This Is Why I Don't Go Out Drinking in the City Alone: A Look at Fright by Cornell Woolrich

"He was twenty-five that year, 1915, and his name was Prescott Marshall." --Fright, Cornell Woolrich

AHHHHHHH!!!!!!! For the love of all that's holy, Cornell Woolrich!!! Why? WHY?!?!?!?! F&*KI&#%G#D*&MN*ON%&*B*&T*H!!!!!!!!!!!!

It's no good even pretending to be a lady. This book left me speechless. Literally speechless. Not "Oh wow. this is such a good book. What a pleasant reading experience" speechless. Or "Wow that was a really awesome ending" speechless. Nope. White-hot rage, electric shocks pulsing through my system, blasphemy-riddled thoughts frightening my mind speechless. The fact that I am even able to write these words is a testament to my sheer will-power. If not, I might still be sitting up in bed, staring at the last page of Cornell Woolrich's Fright. Sheer will power and I had to bring it back to the library soooo....

Published in 1950 under the pen name George Hope, Fright tells the story of poor pathetic Prescott Marshall, an up-and-comer in 1915, New York City. At 25 years old, he seems to have a fine life going for him. He has a rising career on Wall Street and a beautiful society girl named Marjorie on his arm who, gosh-darn-it, is just as crazy about him as he is about her (her family's money and social prominence don't hurt either). So at the start of our tale, Press seems to know where his towel is and he's just as pleased as pie. Poor bastard. He has no idea he's the main character in a roman noir.

Things start unraveling on the night he plans to propose to Marjorie. As he's getting ready to pick her up, she finds out that her aunt and uncle, both passengers aboard the doomed Lusitania, have been found dead. Obviously, she can't go out and this leaves Press alone for the night with no other plans. So what does he do? Go out drinking, of course! Alone! Because that's ALWAYS a good idea. He gets so drunk that he eventually passes out on the sidewalk. In New York City. Smart boy, that Prescott Marshall. Finally, Press sobers up, proposes to Marjorie, she accepts, and all seems right as Turn-of-the-20th-Century rain until a mysterious young woman knocks on his apartment door. This is noir, after all, a mysterious young woman had to show up eventually. And wouldn't you know, she has some pretty unfortunate news. Turns out, while Press was drunk out of his mind, he met this girl, brought her home, and slept with her. And now she wants X amount of money to keep quiet about it. Yay! So begins Press's journey down a path of ever-intensifying mental instability that would make even Hamlet say, "Wow, dude, come on. Nothing's that bad."

Woolrich's writing style takes a little getting used to at first. Much of his language is outdated and over-the-top, but he more than makes up for it with his storytelling abilities. He cuts out and enters into scenes in unexpected places, forcing your attention, urging you on, making your mind reel as you try to imagine what could possibly happen next. He uses repetition in a way I've never seen before, mostly to aid dark humor. There's a lot of dark, downright grim, humor in Fright. Also his descriptions are some of the most gorgeous I've ever read. None of the characters are that likable--Press does everything wrong, Marjorie is a DOORMAT, and I was actually rooting for the Mysterious Young Woman at one point--and yet somehow, I managed to get emotionally caught up in their journey. So much so that by the end, I was staring at the book in a blind rage and would have thrown it across the room if I could have summoned the energy. Also 1915 is such an unorthodox year for a roman noir to take place in. I found it oddly refreshing to see such heinous goings-on in such an over-idealized time period. The Happiest Millionaire will never be the same.

I didn't enjoy Fright, per say. It's a very bleak ride, but it's a good book. I also recommend I Married a Dead Man, the first book I read by Woolrich, which is also very good and not surprisingly, also very twisted.

P.S. Take a look at the pulp wundertraum that is that cover. I guess the girl is supposed to be The Mysterious Young Woman but she's basically Marilyn Monroe. Especially since the Mysterious Young Woman is described as looking very childlike. And the guy looks like he's just been electrocuted.

Out of the Darkness, Into the Light: A Look at Sisters Red by Jackson Pearce

“Strangers never walk down this road, the sisters thought in unison as the man trudged toward them.” –Sisters Red, The Prologue

Little Red Riding Hood and I go way back. I've spent many, many hours fawning over my copy of Grimms’ Fairy Tales and no matter how old I get or how many times I've read it, that immortal bedside dialogue always makes my breath quicken and my heart beat faster. Every single time. Nothing makes me regress faster, in fact, except Disney movies. When I was nine, my grandmother (of course, my grandmother) made me a red hooded cloak which I still have. I know Roald Dahl’s kickass Revolting Rhymes version by heart and occasionally recite it on command at family parties (I could do it at eight and I think the family’s amused that over ten years later, I haven’t forgotten it so they still request it). When I was twelve, I saw the movie version of The Company of Wolves (mostly between my fingers), which introduced me to Angela Carter who is now one of my favorite authors. It was one of the first fairy tales I learned to read in German, and for better or worse, it’s the first thing I think of whenever I step off the bike path in the park—even if it’s just to answer my phone! So yeah, I dig Little Red Riding Hood. I am emotionally invested in its existence as a folktale that continues to influence literature, pop culture et all. This doesn’t grant me any particular authority, but I do know a bit about its history and the story definitely means a lot to me.

So. Now that that’s all out in the open, let me get on with what I came here to say: Sisters Red is one of THE BEST Little Red-inspired things I’ve ever read. Period.

I found this book completely by accident. It came out literally last week. I was on SurLaLune, an online cornucopia of fairy tale awesomeness, and looked, as I always do, at their advertisements for newly released fairy tale books. My eye immediately went to the above cover which is probably one of the most effective covers I’ve seen in a long time. No dimly obscured heroine vaguely touching something here. No terrifying corsets or completely inaccurate character renderings. Nope. Just a shocker of red/black/white magic that knocks you between the eyes and practically forces you to open the cover. Didn’t get a good look at it before? Scroll back up. I’ll wait.

See. Moving right along.

Now seeing as how not everybody has the same involved relationship with Little Red Riding Hood that I do, here’s a brief synopsis of the tale itself just in case it’s been awhile. Our Heroine, a little girl defined by the red cloak (or cap in some versions) she always wears, ventures off into the woods to visit her sick grandmother. Before she leaves, she promises her mother that she WILL NOT STRAY FROM THE PATH. That’s a gun over the fireplace if ever there was one. Along the way, she meets a Wolf who sweet talks her off the path and into a nearby meadow where she wastes time picking flowers while he sneaks off to Granny’s. He promptly eats the old woman, dresses in her clothes, and hops into bed, eager to enjoy the little girl as well. When Little Red arrives, she falls for this impregnable ruse, sensing something is amiss but unable to put her finger on what specifically. She and the Wolf engage in the aforementioned dialogue (“‘What big eyes you have’ ‘The better to see you with, my dear’” etc.) and then the Wolf eats her. Now depending on the version you read, the story either ends here (Charles Perrault) or with a huntsman/woodcutter coming in, cutting open the Wolf’s stomach, and freeing the devoured duo, paving the way for a happy ending (the Brothers Grimm). There have, of course, been versions that make this savior come in just before the Wolf eats Little Red as well as versions where the Wolf instead of eating Granny, locks her in a closet (???) Roald Dahl and James Thurber both had Little Red pull out a gun and shoot him. Angela Carter had her sleep with him. But at the end of the day, when talking canon, Perrault’s and the Grimms’ are considered the versions to go by.

Today the moral of the story is generally said to be "See kids, this is why you don't talk to strangers." However, back in Perrault's time it was more along the lines of "See girls, men are bad. They are basically animals who only want one thing. And they will stoop to dressing up like your grandmother to get it. And if they succeed, you might as well be dead because no other man will want to marry you. So always be obedient and never stray from the path society has chartered for you." Even the Grimms' happy ending reeks of moral clean up. In their version, if the Wolf is the man who will lead you astray, then the huntsman/woodcutter is the man who will save you (most likely your father). Despite the more sanitized versions that reign supreme nowadays, it probably doesn't take an exceptionally vivid imagination / dirty mind to recognize the story's history as a sexual morality tale, tracing one little girl's downfall from trusting innocent to wolfmeat. Never stray, indeed.

I think there’s a reason why you don’t see a lot of novels based on Little Red Riding Hood, even though it’s been the subject of countless poems and short stories. There just isn’t that much there in terms of length. In terms of depth, sure, but not length. Any retelling worth its salt should comment in some way on its source material whether to reinterpret it or satirize it or whatever the author wants to do. The brilliance of Sisters Red lies in the fact that it does this while also telling its own story. Sisters Red isn’t so much a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood (except, perhaps, for the prologue, which is worth the cost of the book all by itself) as it is a fantasy-horror novel rooted in Little Red imagery and mythology that tells its own story while also making an empowering statement about the fairy tale that inspired it. No small feat.

Since they were little girls, Scarlett and Rosie March have lived with one all-consuming purpose: to hunt and kill as many Fenris as possible. What’s a Fenris? You and I might call them werewolves, but we would be wrong. They’re Fenris and they’re scary as hell. These attractive, seemingly ordinary men seduce young girls (the younger the better) into trusting them. Once they have their victims isolated and vulnerable, they transform into monstrous wolves and viciously devour them. As children, Scarlett and Rosie barely survived the Fenris attack that left their grandmother dead, Scarlett brutally injured, and the knowledge of this big bad evil alive and well inside them. With the help of their friend and neighbor Silas, a woodsman’s son, they track down, lure, and kill as many of these monsters as they can in their small Georgia village. The crux of the action takes place seven years after the attack. Scarlett, now eighteen-years old, lives for hunting. It is her passion and the only thing, apart from her sister, that sustains her. She also sees it as her responsibility. How can she do anything else knowing that the Fenris are out there? Sixteen-year-old Rosie, however, is starting to itch for a more “normal” life. She wants to stand by her sister, but she also wants to fall in love and go to school and enjoy herself, and a life dedicated to hunting leaves no room for that. This conflict tests the bond between these devoted but utterly different sisters as they leave their small town for the big city of Atlanta where Fenris are literally everywhere. It’s a story about a lot of things: responsibility, guilt, normalcy, love, fear, passion, why we make the choices we make, and what it means to live in the light while others live in darkness. But most of all, it’s about sisters.

Scarlett and Rosie are achingly real characters. I loved them and identified with them both even though they are vastly different. They take turns narrating in first-person chapters and when the book ended, I wanted them to go on confiding in me, which is always a wonderful feeling. I felt like I knew them. They’re badass in the best sense, able to fight and destroy Fenris with hatchets, knives, and their womanly wiles, but they’re also vulnerable and their bond is heart wrenching. Pearce wittily evokes the iconic imagery of the fairy tale by dressing her heroines in red hooded cloaks for their hunts. The color red, appropriately, gets the Fenris’ juices flowing faster than Pavlov’s bell, echoing the long-held interpretation that Little Red’s cloak symbolizes the sexual desire she supposedly stirs in the Wolf. Waiting in the wings for the fight to begin is Silas, also a very well-drawn character. He’s a good guy. He cares about the girls and fights alongside them, but he is not, thank God, the savior that his folkloric ancestor is. That said, I am grateful that Sisters Red is not the kind of book where the Patented Generic Strong Female Lead whips her hair back and says, “I don’t NEED a man’s help.” I always appreciate guys and gals working together on an equal plane and Sisters Red delivers that.

I also really enjoyed the world of the book. It’s the real world with a twist, a world where Scarlett and Rosie can wear red cloaks everywhere they go and not raise eyebrows; where Silas can come from a long line of woodsmen; and where pretty, flirty girls are known as Dragonflies. It’s basically the world of the fairy tale set in the 21st century. Fittingly, their small Southern neighborhood lies on the edge of a forest, but you can meet a bad guy just as easily in the city as in the country. The book is so fast-paced I finished it almost without realizing and I was utterly absorbed throughout. The characters reveal themselves subtly through conversation and action. The fight scenes are well-orchestrated, suspenseful, and they ALL contribute significantly to the plot, though the girls’ interactions with the Fenris before they transformed were what really frightened me.

Jackson Pearce deserves an award simply for the Fenris. Nowadays, when fiction is dominated by the “monster that cares,” it was perversely refreshing to meet creatures so unapologetically evil. The Fenris are literally soulless. There’s no “maybe we can reason with them,” or “let my love tame the beast inside you” here. No, these are monsters who will track you, charm you into submission, frighten you for their own pleasure, and finally, brutally, kill you. The prologue—I know I mentioned the prologue already, but seriously, it’s amazing—sent a shiver up my spine. I’m talking gooseflesh and I read it safe and sound under the bright lights of my office’s break room, surrounded by people. I’ve read many retellings of Little Red and met a lot of Big Bad Wolves, but that son of a bitch in the prologue put them all to shame in terms of pure fear factor. The best fantasy, in my opinion, acts as an allegory for real life; what makes the Fenris so frightening is how eerily real they are. Little Red’s Wolf has often been interpreted as a sexual predator, and the Fenris are basically sexual predators. Their change from men to monsters is triggered by lust, rage, and the need to dominate. They see their victims first as playthings and finally as meat. Many scenes in Sisters Red are genuinely unnerving, tapping into something primal in the subconscious, which is what good fantasy is supposed to do.

Sisters Red does not abide by the “rules” set down in the folktale. Nobody dresses up like anybody’s grandmother. Nobody waits to be rescued. It has an emotional relationship at its heart that the folktale doesn’t: Little Red doesn’t have a sister. Best of all, unlike the most well-known versions of the story, Sisters Red is not a lesson in moral downfall or a cautionary tale about how easily girls can fall victim to dangerous men. Instead, it’s about young women being empowered enough to acknowledge the evil around them, look it in the face, and decide they’re not going to let it beat them, and this idea, it turns out, might be truer to the spirit of Little Red Riding Hood than even the Perrault and Grimm versions. See, Little Red Riding Hood has gone down in history as a naïve, foolish little girl who falls right into the hands of a predator, but that was not always the case.

There’s a little-known version of the folktale called The Story of Grandmother. Though it was first printed in 1885, 73 years after the Grimms’ version and almost 200 years after Perrault’s, it lived a long and healthy life in the French oral tradition, dating probably as far back as the Middle Ages. In this version, the heroine, a young woman of indeterminate age, sets off to take bread and milk to her grandmother, but she never dons a symbolic cloak or promises not to stray from the path. This tale is blatantly more sexual than your better known versions. When the heroine arrives at the house to find a wolf in her grandmother’s bed, she is not fooled for a minute. She does, however, perform a striptease for him, removing all her clothing at his command until she’s naked, and nothing remains except to climb in bed beside him. Before the Wolf has a chance to devour her (make of that what you will), she tricks him into letting her go outside to go to the bathroom, promising to keep a rope tied around her foot so he can hold onto her. Once outside, of course, she unties the rope and runs like hell, leaving the Wolf all by his lonesome. This story was passed down from generation to generation across the French countryside as young girls grew up and prepared for courtship. It was still treated as a cautionary tale, warning them of men with unsavory intentions, but it did not treat sex or sexuality as the key to a lady's undoing, literal or otherwise. In The Story of Grandmother, the heroine uses her sexuality and quick thinking to outsmart the Wolf. No moralizing death or male savior here; she saves herself. What I love best about Sisters Red is that it’s a glorious return to this idea. Scarlett and Rosie are, as Angela Carter once put it, nobody’s meat. They’re not afraid or ashamed of their sexuality; they’re empowered by it, knowing they can use it to attract the Fenris. They’re smart, they’re powerful, they can fight, they love each other, and they are survivors, which gives them all the strength they need. And that’s pretty awesome, actually.

Do yourself a favor and read Sisters Red. It’s the best thing to happen to Little Red Riding Hood in a long time. Even if you haven’t read Little Red Riding Hood since you were five and your kindergarten teacher forced you to sit through it during Story Time when you just wanted to play with the trucks, read it. It’s a damn good book.

P.S. For further information about Little Red Riding Hood’s vast history, I highly recommend Yvonne Verdier’s “Little Red Riding Hood in Oral Tradition,” Jack Zipes’s The Trials and Tribulations of Little Red Riding Hood, and Maria Tatar’s The Annotated Classic Fairy Tales, all of which aided me in the writing of this rather lengthy blog entry. And here's SurLaLune...because you know you want to. http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/

Image Via: http://darkfaerietales.com/wp-content/uploads/Sisters-Red.jpg

For Memorial Day: Sullivan Ballou's Letter to His Wife, Sarah

This is one of the most beautiful things I've ever read, heard, or seen. It's a letter written by Sullivan Ballou, a Union soldier, to his wife, Sarah, on July 14, 1861, a week before he fought in the First Battle of Bull Run. I first heard it on Ken Burns's documentary, The Civil War. I've now listened to it many times and every time I hear it, I sob. It's a humbling look at a soldier's immense sacrifice and sense of duty towards his country, as well as a powerful declaration of love from one man to his wife. I can't even fathom what it must have been like for Ballou to say goodbye to his wife and children and go off to war, but I am grateful we have this letter to remember him by.

With my thanks to the fallen, Happy Memorial Day.

"My blood will have been well spent." A Look at Anne of the Thousand Days

"Commend me to his Majesty, and tell him that he has ever been constant in his career of advancing me. From a private gentlewoman he made me a marchioness, from a marchioness a Queen; and now that he has no higher degree of honour left, he gives my innocence the crown of martyrdom as a saint in heaven." --Anne Boleyn, 19 May 1536

Oh, Henry VIII. You sick son of a bazooka. There are few monarchs as fascinating (in a train wreck sort of way) as that English cousin of Bluebeard, Hal Tudor the Eighth. And of course, his six wives: Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katherine Howard, and Catherine Parr. Or as they're more commonly known in some circles: Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived--a rhyme that comes in handy during a Pub Quiz Night after you've had a few too many trysts with the demon liquor to keep all the Catherines and Annes straight. The history of Henry VIII and his wives is as riveting and scandalous as any paperback romance--with the added bonus that it's true. One night when I was eleven years old, I stayed up way past my bedtime to watch Anne of the Thousand Days, an underrated gem from 1968 about the rise and fall of Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife and the first to die by execution (her cousin, Katherine Howard, number five, would suffer the same fate) whose reign lasted roughly 1,000 days. It went on to be one of my favorite movies and kindled my love of Tudor history.

Despairing over his first wife, Catherine of Aragon and her "failure" to produce a son (their daughter, Mary--Bloody Mary, that is--would briefly reign), Henry divorced her and married Anne Boleyn in 1533. To do so, he broke with the Catholic Church--which would not grant him the divorce--securing his new wife and years of religious turmoil for his people. However, after becoming queen, Anne's "success" (or lack thereof) bearing children eerily mirrored Catherine's. She produced one daughter, Elizabeth but all her later pregnancies over the course of the three year marriage, ended in stillbirths and miscarriages. In a fury, Henry determined to get rid of Anne and had her arrested on fabricated charges of adultery. Her supposed lovers included several prominent noblemen, a court musician, and even her brother, George. To the surprise of no one, she was found guilty and beheaded on May 19th, 1536. Today! So naturally, what better use for this electronic soundboard than to commemorate executions and the movies they inspire?

Based on the play by Maxwell Anderson and directed by Charles Jarrott, Anne of the Thousand Days is not the best movie to watch if you want the truth and nothing but the truth. It took its fair share of liberties including its portrayal of Anne herself. Anne is definitely the good guy here--albeit a flawed one--while in real life, she could be cruel and even ruthless. Here those elements are mostly pushed aside. But the history is still there (besides anything's better than The Other Boleyn Girl). Here Anne comes alive as a passionate, willful woman ahead of her time who sacrifices her life for her daughter's honor and birthright. All of which has basis in fact. Richard Burton makes a great Henry and I'll always have a special place in my heart for him in the role but Genevieve Bujold owns the movie as Anne. It would not be half as awesome without her. She's intelligent, fiery, wry, and constantly in control of herself even as the events around her spiral out of control. Her slight French accent even works to the movie's advantage. The real Anne Boleyn spent much of her life in France, learning courtly ways among members of French noblity. When she returned, it was said she seemed more French than English. Bujold is brilliant all around. I can't call it an unsung performance (she got an Oscar nomination for it) but it's definitely underrated. And it deserves to be appreciated.

Below is one of the best scenes of the movie. A confrontation between Henry and Anne just before her death in which Anne basically predicts the future. Did this happen in real life? Probably not. But it does drive home how incredible the future Elizabeth I's reign really was. Knowing that she managed to become one of England's greatest monarchs in spite of the tremendous odds against her makes the movie, and particularly this scene, powerfully moving and ultimately triumphant.

A Guide to the Greenwood: A Look at The Book of Ballads by Charles Vess et. all

"'Young man, I think you're dying.'" --Barbara Allen, The Book of Ballads

It's May! The Lusty Month of May! The first of May is a day to, appropriately, go "a-Maying," an activity that can involve anything from spending a lot of time outside, to having picnics, singing, gathering flowers, watching Camelot, performing a ritualisitc pagan sacrifice or participating in an orgy. As you do. Alas, since neither sacrifices nor orgies were going on in my local public park this year, I had to make do with simply sitting on a bench with a good book and taking in the delicious scenery.

I also watched Camelot. And you should too! It was lovely.

Ah, but be warned. May, though beautiful, can also be a mighty dangerous month--as if bomb scares, oil spills, flooding, and tornadoes weren't enough to clue you in to that fact. However, the dangers to be found here belong to a (mercifully) fantastic realm, well-famed in folklore and song, and brought to vivid life in The Book of Ballads, a wonderful graphic novel illustrated by Charles Vess which retells thirteen classic ballads.

Now as Glee taught us, a ballad is a "song that tells a story." However, unlike many of the songs used in that particular episode of Glee, the ballads that existed as a part of English, Scottish, and Irish folklore for centuries actually tell stories. Stories like: hero meets villain, struggle ensues, magical forces intervene, love is denied, all live happily ever after....or maybe not. They have a lot in common with fairy tales: their evolution in the oral tradition, their staying power (many of the ballads in this book are still recorded by popular musicians), and their elements of magic, the macabre, and the just plain bizarre. They even have fairies...but again, be wary. These are not your Pixie Hollow fairies. These are fairies as God and the collective unconscious intended: downright cruel sociopaths who steal human beings of all ages and treat them like personal playthings. You do NOT want to go to Fairyland. Unless of course, you're rescuing your kidnapped sister. In that case, kill everybody you speak to and do NOT eat the food. Bonus points if you can guess which fairy tale I'm referencing.

(Answer: Childe Rowland)

Anyway, such is the world of The Book of Ballads. A world where cleverness, sacrifice, will-power, repetition, and rhyme might be the only things that can save you from untold pain and destruction, and where stupidity is punished. Harshly. Vess's illustrations are beautiful, layered, and nuanced. He manages to convey worlds of emotion in his characters' eyes. Some of his illustrations also add elements that aren't in the text, adding a dimension all his own to the stories. Many of them are also genuinely terrifying. If the Devil or demons frighten you, you probably won't enjoy this. Again you have been warned.

Some of the biggest names in contemporary fantasy contributed their own versions of these ballads for Vess to illustrate. Some of these are straight forward retellings (Neil Gaiman's "The False Knight on the Road"), some are modern-day transfers (Charles de Lint's "Twa Corbies"), and some are refreshing revisions with details added to explain and/or enrich them. For example, Jane Yolen turns the king of "King Henry" into Henry VIII, spinning a semi-historical tale about the English people's hatred of Anne Boleyn and the many urban legends that arose about her as a result (and played no small part in leading to her death). Only Elaine Lee's "Tam-Lin" disappointed me. I found the changes unnecessary and ultimately confusing. If it ain't broke etc. In fairness to Lee, however, I thought "Tam-Lin" was a version of "The Elf Knight" and it isn't. But what can you do? A version of the actual ballad follows each retelling in verse form sans illustrations, allowing for convenient comparison.

My favorite story in the book was Midori Snyder's take on "Barbara Allen." Of all the ballads in the book, I was most familiar with this one going in. I studied it in high school and college and it plays a prominent role in the 1951 Alastair Sim version of A Christmas Carol, which I have seen many times, but despite all this, I never thought to be bewildered by the very strange story it tells. This story concerns a fair maid, the Barbara Allen of the title, who is called to the deathbed of the man, Sweet William, dying of unrequited love for her (as you do in ballads). However, the only comfort she can give him is the cold statement, "Young man, I think you're dying" even though she reveals after his death that she did actually love him. The tragic story ends in mystery. What was the relationship between these two? Why did he die of love for her? Why did she refuse to reciprocate if she felt the same? Snyder provides answers and the result is so perfect, it made me love and appreciate the song in a way I never did before.

I highly recommend The Book of Ballads. It fanned my ever-growing love for graphic novels and allowed me to indulge my constant passion for folklore. It also provides solutions to important dilemmas that can creep in and disrupt even the calmest life. What are you supposed to do, for example, when you meet the demon who killed your father on your way to school? Or when your fiancé of many years ago, supposedly long dead, knocks on your door and asks you to abandon your husband and child and run away with him? Or when the local witch is determined to make you her lover? Or when Satan shows up and...well, does Satan really need to do anything besides show up? Isn't just showing up enough? The answers to these and many more burning questions can all be found in The Book of Ballads. Get thee to your local library. May is a dangerous month and the Greenwood is a scary place. Go now and don't say I didn't warn you.

But first. Just for kicks and wiggles. My favorite movie May Day....

The Best Musical I’ve Never Seen: A Look at Parade

"...it don’t make sense the way the world can let you fall.” ---Parade

At first glance, the true story of a young girl’s brutal murder and the fate that befell the man falsely accused of the crime might not seem like the likeliest inspiration for a Broadway musical. And yet, this story laid the foundation for my new favorite musical and one of the best musicals I’ve ever encountered despite never having seen it, Parade. You could say that the stories behind the gruesome Sweeney Todd or the (fittingly) miserable Les Miserables also seem unlikely for musical and yet these have gone on to become icons of the Great White Way. I consider myself a Broadway buff but I had no idea this musical existed until a few weeks ago when I stumbled upon the Original Broadway Cast album on iTunes by accident and found myself immediately struck by the poster (see above). When Parade premiered on Broadway in 1998 with a book by Alfred Uhry, music and lyrics by Jason Robert Brown (both won the Tony for it), and directed by Harold Prince, it closed after only 39 previews and 84 performances. This isn’t surprising. It’s a dark, disturbing show and probably not what most people go to the theater to see. I’m now kicking myself for not seeing it when I had the chance even though I was only eleven at the time and probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it. Now I’ve listened to not one but TWO recordings of Parade so many times I have most of the songs memorized. I’m currently reading a book about the case and I’m cursing Netflix for not carrying the documentary PBS made about it last November. Chalk it up to my ever reliable obsessive personality. It may not seem like a likely musical, but Parade is brilliant and I wish more people knew about it.

Of course, as if being ashamed of my failure as a Broadway fan weren’t enough, I’m also ashamed by my failure as a true crime fan. I had never heard of this case before discovering the musical. The simplistic run-down will shortly follow.

A word of warning. I am about to unashamedly spoil how Parade ends. However, this is one instance where I feel going in knowing the ending makes for a more enriching experience. It is, after all, a piece of history.

On Saturday, April 26, 1913, the day of the Confederate Memorial Day parade in Atlanta, Georgia, thirteen-year-old Mary Phagan went to the pencil factory where she worked to collect her pay for the week. Early the next morning, her body was found in the factory basement. She had been strangled to death after possibly being raped. Despite a lack of concrete evidence and conflicting stories from his accuser, suspicion fell on 29-year-old Leo Frank, the factory superintendent, a man set apart in the community by his Northern upbringing (he had been born in Texas but raised in Brooklyn) and by his Judaism. Frank never stopped professing his innocence and his wife, Lucille stood by his side throughout the sensationalized trial. Nevertheless, he was convicted and sentenced to death. Two years later, the governor of Georgia commuted the sentence to life in prison after reviewing the case, effectively ending his political career in the process. An outraged mob took matters into their own hands, kidnapped Frank from the prison farm where he was being held and lynched him on August 17, 1915 in Mary Phagan’s hometown of Marietta not far from her grave. The case ultimately led to a revival of the KKK and the formation of the Anti-Defamation League, a major civil rights organization. It is now remembered as a gross miscarriage of justice and a tragic reflection of American anti-Semitism, particularly acute in the South at the time.

The show opens in Marietta, Georgia during the Civil War with an idealistic young Confederate soldier going off to fight for the freedom of the South. Over the course of the haunting opening number “The Old Red Hills of Home,” the years go by and come to a standstill on April 26, 1913, Confederate Memorial Day. The same soldier, now a bitter old man with only one leg, sings again of Southern pride and honor, mourning a faded past that’s still alive and vibrant in the minds and memories of the people. Leo Frank, however, can’t bear to join in the festivities. He’s bewildered and alienated by everything he sees. He misses Brooklyn and the security of a community he belonged to. Even his wife, Lucille, a lifelong Georgian, acts more Southern than Jewish. To Leo, the two seem so antithetical, he doesn’t understand how you can be both Southern and Jewish. The show wisely avoids making Frank a wholly likeable character. In fact, in the beginning, he’s almost unsympathetic. He comes off as incredibly close-minded and judgmental remarking that his neighbors “belong in zoos.” He can’t even warm himself to Lucille who desperately wants to make the marriage work but is too timid to get close to him. At the start of the show, their relationship is a cold one. After the murder and Leo’s arrest, this characterization becomes surprisingly effective and highlights one of show’s most powerful statements: just because a person is different and/or difficult to be around doesn’t make him a murderer. It does, however, make him an easy target.

As Leo falls prey to the political maneuverings of a community hungry for a scapegoat, other factors enter in to seal his fate. His status as an Other, a college-educated Jew from up North, destroys him in the public’s eye. An unscrupulous journalist seeing his chance at a career-making story starts a smear campaign against Leo casting him as an unhinged pedophile. An anti-Semitic zealot arrives in town calling for his head. The prosecuting attorney provides Mary’s friends with false testimony, manipulating their grief to his advantage. The show provides subtle, powerful commentary about prejudice, the media, child labor, class conflicts, racial tensions and the danger of groupthink. Meanwhile, the case forces Lucille to summon the inner strength to stand by her husband and fight for his innocence when no one else will. After being married for years, she and Leo slowly start falling in love. This love story acts as the emotional core of the show and makes the ending all the more heartbreaking. Mary Phagan’s murder is never portrayed as anything but the tragedy it was, but in Parade, Leo Frank becomes its other victim.

Now please take into account I have not actually seen this musical. Everything you’ve just read is the result of my reading reviews and plot summaries (thanks Wikipedia!) and listening to the score almost non-stop since I discovered it. Writer Alfred Uhry, who grew up Jewish in the South and also had to reconcile these two seemingly conflicting facets of his identity, managed to create characters who breathe as individuals, not as stereotypes. Incidentally, his grandmother—the same grandmother who inspired the title character of his Pulitzer prize winning play, Driving Miss Daisy—was a friend of Lucille Frank’s. Of course, I’m judging from the taunting tracks of dialogue I’ve heard on the London cast recording. When I finally see the musical, I’ll be able to contribute further on the book.

The score, which Jason Robert Brown started writing when he was only 24, is truly astonishing and deserved every award it got. It catered shamelessly to my ever-growing love of early 20th century music combining ragtime, blues, traditional hymns, and gospel. It beautifully evokes the time period. The lyrics are quietly poetic and move the story along while also reflecting the inner feelings of the characters. Since much of the first act takes place during the trial, some songs emerge from fantasy sequences conjured by the witnesses’ false testimony. For example, when several of Mary’s friends testify that Leo made sexual advances towards them in the factory, Leo performs a lively song and dance number showing his attempts to seduce them. In this song, he transforms from a nervous, priggish man to a charismatic lecher. The effect of the song is to show us how nonsensical the charge is. By now, we know Leo could never act this way. However, heard out of context, it could give someone a very different impression. Parade is one of those musicals where few of the songs can stand on their own but it doesn’t matter. In every song, there’s a real sense of story. They're so intriguing that listening one grabs your attention like a hook. You have to listen to the rest and find out what's going on. Incidentally, some of the most beautiful songs are also the darkest. One of the most heartbreaking songs in the show “My Child Will Forgive Me,” sung by Mary’s mother at the trial is achingly lovely like a mournful lullaby, but it ends with a moment of biting racism.

I’ve become so enamored of the music that I’ve acquired two versions of it: the original Broadway cast recording and the recording of the 2007 Donmar Warehouse London production. Though I prefer Brent Carver as Leo Frank on the OBC album, on the whole I think I like the Donmar Warehouse recording better. It includes a few new songs written especially for the production and best of all, it has dialogue. The album gives the impression of a radio play complete with whole tracks of dialogue and sound effects. You can listen to it and get the whole story. Also the Donmar Warehouse used dual and triple casting (one actor playing two or three roles) and I’m a sucker for that. And what do you know, the Donmar Warehouse recording is on YouTube in its entirety (see Track One below)! But get a hold of them both if you can—support your local libraries! I really can’t choose. They complement each other. Listening to the album of a musical is a lot like reading a book--you have to imagine everything. I’ve seen pictures of the cast, sets, and of course, the real people who inspired the characters, and winced at how much they differed from how I imagined them. Still, as soon as I get a whiff of Parade playing live somewhere nearby, I will be going to see it.

Parade is not a history lesson. As always, certain liberties were taken for the sake of story—for example, the real Leo and Lucille Frank were very happily married before the murder. There are those, including Mary Phagan's relatives, who believe Leo Frank was the killer but that's a question for Hermes.* But the story that inspired it is very real. Look at it as musical and use it as a jumping off point to discover the history. It’s a story everybody should know.

Image via: http://eepclub.wordpress.com/category/events/

*Question for Hermes: A question that probably won't have an answer in our lifetime. Refers to Ancient Greek mythology. The god Hermes escorted the dead to the Underworld. In other words, it's a question to ask Hermes on your way to the Underworld after you die because you won't find out before then. Suggested by Marie Phillips's Gods Behaving Badly.

"When I looked on thee, I heard a strange music." A Look at Salome by Oscar Wilde

"If thou hadst seen me thou wouldst have loved me. I, I saw thee, Jokanaan and I loved thee. Oh, how I loved thee." --Salome, Oscar Wilde

The macabre tale of Salome and John the Baptist has become something of an urban legend—if a story out of the New Testament can really be called an urban legend. As it says in Matthew’s Gospel, King Herod imprisoned John for badmouthing his new bride (and former sister-in-law) Queen Herodias. It didn’t help, of course, that John’s baptisms were drawing an uneasy amount of attention to his cousin from Galilee but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s been supposed that Herod feared (or believed in?) John too much to put him to death so John lived for awhile as Herod’s prophet-in-residence albeit under lock and key. This was cold comfort to Herodias however, who still had to endure John’s insults—John was as well-known for his tactlessness and disdain of women as he was for his prophecies. According to Matthew, all this came to a head (woops) when Herodias’ teenage daughter, Princess Salome, agreed to dance for Herod in exchange for a special gift. After completing the now-infamous Dance of the Seven Veils, Salome (working her mother’s will, many believe) asked for John’s head on a silver platter. And never the type to welch on a deal, Herod delivered.

I’ve read Biblical commentary that says the whole Salome episode never happened, that Herod’s decision to finally kill John the Baptist was purely political, but who really knows? In popular culture, the name Salome (pronounced Sa-lo-may), like the name Lolita, has become synonymous with sexually precocious and/or manipulative girls. However, in the Bible she comes across as little more than her mother’s airheaded minion, a cipher who either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care about the gravity of her deadly request. This was the image of her I had in my head when I sat down to read Oscar Wilde’s version—which I hungrily devoured in one sitting (it’s only 60 pages long). Written in French in 1891, translated into English by Lord Alfred Douglas in 1894, and banned from the British stage until 1931, this one-act play has gone on to inspire an opera, a Ken Russell movie, a pivotal plot device in the classic film Sunset Boulevard and countless other works. It’s no wonder. Wilde’s Salome is a fascinating, complex anti-hero, as cold-blooded as she is painfully sympathetic, and anything but a minion.

Set on an eerie moonlit night outside Herod’s palace, the play opens on a Greek chorus of guards, soldiers, and pages who gossip about both the prophet and the princess. The men present who aren’t besotted with Salome, regard her with suspicion and fear and John the Baptist (called Jokanaan here) makes everybody nervous. Princess Salome shortly joins them after fleeing the palace to get away from Herod. Salome recognizes her ethereal beauty as a potential weapon and isn’t above using it as such, but she also sees it as a curse, especially since her stepfather’s lascivious gaze follows her everywhere. It’s then that she first hears a thunderous voice coming from Herod’s prison. It belongs to the half-crazed holy man and it intoxicates Salome immediately. But once she has Jokanaan at her disposal, she finds he isn’t as receptive as her average suitor. He spurns her and preaches at her and yet, he arouses her more than any man she’s ever known. For the first time, she finds herself actually in love. The two engage in a lyrical battle of wills—she tries to crack his resistance while he tries to reform her—and together, they inch toward a doomed conclusion.

I loved Salome. It was one of the most bewildering, thought-provoking and emotionally satisfying reading experiences I’ve had in a long time. As soon as I finished it, I skimmed through the scant 60 pages, scribbling down favorite passages in my notebook, eager to keep them with me for further inspection. One week later, it still has a hold on me. It’s unlike anything else I’ve ever read by Oscar Wilde. Yes, the language is poetic and sensual (sometimes to a fault) and it has its sharp, witty moments, but more than anything else, the sense of forboding at the heart of the work makes it come alive. His Salome is at once the victim of a seriously dysfunctional family, a gleeful murderer and a young girl heartbroken over her first love. She experiences a passionate awakening, as unapologetically sexual as it is emotional, but it’s mingled with morbidity. From the start, Death is never far away. The harbingers abound. To my delight, Salome also has a fairy tale quality to it. She is a princess in love, after all and once again, True Love’s Kiss, ever the transformer, is the objective. In the world of this play as in the world of fairy tales, things happen in threes, there’s a great deal of repetition, and morality thrives albeit in a deeply twisted way. Also John the Baptist curiously has Snow White’s coloring—white skin, black hair, red lips—and much is made of this. Much, much, much. In fact if I can fault this play at all, it’s that the descriptions, similes, and metaphors go on a long time almost to the point of implausibility, but they do suit the piece by reflecting the decadence of the world at hand. However, pretty language aside, like many fairy tales, this is, at heart, a grisly story. Just think about why Salome might want John the Baptist’s head. Is it pure punishment or is something else on her mind? And holy man or no, it’s hard to feel sorry for him. He has the sexist, arrogant attitude of a Chosen One and while his message is sincere, his rejection is cruel. Whether or not you think Salome’s own cruelty outweighs or complements her pain and her passion is up to you.