A Night at the Opera

Times are hard at the moment in Israel, with a sense of impending doom hanging over us as the politicians continue to pursue their objectives at all costs. So for a bit of light relief one goes to a production of Mozart’s marvellous opera Don Giovanni in the Tel Aviv home of the Israel Opera. You settle into your seat, nod politely to the person in the seat next to yours and glance at the programme, Before the opera begins the usual announcements about forthcoming performances and turning one’s cell phone off appear on the screen that fills the entire proscenium. The next opera will be something new, an opera based on the life of Theodore Herzl, the visionary who gave birth to the idea of a Jewish State. A colour portrait of a pensive Herzl appears on the screen, followed by this text (in Hebrew), taken from Israel’s Declaration of Independence, and based to a great extent on the text of his novel Altneuland describing the new state as he envisioned it.

From the Declaration of Independence in accordance with Herzl’s vision:

The State of Israel will be open to Jewish immigration and the ingathering of the exiles; it will work to develop the country for the benefit of all its residents; it will be founded on the basis of the aspiration for justice and peace as described by the Prophets; it will adhere to complete equality of social and political rights for all its citizens without any differences on the basis of religion, race or gender. It will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture, and will maintain the places that are sacred to all religions. It will adhere to the principles of the declaration of the United Nations.

The audience breaks into spontaneous applause and cheering. It is a strange, almost other-worldly experience to find oneself together with another thousand or so respectable (and mainly elderly) citizens roaring approbation of an abstract text in Hebrew on a huge screen. So, it seems, even at the opera we can’t get away from the ever-present situation which clouds the reality in which we find ourselves living.

The text disappears and the orchestra plays the overture, with Mozart’s brilliant musical insights into the human psyche, crashing chords denoting the fate that awaits the eponymous villain, the scales in a minor key that manage to create a menacing atmosphere and all the usual tuneful twists and turns with which Mozart delights us. This atmosphere continues throughout the opera, with dramatic development, delightful arias sung by beautiful ladies in elegant dresses, and no lack of erotic innuendo – both in the music and in the acting in this particular production.

We are drawn to and yet disgusted by the antics of the randy, amoral ‘hero’ of the piece, who unashamedly pursues every woman who happens to cross his path, regardless of their situation, trampling rough-shod over their emotions. And yet, despite ourselves, we find Giovanni’s insouciant lack of scruples amusing, and are delighted by the snappy interaction between him and his reluctant servant Leporello. We watch in hypnotized fascination as the nefarious lothario finally gets his just desserts and is punished for having killed the outraged father of one of his conquests.

No one wishes a similar fate for any member of the current government, yet there are some disturbing resemblances between the behaviour of some of them and that of Don Giovanni.

Cooking with Jamie, Ainsley, et al.

To my surprise (and shame), in my old age I have become an aficionado of cookery programmes on television. Of course, I don’t go for just any old cookery programme, I have my standards, after all, and my particular penchant is for those hosted by cooks, or chefs, who originate from England (or Ireland, Scotland or Wales), i.e., who speak the English language in a way that brings back memories of my childhood and youth.

I refuse to have anything to do with cookery programmes presented by hirsute male chefs whose arms are tattoed so much that one cannot see any flesh underneath, or by women whose long, curly locks of indeterminate colour dominate the screen and doubtless contaminate the food they’re preparing. Nor will I waste my time watching cookery competitions, as the whole concept of cooking in order to meet a deadline or beat one’s competitors is alien to me.

Another programme that gets my goat (i.e., annoys me) involves a popular singer/actor accompanied by a well-known Israeli chef who is considered an expert on far-eastern cuisine, and certainly regards himself as such. The sense of smug superiority the latter exudes is a complete turn-off for me. And besides, I have no desire to spend my time watching other people eat, and especially when they talk with their mouth full. Yuk!

No, the programmes I like to watch involve an aesthetic production in which an individual of edifying appearance, e.g., Jamie Oliver or Mark Moriarty (Off-Duty Chef), demonstrates how to prepare and cook items of food that we viewers can reproduce and put on our own family table. I feel an emotion that is almost akin to affection for those young men who are prepared to put their heart and soul into showing us how to prepare a whole meal, whether it is in one pot (Jamie again) or reminds us of our youth (Ainsley). And of course, I have tremendous respect for Mary Berry, who speaks the Queen’s (now King’s) English with an impeccable accent, looks delightful despite her advanced years, and makes preparing tasty dishes look easy and elegant. How I enjoy watching Jamie charm his way across Italy, getting recipes from nonnas (grandmothers), speaking Italian and then relaying the information to us.

Since I tend to watch those programmes when I’m getting ready for bed, or taking my post-prandial afternoon nap, I’ve begun keeping a notepad and pen next to my bed in readiness to take down any recipe that looks simple enough for me to attempt for my next cookery excursion. Of course, it also depends on having the right ingredients, and in my kitchen those are usually missing. By now, however, I have gained a few staples that would have made my late mother raise her eyebrows (teriyaki sauce, red wine vinegar, to name but a few).

The personality of the presented certainly plays a part in getting me to watch. I enjoy Jamie’s youthful enthusiasm and knowledgeableness about health aspects of the various foods, Ainsley’s almost Cockney-like Caribbean cheekiness, Mary Berry’s graceful dignity, and Mark Moriarty’s red-haired Irish charm.

Furthermore, recently I’ve been able to enjoy the new HBO series about that pioneer of American TV cookery programmes, Julia Childe, with a wonderful portrayal by Sarah Lancashire of her unique character and charm. The programme also gives us insights into the process of producing that kind of programme as well as into the private life of Julia Childe herself. A true delight for the eye and ear, as well as (almost) for the taste-buds.

‘Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey’

When I was at high school and was required to read books by Jane Austen I did my best to find them interesting but failed dismally. The characters and situations she describes in her novels are very far removed from any situation I had ever experienced, and the idea that a young woman’s sole purpose in life was to find a wealthy husband seemed too feeble to be considered a suitable reason for existing. I was too involved in the ups and downs of my own twentieth century life to appreciate the limitations and concerns that overshadowed the way women lived in the eighteenth century, and I failed to perceive Austen’s perceptive analysis of human behaviour, and the manners and mores of her time.

So it was with suspicious curiosity that I embarked on reading one of Jane Austen’s later novels, one I had not been required to read while at school, ‘Northanger Abbey.’ The first half of the book describes in great detail the experiences of a young woman being entertained in the fashionable town of Bath, where life consisted of balls and social occasions of various kinds. The heroine of the book, Catherine Morland, is described as an innocent young woman who is eager to enjoy all the delights of fashionable society, while at the same time being unduly influenced by the lurid novels she reads. In fact, what Austen is doing here is poking fun at other – mainly female – writers, like herself, and especially at the tendency of young readers to let their imagination run away with them.

Thus, while staying with newly-acquired friends at their home, the Northanger Abbey of the title, Catherine imagines that all kinds of strange and wonderful events have taken place there, and even comes to the conclusion that the father of her friends has locked his wife up, or even murdered her – shades of Charlotte Bronte’s novel, ‘Jane Eyre’ (which was published several years later). On one level, the book is a homily on the way young women’s minds could be manipulated by novel-writers, and on another it is a parody of that self-same kind of book.

Naturally, as in every self-respecting novel, there must be the aspiration for love as well as disappointment in that sphere, in addition to entertaining encounters between clever young men and innocent young women, where in some cases the former poke fun at the latter, or in others seek clumsily and unsuccessfully to curry favour with them. Financial prosperity also plays a part in the way the characters relate to one another, and it is only at the very conclusion of the book, after innumerable ins and outs as well as ups and downs, and even a heart-stopping contretemps just before the end, that all ends well.

Setting aside the narrative style that Jane Austen adopts, which is inevitably coloured by the narrative conventions and speech patterns of the time as well as her own inimitable turn of phrase which even involves direct interaction with the reader, one cannot avoid admiring her ability to create credible characters, each with their own way of speaking, thinking and acting. It is not for nothing that her books, though limited to a time and society that is long gone, have endured for so many years, and today are considered classics of the genre.

Nil Desperandum

Since my childhood in London I have enjoyed being able to read a newspaper that is delivered to my house every morning. In England this was pushed through our letterbox and appeared on our carpeted hallway floor. In Israel it is thrown onto our driveway from the car driven down the road by the delivery person. If I happen to be outside at the precise moment that she passes she puts it into my outstretched hand and we wish one another good morning, but on most days I’m still inside when her car goes by, and I go out to retrieve the paper from the driveway entrance a little while later.

Till recently, being able to sit down in the quiet of the early morning with a cup of coffee, a biscuit and the daily newspaper has always been a moment of leisurely pleasure for me. But at the moment that pleasure is diminished somewhat by the content which I find myself reading. We have been through difficult times in the past in Israel, with terror attacks, political unrest and even wars, and we have come through them all more or less in one piece, but these days the news items, the opinion pieces and even the letters to the editor fill me with dismay. There have been disagreements between various segments of the population in the past, but what has been happening in Israel and in the West Bank recently has gone beyond the concept of simple disagreement. A rift has opened up within Israel, and the tenor of the disagreement has taken a fresh turn, seeming to become an irreconcilable breakdown.

Essentially, what is now accepted as Israel within the pre-1967 borders is a democracy whose legislative basis is currently being undermined by political elements who reject the basic tenets of a democratic system, with the supremacy of the rule of law and the acceptance of the principle of government under a system of checks and balances.

And it is just those political elements who for the past fifty years have been involved in establishing settlements throughout the West Bank, imposing their views on the wider Israeli society, and involving Israel’s military might to maintain their supremacy there. Any Israeli under fifty has never known any other reality in Israel, but I and others like me remember that Israel was once a tight-knit society that was united in its sense of purpose. I remember the events leading up to the Six Day War and the existential threat represented by the Arab countries on our borders, with most of whom we have since made peace. I also remember the way in which the first settlers sought to impose their will on a reluctant government, eventually prevailing (Sebastia and others that followed), setting in motion a series of events that have brought us to the current situation in which resentful Palestinians kill Jews whenever and wherever they can and Jews retaliate, either by means of the official channels of the IDF or through marauding gangs of settlers who destroy Palestinians’ property and persons indiscriminately.

We have reached a sorry state of affairs and there seems to be no solution in sight to heal the rift within Israeli society. The perverted self-righteous indignation disseminated by Netanyahu serves only to exacerbate the situation. I wish that I could soothe my nerves by no longer reading the newspaper or listening to the news, but I refuse to take the ostrich approach.

My one consolation is the knowledge that my children and grandchildren are well, and that Israel’s intellectual and cultural institutions are still functioning. But there’s no guarantee that this situation will persist indefinitely given the current climate of repression and antagonism.