Forgotten Empire

Well, yes, I said I would not write again until 2006. And I meant it.  I should have honoured my promise had I not surreptitiously – nay, serendipitously – found myself in London last month on a weekend’s pleasure jaunt.  And so here I am, once again crowding this site with more words. 

Now, if this were a blog merely about London, I should advise you to skip reading it. (What more can anyone say about London that has not yet been said?  Especially since I did not discover any new restaurants, crash any interesting parties, or stumble unto (or into) any new and exciting clubs.)  But this was no ordinary excursion into the old Imperial capital.  I went there for the express purpose of seeing the “Forgotten Empire” exhibition, on Achaemenid Persia, at the British Museum (with the rare participation of the Iranian National Museum).  So, if you are interested in things ancient, read on.

The exhibition has got rather mixed reviews in London papers and, interestingly enough, the reviews do not necessarily reflect the usual political fissures of English newspapers.  

On the left, the anti-war crowd crowed about the past glories of a country now under verbal attack by another Empire, warning the US of a similar fate to that of the Persians. (With what glee some commentators noted that Persepolis lay unknown and under dust for well over a millennium, until a lost European explorer suggested that the ruins might be the fabled city mentioned in Herodotus.  Take that Washington!)  Also on the left – more on the lunatic side – anachronisms heaped upon anachronisms as ideology got the better of common sense, with critics questioning the wisdom of “glorifying” Imperial conquest or “the oppressive system that forced slaves to build vast palaces and monuments to egos” at a time when other Empires are being built, etc.

On the right, most critics used the occasion to drag the whole history of post-Seljuk and post-Moorish Islamic decline into their “analysis”, predictably tut-tutting what had happened to glorious Persia as a result of – what else? – fundamentalist and calcified Islam.  And why wait for Islam?  After all, weren’t the Greco-Persian wars of the early Achaemenid era merely a precursor to the “clash of civilizations” of today?  The right drew its own conclusions, of course: some opting for war, others for encouraging Persians to find their past glory, again … 

Bah, humbug, was my reaction to the critics.

And, alas, to the exhibition.

As I walked about in the dark, dank, small, and stiflingly hot room in which the exhibition was mounted, I was not entirely thrilled but could not quite put my finger on what it was that I found problematic.  After all, many of the items were part of the British Museum’s permanent collection, and so I had seen them before.  But then, perhaps that was it: they had been in far better display cases in the permanent collection, as opposed to the cramped and dark corner to which they were relegated in the exhibition.

But it was something else that was bothering me.  Some of items on display had already been displayed in another touring exhibition only five years ago.  Of these – and this is unforgivable for a museum of this caliber – the two most prized items were silver and gold rhytons (drinking cups) about which the only information available was that they were “said to be from Hamedan”.  I was struck by this.  “Said to be”?  By whom?  What are the doubts?  What is the real provenance?  Have they not been authenticated?  If not, why are they on display? 

They are beautiful pieces alright.  But it does make a difference whether they were made by Lydian artists resident in Ekbatana and Persepolis around 540 B.C. or fifty years ago in some faux-antique-producing workshop in Tehran.  It gives me no confidence in an exhibition to simply gloss over the uncertainties.

This was not all – it got worse. 

There were plaster casts of the bas-reliefs from the Gates of Nations in Persepolis.  At first I allowed myself to be impressed – I have not been there and had only seen pictures of the reliefs.  The sensation did not last long.  I was reminded of Berlin’s Pergamon Museum, in which the Ishtar Gate of Babylon is mounted in all its full glory; in another room, you can see an entire temple.  In the British Museum itself, the Assyrian collection, or indeed the Elgin Marbles, is set in halls and spaces that give you at least an inkling of the majesty of their original setting, of the artistry of the architects.  And the plaster cast?  It was pathetically set in a dark room with low ceilings.  There was no sense that the cast was from a part of two grand staircases going up to a gate opening onto the Apadana, the Hall of Nations, at some 120 meters long and wide, or that the staircases lead from road to a stone platform (on which the palace was built) of an area about 125,000 sq. meters.  There was no sense of scale in this reproduction.  Not to mention that there were no interpretative notes telling the viewers what all the figures meant.

After all, all along the staircases (on the site) are the images of people bearing gifts.  This is the most ancient representation that we have of the rites of Noruz – the Iranian/Persian new year – celebrated each year on the Spring equinox.  Each figure represents one of the “nations” that formed the Empire; each national representative carried a gift from their territory for the Great Kind.  Some were accompanied by a Persian guard; others were alone.  Some of these national representatives (such as the Medes or the Parthians) appear armed on the reliefs; others are not.  The differences in representation were significant; they indicated whether a nation was a partner or a subject nation to the Persians (only free peoples were armed).  Another thing you could see on the reliefs is the nature of the national costumes.  The Persians are fully covered, whereas the Medes (and certain other nations) showed skin.  And so on.  I did not see any notes explaining the significance of the carvings on the staircases.  Without such interpretative notes, the reliefs are simply crude images on a wall; you get no sense of why this Forgotten Empire needs to be remembered.

And the biggest travesty of all: the treatment of the Cyrus Cylinder.  The notes said something along the lines that, “although the cylinder was found in the site of Babylon, successive Iranian governments have laid claim to it as a Persian heritage.”  The notes further point out, quite helpfully, that “notions of human rights that Iranians claim to find in the cylinder did not, of course, have much resonance at the time of the conquest of Babylon.”  And so on.  All of which is true; all of which is beside the point.

The cylinder was found in Babylon and it is dated to the conquest of Babylon by … Cyrus, the founder of the Persian Achaemenid Empire. It begins with the words, “I, Cyrus, King of Kings, king of the four corners [of the world] …”.  It talks about how Cyrus came to Babylon, freed the people from their yokes, respected the Babylonian gods, etc. etc.  Of course the cylinder was found in Babylon: it was a propaganda piece by the conquering army of the Persian Empire for the benefit of the Babylonians.  But in this, it is no more Babylonian in origin than General MacArthur’s statements of assurance in Tokyo were “Japanese” in origin merely because they were delivered there. 

And of course to talk of “human rights” as we understand them in connection with the 2500 year old cylinder would be anachronistic.  The point is that in its context what Cyrus said in Babylon was quite revolutionary.  Only forty years before the conquest of Babylon by Cyrus, Babylon had conquered Jerusalem, razed the city and enslaved its people.  This was in living memory. (“By the rivers of Babylon, we sat down and remembered Zion.”) Barely a century before, the Medes and the Babylonians had conquered Assyria, destroyed Nineveh, sowed salt in the land, massacred hundreds of thousands and sold the rest to slavery.  The descendants of those slaves would still have been in Babylon at the time of the conquest.  Thus, for Cyrus to show up and – even if in propaganda – proclaim his respect for the Gods of Babylon, and offer to “lift their yokes”, would have been, and indeed was, a unique event, a huge departure from the conduct of warfare and of Empire-building. 

It’s perfectly alright to try to demystify the cylinder, but not at the cost of distorting what is not just Persia’s heritage, but the heritage of mankind: this is where we were 2500 years ago.  How much have we progressed since?

And so, despite the superficially admirable effort of mounting this exhibition, the real Empire remains forgotten.  Perhaps I should get back on my dormant novel …

To get over the disappointment, I got a ride on the London Eye.  Unlike Paris, though, London is not a pretty city from above.  The twelve pounds I spent on the large Ferris wheel would have been better invested on an open-top double-decker.  Live and learn.  

Fantasia 2000

Last night I set the dubious record of being stood up no less than four times by two different dates (and I thought double booking the evening would spare me the indignity of being alone on a Saturday night).  After waiting by the telephone and frantically calling the dates’  respective cell-phones, work, home, friends, relatives and manicurists, I finally gave up and decided to go to a movie, Fantasia 2000, playing at an IMAX theatre near you.

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Near.  Well, in a manner of speaking.  The theatre is exactly 12 kilometres from my apartment (I can see the building from my balcony.), and exactly across downtown from me.  I thought, naturally, that any of five major highways that pass near my place would quickly take me to the IMAX complex, so I dilly-dallied, moped around, felt sorry for myself for having been stood up, called the dates’ internists and divorce lawyers, and having failed at nailing down my dates – and of course frustrated that I was not going to nail them either – I gave up and ten minutes before the start of the movie I set out in the direction of the great IMAX screen and Fantasia 2000.

 

Imagine my surprise, gentle reader, when I looked at the map and found out, to my shock, horror and dismay – OK I exaggerate – that I had to go through the city, on normal city streets, to get to the famous theatre.  I won’t bore you – not, at least, more than I have already – with the details of how I got lost smack in the middle of the red-light district (get your minds out of the gutter), made a dozen illegal left and U-turns, ran two red lights, and finally, 30 minutes late, parked the car on the sidewalk and ran in to find out how much of the movie I had missed.  Well, I had made an error and was just in time.  Ticket, seat, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and disappointment all happened in such a flash that I had hardly time to catch my breath.  Soon boredom set in and to divert myself I started counting how many times a minutes I was breathing.  To relieve the tedium, I was itching to call my dates’ parole officers, but decided instead to busy myself with my Chinese finger puzzle – always handy at times like this.

 

I can’t tell you exactly what was wrong with the movie.  By now, you will have read ad nauseam about the unfinished project that the first Fantasia was, how they wanted to have different versions of it and how the project never got off the ground until the phenomenal success of the restored version in the 80s, etc. etc.  I shan’t bore you with all that.  Suffice it to say that Fantasia 2000 has neither the charm nor the panache of the original.  In fact, it is painfully banal.  Perhaps this only reflects our own times ….

 

The original, if you recall, began with Bach’s Toccata and Fugue, with abstract light and colour representations to illustrate the music. 2000 purports to begin similarly, this time with Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.  However, the images soon lose their abstraction and turn into a good versus evil, colour versus darkness, butterfly versus vulture representation.  My first reaction would be to suggest that the music was at war with the images – the first movement of the Fifth Symphony does not evoke a good versus evil image in my mind.  But that would be quibbling.  At a deeper level I am bothered by the fact that what was purported to be abstract ended up being so concrete and value-laden.  That too would be quibbling.  The images were simply not compelling.

 

The images in the next segment, based on Respighi’s Pines of Rome, were much more so, but still unsatisfying.  Humpback whales breaching, and then slowly flying over the ocean and icebergs, a little baby whale getting trapped inside the iceberg, and then entire pods of whales taking to the sky, going through the clouds and breaching in space … Interesting, except that, I thought, the writers of this segment had seen Star Trek IV too many times.  Besides, whales are singularly uncute.  Don’t get me wrong, I like whales.  In fact, some of my best friends are whales.  It’s just that whales are majestic, weighty, grave, graceful – but not cute.  And in a cartoon like Fantasia, you need cute, like the baby winged horses, or the dancing mushrooms, or even the sugarplum fairies of the first Fantasia.  Not too cute, mind – but at least some cute.   I think a baby dolphin would have worked better.  Other types of whales would have distracted me not to think of Star Trek.

 

I could go on.  The yoyo-playing flamingo is nowhere near as interesting or inventive as the hippos in tutus of the original.  There is nothing as enchanting as the Waltz of the Flowers or the Arabic dance of the little goldfish in the first Fantasia.  There are no dinosaurs.  The best thing in the whole movie is the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, which they have kept from the original.  And as to the finale?  What can I say, the ghouls of the Night on the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Bald Mountain in the original gave me nightmares for years, while Ave Maria convinced me to go out and become a Catholic.  Well, almost.  That is, they had punch, impact, verve.  What about Fantasia 2000?  To be sure, Stravinsky’s Firebird is a wonderful piece of music, but the visual impact of the segment was not strong.  And the stag that carried Mother Spring around on his antlers?  Can anyone spell Bambi?  A bit of originality would have been welcome.

 

I guess, on the whole, if you have been stood up and are feeling extremely sorry for yourself, it is not a disagreeable movie to see.  But then, you might as well put on the CD of Beethoven’s Fifth in the comfort of your home and save yourself the trouble of getting lost and getting traffic tickets on your way to the IMAX experience.

An Ideal Husband

The first movie in which I saw Rupert Everett was “Dance with a Stranger”, the tragic story of Ruth Ellis, the last woman to be hanged in Britain.  Everett played, to absolute perfection, the part of the caddish boyfriend who gets himself shot.  After that, but for a few forgettable or miserable movies (Q: Who can forget “The Comfort of Strangers”? A: Both people who saw it.), and after an interview with Attitude magazine in which he outed himself, apparently before Queer Nation did, his career seemed to have tanked.  The boy who had shown so much promise in his first movie, “Another Country”, was headed to another country than Hollywoodland.

But, of course, that is not what happened. Everett was excellent as the foppish Prince of Wales in “The Madness of King George”.  Though playing the by-now stock character of Lovable Gay Friend in “My Best Friend’s Wedding”, he stole the show and re-established himself as a serious actor.  And then he was the scheming Oberon in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”: Everett’s bored shrug when the lovers offer undying affection to one another deserved an entire Oscar category. 

And now comes “An Ideal Husband”, in which he plays the dissolute Lord Goring, Wilde’s stock stand-in for himself.  Inevitably, he steals the movie.  He does so against a cast of very accomplished actors struggling with one of Wilde’s heaviest plays, and despite a direction that does not quite know where to take the material: is this a morality play or a comedy of manners?  Much good to be said, then, about Everett; about the movie, I am more ambivalent.

Here is the plot (as if that mattered in a Wilde play): Lord Chiltern (Northam), an up-and-coming parliamentarian widely respected for his upstanding morality and ethics, is being blackmailed for a youthful (unethical) indiscretion by a Mrs. Chevely (Julianne Moore).  His wife, the lovely Lady Gertrude (Blanchet), is an unforgiving model of Victorian Morality who holds his esteemed husband to such high regard (“An Ideal Husband”) that her world “comes to an end” when she finds out, from the mischievous Mrs. Chevely (the pun, I am certain, was intended), about the source of Robert’s fortune.  There are the usual comedic misunderstandings and clever lines (though far fewer than in other of Wilde’s plays), marriage proposals and, of course, grand balls and white ties ….  I am not going to give too much away if I said it all ends happily.

Happily, more important, it ends.  This is not one of Wilde’s strongest plays.  There are no more than three good lines in the entire play – which, for Wilde, is a major failure.  The play is not terribly funny; I counted three or four times that I laughed out-loud.  And it has a Serious Undertone – made all the more serious by the direction, which appears to be fashioning a Social Commentary out of this yarn rather than a comedy of manners that, in principle, it ought to be.  Indeed, one feels that Chiltern’s (Northam is superb) admonition at the end of the movie is aimed at us, the viewers at the end of this century, rather than at the audience of the last.

There is, of course, nothing wrong with trying to see the serious side of Wilde.  After all, he was – or at least he thought himself to be – a dedicated Socialist.  Many of his fables are, in their own quaint way, social commentaries about the conditions in which the poor lived (though he had little notion of it).  In his plays, the comedy is always tempered by a serious sub-text, no doubt borne out of his homosexuality and the need to hide it.  “You forget my dear, we live in the land of the hypocrite,” he wrote.  It is a funny line, but it was a serious indictment of his society.  It is all too easy to see “An Ideal Husband” in this light, to note that all the most upstanding characters turn out, in the end, to have feet of clay (and if you miss it, the lovely Gertrude spells it out for you) and that the only person left with any integrity is the dissolute and foppish Goring.  In this context, and given that the play itself is unusually leaden, it is not strange that the director opted for some ambiguity in the movie: it is a comedy of manners, but there is Social Commentary in it as well.  The director dispenses with the usual mannerisms of Wildean stage productions, and the knowing, almost winking asides, in favour of Whispers, Mood Scenes and Serious Acting.  Why, even Everett plays down Goring; so much so that he is utterly believable, both in his dissolution and his later devotion for Miss Molly, Chiltern’s sister and ward.

And that says it all.  Wilde’s characters are really caricatures and not drawn to be believable; they should not be acted as if they were.  What is the harm, you ask?  The problem with such an approach is clear in this movie: the play is manifestly at war with the direction.  We are told Chiltern is an upstanding moral citizen, that Lady Chiltern is a woman unforgiving of sin, that Chevely is evil (more or less), etc.  And yet, none of this is established; none of it is developed.  In a Wildean play, where character means little and the aphorism everything, this would not be a problem.  In a movie that appears to me at least to attempt to delve below the words, to search out and display the sub-text, character becomes everything and the movie/play’s lack of development kicks you in the shin every time there is a reference to Chiltern’s ethics or Chevely’s lack thereof.  It is comic, and not a Social Commentary, that Chevely the blackmailer ends up, in the end, as the only one to keep her word of honour and not to have lied.

Go see the movie, by all means, but only for the acting and the sets.  And look for the Wildean aphorisms that, though few and far in between, still tickle and titillate.