Pagans vs Christians

Here in Oregon, one of the season’s best spectator sports is watching the annual skirmish surrounding Christmas trees. Just a couple of weeks ago, an Ashland school banned the display of a decorated tree on the grounds it was associated with Christianity and thereby implicitly excluded other religions. A bemused bystander wrote a letter to The Oregonian recalling that when she was growing, Christmas trees were verboten at her church because they were regarded as Pagan artifacts.

What amuses me is that the school in question replaced the Tannenbaum with a pair of snowmen, reminding me that the severe Sister Aloysius from John Patrick Shanley’s play Doubt had something to say about that:

Sister Aloysius: "Frosty the Snowman" espouses a pagan belief in magic. The snowman comes to life when an enchanted hat is put on his head. If the music were more somber, people would realize the images are disturbing and the song heretical.

Sister James: I've never thought about "Frosty the Snowman" like that.

Sister Aloysius: It should be banned from the airwaves.

That’s about how it goes here. For many of us the whole holiday is thoroughly secular anyway; we never think about the Christmas tree as a pawn in the culture wars.

For the record, though, this time the Christians are semi-closer to the truth. European Pagans did not cut down trees and bring them into the house, but there were widespread traditions of adorning evergreens where they stood naturally. Boughs of evergreens were brought inside to celebrate the return of the light that the winter solstice represented. (Related side note: the “partridge in a pear tree” from “The 12 Days of Christmas” song was originally “a part of a juniper tree.”)

No, reportedly the tradition of hauling a tree indoors and putting lights on it is relatively recent -- 16th century Germany. These “Paradeisbaum” (paradise trees) first showed up in America along with German immigrants, circa 1700. Christmas trees didn’t catch on with Americans in general until around 1850, by which time Dickens’ famous novella had made Christmas downright fashionable – though interestingly, there are no such trees in Dickens’ tale and only one direct reference to Christianity.

For me, the tree is a reminder of life in death – or if that sounds a tad grim, as a reminder that you need winter to give way to spring. Out of death comes renewal. To be less baleful about it, it’s also a great excuse to haul out the ornaments we’ve collected over the decades, each of which is imbued with a story and with memories. Though I agitate every year for the ultramodern aluminum tree of my childhood, I have to admit that there’s something magical about this annual guest that we water and tend to and revere … before tossing it into on the curb a few weeks later.

I always feel ashamed about that part.

A guilty Christmas pleasure

Over at Parabasis, they’re fessing up to repeat viewing of various Yuletide chestnuts. As I stated there, my personal fave is the 1962 TV special, Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol. This hour-long musical version condenses Dickens’ classic tale admirably. Apart from some odd dramaturgical concessions, like changing the order of the ghosts, the teleplay sticks amazingly close to the original 1843 language, lifting entire passages from the novella.




Of course the show wasn’t the first to deploy this stock-in-trade, nor was it was last – as my own adaptation attests. The animation influenced not only my text, but also the composer’s – Rick Lewis and I share our admiration for this cartoon that has, in subtle ways (?), made it into our own version.

In order to insert Mr. Magoo into the TV version, the authors invented a framing device in which Magoo is on his way to the Broadway opening of a brand new staging of the holiday classic – starring himself. After some folderol concerning getting ready to go on stage, the fable begins and we disappear into its absorbing narrative. But we’re reminded of the frame at every commercial break, when curtains close upon the action and the cartoon audience applauds! At end, as the myopic Magoo takes his final bow, he trips on the stage riggings, causing the set flats to collapse – thus literally “bringing down the house.”

The frame doesn’t do much for the story except explain Mr. Magoo’s presence in it, but there’s something charming about the old-fashioned opening and closing of curtains, and the frequently iterated reminder that this story is being presented specifically to you – no sleight of hand, finally, no suspension of disbelief. It’s a redemptive story of goodness willing out just in time, and you don’t need movie magic to believe in it.

Years ago I bought the DVD, which is still wrapped in cellophane. Every year I brandish it, but my partner scowls and points out that there is no end of life-or-death football to witness on TV. This year, however, when we’re all but snowed in and could use a spiritual makeover, I feel certain I will prevail.

Where was I.

O yes. I was talking about myself.

Forgive me for my neglect, dear fellow traveler. I know you’ve been waiting for me to finish this post for a week. In the interim, much has happened, including the opening of our retooled, freshly re-tinseled A Christmas Carol.

Excuses aside (I mean, being busy never seems to slow down the good peeps of Culture Shock), last week, as you’ll recall, I was tracing the genealogy of my own aesthetic origins, and came to realize I owe it all (such as it is) to . . . Walt Disney. Or rather, Disneyland. That’s right. For all my high-mindedness, my earliest notions about what theater should be were shaped by a corporate entity that built its fortune through pillaging Western civilization’s folk myths and figures. Well, figurines: Snow White, Cinderella -- Paul Bunyan, for mercy’s sake. Abraham Lincoln, even.


Case in point: as a little boy, I remember being captivated by a new attraction in “the park” called The Enchanted Tiki Room. This was and is an event of vaguely Polynesian inspiration in which animatronic birds of festive plumage preen, sing and burble away. Even as a kid I knew the content was corny, but the experience was….complete.

First we were admitted to an enclosed holding area outside the “hut” where the experience was to take place. As I recall, every feature of this pen was part of the experience, even the trash bins. There was a water feature made from bamboo pipes that emptied noisily into a pool; if you peered into the water, you saw that the pool’s bottom was littered with the partly submerged skeletons of lizards or anyway something of reptilian persuasion.

In due course we got to shuffle into the hut itself, and we (la familia) seated ourselves on one of four sides of a small square. Looking around, I saw gruff-looking tikis surrounded the playing area like they were guarding it. Above, thatched roof; behind, walls and windows shuttered with reeds. The hut seated maybe 80 spectators.

Then the show started with the famous nonsense of robot parrots waking up and cajoling the audiences with canned dialogue and mortifyingly twee treacle (“let’s all sing like the birdies sing / tweet tweet tweet tweettweet”). But the good part was the conclusion. On some cue I no longer recall, the parrots’ were yanked up and out of sight, and the tikis – which we all assumed to be mere set dressing – woke up. Bug-eyes gaping madly, wooden mouths moving up and down, these fearsome gods intoned some guttural, driving incantation (probably my first inkling there was more to music than Herman’s Hermits, Petula Clark and Papa Haydn). The tikis worked themselves up to a frantic crescendo, and at the very climax the lights went out (someone always shrieked at this), and the hut was lit only by flashes of faux lightning, which enabled you to see rain running down the windows.

As the thunder died out and we filed out of the place, I had no trouble belaying my critique of the material in favor of the experience I just had. And in years to come, through my early years at Storefront and on to my subsequent career as a groovy performance artist, it was some time before I realized my debt to the Tiki Room. The salient qualities were:


1. The performance surrounded its audience.
2. There was surprise (presumed inanimate objects lurching into performance).
3. Several senses were assailed at once.
4. The performance began upon admittance to the area, started long before the “actors” and persisting after they had exited.

Years later now, I’m more often in the position of enabling others to create their performative work than I am in doing it myself. But these things still inform my understanding of what makes an affective and memorable experience for audiences – which is, in sum, to transform them from passive spectators to participants.

Portland is rich in artists who espouse these same views, whether avowedly or not. But that’s a different post altogether……

Seasoned Greetings

Great night out at the theater with my sainted mother, who’s here in Portland, with her equally sainted sister, to see “my” “adaptation” of A Christmas Carol at PCS. Actually that blessed event slouches toward the Armory this Friday; tonight we went to see the incomparable Susannah Mars in her holiday show at A.R.T., Mars on Life. As always Susannah charmed us all the way into the holidays. It’s great to be able to say of a performing artist that the warmth and genuineness so evident onstage is simply who she really is. Both mother and son were totally beguiled by Ms. Mars.

As for Christmas Carol, here’s another fun video for it, created by PCS’s fab resident Multimedia Designer Patrick Weishampel, profiling the show’s cast and creative team. Near as I can make out, I am the only member of that team Patrick did not interview. But how can I carp about it when Ted deChatelet singles me out for praise along the way? Love that Ted. Patrick, too. Love Susannah, plus sainted mother and equally sainted aunt/godmother.

Dang. Did I think I just lost my street cred re: Eschewing Syrupy Sentimentality?

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Okay, I realize that when noted author, actor and snarkateur Patrick Wohlmut exhorted me (via my own tag board, mind you) to come up with a fresh post, what follows is not what he had in mind. But it's what I've got: the first review in of the new PCS adaptation of A Christmas Carol, adapted by moi-meme.


The always perceptive Rich Wattenberg is generally positive in his review, but his demurrers tear at my heart because.....I know he's right. Tech difficulties plagued the preview process up to and into opening night. EmbarRRRrassing! But they seem to be behind us now, knock on virtual wood. Anyhow, the behemoth is open at last. And anyhow, audiences seems to be loving it. And I'm tickled to be praised in the critical press for "eschewing syrupy sentimentality."

In fact, that's going on my business card. "Mr Mead, eschewing syrupy sentimentality for over 30 years." Or: "Dr Phun, eschewing syrupy sentimentality for all occasions -- weddings, bar mitzvahs...."

And anyhow:

Theater review: A jolly "Christmas Carol"
by Richard Wattenberg/ Special to The Oregonian
Sunday December 02, 2007, 4:40 PM

We know that "Nutcrackers" wait in the wings. And "Messiah" rehearsals are sending Handel soaring to the rafters. And various other seasonal stocking stuffers are coming, too. But this weekend, the first major holiday shoe dropped, in the form of a new version of "A Christmas Carol" at Portland Center Stage.

After a six-year hiatus, Center Stage has returned to the classic Charles Dickens story. Adapted by Mead Hunter and directed by Cliff Fannin Baker this year's dramatization of the novel is very different from the spare David McCann version directed by Center Stage artistic director Chris Coleman in 2000 and 2001. Spiced with loads of holiday music and magical theater effects, this production has its rough edges, but it's plenty of fun.

Although more traditional than the McCann version, Hunter's script eschews syrupy sentimentality. Offering a brisk, clear telling of the story, Hunter's adaptation will please viewers of all ages. Certainly, moments of the current production touch the heart, but a playfully good-spirited, often broad humor is its distinguishing feature.

In the role of Ebenezer Scrooge, Wesley Mann skillfully sets the tone. A little, jowly fellow, Mann's Scrooge quickly -- perhaps too quickly -- changes from the unpleasant, stodgy miser of the early scenes into a mumbling, bumbling, likable old man once the Christmas ghosts begin to appear.

The Ghost of Christmas Future's ominous warnings to Scrooge may not create much dramatic tension, but the dear old chap's dancing, prancing joy at the discovery after his night of strange visitations that he still has a chance to change his ways is delightfully entertaining.

A talented cast of actors adeptly creates the host of colorful characters who people this Scrooge's world. Tim True is fine as the gentle, well-meaning Bob Cratchit, and Ted deChatelet ably portrays Scrooge's patient and loyal nephew Fred. Ted Roisum's ghostly Marley is amusingly eerie both in appearance and sound, and Todd Van Voris is fun in a variety of roles.

Several actors, including some of the company's youthful performers (who all wonderfully hold their own in this production), work well together to give us a spooky, but not too spooky, Ghost of Christmas Past. Perhaps most fun of all, however, is Julianna Jaffe's jovially over-the-top, operatic Ghost of Christmas Present.

Rick Lewis' musical compositions and arrangements capture the holiday spirit and provide splendid aural support for the play's unearthly happenings. With respect to those happenings, this production depends heavily on well-engineered scenery and stage effects.

Sure, Scrooge's shop may seem a bit cramped, the high-flying Christmas Present may seem to have a bumpier ride than necessary, and some of the actors may occasionally be seen scurrying about in the wings, but such flaws hardly disturb the evening's merriment.

That most wonderful time of the year

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All right, so for me that "most wonderful time" would be Hallowe’en, but I know most people prefer the “holiday season” – Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day. And this year we’re observing TMWTOTY with a new version of A Christmas Carol, adapted by none other than moi-meme. No one is more astonished than I am to relate, now that we’re about to show our first preview, that the whole adaptation experience has been so much…fun.

Why so surprised, well…frankly, I went into this process worried that it was going to be a perfunctory chore. After all, countless people have adapted Dickens’ novella before me; Dickens himself was the first, in fact. What could I possibly do with it that is new and fresh – especially given that we promised the theatergoing public a spectacular yet “traditional” version.

Well, we found ways to do both – “we” meaning Cliff Fannin Baker, who directs this production, and Rick Lewis, who composed the music and wrote the lyrics for the songs. To tell you what, precisely, is so different would be to give things away…so content yourself in the interim with these just-for-fun vids, courtesy of PCS.

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