User:Puppy/UR
| MEMORANDUM | |
|---|---|
| FROM: | W. Morris William Morris, Vaudeville Agent |
| TO: | C. E. Ringling The Barnum & Bailey Circus |
| DATE: | Thursday, 27th November, 1913 |
| RE: | Parker Family Fun Time Circus |
Dear Charles,
I hope this finds you well. As you have asked, I have been keeping my ear to the ground looking for for a theatrical act that would fit in with your “The Greatest Show on Earth” mantra. I think I have finally found an act that can only fit in with your show, as I doubt they will fit in elsewhere.
As you know, the theatre is generally either an an emotional, physical or an intellectual game; rarely in my experience have I come across an act that transcends two of these boundaries, yet the “Parker Family Fun Time Circus” definitely fits the bill. Their act is one that stimulates the grey matter, the heart strings, and gives a solid thwack to your solar plexus at the same time.
They kindly came into my office for an audition and to demonstrate their skills to myself and my staff, and I can tell you my office shall never be the same.
Let me introduce you to the Parker family - and a more clean-cut, American family you could not hope to find. Geoffrey Parker, the 36 year old father, is as apple pie as a pie made from apples. From the tips of his ginger hair, lightly freckled features, and down the firmly chiselled architecture of his body, his abdominal muscles rippling through his too tight white shirt as he bends his torso… but I digress. He is the epitome of the American ideal. Geoffrey strides out, wearing his over-tight shirt and knee length pants that show the perfection of his calves for all to see, and calls in his family one at a time.
Emily traipses in like Titania in her elfin glory, garbed in what appears to be a homespun white dress that reveals as much as it conceals. Emily Parker is the cherry pie to Geoffrey's apple. At her tender age of 33 her long blonde hair cascades down her back like a flaxen waterfall, and her rosebud red lips are a stark contrast to her wan complexion. She moves with the grace of a ballet dancer - a career choice I understand she forgo to work alongside her firm, idyllic husband, and quite rightly too. Too many young ladies are taking it into their heads to have an identity of their own these days - a quite disturbing trend. Mutely and submissively Emily kneels at her husbands feet - like any good wife should.
Their son is a charming, puckish urchin named Jonathan - although I believe he prefers the moniker John. He is a gangly 14 year old, with dark hair. Where his parents are reminiscent of summer holidays in lazy meadows, he has the demeanour of an autumn twilight - darker and with a hint of mystery and mayhem. His wiry frame makes him extremely flexible, and he shares his mothers graceful nature. When John is called in he tumbles onto the stage with the skill of a born acrobat, dressed in what I can only describe as a nightshirt. He cajoles the audience for daring to appear, and insults them with the coarsest of tongues. Vile epithets roll off his tongue so readily it would make a hardened sailor blush, and he finishes is introductory performance by turning his back to the audience and flipping up his nightshirt, revealing his youthful buttocks for all to see, as he makes a loud “parp” noise. Then he sits to his fathers side, hiding in the shadow of his perfectly formed paternal figure.
But the final member of the ensemble is the cherubic 13 year old Danielle, and she is a natural charm. She is dressed in a nightshirt similar to her brother, and she gently tip-toes across the stage, looking like the personification of Wendy in that delightful novel by J. M. Barrie, all ready to be tucked in to bed. Her demeanour is quite shy, and she appears almost embarrassed to be on the stage and in the limelight, but she is a dutiful daughter, and does what is asked of her without hesitation. Her silken ginger hair marks her as obviously the child of her Adonis of a father, but her features mark her as definitively feminine, but not yet grown into the apple of her maturity. Quietly she pads over to her father, and he lifts her light frame with one of his spectacularly muscled arms, so she can whisper demurely in his ear. While we could not hear what she whispers to him, his booming laugh in response shook the walls.
As with all great theatre, the next scene dealt with the concept of identity. Geoffrey lead us into a discourse on the identity of himself and the players as the archetypes of society, and gave a delivery dripping with charisma and gusto. His demonstration of peeling away the layers of identity was well illustrated as he peeled away the clothing of his comely wife. Emily then showed us demurely what it is to see into the innermost parts of a persona by flexing her frame into postures that showed clearly the inside of her self.
Next John came forward, and with a mischievous twinkle explained that what we see on the outside is only the surface of things. Quickly divesting himself of his clothing he again turned his back to us, bent over, and delivered much of the remainder of his speech with his face framed between his ankles. At the same time he demonstrated that the fool is often both secure and vulnerable, as he exposed his soul with well practised expertise, coupled with the grunts of pain and exertion at the intimate exposure.
Geoffrey then stepped forward again, pushing his family aside as he took his rightful place at the head of his family. With deep, sonorous tones he explained that the driving force in society was masculinity, and went on to demonstrate his significant masculinity by the removal of his garments. (Emily immediately took his discarded clothing and started folding them, being well aware of a woman's place.) He then went on to show how a man should proudly display his masculinity, and in a startling monologue demonstrated how one can grow one's masculinity by careful nurturing and massage.
And he finally pulled forward his darling Danielle as a counterpoint to his own masculinity, proved how fragile and weak the female of the species was when regarded in stark openness compared to the beautifully developed male - especially a male who was prepared to discipline his family. In a spectacular juxtaposition we could see how the male members of society could stand tall and proud, while the weaker sex could do little more than sob silently.
From here the act diverged into an intense sub-plot that explored the Freudian concept of the id, where Geoffrey showed how man is nothing more than an animal, and an alpha dog in his own home. With a deep thrust into the heart of the matter, he showed how a man can plumb the very depths of a woman's soul. This was juxtaposed with a fine act by Emily showing that a submissive woman is a beautiful thing to behold, and to be holding. It was a performance so moving I nearly bit through the stem of my pipe.
In the truest fashion of the Commedia dell'arte, Geoffrey's Pantalone demonstrated his role as master - even with his pantalonis off. And enter John, in the role of Arlecchino as a counterpoint. In the manner of the clown he broke the tension caused by his father's performance by a dissertation of the wastefulness of mankind, which he illustrated with his own waste. With a twist and a tumble, he flung faeces in rapid fire succession at the other players, himself, and the audience. In an ultimate display of comedic genius he then showed that as we tend to ignore our own waste, by smearing it over his face and body he became the invisible observer. (It was at this moment that my devoted secretary, Beryl, was forced to leave with an attack of the vapours - which several days later she does not appear to have recovered.)
And while the action escalates Geoffrey calls to his daughter. While I am hesitant to describe the scenes that followed, they will be burned into my mind forever more. I have not been able to look at custard the same way since. But the climax was a beauty to behold.
In the denouement, as the Geoffrey stood there in the manner of the Vitruvian Man, his glory for all to see, and his family in various poses of depravity and deplorability at this feet, I finally managed to find enough of my voice to ask “And what do you call this?”
He gave me a cocksure smile and said, proudly, “The Aristocrats”.
Charles, I have never before seen an act that would fit in so well with your freaks and cowpunchers. Could you please let me know by next Friday if this charming family would fit into your show?
It would be apt timing, as I have invited Geoffrey over for some cigars and whiskey Saturday afternoon.
Yours, as ever,
W. Morris