Film: "Opening Night" (1977)

I saw this film for the first time almost 20 years ago, when they showed it on TV after the director John Cassavetes' premature death. I remembered it as dominated by Gena Rowland's performance and had a vague memory of the ending, but I had forgotten so much about this wonderful film that watching it again last night was like rediscovering it (and Cassavetes) anew.



K. said: "An avant-garde film about about theatre and focused on a mature woman who's not defined by the men in her life: you must be in heaven." I was.

This is a film that, like most of Cassavetes's works, hits me both intellectually and emotionally, challenges my preconceived notions about what a film should be like, what POV I'm supposed to sympathise with as a viewer (although, frankly, I resist this part, because I'm completly immersed in Gena's Myrtle Gordon, I want it to be so, to the very end), what layers of meaning I should be looking for.

Myrtle is an actress and a diva who cannot find the key to the character she's playing in the New Heaven previews of "The Second Woman", a new play written by 68-year old Sarah Goode (the magnificent Joan Blondell).

Sarah tells her to focus on age, on the character Virginia's unhappiness with becoming old. But Myrtle resists this reading, while everyone aorund her, the playwright, the director Manny (played by Ben Gazzara) and her co-star and ex-lover, Maurice (John Cassavetes) remind her that she's not a woman to them (anymore): she's a professional.

She drinks and fights with everything she can all attempts to define Virginia, night after night, throwing the play into chaos, frustrating everyone in the cast and crew with her ad-libiting, her drunkness, her depression, her meltdown.

She has visions of a young fan who adored her and who died at the start of the film in front of her eyes: but the young ghost is in reality a younger version of herself that doesn't let her go, that she doesn't want to let go of, but that eventually she will need to exorcise.



While the men want her to accept the "reality" of her and her character's aging, she pushes for an interpretation of the play "where age doesn't matter", where she can still embrace the "raw emotions" of her youth. And even after she has exorcised the ghost, she visits Maurice the night before the New York premiere and encourages him to follow her anarchic revision of the play: "Let’s take this play. Let’s dump it upside down and see if we can’t find something human in it."

She wants hope, the hope that somehow with her interpretation she can connect with at least one woman in the audience, someone who will feel that her life and her emotions have been voiced.

And even after Maurice's rejection, even after her final drunken meltdown, she turns up for opening night, throws herself on the stage, grabs the play by the balls, and runs with it: and Maurice follows her lead, fights back, ad-libits back, finally delivering together with her a performance where hope and love and humour are found again in the lives of a middle-aged couple who used to love each other.

But the final scene, the one that truly seals Myrtle's triumph ("Is this a woman who loses or who wins?" she had challenged writer, producer and director during reharsals), is after the play, when Manny's wife Dorothy (Zohra Lampert, a phenomenal screen presence), the silent presence, the shadow, the real second woman who'd warily observed her rival (both metaphorical and real, as Manny does indeed sleep with her) throughout the reharsals, walks up to her, hugs and kisses her.

It's on the freeze frame of the hug and kiss between the aging diva and the woman in the audience with whom she has connected that film ends, the titles roll, while we, the viewers, finally hear Dorothy's voice vibrate with raw emotion off-screen: and it's that scene that I still remembered from 20 years ago, because it was the one that made sense of the entire film for me.

Not a story about an aging actress, a woman who regrets the love and children and family she never chose, an alcoholic's freefalling towards self-destruction; rather, a film about a woman who might not always win, but who most defintely refuses to lose.

A few, much more professional, academic and fascinating interpretations: Ray Carney's assessment and reviews, Roger Deforest's scene by scene analysis on JohnCassavetes.net, Matthew Clayfield

And I've just found out that in Brooklyn, NY, a play based on Cassavetes's film opened just last night (how weird is that?). It sounds very exciting and innovative: if I lived there, I wouldn't miss it.

Play: In the Solitude of Cotton Fields

Some plays are so beautiful to read that it's hard to imagine performances that would have the same impact as the bare words on the page.

I've found out that the first British performance (2001) of French playwright Bernard-Marie Koltes (1948-1989)'s In the Solitude of Cotton Fields (1986) was at Aldwych tube station, London. I can just imagine it played against the dirt and desolation of the city's underbelly, at night, "amid the squealing of beasts".

Dealer and Client meet and the Dealer offers something the Client tries to refuse. What the content of this transaction might be is and should remain unspoken. I've seen accounts of performances where the costumes suggest heavily it's about drugs or sex: these are all strong possibilities, but there's so much more in the text, about the nature of human relations, of the desperate negotiation within each encounter, that making it too explicit would reduce its existential impact.

In this time of minimalism and surfaces, I admire contemporary artists of any kind who're unafraid to address core questions about human nature and existence, stark and brutal as that might be, especially when they do it as poetically as in this play.

The two men speak in long monologues that become shorter and shorter as the play progresses, while the apparently reluctant (on the Client's part) negotiation takes shape and becomes inescapable. At the end we still don't know what the deal is about and whether anything will be sold or bought, whether any desire will be finally voiced and fulfilled: but the men have accepted to engage.

The language is magnificent, even in translation, as in this:

Dealer: I'm approaching you just the way the dusk approaches that first light, slowly, respectfully, almost affectionately, leaving beast and man far below the street, straining at the leash and baring their teeth so savagely.

and this:

Client: I've set foot in the farmyard and the squelch of mysteries is like shit in the gutter; and from these mysteries and this darkness of yours, comes the rule that states that whenever two men meet each other one must always choose to strike first.

and this:

Dealer: ...the true, terrible cruelty is the one by which some man or beast cuts the other off, like dot...dot... dot in the middle of a sentence, or having first met his eye, then turns away, as though that had been a mistake, like having just started a letter and then screwing it up after writing no more than the date.

or this, simple, Beckettian:

Client: Come on, come with me; let's look for some people, we're exhausted by solitude.

Film: The Band's Visit

I went to see The Band's Visit with interest but also some apprehension. The film, directed by Eran Kolirin, has won all kinds of special jury and audience prizes at a great number of festivals, which in my experience often equates with over-sentimental, well-directed, but also rather mainstream films.

In this case, however, I was pleasantly surprised.



While the story has a sentimental and feel-good factor to it, it is also beautifully sad and wonderfully directed by Kolirin, who makes airports and desert roads and abandoned city wasteland look as gorgeous as Renaissance paintings.

It's film about loss, the loss of love and personal opportunities, but also the loss of a greater, historical opportunity within Israel, that of the encounter with the Arabic culture (the conflict is not even mentioned, but its background presence as heavy and oppressive as in any war movie).

The story describes an Egyptian band getting lost in a desert settlement in Israel on their way to an Arab Culture Centre. They need to spend the night in this settlement, while waiting for the bus that will take them to what might be their last concert: formed by members of the Alexandria Police, the band has become obsolete and there are rumours that it might be axed on their return home.

Over the night they and their improvised Israeli hosts get to know each other, bond a little, share the same longing for youth and a better time.

In the morning they go their separate ways.

Not much happens, but the film is at the same funny (at times hilarious) and excruciatingly painful. Nostalgic to the core for something that perhaps never existed.

My favourite scene is when the Israeli protagonist, a beautiful woman with a complex past life we only get glimpses of through her smirk and the look of eyes that have experienced a lot, tells the band director how, as a child, she used to watch Arabic films on TV every Friday night; how she learnt to fall in love from Omar Sharif and love stories that would glue the entire country glued to their TV screens.

Earlier on she had asked him: why does the Alexandria Police need a traditional Arabic music band, anyway? His reply: "This is like asking why a man needs a soul."

And when the band finally gets to play, the soul is laid bare.

Art/Photography: Desiree Dolron

We stumbled upon the work of Desiree Dolron literally by chance, during a weekend visit to the Pataka Museum in Porirua, which usually displays Kiwi, Australian or Pacific art, or works linked to local communities.

It would have been a highly satisfying visit anyway, with Rick Maynard's stunning exhibition of photographies about contemporary Aboriginal life in Australia and Joanna Margaret Paul's lovely drawings and watercolors. But when we entered the small room where Desiree Dolron's series about Cuba, Te Di Todos Mis Suenos, was displayed, we became breathless with surprise.

Only real art gives you this kind of emotional reaction.

Mounted on large, glossy, canvas-sized frames, the photographs are like carefully constructed paintings that capture the real sense of the place while rendering it intensely poetical, as in the simple, shabby interiors of "Cerca Concordia":



and "Cerca Industria":



Or in the photo of eerily empty streets caught at unspecified times of the day, as in "Cerca Villegas":



Since the exhibition I have searched her work and I know the Guggenheim in New York and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London have some in their permanent collections. It is amazing that a Porirua, NZ art collector had some of these beautful and very pricey works, too, and lent them to Pataka.

Her art is very varied: each series shows a different approach and technique, as well as a specific sense of what the series is about. I very much want to see her Xteriors series, influenced by classical Dutch art of the 17th century:


Xteriors VII

But all of her photographs appeal to me. Hopefully, I will stumble upon more of her works casually scattered around the world.

Theatre: "Heat"

As always, the most interesting theatre comes from alternative, off-beat venues. The BATS production of Heat is a surprise hit of the STAB season at that small, experimental theatre.

Written by Kiwi playwright Lynda Chanwai-Earle and produced with enviromentally sustainable resources, it tells the story of a husband and wife scientists who spend a winter in a remote science station in Antarctica, in complete isolation, while studying the environment and a colony of emperor penguins. The experience is supposed to help them heal from the death of their child.



As the long, dark winter comes, claustrophobia and isolation cause their relationship to deteriorate, bringing to the surface their hidden guilt and resentment. Moreover, the wife develops an obsessive attachment for one of the penguins, who has been rejected by the community: she literally adopts him and takes him to live with them. He becomes a substitute for the loss child, but also, incredibly, almost a lover.

The relationship between the couple of the penguin is both the most comedic and the most tragic element of the play, bizarre, yet strangely touching at the same time. The bird/fish is played by an extraordinary actor, Brian Hotter, whose only costume/prop is the paint that covers his otherwise naked body.

While the couple constantly talk to keep themselves from drowning in their sorrow and loneliness or from being overwhlmed by the terrifying beauty of the Antarctic landscape, the penguin communicates through gestures and movements. At the end he becomes the sacrificial victim that allows the couple to reconnect (a little too abruptly in my opinion).

Not a masterpiece by any means and it could have seriously done with some editing, but I found the detailed set reproducing Antarctic base very intrguing, a perfect match for the technological, scientific language that is naturally incorporated in the dialogue. And Gareth Farr's soundtrack suggests the presence of the vast, open space of ice that lies beyond the fourth wall, where the audience sits.

Theatre: "The Little Dog Laughed"

I'm becoming a bit hard to please when it comes to theatre. I saw the Downstage production of The Little Dog Laughed.



This American play by Douglas Carter Beane had a very successful run on Broadway in 2006, receiving critical acclaim and a number of awards, including GLAADs and Tonys. Yet, I found it a bit predictable, with characters who resembled more stereotypes than people, especially the female ones.

I suppose it says something still relevant about appearances and the power/necessity of the closet in the American film industry, but it seemed a little dated from New Zealand.

It was a good production, with a talented cast, even if I found they were directed to act a little too broadly at times. I liked the set, with giant HOLLYWOOD letter all scattered around the stage that became various props during the action. Especially beautiful the use of the two Ls that united to become the bed where love and lust met, allowing the male lovers to almost connect, for a while.

One line I remember, because it reflects my thoughts on the so-called "bravery" of straight actors playing gay roles: "If a perceived straight actor portrays a gay role in a feature film, it's noble, it's a stretch. It's the pretty lady putting on a fake nose and winning an Oscar. If a gay actor does it, he's bragging."

Film: The Romance of Astrea and Celadon

Please, note, feeds are now set on "short", so you need to click on the link to read the full blog entry.

At 87, Eric Rohmer remains, without a doubt, my favourite film director of all times and the one who best expresses my inner life, thoughts on love, friendship, beauty, humour and, well, just about everything. The Green Ray, My Friend's Friend and The Nights of the Full Moon are the films I would take with me to Desert Island, with the written version of the Six Moral Tales. And my heart would still break, because of all the other Rohmer films I'd have to give up.

He's done it again with The Romance of Astrea and Celadon (2007), the last film I've seen at the 2008 Wellington Film Festival, sitting in row E, seat 29 at the Embassy Theatre, the one donated by/dedicated to Sir Ian McKellen. I couldn't ask for anything better.



This film moves the action away from contemporary France to the 17th century Arcadia created by Honore d'Urfe, naturalistically represented by an unspoilt countryside populated by shepards and shepardesses who phylosophise about the nature of love, the meaning of fidelity, the relationshp between love and Love, humans and gods (or God). They converse with nymphs, socialise with druids, carve poems on trees, live in forests and castles, equally at ease, equally comfortable, equally noble and gracious.

But beneath, they're just as desperate for love as the 20th-21st centuries young or less young characters of the Moral Tales, Comedies and Proverbs, Tales of the Four Seasons of Rohmer's past ouvre. And Rohmer potrays them with the same mixture of irony and affection.

The English title is misleading, because while the romance between the two main characters is certainly the focus, it's by no means the only one. The French original reads "Les amours d'Astree et Celadon". The loves, plural: very telling for this tale of reconciliation between Celadon and Astrea, the latter having rejected her lover Celadon after she believes, wrongly, he's been unfaithful to her. After trying to kill himself, he's rescued by nymphs and resists Galathea's attempt to seduce him, faithful to the love he's lost.



Yet, he decides to abide by Astrea's wish never to see him again, hiding in the forest and writing/singing about his one true love, until he's offered the opportunity to meet Astrea again, disguising himself as Alexia, a druidess. And Astrea falls in love with Alexia instantly, promising the beautiful girl eternal "friendship" and a shared life.

While Celadon is disguised as Alexia, his and Astrea's relationship becomes most sensual: the two "girls" touch and kiss, irresistbly attracted to one another, Astrea finally able to recover from the guilt of having caused what she believes to be Celadon's death.



Finally, of course, Alexia is revealed to be Celadon and love triumphs. Order is restored.

The reality, however is that Astrea has loved Alexia, while the "unfaithful" Celadon has been completely devoted to her, to her wish, satisfied in the awareness of his own perfect, pure love for her. But he's also enjoyed the freedom and sensuality of his female disguise: we're told that at least twice before he's diguised himself as a girl and it's under such a guise that he'd met Astrea for the first time, when they had fallen in love with each other.

True love might triumph in the end, but its nature, the questions it poses about the meaning of fidelity, the perfect meeting of souls, the role played by the bodies that contain those souls, the idea that love completes us in contrast with the concept of love as pleasure remain all unresolved.

In Arcadia as in the world we live in now.

Film: A Brighter Summer Day

Lat weekend I saw a few films at the New Zealand International Film Festival in Auckland. These included the sweet Lebanese film Caramel - with an unexpected lesbian sub-plot - directed by Nadine Labaki, and the Irish The Escapist, a solid, well-acted and funny, if a little predictable, escape-from-prison movie, directed by Ruper Wyatt. I didn't quite get if Joseph Fiennes's taken on Meloni's Keller in "Oz" was serious or ironic, but it was entertaining, as long as it lasted.

However, the masterpiece - and I'm not using the word lightly - was a A Brighter Summer Day (1991), by Taiwanese film-maker Edward Yang. It was almot 4-hour long and not one second too many.



Visually, it's one of the most beautiful films I've ever seen: minimal camera work, yet each scene is framed and planned to the last detail, with the actors's blocking and dialogue providing all the movement necessary for this family epic set in the early 1960s amongst the Taiwanese middle-classes who had left China after the Communist takeover.

I know very little about that period of history, and especially about the Nationalist perspective (I grew up in a context that made and still makes me synpathise with the Maoist side, however flawed). But this film gave me a full sense of the loss, the identity crisis experienced by the expatriates during the Taiwan exile. The militaristic, pro-American regime pervades their lives and is constantly present on the screen, bringing a stifling sense of oppression which the dream of wealth, consummerism and American popular culture (symbolysed by Elvis Presley's songs) can never quite fulfill.

It's a haunting drama about history, family, national identity, gender roles, modernity vs. tradition, the hope and desperation of being young and then adults almost against our will. All told through a complex tapestry of characters we grow to care about, regardless of their many flaws, their weaknesses and even their darkest sides.

Catch this film if you can. It's one of those rare works that grabs both your mind and your heart, and challenges you on both accounts.

Art: Fiona Hall

Yesterday, I visited the Fiona Hall exhibition and the Wellington City Gallery.



It was a bit casual, because I was going to the Film Festival, but then wasted time over a pear and almond tarte at a French restaurant and missed the film I wanted to see. No other films appealed to me, while art rarely bores me.

This was a new discovery as I didn't know the artist at all. She's Australian and uses all kinds of materials: alluminium tins, glass beads, wire, paper money, films (the actual film tapes), glass cases, plastic bottles, photographs, videos, wooden marionettes, plexiglass, etc. And she produces work that is both intelligent and beautiful.

As Sally Blundell phrases it in her Listener review: "The beauty is undeniable – these strange life forms glow and sparkle. But so, too, is their sting."

Medicine Bundle for the Non-Born Baby (1993-94)


Here's a link to the artist's profile and to some of her works from this exhibition.

It's difficult to pick what I liked best, because the artworks are very varied and all equally challenging. Perhaps what impressed and moved me most were the installations Tender, a glass case of empty bird nests - of birds running the risk of extinction - made with shredded American dollars, and Mourning Chorus, another glass case, this time in the shape of a casket and decorated with New Zealand vegetation frosting, containing 11 now-extinct species of NZ birds made of plastic containers and perfectly realistic resin beaks.

Rita Angus: Life and Vision

I finally went to the Rita Angus exhibtion at The Papa. I'm still processing it all and will need to go a few more times, probably take the curator's tour. But here are a few random observations:

Rutu (1951) is without a doubt, a masterpiece: the composition, the intensity of the colours, the "new-zealandness", the whole concept behind it, lift it above everything else she's done.



Overall, her watercolors impress me more than anything else. Both the landscapes...



... and, perhaps even more, her still natures and flowers:



I wish she had developed more the "woman alone mythology", which is so beautifully embodied in this portrait of Marjorie Marshall:



I still don't like her later works - the abstracts, the oils heavy on symbolism - some of which are almost embarassing (especially Journey, Wellington).

Glorious sunny day and half Wellington was there: social event of the year, apparently.

Theatre: Rome, The Musical

Last night I went to see a NZ-created musical, Rome: The Musical at the Circa Theatre.



The fabulous book and lyrics are by Paul Jenden, who also directs, and the music is by Gareth Farr:

The creators of Troy and Monarchy complete their trilogy of historical musicals with a wildly inaccurate romp through the Roman Empire. The Events of decades are condensed into the space of just one evening, when Julius Caesar hosts a dinner party that is interrupted by the arrival of the infamous and exotic Cleopatra.



I especially enjoyed the five-piece orchestra that uses all kinds of popular instruments, such as accordion, clarinet, trumpets, drums. The musicians were integral part of the action, providing the music for the dinner/orgy.

Loved the ironic lyrics, a satire of contemporary politics, with a heavy nod to the current election campaigns both here and in the U.S.

Excellent cast and as always we're left wondering what NZ talent could achieve with the real money and opportunities available to theatre (especially musical theatre) in other countries.

Back here

I've read a beautiful book. The biography of Rita Angus, one of the quintessential New Zeland artists, who contributed to the creation of a truly national sense of culture and identity.



What is so interesting about an artist who married young, divorced shortly afterwards, had no children, lived mostly on her own and in isolation, travelled to Europe only once, was a pacifist and a feminist, dedicated her life entirely to art but sold as little as she could, no drama, no scandals?

Well, if art means anything to you, everything.

The biography is brilliantly researched, simply, but elegantly written, and as well as tracing Rita's life, it offers also a lesson in 20th century Kiwi history and society, life in this land of milk and honey, at the far edge of the world. Plenty of prints of her artwork accompany the text.

And this weekend, the great exhibition of all her major works, many of which never displayed to the public before. Can't wait.

Finally, I want to rec Alice Tawhai's Luminous, a collection of most exquisite short stories nominated for the Montana book award.



Alice thinks of writing stories as being like painting with words. The colours and the shades have to be exactly right. Her writing practice could be seen as unorthodox as she doesn't start each story at the beginning and finish at the end, she just writes random paragraphs until she knows that they're all there, and then strings them together in an order that makes some sort of sense. Alice prefers anonymity and thinks that her inspirations, her characters she writes about, deserve any accolades she receives.

Theatre: Bone

Bone, written by John Donnelly and directed by Lara Macgregor.



I saw this play at Circa, one of my favourite theatres in Wellington, NZ. It's a very recent one-act British play. Three characters - a middle-aged woman, a 30-year old man and a 20-something man - deliver three parallel monologues which intersect only thematically, their storylines never connecting, if not by the power language and the fact that the three actors share and negotiate the same stage.

They represent countryside (the woman who's dealing with the aftermath of the destruction of her farm and the subsequent death of her husband in the wake of the foot and mouth disease), town (the loutish and racist young man who spends his last night before military deployment in Iraq drinking and trying desperately to get laid, but who's also heartbroken for having been unable to protect his sister from tragedy), and London (the man who works in the city, has lost his youthful hopes/dreams, is unable to accept the break-up from his ex-girlfriend and harbours fantasies of violence and self-destruction).

Although a little long and repetitive, it's a very compelling work, where the author creates three very distinctive voices, from the woman's poetic memories, to the adult man's self-deprecating irony, to the younger man's uneducted, yet vulnerable brutality.

In terms of acting, it's a tour the force, and the three performers - Donogh Rees, Phil Brown (both Shortland Street regulars) and Colin Garlick - are outstanding in their roles. In particular, I was mesmerized by Brown's performance, which ranged from ironic to tragic, always perfectly timed, controlled, moving.



The theatre being so small and the seats only one or two metres away from the stage, we were able to see the facial expressions, which Brown used brilliantly in all ther variety: rakish smiles, embarassement, tears, etc.

A simple stage design with three benches and the floor covered in sand, a subtle but haunting score and effective lightning all helped to tell three personal dramas inextricably linked to contemporary events.

And even in the darkest hour, there's some hope left, if only in the acceptance of human resiliance against all odds.

Poetry/Music: Book of Longing

Words and images by Leonard Cohen and music by Philip Glass



I've been listening to this work that Glass composed on a selection of Cohen's images and poems from his Book of Longing for over a week.

I wish I could say I love it, because the Cohen/Glass combination sounded irresistable to me and I greatly regretted being unable to attend the live performance of the song cycle when it came to the International Festival of the Arts in Wellington this year. Perhaps, on stage, in a theatre/festival setting it's more fulfilling.

Cohen's poetry is beautiful. I've read a few scathing reviews, calling is banal, but I find it moving, perfectly crafted, with a multitude of cultural references to make it interesting and challenging, but also the simplicity and precision I like in all types of writing. I thoroughly recommend this as a book.

The images are lovely and some of them even haunting. I wish I could see them in their real size.

I like the music, too, both for the songs and the instrumentation. Overall, I think the combination could have been perfect, if Glass had not chosen opera voices to sing it. The performers are good, but I don't think that the style of singing does the words (and the music) any favour. In fact, I found it a little jarring, at times quite boring, and this from someone who loves opera.

This is why, to me, the most effective moments are when we hear Cohen's own narrative voice recite his poetry over the score. I would be very interested to hear the whole work re-arranged and performed again in non-operatic style. It could be terrific.

Film: Lars and The Real Girl

Lars and the Real Girl, written by Nancy Oliver and directed by Craig Gillespie (2007)



It's a very sweet, heart-warming and the same time quite melancholy (in other words, right up my alley) film about loneliness, the desire for love and a community that goes to great lengths to show they care for one of its most "excentric" members, Lars, played by the wonderful Ryan Gosling.

Gosling should be showered with acting awards and so should be the rest of a perfect cast, from Emily Mortimer to Patricia Clarkson, to the less known actors who play quirky, but real characters, all trying to live and perhaps find some happiness through their varying degrees of loneliness.

This is independent cinema that's both accessible and, if not quite daring, at least fresh and unpredictable. In my opinion, both screenplay and direction would have benefited from a tighter editing, even if this had meant a film shorter than the standard 1hour and 45 minutes. But this doesn't detract from the sincerity and overall success of the project.

As well as the terrifc ensemble performances, I loved the use of the winter landscape, the grey-sepia photography, the brownish, old-fashioned interiors and clothes, all elements that reinforce the sense of desolation of the Northern American small town where the story is set, but also the beauty that lies beneath the surface, under the snow, inside people's hearts.

Luckily for Lars and those who love him, the thaw finally comes.

On the Willow Branches

I wanted to post this poem by Salvatore Quasimodo on the 25th of April, anniversary of the Italian resistance against Fascism and the Nazist occupation, but I couldn't find an English translation. I've finally found it, so here it is. The translation is by Allen Mandlebaum, but I have modified it slightly.

On the Willow Branches

And how could we sing
with the foreign foot upon our heart,
among the dead abandoned in the squares
on the grass hard with ice, to the children's
lamb lament, to the black howl
of the mother gone to meet her son
crucified on the telegraph pole?
On the the willow branches, by our vow,
our lyres, too, were hung,
lightly they swayed in the sad wind.

The Italian original:

Alle fronde dei salici

E come potevano noi cantare
con il piede straniero sopra il cuore,
fra i morti abbandonati nelle piazze
sull’erba dura di ghiaccio, al lamento
d’agnello dei fanciulli, all’urlo nero
della madre che andava incontro al figlio
crocifisso sul palo del telegrafo?
Alle fronde dei salici, per voto,
anche le nostre cetre erano appese,
oscillavano lievi al triste vento.

Meanwhile, in the rest of the world...

Short story, nimble goddess

"The novel is a capacious old whore: everyone has a go at her, but she rarely emits so much as a groan for their efforts," he said. "The short story, on the other hand, is a nimble goddess: she selects her suitors fastidiously and sings like a dove when they succeed. The British literary bordello is heaving with flabby novels; it's time to give back some love to the story."

Alex Linklater

I hope it's not just a sign of laziness, but the older I get, the more I prefer short stories to standard-length novels: the balanced structure, the crafted sentence, the perfectly chosen word.

The fragment even, where the unsaid is perhaps more important than what is on the page.

Not that I don't enjoy the experience of the long, epic read, the unfolding of the tapestry requiring patience, time. But very often I feel that the "standard" length of the fiction we read these days is more a convention than a necessity.

So much could be said more effectively in fewer words.

Or many more.