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The Monday Morning Memo

Joe-Darions-Dilemma_780

Joe Darion’s Dilemma

Standing in the corner of a dark theater, Joe listens as melancholy, majestic music rises from the orchestra pit to soar high above the spotlights.

He’s been hired to write lyrics for a musical play about Don Quixote.

The first lyricist – the famous poet W.H. Auden – has been fired because his lyrics were downbeat, defeated and bitter.

Joe is his replacement, alone and unqualified, a nobody standing in the darkness with his back against the wall. This music cries out for lyrics that speak of a yearning so deep that a man might rise above himself.

Joe stares into the darkness beyond the spotlights hoping to catch a glimpse of those lyrics.

He closes his eyes and sees stars where the spotlights had been. His eyes are wet. And to think the composer was a Madison Avenue jingle writer whose only claim to fame was the television ditty, “Nobody Doesn’t Like Sara Lee.” The man had risen above himself.

The playwright had risen above himself, too. But he had stood on the shoulders of a giant.

Joe recognizes the play as a clever reframing of the work of John Steinbeck who won the Nobel Prize in Literature two years ago and is now in failing health. Certainly Wasserman will acknowledge his debt to Steinbeck.

Certainly he will.

Twelve years ago Steinbeck had acknowledged Miguel de Cervantes – the author of Don Quixote – in his prologue to East of Eden, a retelling of the biblical story of Cain and Abel. But in Steinbeck’s tale the boys weren’t the sons of Eve, the wife of Adam. They were twin sons of a prostitute.

Nine years ago Steinbeck’s musical play, Pipe Dream, set a new record for advance ticket sales on Broadway. Steinbeck sent inscribed copies of Don Quixote to the play’s producers with notes explaining it was “required reading” for the project. And Steinbeck’s would-be Dulcinea, Suzy, was once again a reluctant prostitute.

Seven years ago Steinbeck began a novel called Don Keehan, the Marshall of Manchon, whose Quixote was a California farmer who had watched one-too-many westerns on television. And yet again his Dulcinea, Sugar Mae, was a reluctant prostitute.

In the original 1605 version of Don Quixote de La Mancha, Dulcinea is a village girl with nothing special about her. Quixote sees her only from a distance. They never meet. And she is not a prostitute.

So Wasserman’s 5 year-old portrayal of Dulcinea as a reluctant prostitute can’t have been inspired by the original story of 1605. It was obviously inspired by Steinbeck.

Certainly Wasserman will acknowledge him. Certainly.

This musical, Man of La Mancha, is to be a rewrite of that non-musical teleplay Wasserman wrote two years after Steinbeck’s third portrayal of a reluctant prostitute in stories inspired by Don Quixote.

Joe wipes his cheek, “But none of this helps me solve my problem.”

Steinbeck had rocked the world with East of Eden, a story that echoed the Bible. Hemingway had rocked the world with The Old Man and the Sea, a story that echoed the crucifixion of Christ.

Joe pulls a dog-eared script of Wasserman’s old teleplay from his back pocket and angles it to the light.

“Somewhere in here is a scene where Quixote talks about God and Dulcinea.”

He finds it.

DR. CARRASCO: There are no giants. No kings under enchantment. No castles. No chivalry. No knights. There have been no knights for three hundred years.

DON QUIXOTE (indifferently): So say you.

DR. CARRASCO: These are facts.

DON QUIXOTE: Facts are the enemy of truth!

DR. CARRASCO: Would you deny reality?

DON QUIXOTE (coolly): Which… mine or yours?

DR. CARRASCO: There is only one!

DON QUIXOTE (smiles calmly): I think reality is in the eye of the beholder. (DR. CARRASCO opens his mouth to answer but Quixote interrupts:) No, my friend , it is useless to argue. Give me my way and let the devil take those who have no more use for imagination than a rooster for his wings. (DR. CARRASCO turns away, angry.)

PADRE (fascinated): Why do you do this?

DON QUIXOTE: In the service of God…and my lady.

PADRE: I have some knowledge of God… but this other?

DON QUIXOTE: My lady Dulcinea.

DR. CARRASCO (pouncing): So there’s a woman!

DON QUIXOTE: A lady! (Softening.) Her beauty is more than human. Her quality? Perfection. She is the very meaning of woman…and all meaning woman has to man.

PADRE (with a sad smile): To each his Dulcinea.

DR. CARRASCO (studies Quixote a moment, then in a businesslike tone): Come, Padre. It’s a long way home.

PADRE (hesitates a moment): Go with God. (Follows DR. CARRASCO, pauses to look back.) There is either the wisest madman or the maddest wise man in the world.

The maddest wise man… The maddest wise man… The maddest wise man…

The wise men followed a star to where it took them, far beyond the borders of their country, into realms beyond imagination.

Joe looks once more into the darkness above the spotlights, hoping to see the lyrics hiding in the darkness of that music. He closes his eyes and hears Quixote in his mind.

This is my Quest; to follow that star,
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far,
To fight for the right
Without question or pause,
To be willing to march into hell
For a heavenly cause!

And I know, if I’ll only be true
To this glorious Quest,
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I’m laid to my rest.

And the world will be better for this,
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach the unreachable stars!

Man of La Mancha ran for a total of 2,328 performances and five Tony Awards, including Best Musical. The jingle writer won the Tony for Best Composer and Joe won the Tony for Best Lyricist.

His song, commonly known as The Impossible Dream, has been recorded by more than 80 major recording artists and is considered a standard in the Great American Songbook.

Sometimes it pays to lift your eyes upward.

Roy H. Williams

 

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Random Quote:

“

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called.

This is the everyday we spoke of.

It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do.

And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.

Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called ‘that yearning.’

What you finally gave up.

We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss – we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:

I am living. I remember you.

“

- Marie Howe, "What the Living Do"

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