But they didn't need to worry--they actually turned a profit on the fire, since they overclaimed damages and their insurance company was bullied into giving in.  They were overpaid about $400 per body.  As a final act of despicability, Blanck was found guilty two years later of locking the door in another factory during working hours.

There are a couple of different conventional memorials to the Triangle victims--statues and headstone and so forth--but I rather like the poetic simplicity of this one:

וְאֵלֶּה, שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל, הַבָּאִים,


These are the names...

The Theater is a Temple...

This spring Paper Mill Playhouse is performing my favorite Stephen Sondheim show, the musical comedy A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.  Forum is an absolute delight of a show, about a Roman slave who's trying to win his freedom by securing a beautiful virgin for his young master.  Having performed the show twice (a courtesan in high school, Philia in another production), the setting indicated in the libretto made me giggle when I first read it:  200 years before the birth of Christ, a day in spring.  So this would be right after the Second Punic War, when Rome was really the only player left in the Western Mediterranean after having crushed their primary rival, Carthage. 

I studied Roman History last spring and was fascinated by the Second Punic War—this was the one with Hannibal and the elephants.  To sum up (briefly—there were three Punic wars altogether), Carthage was a seafaring city on the northern coast of Africa (in today’s Tunisia) and Rome’s main rival in the western Mediterranean.  Carthage had had its Phoenician ass handed to it by Rome in the First Punic War, 264-241 BC, and was jonesin’ for revenge.  The First War was essentially expansionist and basically unremarkable except for the fact that Rome developed a navy from scratch—yes, notwithstanding Italy’s manymany miles of coastline, Rome (which pretty much controlled the entire peninsula by then) did not have a navy until 261 BC!    Along comes Hannibal, one of the greatest generals in history—he invades Rome via an overland through through the Alps with elephants.

And then proceeds to inflict many, many terrible defeats on the Romans—the site of one especially bitter loss, Lake Trasimene, wallows in the gore with place names like Ossaia (Place of Bones) and Caporosso (Cape Red--as in blood).  

O hai there! One of Hannibal's Gallic allies beheading the Roman general Flaminius.
The Celts were the *scourge* of ancient Rome until Julius Caesar came along--they were the only people who managed to sack Rome until the very end, when the Vandals came in.

Eventually of course the Romans manage to turn the tables and ultimately eliminate their rival--and now that Rome is so dominant, it can relax a little and start to think about non-military concerns.  A Roman cultural and artistic voice begins to emerge—which leads us to Forum.

Forum is based on the plays of Plautus, a Roman playwright who lived roughly 254 BC – 184 BC—so, right around the time the musical is set.  In addition to being the first extant Latin playwright, Plautus was known for his use of stock characters—the scheming servant, the military braggart, the overbearing lady of the house—and these characters populate Forum as well, helpfully cueing the audience with their names:

• Philia = young female love interest
• Pseudolus = con artist
• Hero = …well, the hero!

Of course these archetypes continued on through the middle ages and beyond—commedia dell'arte, Restoration comedies and 20th century musical theater all make use of these same types. In fact farce depends on these kinds of shortcuts--the quicker it can establish the relationship, the quicker the payoff.


Forum's libretto is sprinkled with references to the city's geography and the cultures and civilizations that surround it.  One song, "Pretty Little Picture," begins 


♫ In the Tiber there sits a boat... ♫

The old, old Tiber, seen from the Ponte* Principe Amedeo Savoia-Aosta.
Philia would've sailed up this river when arriving from her home in Crete.

The Funeral sequence is filled with geographical references--in fact a dedicated musical scholar could virtually map out the Mediterranean world through this song alone!


♫ All Crete was at her feet
All Thrace was in her thrall
All Sparta loved her sweetness
And Gall
And Spain ♫


Musical theater--bridging the ancient and the modern worlds!  Plautus would have been so proud...

*Fun Fact--Ponte (bridge) and pontiff share the same root word for a reason--the term predates Christianity and derives from the Collegium Pontificum, the body of Roman priests whose duties included placating the river gods.

What’s Your Favorite Wonder of the World (PART 2)?

Previously in Cliopolitan,

I discussed the magnificent and all-too-short-lived Colossus of Rhodes, the bronze Helios who overlooked the harbor in the city of Rhodes but was brought down by the vagaries of Poseidon, Γαιήοχος Gaiēochos, the Earth-Shaker.  As a child this was my favorite Wonder, along with the golden statue of Zeus who laughed at Caligula.  (Suetonius was a terrible gossip but he definitely comes up with the juicy tidbits! His biography on Julius Caesar is hilarious).  But now as an adult I can better appreciate what a marvel of ingenuity were the...

The ancient city of Babylon was located in the Fertile Crescent, a section in the middle East covering roughly modern-day Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, parts of Iran, Israel, and Turkey.  The Tigris and Euphrates rivers dominated most of the crescent, forming part of a flood plain that ultimately fed into the Persian Gulf.  Periodic flooding would deposit rich silt onto the soil, resulting in an area unusually fertile for the region.  Agriculture, of course, is tied to civilization—once man stopped hunter-gathering and started settling down and growing crops about ten thousand years ago, sedentary culture could form.  (This is also what led to the elevation of cats as revered figures in Egypt--cats kept down the mice population, and thereby protected the grain storehouses.)  And so the Fertile Crescent was known as the birthplace of civilization, spawning such ancient peoples as the Sumerians and the Assyrians, and giving us one of the first deluge tales, the Flood of Gilgamesh (shout out to Noah and his peeps, yo!).  Babylon was right in the middle of the action.

The Cradle of Western Civilization

Nebuchadnezzar II is well-known through the famous Biblical tale of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, memorialized in a terrific song.

♫ And he told everybody when you hear the music of the trumpet,
And he told everybody when you hear the music of the flute,
And he told everybody when you hear the music of the horn,
You must fall down and worship the idol!
     Shadrack, Meshach, Abednego! ♫

But there was more to Nebuchadnezzar than serving as a pagan foil for Judean teenagers—he appears quite a lot in the Book of Daniel and in other texts.  His most endearing act was to help alleviate his wife’s homesickness--which led to his construction of the Gardens circa 600 BC [so, some 300 years before the Colossus went up].  Amytis of Media married ol’ Neb to formalize an alliance between their two empires, and we are told that, like the Biblical Ruth

… sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn

Amytis found the transition from her verdant, mountainous homeland difficult.   And so her husband brought the mountains to Amytis, and wrought The Hanging Gardens of Babylon—like the Taj Mahal and the Mausoleum, a monument to love for the ages.

Another gorgeous picture by our man Maarten van Heemskerck.
And check out the Tower of Babel in the background!

Look at the colors in this, all those various hues of green, olive and jade and chartreuse, emerald, forest.  Allow those greens to surround you, sweep you away, wash you ashore onto a distant land and time.  A young girl, married to a strange king—he wants to see her smile so he promises her anything.  And she says—“Please, bring me a bit of my homeland.  I miss it so.”

She must have been so, so happy, so transported, every time she walked through her gardens.

And on a mechanical note, the ingenuity required to keep all those plants watered is impressive to imagine.  The Hanging Gardens did not actually hang as such, they were suspended, raised up.  Greek historian Strabo tells us

There was also a passage which had pipes leading up to the highest level and machinery for raising water through which great quantities of water were drawn from the river, with none of the process being visible from the outside.

This was 600 BC, and they were able to do this!  Anticipating irrigation and the Archimedes screw—just incredible. 

Unlike the Colossus of Rhodes, there is some doubt as to whether or not the gardens actually existed as they’re described—there are no contemporary Babylonian sources , and most descriptions come from secondary sources, writers like Strabo, who heard about them from others.  I wouldn’t write them off too quickly though—archeological evidence has a way of surfacing even after the millennia, and the ruins of Babylon may yet have a secret or two for us.  I also think modern scholars are way too quick to write off seemingly impossible events as pure myth—I watched a fascinating documentary once, explaining how the Ten Plagues of Egypt could really have happened, including the plague upon the first born!

*N.B. On a side note, the Fertile Crescent is almost gone: damming of the rivers has led to the marshes drying and and unbelievably, most of this process has taken place in the last few decades.

The (Almost Wasn't) King's Speech

Congratulations to The King's Speech for their Best Picture Oscar--I saw this wonderful movie back in January and loved it.  Between scenes, I told my friend in whispers all the back story--the Edward VIII/George VI generation is one of my favorites of the British royal family, there's something so adorable and cozy about the four (five)* brothers and their one lovely sister, all arranged in those adorable outfits.

(l-r, Prince Henry, later Duke of Gloucester; the Prince of Wales, later King Edward VIII, laterLATER the Duke of Windsor; 

Prince John; Prince Albert, later Duke of York, laterLATER King George VI; Princess Mary, later the Princess Royal; 

and Prince George, later Duke of Kent)

The movie takes place during the '30s and as such, it is odd to realize--this is about the current Queen's father.  Just one generation ago, they were grappling with an abdication crisis, precipitated by the determination of the Prince of Wales to marry a divorcée, which was seen as completely unsuitable.  Oh, how times have changed!

I keep comparing it to a TV movie I watched through Netflix called Bertie and Elizabeth--quite different in scope (it encompassed a much longer period, from their courtship in the '20s through to his accession and World War II) , it nonetheless overlaps somewhat with The King's Speech.  And both of them have the Slutty Music Cue for Wallis Simpson--when she first appears on the screen, the soundtrack helpfully cues us what to think about her by blowing a hot blue riff on a sexophone saxophone.  

(Skip to 6:52--yep, there ol' Wallis is getting out of the car, primed for seduction and empire-razing.  Good times.)

At any rate, I've always had a fondness for the current queen's father--he had an idyllic. domestic life with his charming Scottish wife, Lady Elizabeth (born in haunted Glamis Castle!) and his two little princesses, Lilibet and Margaret Rose, "us four" as he termed them.  And then his feckless brother couldn't hack it as King and forced him to step up to the plate and he did so beautifully.  The King's Speech takes a few historical liberties but generally gets the flavor right--my favorite scene was when he is marching to the microphone to make the speech to his people at the end, on the cusp of World War II.  The look of terror and resolve on his face breaks your heart and makes you realize what an incredibly brave man he was.

Another fascinating portrait of that generation of Windsors is the BBC production The Lost Prince, about the events leading up to World War I from the point of view of Prince John.  Through the Prince we get to see not only that lovely, lost, pre-World War I European way of life, we also get to meet his cousins, the Romanovs, who were related to the Windsors in a couple of ways (Alexandra was a granddaughter of Queen Victoria).  In fact Nicholas and George V were twin cousins:

♫ They laugh alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alikeYou can lose your mind ... when cousins are two of a kind! ♫

*I say five because of Prince John, the hidden sibling, one of my favorite phenomena.  There's something so interesting about a large family with a sibling that never emerges for whatever reason--the Kennedys had one (Rosemary, the oldest daughter, who had some kind of mental problem that was never satisfactorily identified before she was lobotomized) and my own father's generation had one--his youngest sister died quite young of a heart ailment.  Each one of those siblings is a whole life that was never fully realized--a whole story that was never told.  At any rate Prince John had epilepsy and lived away from court, and ended up dying at the age of 13, adding further fuel to the superstition that John is a bad luck name for English royalty.