Amateur theatricals have never been a feature of life here at Bloody Nib Manor. Having read Mansfield Park we early realized the danger of such activities and are pleased let others such as politicians, television news readers and members of the Screen Actors' Guild exhibit their talents as tyro thespians.
And times, being what they are, it is an infrequent occurrence when a traveling band of players set up their canvas and wood stage on the village green and offer a choice of commedia d'elle arte featuring unrequited love and gamboling zanni. The the result of the apparent drought of traveling troupes has been the increasing lushness of turf on the green and a drop of the number of births nine months after the troupe has packed up and left for the out and beyond. Strangely, many of these mysterious babies have shared physical characteristics with not only the mother, but the actors portraying Harlequin, Punchinello or Scaramouche. It has proven to be a matter of wonder because the mothers, usually young, rather dim and aspiring for the bright lights of the city have all maintained that they never engaged in the act the is required to make a woman a mother. Something to do with eating too much curry or too many oysters or something. Or so they say.
Occasionally an itinerant mime will drop by the manor and insist that he will, for the exchange of a bit of brass, display his talents for the entertainment and edification of the household. These fellows (and they are invariably men) are usually a rather sad and down at the heels lot; frayed trouser cuffs, stained striped jerseys and sad countenaces even without the white make up. The results of their visits are usually palm prints on the inside of the panes of the greenhouse left after said mime (usually self named Pip or Tip or Kip) performed the standard "Man Trapped In a Glass Box" routine. Needless to say, the quality of mimes here is lacking. The art, as it is, has sadly declined from the halcyon days of the young Marceau and Tati.
Needless to say, most of the forms of popular entertainment have not been missed here. What has been missed, though, is the humble Punch and Judy Show. The rough outline of the Punch and Judy play is probably known to all over the age of thirty-five; Punch argues with Judy, Punch throws his baby out a window, Punch kills Judy, Punch kills the Bailiff, Punch goes to Hell, Punch tricks the Devil into hanging himself, Punch triumphs. In other words, the Punch and Judy play is a combination of The Honeymooners, Noir novels, medieval mystery plays and anything else one wants to throw into the mix. The Punch and Judy play has it all. There is material to makes children laugh, adults gasp and oldsters nod knowingly.
In fact, the Punch and Judy play is only incidentally for children. It is an old form and was originally written for adults. A few hand puppets speaking through the voice of the puppeteer using a razzer could say things that a grease painted cock's comb couldn't. Punch and Judy are, in a sense, more real to life, in an exaggerated manner, than any of Arthur Miller's scribblings simply because in most cases of stress people react instead of ruminate.
If your faithful correspondent had the money and/or talent he would make a documentary film about the old Punch and Judy men. The old P&J men (and they are invariably men) each works his own viewpoints into the play within the outline. There are men who say that it's just a silly play that makes them money during the summer at Blackpool. There is one P&J man who insists that the play is a Christian play. They have all worked within the same outline of the play. The most interesting thing, film-wise, would be to film each man's presentation of Punch and Judy without comment and then interview the puppeteer. The worse thing would be to interview a college professor for his analysis of the play or interview a young P&J man or woman who has been infected with the nonsense of deconstructionalism. But such a film would probably only be shown at that silly Sundance Film Festival and on the Public Broadcasting Stations at about three o'clock in the morning after the half hour program about cursive handwriting.
George Cruickshank, the Victorian illustrator and cartoonist, published a script of Punch and Judy in the 19th century that is quite good. But it is not the only script. The play has wide latitude within the outline, and that is its genius. Each P&J man makes his own play and to restrict it to a particular form by having a Spielberg or Lucas or Scott version is almost heresy. Punch and Judy are the low tech answer to the regimentalization of the film industry. Imagine the fact that one or two men, a dog, a flimsy stand and a few puppets can hold people's attention for fifteen or twenty minutes as well or better than a multi-million dollar episode of a television series. A cloth and papier mache' puppet being paid as much attention as a million dollar actress or actor? Unthinkable! Not to mention the fact that an actor is really not much more than a flesh and blood puppet, and a poor one at that, for the writer. The P&J man is much more the artist because he alone, working within the restrictions of the form, makes the play. He reward? Lugging about a canvas and wood frame, a dog and a tubful of puppets working for spare change. The flesh and blood puppets live the life of Riley.
But I suppose that a picture of the latest actress of the month makes more money for People magazine or Entertainment Tonight than does old Punch posing with his slapstick.
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