Santa Barbara
It was a long way to go for a first night: the 10-hour flight to Los Angeles, then a two-hour drive along the Pacific Coast Highway to Santa Barbara, a place fondly, but somewhat inaccurately, known as the Californian Riviera — fine beaches but, alas, no warm Mediterranean sea. It was worth the expense and effort because this was no ordinary first night; Nanette and I were there for the world premiere of Stephen Schwartz’s first opera, based on my 1963 film Séance on a Wet Afternoon. The occasion proved to be the Full Monty in reverse — a black tie, diamonds and tiaras affair in the Granada Theatre refurbished at a cost of $43 million dollars. No lack of well-heeled arts sponsors in that neck of the woods, with the principal commission sponsors for the opera a couple appropriately named Rich and Lucy Janssen. Having had to hold out a begging bowl for 27 years as President of our National Youth Theatre, I felt envious of the way wealthy Americans sustain the arts.
Four years previously, out of the blue, Stephen Schwartz had intrigued me by asking if he could acquire the opera rights. Opera? I thought, that’s a new one. I am no stranger to people wanting to remake my films: some Hollywood producers desperately repackage yesterday’s winners with strange results, as witnessed when my original Stepford Wives was copied. But the prospect of an opera, no less, in such expert hands was exciting and I did not hesitate to give my blessing. Stephen Schwartz has a brilliant track record (Godspell, Pippin and Wicked) and paid me a further compliment by using my original screenplay as the basis for his libretto. Dissolve, as we say, and four years later there we were, sitting in the opulent auditorium among the great and good of Santa Barbara, awaiting the result. What unfolded before our eyes was a tragic opera of classical proportions, providing three major singing roles, performed that opening night with stunning effect by a cast headed by the New York diva, soprano Lauren Flanigan in the role of the tormented medium, originally played by the late Kim Stanley. It was certainly a strange experience for me, not in the sense of déjà vu because the material was being recycled in a different genre, but because it transported me back to the halcyon days of British cinema, when it was possible to make films for £130,000 or less. Today, it would be difficult to coerce certain stars to get out of bed for such a sum.
Having been treated to a gala dinner prior to the performance, the following morning the cast was invited to a celebration brunch. We were driven to an opulent private house in a gated community and warmly greeted by the host and his wife. Perhaps I should have noted the looks of surprise in their expressions, but Americans are nothing if not hospitable and we were welcomed, given champagne and various delicacies. After half an hour we found it odd that nobody came near us, nor did we recognise anybody but put this down to the fact that the singers had worn period clothes. I finally approached two young girls I took to be members of the chorus. ‘Weren’t you in the cast?’ I asked. ‘What cast?’ was the reply. ‘The opera,’ I said. ‘What opera?’ ‘Last night, Séance on a Wet Afternoon.’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the girl said snappily. ‘This is a wedding reception.’
Our driver had deposited us at the wrong address so we had cravenly to apologise to our host and his wife for two British strangers gate-crashing their private wedding party. They acted graciously in the circumstances and had us driven to the right venue. So ended a new chapter in a venture that began in 1961 when I fashioned a screenplay from an obscure Australian paperback read on holiday in the south of France.
I often wonder why airlines bother to take out ads extolling their so-called virtues. Why waste the money when, by and large, air travel since 9/11 is a constant nightmare? You either settle for travelling cheaply like cattle on the way to the abattoir, or else pay through the nose for seating configurations that have been specially designed for contortionists. Once we slept fitfully in armchairs, now we are stuffed into plastic Iron Maidens with a daunting array of electronic controls. Our return club-class fares to LA cost a fortune and I would love to know what proportion of that went on the food. Almost all major airlines now serve meals that are exotic rather than edible, said to have been thought up and prepared by celebrity chefs which may or may not be true, though by the time the on-board microwave ovens have done their worst, gourmet is not a word that comes immediately to mind. Still living in the past, I was stupid enough to ask for bacon and eggs when breakfast was served, and the nice stewardess gave me a pitying look.
Having suffered very aggressive security searches in LAX (they stopped just short of waterboarding my wife when her titanium replacement hip sent bells ringing), it was then home to long subterranean journeys at Terminal 5, postmortems on the party conferences and mind-obliterating jet-lag, which probably serves me right because crossing the Atlantic twice in a week is not the brightest thing you can do when you’re 83. I used to be able to shrug off half a dozen transatlantic trips a year, but no longer. Ahead lay ten days of debilitating insomnia that even Horlicks could not have cured, but it was a memorable experience.
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