CAROUSEL, 1956

Carousel was produced in 1956, the year I first came to the United States. The wonderful music from the movie is deeply engrained among my early musical memories. It stars Gordon McRae as Billy, a carousel barker around the turn of the 20th century.

When I took voice lessons in high school, McRae was a model for light-classical singing. His voice ranges from smooth, mellow high notes that quiver to meaty, chesty lower ones. I was struck by the female actors, Shirley Jones (as the main lead, Julie) and Barbara Ruick, her good friend. I confess to liking the stereotypic femininity of their roles despite my consistent advocacy that women not be limited to this.

The first song by Ruick, “When I Marry Mr. Snow,” my favorite, is like a long-forgotten love. Shortly after comes Jones’s version of “If I Loved You,” a duet with McRae. Hearing the way she holds the notes, it strikes me that often just holding a note for one bar longer can make it into sensual, black, jazz. Although inferior to McRae's, Jones's and Ruick's oh so satisfying voices do that better than McRae. Then I think of the incredible wonder of cultural “miscegenation,” how white women have imperceptibly broken down racial barriers. But it may be that I fantasize. Sex and race are my favorite themes in movies.

I love Oscar Hammerstein; let there be no mistake. But I’ve struggled to overcome my ambivalence about what I perceived as a strain of over-simplicity and heaviness when compared to the wit and sophistication of Lorenz Hart, Rodger’s former lyricist. I particularly dislike “When You Walk Though a Storm,” which not only ends the movie but is also featured before that to show staunch faith in overcoming adversity. Hammerstein’s directness has broad appeal but I prefer greater subtlety. The solution is simple. I take the musical for what it is. Carousel may be the best example of its kind. It was one of the most serious Rodgers and Hammerstein story lines.

MY WALK YESTERDAY

Soon after I began walking, strolling really, it struck me that the narrative for the walk was the sky above me. To the north and south, the clouds were like cotton balls, whereas the clouds above me resembled roughly separated wads from a roll of cotton. My clouds, mostly gray, had a dull, soft silver lining, which became very intense where the sun hid behind it.

On the power line which traversed the land sat a bird so tiny as to be mistaken for an insect. I am hypersensitive to the merest hint of lightning. I heard rumbling, but saw no lightning, and I took courage from the bird’s presence to keep on walking. Every now and then, the sun would shine through but quickly hide again.

I identified deeply with the sky directly above me. The clouds to the north and south were light (in both senses). They were pleasant enough, but they were not my clouds. My clouds were generous, grand and clean, not without a sense of mischief or danger. When the bird flew away, I immediately ended my walk, as if given a sign that it was no longer safe to continue.