Among
the most moving works for theatre that came out of the crisis was Victoria-based
playwright Conrad Alexandrowicz’s The
Wines of Tuscany (1996).
For
me, the opening monologue, in which Ben narrates his unashamedly sexualized
recurring dream of Christ’s Passion, is a courageous assertion of the
non-dualtiy of flesh and spirit. In this, it stands beside the homoerotic
devotional imagery of the photographs of John Dugdale and of Oscar Wolfman,
beside Keith Haring’s AIDS altarpiece at the Episcopal cathedrals of New York
and San Francisco, beside Terrence McNally’s reimagining of the life of a queer
white-trash Texan Christ in his play Corpus
Christi.
By
happy circumstance, I had a chance to unleash my inner groupie in admiration
for his work when I found myself introduced to Alexandowicz in a Toronto museum
last month. He kindly agreed to share here some words of introduction to the
play, along with Ben’s opening and closing speeches.
THE WINES OF TUSCANY
This play is a one-act physical-theatre duet for
male performers about memory, pleasure, and loss. It is also about wine, food,
architecture, sex and opera. The play is set to a score composed of original
material as well as excerpts from operas by Verdi and Mozart, and uses
dialogue, movement and song to convey its narrative.
The piece is
essentially a man's reminiscence of the last trip to Italy taken by himself and
his lover, who has since died of AIDS. Long-time opera- and wine-lovers, the
two make one more tour through Tuscany in search of the ultimate red wine
experience. As his lover's illnesses worsen, the search becomes more desperate,
and wine comes to represent a magical substance that can provide an aesthetic
experience so powerful that it is an elixir of life. The journey is therefore
about the quest to prove that beauty, like love, is stronger than death.
The Wines of Tuscany originated at Vancouver's New Play Festival and was subsequently produced twice more in that city. It then toured to Calgary, Edmonton, Victoria and Toronto, where it ran for six weeks at the Tarragon Theatre. It has won numerous awards.
The Wines of Tuscany originated at Vancouver's New Play Festival and was subsequently produced twice more in that city. It then toured to Calgary, Edmonton, Victoria and Toronto, where it ran for six weeks at the Tarragon Theatre. It has won numerous awards.
THE WINES OF TUSCANY
A one-act dance-theatre duet for male performers
[Setting: A large painted backdrop portrays a composite of typical
elements of Italian high Renaissance architecture. . . . There is a living room
setting downstage right, a couch and carved chest with a wine bottle and glass.
. . . The lights come up on the last crashing measures of La Traviata: Violetta
dies of consumption as Alfredo, his father, the doctor and the maid all howl in
anguish. The chords fade away as Ben
is discovered on the couch down right. He sits up, pours a taste of Il Grigio
da San Felice, Riserva 1990, sniffs the bouquet, tastes it, and then begins to
address the audience]
SCENE 1
BEN: I had the dream again. [Music:
the Preludio from La Traviata] Under a black sky, stinking of sulphur,
promising the rains of doom, I see the crucified Christ twisting like an animal
impaled alive on a spit. He's been stripped of the usual ragged loincloth; he
has a huge, raging erection. [Edward stands and begins to move] He's pumping the air with his pelvis.
Suddenly he's coming... wildly, magnificently, endlessly. This shower of cum is
bestowed over the assembled multitudes below, who receive it into their hands like
fallen gold, ecstatically; a magic transforming fluid that has the power to
heal and restore. I understand that this Christ was sent from the hand of God
the Father to heal the world, and he's been punished for it. And God's in his
heaven, weeping as gods sometimes do when they can do nothing to help. So his
son does the only thing left in his power: he performs this magnificent last
miracle, this stupendous, epic orgasm, generated from the superhuman pain of
his all-too-human tormented body. From his seed will grow clear sight, calm
thinking, the benefit of the doubt. The hand extended to the one who calls out,
palm open, no questions asked.
The dream changes, exactly the same way, every time. He appears.
[Ben crosses to Edward. They variously dance, slide, roll and run together
throughout the rest of the speech] His
eyes like chocolate truffles, his shiny, springy hair; his shapely hands. It's
him alright, it's actually him! I gasp, with amazement, with horror even. Then
I begin to weep. And then I get hard, just like always: I'd only to look at him
and I'd get hard. I'd think of him on the bus or subway, and get a lump in my
jeans. Very embarrassing before getting off: the old ladies sitting with their
shopping, their eyes at crotch level.
In this dream we're on a train travelling north to Siena. The idea
is to get away from Rome as soon as possible. I love the sprawling mess of this
city; these many cities from different ages piled together, but he finds it
oppressive, and appalling, especially the traffic, which seems to be lethal to
everything that walks the earth. You think they're actually trying to run you
over, but when you wade out into the river of FIATS in front of the Victor
Emmanuel monument, they all slow down just enough so you can cross; they part
like the Red Sea did for Moses and the children of Israel. It's a miracle: what
better place to experience a miracle than the Eternal City? He always said they
only avoid killing pedestrians because of the inconvenience and expense of
lawsuits. [Edward brings the chairs to centre stage. Train scene]
We're on this train, going to Chianti, for the wines of course,
and I'm gazing out of the window at the parade of hill towns passing by, rosy
stone in the morning sun, each with its immaculate bell-tower gravely lifting
its head toward the heaven of Giotto and Palestrina. He always let me have the
window seat. I turn to my right, and there he is. I turn to my right, and there
he is. I turn to my right... [Edward falls in slow motion to the floor] Ah, tu
fosti il primo oggetto che sinor fedel amai, e tu l'ultimo sarai ch'abbia nido
in questo cor.
*****
SCENE 18 [Ben moves to the side of the couch]
BEN: He fell. The stairs of the pensione. All the way down. And
sustained multiple fractures in his left leg because his bones were so weak. We
made it to Rome, but they wouldn't let us on the plane. By then he had
pneumonia again. If you're that sick they won't let you. It's a long flight,
the liability and all that. So, he's still there. Where he always wanted to be.
He'll never leave now. It was worth
it: he was lucky enough to find out.
I want to be saved. I go to bed at night repeating those words to
myself like an old Italiana telling her rosary. “Somebody save me, somebody
take me home.” But nothing can save us, certainly no Chianti Classico, or Vino
nobile or Brunello. And no one is coming to take us home. This is it: we've
arrived. There's only one other place to go. You pay the boatman a small fee,
because there's no end to tipping, no matter what, and if you're lucky, he'll
get you there quickly. Plague has come before. It comes again. And the water of
life can do nothing in the face of it.
In my dream the crucified Christ comes down from the cross. The
look in his eyes is infinitely sad. He shuffles towards me with his hands
extended in front of him. The wounds are still bleeding, but, there's music
coming from them. You take another sip of the best stuff you've brought back
from your trip, and listen. It's the most beautiful sound you've ever
heard!
[Music: The sublime trio “Soave sia il vento”
from Mozart’s Così fan Tutte. Ben
simply sits and listens to the music, then pours another glass of wine, stands,
toasts and drinks, all in slow motion. He sits down, then lies along the couch,
one arm framing his head, as the lighting produces a complex sunset effect
timed to the music. Long fade to black]
THE END
(Cast photo from the Tarragon Theatre production of 1997)
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