The scene: Martin is attending an opera at the Sydney Opera House where he used to work backstage as a Mechanist during some very fun and very dark times.
He was part of the Opera Theatre Team where he worked occasionally which was a physically very demanding role (the sets were huge) but was primarily the guy sequestered to the smaller theatres for one off shows which suited Martin to a tee.
An older guy who wasn't shy when it came to imbibing a constant stream of beer was his first experience with the Playhouse Theatre (which I think has since moved. And is now called The Studio). In his first week on the job, this guy Tod initially groaned when he discovered the "new guy" didn't know how to correctly mop a stage, this was short lived as Martin proved he was a quick study which Tod in his wisdom recognised soon after. Also, Martin was in a similar beer phase so much bonding was had, even a pickled onion here and there.
After an unripe poetic foray that had the operatic opine fury of a thousand suns Martin ultimately sacked himself from the job for reasons that won't be disclosed at this time. As he quit by phone, it took a long while for him to retrieve items he had left in his locker - black jeans, steel capped work boots and tool belt - which he didn't retrieve for he wants to say 18 months - it was likely 12. The locker had never been locked so after retrieval of the boots and shoes he left the locker open with the tool belt visible for someone else to have. Plus he had an appointment and the belt wouldn't fit in his bag. It was only on theme nights that it was appropriate to wear a tool belt to the Oxford. Not a Tuesday evening.
So the Night of the Launch of the Opera - The Neurotic Fairy Pope - The quest of a downtrodden yet uppity Oreo fancier (The Pope) who encounters a man he describes as the "Pointy Afro Epicure" - a character very loosely based on a fiction-y euro paper cut-out doll. Although The Epicure is unable to recall the precise name of the doll (his namesake) as it has been palimpsested by god knows who. In the Opera he is simply known as "Known".
The palimpsest theme is echoed in the set that revolves through many iterations being magically scrubbed at non pivotal points creating a blank canvas concluding with the ultimate imprint of candour and steam echoing proud glaciers past as the final permanent manuscript.
In a false denoument toward the end of Act One, a marvellous community effort has been made to rectify Peoria upon lake Illinois and it's shifting currents as the setting of the Ceremonial Christening of the Pope Boat - a nautical version of the Pope Mobile featuring all the bells and whistles under a cloche of bullet proof glass.
Instead of the usual champagne, the Epicure insists on a bottle of rare, vintage vin naturel to be gracefully scraped against the hull. This ceremony marks the transformaton from hull to Named Flagship vessel before its voyage begins as the Queen of the Fleet.
Only - the Epicure notices while he is tying the bottle of plonk to the purple ribbon while standing at the bow that what should read "Petit Pape" reads "Petit Papə". "The sign writer must have been having a bad day" he mused... "Best to let this one slide".
In an attempt to single handedly reunify opera optics as the gold standard for this aquatic voyage, the Neurotic Fairy Pope helms his Pope Boat from Upper Peoria Lake to Lower Peoria Lake (technically downstream), as the river flows south toward the Mississippi. As he drifts into the lower basin, the Pointy Afro Epicure can be seen standing on the berth, critiquing the "notes of river-silt and limestone" in the remnants of the hull breaker as the Pope Boat floats off.
In a seemingly out of place emotional crescendo just before interval, The Fairy Pope tries to copy the coif the pointy afro epicure so dashingly wears but his fine and brittle hair ends up in what could only be described as a peary coif eruption. Not the coif the nuns traditionally wear (although the Neurotic Fairy Pope has been known to don one after a few too many altar sherries) it turned out to be more like a blunt pear-shaped mess that had all the hallmarks of inbuilt obsoletion that quickly addles more and more, minute by minute.
"This will have to resolve itself for Act Two". Martin thought as he exited the row placing one foot in front of the other. Apologising for the occasional misstep.
The chime is heard and a polite and friendly voice says over the Tannoy "You've got 20 minutes to get a drink".
Martin settles for a tonic water during interval as his usual citron pressé is currently unavailable. He stands in front of the foyer piano picture painted by Martin Sharp (as he does every opera) that is reminiscent of a specific foyer pinup erotica work he had seen somewhere. While standing there admiring the work, some knucklehead bristles past and mutters under his breath "Enjoying your ponce aperitif?" He gulps down the last of it and returns to his seat early, excited for what Act Two may bring.
"All in all a rather polished exposition", though things lost their way somewhat during the wardrobe crisis of the second quarter – an excruciating passage in which The Neurotic Fairy Pope, having for years maintained the dignified posture of a man unburdened by mortal infrastructure, is undone not by theology or politics but by the discovery of an outer nappy orifice in his Depends garment. A flaw in the architecture, as it were. One does not expect papal vestments to betray a man so publicly and yet the librettist understood what most papal historians will not commit to paper: that incontinence, like faith, is a matter best managed in private. This had been, until very recently, a well-guarded state secret – the kind of secret that outlasts popes and outlives empires – until some drunken Swiss Guard, hot on a Grindr trail and evidently navigating by divine providence alone, breached the fence priory utopia, cleared the hedgerow and landed arse-first on a rubbish bin from which the offending packaging tumbled forth like a proclamation from on high. Word spread with the velocity of a minor indulgence. It didn't make the news though. These things rarely do when the people involved are wearing enough brocade.
What followed was, by any measure, the evening's great pivot. The Pointy Afro Epicure – having already established himself as the sort of man who could critique a christening wine and mean it – extends to the Pope an invitation to his very own Piaf Pioneer Outcry evidence event. The orchestra here shifted into something between a processional and a lament and the staging turned appropriately funereal. The invitation, rendered on card stock of considerable weight, specified that attendees bring an HMS Pinafore type curio in Honour of His Holiness's recent maritime exploits. The Neurotic Fairy Pope of course was not required to bring anything. He never is. That is both his privilege and his diagnosis.
The opera ends – as all operas concerning popes and rivers must – with a commission. At the command of Le Petit Papə, the Neurotic Fairy Pope is dispatched to recoup patio finery from the confluence of the Illinois and Mississippi, at any cost. And so he does. What the current took, the current gives back. What was thought lost to the elements is finally rediscovered – silted, bleached and somehow more honest for the weathering. Combined with a score of pure piano ferocity that left very little room for further schmaltz, the dénouement (the unknotting) steals back what has been stolen, arriving just as the period of reconveyance had lapsed.
"Pauper Fiction Yore."