Notes: This is the first time I write something like this AND decide to share it with the world, just because I can't sleep and I am already in Hell. English is not my first language so you will probably find typos and grammatical mistakes in the text. I apologize for all these. Of course some of the characters are real and living people but the story is fictional and in a great deal they have little to do with their real counterparts. With that, enjoy if you can, read and post your comments, critics and suggestions if you want to.
Standin' Ovation
...It is fortunate that Ms. Olivia Pope, whose name has been familiar to music lovers since the singer was a child star, has justified the hopes of producers in this most recent remake of the cult classic 'Porgy and Bess'. Even if the extravagant praise from her sponsors seems premature. It is absurd to assert that she is, as stated by a few of our fellow critics, a modern-era Dorothy Dandridge. A comparison that has already doomed many promising young actresses throughout the years. There is no telling what this young woman may eventually attain given her talents and her progression, but it must be acknowledged: her opening night success last night was nothing short of sensational.
We close this review from Broadway and the premiere of Porgy and Bess with a lighter note. Even if not as frivolous as some other names one might expect, the premiere attracted well known faces from American social and political stardom... Particularly from the political stardom since the freshly elected President of the United States, Fitzgerald Grant III, and his wife, Melody Grant - more than a decade his senior - were present at the event. They later greeted the actors. Both Mr. Grant and Ms. Pope exchanged compliments and jokes about having briefly met before their respective meteoric rises.
On board the plane that was taking the presidential delegation to Canada, James Novak was nonchalantly reading the review from AMB, a relatively recent and irreverent website dedicated to reviews and celebrity news. He felt he had spent centuries without art during the electoral campaign, so attending the Broadway premiere had been like finding fresh water after a long journey through the desert. Besides, he had to write something about it for ReReview, his own site. An editorial, not a review. He found AMB's one lacking in style; the author had ranted for two paragraphs about the production, stolen some expressions from an antique review easily found on the Archives - a review from the mid-20th century about the original performance nothing less! - and closed it with that little scene between the actress and the president. Which was completely irrelevant for the premiere and left a slight taste of malevolence toward Mellie. The photo of the first couple on the red carpet posted by AMB's twitter account had been widely shared. Ms. Pope with her revealing gown upon changing from the last act's costume, the bodyguards looking at her body, Ms. Pope looking at the president's lips, the president looking at the framed autograph he was holding, Mellie seeming distant and upset...All kinds of comments were shared just under that one tweet. Many, if not most of them, unpleasant.
Not that Fitz really cared a bit, James thought, locking his iPhone screen to look at the president who was sitting just across the airplane hall. He didn't believe in the hysteria of social networks, which he made use of, but at the same time, regarded as superficial. Newspapers and books, yes, they were something solid and long-lasting for him. But not twitter or 24-hour rolling news and weather channels, which he despised. Casually seated, one of his sempiternal blue dossiers on the table, he was reading the last report on Brexit. Now and then, he would stop over a word, underline it with his blue pen and mumble something under his breath. This time, and since the stay in Canada was short, Mellie wasn't coming; for a long, official visit she would follow her husband. For two days - or rather one and a half, it wasn't worth the trouble. She struggled to hide it, but she disliked flying and it was usual for whoever sat at her side during landing to end with a bruised hand. Well, that would not be her husband today.
The president, on the other hand, was generally stoic and unflappable even flying into storms, with the plane lurching and bumping, and passengers not yet panicking but reaching for the seat handles. Maybe it was because he had experienced his plane being hit by lightning (well, not exactly his, but Jackson's on his very first day as elected president) or because he had seen with his very own eyes how an aviation accident - and its victims - looked and was fatalist about it. Who really knew? He was difficult to grasp, a strange mix all together. A man who wouldn't flinch with lightning flashing through porthole windows and the plane shaking, but who could still blush like a schoolboy when his dog misbehaved before the cameras. Unlocking his phone again, James took a breath and decided to read the review from the Times. As expected, it was a carnage.
Cyrus Beene came to sit next to his president, bringing a cup of coffee and a croissant with him. Of course he hadn't bothered with breakfast (just like he didn't bother with sleep), or with ordering something before the take off. And there Cyrus was again, bringing him something to eat before he died from hunger. Cyrus got a smile in exchange, and a hint of mischievous light in his blue eyes over the coffee cup that reminded Cyrus of more adventurous times. The campaign had been more or less like this, when they - the talented and insufferable group of thirty-somethings that surrounded the young candidate - had veiled over him. When he was theirs and no one except Fitz thought seriously they had a chance. But he had convinced them, just like he had managed to win over that journalist who had come to cover all the candidates with irony in her eyes and parted from him drawing hearts on the wagon's window at the railway station.
Did Cyrus miss these times? The Revolutionaries, as the aforementioned group of insufferable talented thirty-somethings called themselves, had been at Fitz's side, night and day - since he barely slept and could send messages at inverosimile hours, sometimes with a strange profusion of smileys. Had helped him to change his damp shirts and listened to his questions about how the speech went while still recovering his breath, had heard him sing as the baritone they hired had recommended and had witnessed how one morning, just after dawn, the indefatigable candidate had finally fallen asleep on his seat - thus showing that he was no cyborg after all.
Most of these intimate moments with the candidate had vanished after his win, and his stepping with astonishing fervor into the role of president, the one whose dark suits were impeccably cut and who was capable of calling out Putin while standing at his side. And of course there was Mellie. Cyrus didn't have any problems with her, but thought several of the relationaries group were jealous of her. To the extent of erasing her from a book they had prepared about the presidential residence. Everyone had a place on its pages - from the Sentries to the Maui. Everyone except Mellie. She had been vexed, and the president furious. And the bok never saw the light of day.
"You can recognize idiots by how they dare everything. Look at Harrison for example. He dared to lie to all these people," Fitz said, breaking the silence, "Of course, when time arrived to face the consequences, he had lost his effrontery in some campaign bus. And now," Fitz smirked, "I am forced to have lunch with him."
It was true; the lunch with Harrison was on the schedule. People would frown at it, but whatever was his opinion on the guy, Fitz would treat him politely. Maybe he would even try to charm him - just for the pleasure of adding another name to the smitten by the American President list. Fitz's friendship, the kind of relationship where he could entirely be himself, was a rare treasure he reserved for the happy few. But his charm always (or almost) worked. Sometimes for a prolonged time, sometimes for the space of a lunch. Sometimes a minute or handshake were enough. Knowing perfectly how devastating said charm could be, he used it as a powerful weapon to attract people to his cause. From then, there were two ways: either he relied on his new friends and defended them like a she-wolf would defend her yelp or, if they failed to gain his confidence, he dropped them. Usually they didn't take too well to being left in the cold, out of the warm sphere of his charm. But, strangely enough, not many of them were really angry at him once he turned his back. Maybe this would come later in his presidency. But not now.
(As for Harrison, the amount of time he calculated he could profit of his charming conversation would be half an hour, more or less).
"We have survived worse than Harrison," Cyrus said, pointing at one of the presidential, omnipresent phones.
Cy meant Harold Johnson, who, unaware of how time zones worked, could call at any moment - raving about tanks, aircrafts, and the military. Last summer, he had initially thought that the parade on Independence Day had been organized in his honor, and bluntly asked Fitz, the day before, if he couldn't make it a little shorter. An embarrassed silence had followed in which none of the people present had known if Mr. Johnson was joking or if he really thought a tradition dating decades was all about him. Finally, after realizing he was serious, Fitz had cleared his throat before spending the next five minutes in a crash history course about the celebration of independence. It was useless to talk to him about history, of course, judging by how Johnson had mixed up Teddy Roosevelt and Franklin Roosevelt in a weird interview that would follow.
(The worst part was that one does not easily get rid of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom; willing or not, that fellow was someone Fitz had to cope with for the next few years).
Fitz's foot tapped on the floor with impatience as he read another paragraph of the dossier. Unconsciously, he was following the rhythm of the music inside his head - the music from the movie the night before. From his seat, Cyrus recognized the few bars and said unceremoniously:
"By the way, where did you two meet before?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Olivia Pope."
The foot stopped. Boston, he said with a shrug. He had had that conversation with Mellie last night, back at the White House, once the doors of their private apartment had closed and he was busy tapping Maui's back - the large, malamute. During his time at Harvard Law School and at the karaoke bar he and other students haunted. The place was called Bunnies, which sounded worse than it really was. A name fit for a brothel when it was only a karaoke bar. A little trashy, but relatively respectable. She had been there (Boston, not the karaoke bar) studying with a retired songwriter. Once they had sang something together, a duet. It ended catastrophically, from an artistic point of view, and apart from laughing at themselves that night, the closest they were was when she had accidentally stepped on his toe and almost fell to the floor.
"And now, of course, everyone is talking about it."
"Not everyone, only a few hundred on twitter and two or three on Wattpad, I guess."
"Ah yes. The ones with the erotic stories." The mischievous light was back in his blue eyes. Months before, just after the primary elections, even The Post had dedicated an article to these infamous stories where he was paired with literally every adult of both sexes that crossed his path. With links and all. Links he had not followed because he had more important things to do - even if he and the Canadian Prime Minister, Trudeau, had private jokes about these stories.
And with that, Fitz closed the blue dossier with all its brexiter pettiness inside and fastened his seatbelt. Landing was approaching.
"Cheap beer and out of tune singing at an unglamorous karaoke bar between a future president and a former child star prone to walk on other people's toes," Cyrus said to himself, "aren't very evocative."
XxX
Unlike several other actresses (and opera singers turned actresses) she had met and worked with, Olivia Pope did not think Porgy and Bess was cursed. People she knew - people who behaved rationally in other circumstances, performed all kind of rituals to fend off the bad luck. They refused to call the opera turned movie by its name, just like those British actors who made a fuss about The Scottish Play. Or they clung to amulets. Or, following the example of the legendary and gorgeous, but superstitious Franco Corelli, held on to their crotch. With the catastrophes that had surrounded other performances, it was unfair to consider Porgy & Bess as being under a curse just because a baritone had died while performing his scene from Act II.
The radio host, still repressing his laughter after the anecdote about Corelli, was clearly enjoying the interview while the actress tried to conceal her annoyance. After all, her reference to the Offenbach opera was nothing to laugh at. One of the reasons superstitious singers considered it cursed was because of the fires it seemed to attract. The Ringstrasse Opera in Vienna, with all its loss of life, and the fire at the Opera Comique which caused the loss of one of the show's manuscripts. But that didn't seem to interest the presenter. The man constantly talked over her, enjoying his questions more than her answers. She wondered if it was due to not taking her profession seriously or if he behaved equally in all his interviews.
"It is actually related to the death of a baritone on scene, back in the 1960s, in New York," Olivia answered. "Leonard Haroldson. it is said he collapsed on the floor and died just after singing -"
"What a terrible coincidence!" Her interviewer exclaimed, widely opening his eyes. She then remembered that their interview was being streamed on Youtube. Radio didn't use to be this way, she said to herself, missing times she had never known. Times when radio carried no images and actresses featured on cigarette advertisements.
"The case is the story is not true. Or not entirely true. All accounts seem to agree on Haroldson collapsing just after finishing -" She saw him opening his mouth and before she could finish.
"What are your thoughts on HD streaming and modern musical productions, Ms. Pope?"
Oh dear. Again. Not that she expected to be asked about Verna's letters to Ricordi but that kind of question was so commonplace that she felt frustrated. Thank God for acting skills, because she felt, for a moment, the impulse of grabbing his hair and pulling until he cried mercy. And she didn't mean in a pleasant way.
"Complaining about HD streaming could seem ungrateful, given how my career took a boost with one of these. But I don't think musicals - or Broadway, can really fit in this. This is live theater, not a movie, and has to be experienced as such. On the other hand, if that can attract a public who otherwise wouldn't watch a Broadway performance, then it is a positive thing." She smiled while pronouncing these last words. "As for modern Broadway productions, I only care if they are interesting whether they are modern or not."
A commonplace answer to a commonplace question. She hoped to avoid that other commonplace question…
"Do you consider yourself as a diva?"
She almost cried in frustration. And things derailed at that point.
Exactly twenty minutes later, Olivia Pope, renowned singer and actress as the radio had advertised the interview, left the studio with a sigh of relief. Waiting for her in the next room was her manager. A fifty-something - no one was indiscreet enough to ask her about her age - woman with golden curls and an infinite variety of cheap jewelry, fittingly named after another musical character. In her case, Carmen. Today, she was dressed in green with brown leather boots and crescent-shaped earrings. A sort of purple poncho completed her attire. The frown was a usual complement.
"That was excruciating," the manager said, once they were in the elevator with its funny smell. "No one listens to the radio at this hour. Your fans or your detractors will listen later and we know how these groups think about you. But you know that's not the real problem, don't you?"
She paused, in case Olivia wanted to add something. But she clearly didn't so Carmen went on with her rant:
"You know you can't say things like Yes, we singers are essential to musical, but canaries are also essential to singing contests and no one thinks they should organize them just to show how much importance you give to conducting and how much you think of musicals as teamwork. And how little of a diva you are, Olivia. That's precisely what divas would say. Don't give me that look, you know you are going to annoy a few folks with that little phrase. You know they will take it out of context and I will be forced to fix it. Again. Like that one about tenors being like vultures, not entirely pleasant but necessary for the environment."
"It's not my fault he made so many stupid questions. Including that last one," Olivia said at last as the elevator's door opened and they walked into the hall and then the street. It was cold, seeming to attack her physically.
"Of course nothing good can be expected from a man who doesn't know the difference between Bellini and Donizetti, but it is your fault if you failed to keep your cool. And then you blush like a teenager with the last question about your Boston fling." She was playful now. Exasperated but playful. Whereas Olivia was simply exasperated.
It was astonishing how your Boston fling had become, for the last months, the codename between them for the president of the United States. Carmen always joked about those few nights at the shitty karaoke bar the singer had told her about.
"You know it wasn't a fling and that the farthest I went with him was when I stepped on his toes and almost fell."
"And his powerful arm saved you from falling face-forward on a non, very clean floor and you still remember how he smells even if you never exchanged more than ten sentences with him before leaving the city. I know the story. The problem is now all your interviews are going to ask about the same thing and forget the rest. In L.A., we learnt to shrug at our politicians, but here everything the President does is scrutinized to exhaustion and they won't care about anything else. They won't care about you, or your singing, or the musical. Only that you once were in the same room with Grant."
Their taxi arrived. They tacitly decided the conversation about the Boston fling could not go on for the moment. Instead, Carmen talked about their future projects. Their, because they were a team. She had been Olivia's manager for ever and Olivia had decided to stay with her even if she wasn't the best around. Just like she had never changed her internet provider.
"It is frustrating there's no staging, but knowing the management's preferences in scene directors, I will be forced to sing with stilettos on while jumping back and forth. And you know I can do everything I am asked save singing with stiletto shoes."
"Are you quoting Birgit Nilsson right now?"
"Paraphrasing. But you know perfectly she was right."
And that was their last exchange until they arrived at the hotel. Carmen went to her room to talk to the Community Manager. Olivia had hired one after a series of tweets written personally had turned horribly wrong. As for her, she had a rehearsal that afternoon and one of her costumes, the dress from Act III, needed refitting.
Olivia decided she would take a shower and rest a little before going to the rehearsal. She would probably meet annoyed faces if they had listened to the interview. Or maybe not. After all, today was the dress rehearsal of the second cast. With a public of 'youngsters' and critics. People would have other worries than gossiping about her interview, her unfortunate phrase about canaries.
Things seemed better when she got out from the warm shower. Wrapped in the bathrobe embroidered with the hotel's coat of arms, she took a look at her phone and sighed with contentment. Still a few hours of rest. Laying on the sofa, she reached for the remote, switching the TV on. An interminable series of political debates about the interpretation of an out of context phrase the president had said in Canada paraded before her eyes. She switched off the Tv, closing her eyes. She fell asleep and had an unpleasant dream about being dragged on twitter again.