Tamara de Lempicka to the Rescue

 

Young Woman in Green, c. 1931

Curmie can’t seem to focus much on anything these days.  His writing, both for scholarly publication and on this blog, has slowed to a crawl.  He suspects that he’s not alone in feeling a little overwhelmed by the stupidity, cruelty, and lawlessness of the Trump administration and the mind-boggling cowardice of the Congressional GOP.  Senator Murkowski is only the most outrageous recent example; there are, as you know, Gentle Reader, plenty of others.

Although some of the worst stuff was cut before the final version, what remained in the “Big Beautiful Bill” was still an indictment of the morality of every pol who voted for it, as well as an abdication of the legislature’s responsibility to do that whole “checks and balances” thing, especially when the executive branch wants something transcendently moronic (or evil).

Then there was the horror that took place a few hours west-southwest of Curmie’s abode in East Texas.  Would there have been fewer deaths had the country been led by someone less sociopathic, someone who didn’t cheerily cut funding for the very agency that could have detected the intensity of that storm sooner?  Well, we don’t know that for certain, but it seems pretty damned likely.  And it’s certain that the cuts to FEMA, even though this a red state, will negatively impact the lives of thousands of people.

Those of us who think of ourselves as “the left” generally really mean “not the right.”  One of the differences is that we tend to be at least marginally empathetic: it doesn’t have to happen to us for us to care.  There are lots of memes about how Biden sent relief to red states as a matter of course, but Trump wouldn’t do so after the California fires. That doesn’t mean that events don’t hit a little harder when you know someone directly affected, though. 

One of Curmie’s favorite former students is from Kerrville, one of the hardest-hit communities; it was good to hear that her family is safe, but so many spaces important to her are gone forever.  (By the way, Gentle Reader, if you have a few spare dollars, the organization she’s suggesting we support is the Community Foundation of the Texas Hill Country.  Curmie made an online contribution and he hopes a few of his readers might be in a position to do so, as well.)

Beloved Spouse went to a conference in Anaheim a couple of weeks ago.  While she was there, she took some time off to visit Disneyland with her best friend (who was also at the conference) and her son and one of her daughters.  They’re all US-born citizens, but they’re identifiably Hispanic, and mere details like citizenship haven’t seemed to matter much to the cowardly goons of ICE.  The was a major raid in the area two days after they came home.  One wonders, “what if…?”

There are personal distractions, too: a minor health issue, some unforeseen expenses,  and the realization that Curmie will soon need to replace his car, his mattress, his phone, and his laptop.  Not getting to hear the Boston Pops play the 1812 Overture on the 4^th, as we’ve done for many years in a row (thanks for nothing, CW), shouldn’t have been as annoying as it was.  

So we come to Saturday the 5^th, not exactly in foul humor, but certainly stressed and a little overwhelmed.  What to do?  There are two possibilities.  The first is escape into nature.  Head to the mountains, the forest, the shore, but away from everyone else except those you love.  But Curmie was never a fan of heat indexes over 100°, and what meager allure being outside in that heat may once have had has dwindled further as septuagenarian status approaches.

That leaves ART.  Curmie and Beloved Spouse don’t live within an easy drive to any major city, but Houston is still close enough that a day-trip is possible.  So that’s what happened.  We’d been intending to go down to the Tamara de Lempicka exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts for some time, but it never seemed to work out.  But on Saturday, it did. 

Normally, when we go to a museum, we’ll see the special exhibitions that interest us and still have time to check out the permanent collection, too.  We can’t do that at, say, the Art Institute in Chicago—it’s just too big—but we generally get to visit our favorites from previous visits.  Not this trip, either.  Not only is the MFA huge, spread across four multi-story buildings, but the Lempicka exhibit was also enormous, with dozens of works displayed.  Yes, some of them were small preliminary sketches or whatever, but it was a lot.  There were a couple of places to sit, and Curmie took advantage of them, but just the amount of standing and walking was rather exhausting for an old fart like Curmie.

So we didn’t see much else.  We didn’t need to, to declare the day a huge success.  The exhibition was magnificent.  Tamara de Lempicka (originally, “Łempicka,” apparently, so I’ve been pronouncing it wrong for years) is one of those handful of artists—alongside the likes of Van Gogh, Chagall, and yesterday’s birthday boy Giorgio de Chirico—whose work is instantly identifiable as hers. 

Regarded as one of the founders of Art Deco (she claimed to be the founder of the movement), she drew from about every artistic movement imaginable.  There’s one painting “inspired by Botticelli.”  Yep, Curmie can see that.  Others are reminiscent of the style of other late medieval or Renaissance artists.  Her use of color seems to be drawn from the vividness of expressionism, her still lifes from post-impressionism, many of her backgrounds from cubism.  There are hints of surrealism in the juxtaposition of images (there are a couple of her works that are unquestionably surrealistic, but they weren’t part of this exhibition).  And yet all of her paintings are unquestionably hers.

She was also, of course, a fascinating individual.  Born in Warsaw (probably), she later lived in St. Petersburg, Copenhagen, London, Paris, Los Angeles, and Houston before retiring to Mexico.  She was married twice—to Polish lawyer Tadeusz Łempicki and Austro-Hungarian baron Raoul Kuffner de Diószegh—and had multiple affairs with both men and women.  When her first husband was arrested by Russian authorities after the 1917 Revolution, she supposedly slept with the Swedish consul to get his support for Łempicki’s release.  It worked.

She was an outstanding example of the “new woman” or “modern woman,” both in her life and in her work.  An article in Vogue from 1929 is cited on the description of Young Woman in Green (Young Woman with Gloves).  It describes the modern woman: “She seeks purity in line, in contour, hair, and clothes.  She knows that, in the drama of her own personality, she must be stage director, scene-shifter, mistress of costumes, as well as star of the play.”  It’s no wonder that such a confident, competent, independent woman would be just a little scary to those who knew nothing but patriarchy.

She understood her role in all this: 

I was the first woman to make clear paintings, and that was the origin of my success. Among a hundred canvases, mine were always recognizable. The banality in which art had sunk gave me a feeling of disgust. I was searching for a craft that no longer existed; I worked quickly with a delicate brush. I was in search of technique, craft, simplicity and good taste. My goal: never copy. Create a new style, with luminous and brilliant colors, rediscover the elegance of my models.

Lempicka was cognizant of the need to apply, on numerous occasions, a male suffix to her name when she signed paintings (the art establishment was not interested in female artists); she hid her Jewish ancestry, which certainly played a role in her decision to leave Paris in the late 1930s.  But she was also iconoclastic, fully deserving of the title of “Bad Girl Queen,” as a headline on the Paper City site reads.

The sensuality of her models, especially the women, is foregrounded.  Yes, she painted both male and female nudes, but, as Dan Duray wrote for Observer, “everyone is much sexier with their clothes on.”  Young Woman in Green is a good example.  The eyes are turned away in a manner reminiscent of all those studio shots of Clara Bow; the dress looks like it is sprayed on in places; the left hand draws the eye towards the crotch.  The sexuality is a function of both what is revealed and what is concealed.

Not all of her work is this overtly sensual, but most of it is nearly as eye-catching.  It’s difficult for us now to understand how her work fell out of favor, even as the likes of Elton John, Barbra Streisand and Madonna were buying it up.  But that did happen.  The more recent revival of interest in her work, and in Art Deco in general, is a good thing.  Because she and a lot of her contemporaries, were got at their jobs.

Curmie still worries about the future of the country, about the upcoming bills, about what he’ll do when he really retires.  But for a couple of glorious hours last weekend, none of that mattered.  The problems are still there.  But the mind is clearer, and Curmie is more mentally and emotionally prepared than he was a week ago.  

We take our triumphs where they come.  Take care of yourself, Gentle Reader.

 

Two Stories Set at Dodger Stadium

 

Curmie isn’t as big a baseball fan as he once was, and he’s never been a Dodgers fan, but it’s still not unusual for him to read about the goings-on at Dodger Stadium.  It’s usually about what happened on the field, though: Shohei Ohtani did this, Mookie Betts did that, and so on. 

Yeah, there was that moment a couple of years ago when stadium security couldn’t catch the idiot fan who had run on the field so the ball girl tackled him.  (Curmie thinks the best part wasn’t the takedown per se, but the casual stroll away afterwards.)  And there have been a couple of squabbles over the “ownership” of a couple of home run balls, especially Ohtani’s first homer as a Dodger and his “50/50” ball. 

But Curmie never had an urge to write about any of that.  Now, however, there are not one but two stories from the last month or so that caught Curmie’s attention.  Neither is really related to what happened on the field at all.  Neither made big headlines; indeed, the earlier one escaped Curmie’s notice altogether for about a fortnight.  Let’s start there.

Over the off-season, the Dodgers completed a $100 million renovation of the stadium.  Most of the improvements were to the field per se and to the clubhouses, but there were also some projects dedicated to ensuring a “top-notch game-day experience” for fans.

Yeah, well, maybe not quite so “top-notch.”  On May 30, a chunk of concrete about the size of a softball dislodged from an upper deck and hit a fan, Luis Ricardo Aquino, in the back, breaking a rib.  Aquino, a resident of Mexico City, had traveled to LA for the game. 

OK, there are three stories here that Curmie is going to skim over really quickly here, but are worth mentioning: 1). $100 million in renovations and you can’t have a stadium that isn’t a death trap?  If Aquino had happened to be leaning back for some reason and that chunk of concrete had hit him in the head, it could have killed him.  2). How slimy do the Dodgers’ reps have to be to get Aquino not to file a complaint in exchange for a jersey, couple of trinkets and a bobble-head?  That’s a 7-figure lawsuit, easy.  3). Aquino declined a trip to the hospital, saying “this is not my country, so I did not feel comfortable.”  One reasonable translation would be “I’ll live with a broken rib until I get home, where I can actually afford medical care, and the Dodgers aren’t likely to pay.”

But the big story is that when help appeared on the scene, the first question wasn’t about where he was hit or the severity of the injury, but whether he was in the US legally.  Subsequent reporting by Michael Elizondo suggests that the questioning may not have been merely insensitive, tacky, and racist, but literally unlawful if performed by other than an immigration agent.  Notice also the blithe assumption that Aquino isn’t a citizen.

“Papers, please” has long since achieved cliché status in movies.  The line is usually given to some officious official representing an evil regime.  You know, Gentle Reader, like all those WWII movies with Nazis who always spoke in English but with German accents.  But we’re heading towards that level of intrusion in the US right now. 

Curmie has been lucky enough to be able the travel outside the US on numerous occasions.  He’s lived in two foreign countries and spent over three months total over several visits in another; he’s spent the night in eight others, and passed through (on a train, for example) or made a brief excursion into four more.  There are two more he specifically wants to add to the list, and many others he’d be happy to visit.  All this probably puts him above the mean for Americans, but he knows several people whose international experience far exceeds his own. 

In all those voyages, Curmie has needed his passport (his “papers”) for precisely three kinds of events: crossing a national border, checking into a hotel, and (before ATMs became ubiqitous and linked) changing currency (or, in the old days, travelers checks) at a bank… and not literally every time for any of them.  He was told directly by trip organizers, experienced travelers, and even local law enforcement not to carry his passport except when necessary: better to leave it where you’re staying.  This was true, too, for when he had the UK equivalent of a green card when he was studying for his MA. 

But whereas ICE goons needn’t have any identification at all to detain someone for… you know… looking and sounding like they might not be an American citizen (Curmie is certain the tourism industry has some choice words for these assholes), Mr. Aquino had to have his paperwork on his person to attend a freaking baseball game.  Imagine if he hadn’t! 

It is more than a little terrifying that any non-citizen in this country is subject to this level of scrutiny.  True, it’s not as bad as requiring applicants for student visas to supply details of their social media presence for the last five years and to set all their accounts to public, much less to the horrific idea that all “non-detained migrants” (that would include students) must wear GPS tracking devices.  But it’s still creepy as hell, and a far cry from anything resembling “the land of the free.”  Emma Lazarus famously wrote about the “golden door.”  In Trumpistan, having enough gold will get you a free pass through that door.  Everybody else gets treated like a criminal. 

OK, moving on to the other story…  On June 19^th, the Dodgers tweeted that “ICE agents came to Dodger Stadium and requested permission to access the parking lots. They were denied entry to the grounds by the organization.”  There’s not much of a story there, right, Gentle Reader?  Stories of people facing down the goons are damned near ubiquitous.  Ah, but <insert late-night infomercial voice here> that’s not all! 

You see, ICE proclaimed they “were never there.”  They’re almost certainly lying, of course.  Anti-ICE activists, as the kids say, brought the receipts in the form of photographs.  It’s possible, of course, that they never asked permission (they’re not the type to be professional, of course), but they were certainly there. 

So, why would they lie?  Well, it’s what they do, for one thing.  The number of times they’ve lied about the reason for an “asylum meeting” or blamed an American citizen they tackled for attacking them when there’s clear video evidence to the contrary has now reached into the “frequently” range.  We know that, like all bullies, they’re cowards: hence the masks, the refusal to show appropriate identification, the unwillingness to go after actual gang members when they can make their quota by rounding up hotel maids and dishwashers who sorta look Latino.  And they sure as hell don’t want to reveal the fragility of their faux machismo preening.  The fact that they tried and failed to throw their weight around simply cannot be allowed to become public knowledge.

But, Gentle Reader, you know what’s even worse than a gaggle of federal agents longer on testosterone than on empathy or truth-telling?  What if this time they were actually telling the truth?  That would mean that since ICE and their partners in crime (this is not merely an expression, of course) refuse to identify themselves, a bunch of other white male assholes can now try cosplaying as federal agents.  At least some of the detentions made by immigration officials are legitimate.  But the fake guys: actual, no-doubt-about-it kidnappings, with the potential for extortion, theft, assault, rape, even murder. 

All the while real police stand around and watch… and may even help.  We’re already seeing the inevitable: reports of fake ICE agents committing crimes are popping up with grim regularity.  Commenting on a case in Houston this week, ICE released a statement: 

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers and agents are highly trained and dedicated professionals who are sworn to uphold the law, protect the American people and support U.S. national security interests. ICE strongly condemns the impersonation of its officers or agents. This action is not only dangerous, but illegal. Imposters can be charged with various criminal offenses both at the state/local level, as well as federally (under 18 USC 912).

Yeah, right.  Actual cops need a badge, an ID, and a warrant.  And they’re not hiding behind masks.  Judge, lawyers, journalists… they’re not anonymous, and they do things that could get the bad guys mad at them.  But ICE?  They won’t identify themselves, which of course would make impersonating them considerably harder, but they’ll charge you with assault of law enforcement if you fight back.  They’re scum.  Literally every one of them, starting at the top.  As Curmie wrote during the 45 regime, “why else would anyone want to join a notoriously brutal, racist, self-important organization if not to be, well, brutal, racist, and self-important?”  Hat tip to the Dodgers for throwing them out.

Oh, there’s another non-baseball story about the Dodgers: they’re pledging $1 million to families affected by ICE raids.  Sure, it’s virtue-signaling and showboating.  And yes, they can afford it.  But underscoring the sadism, mendacity, and criminality of ICE… that’s not a bad thing.

 

Trump’s Birthday Parade and Stopping the End Run

Yes, this is photoshopped.
But it wouldn’t be funny if it weren’t close to the truth.

Curmie’s father played football in high school.  One of his favorite stories of that time nearly a century ago was about the end of the big rivalry game.  His team was down by four points as time was running out.  They did get the ball back, though, so they weren’t out of the game yet, even if they needed a touchdown and had 80 yards or so to get to the endzone.

That’s when the coach told them to run an end run, with Curmie’s dad and his cousin as the lead blockers, on literally every play until the other team stopped them for less than four yards.  A dozen or so plays later, they scored what turned out to be the winning touchdown with about a minute left on the clock.  If a play works, use it again.

Almost exactly five years ago, on Juneteenth, 2020—we’re talking peak COVID time—President Trump held a rally in Tulsa.  As usual, he crowed about the huge number of ticket requests… but the actual turnout left two thirds of the seats empty.  How did that happen?  Well, it was a combination: utter incompetence by whatever staffers were assigned front-of-house duties, and a bit of fun from Tik-Tok Teens and K-Pop Stans, who apparently ordered hundreds of thousands of free tickets they never had any intention of using. 

Curmie wrote about the story at the time.  Of course, having actually done some house management, Curmie also enumerated several different ways of preventing embarrassing situations like this.  Always the educator, is Curmie.  But Curmie had always been blessed by students who could out-think a kumquat.  Not so, this time.

By now, Gentle Reader, you’ve figured out what this essay is about—the paltry turnout for Trump’s most recent vanity project, that absurd parade—and what those first two paragraphs were about: the TikTok-ers are baaaaaaack, using precisely the same scheme as they’d used in Tulsa.

Curmie doesn’t approve of the subterfuge, but he does chuckle at the apparent inability of Trump to hire anyone whose name isn’t Stormy Daniels who is even remotely competent at their job.  Folks who say they’re from Canada or Australia or wherever claim to have gone online and ordered multiple tickets, some of them under crude or ironic names.  Oops, they couldn’t go.  Some of the confessions may be fake, and one might suspect that inclement weather may have affected turnout to some degree, but there is no question that the parade was not merely costly and boring, but also under-attended. 

Exact numbers for the turnout are impossible, of course, but Barbara Comstock posted that Newsmax, which makes Fox News look like leftist propaganda (that’s Curmie’s description, not hers), estimated about 10,000 attendees; she then added that the parade was “a huge waste of our military $$$ when the world is on fire…”  Curmie tried but failed to confirm Newsmax’s reporting, but Comstock is a former Republican Congresscritter, so she’d be unlikely to misrepresent the right-wing press. 

The place was damned near empty.  Asmodeus Naggoob posted on X that “AOC and Bernie would draw more people with thumb wrestling alone, lol.”  Part of that is, no doubt, attributable to… erm… running the same play until the other guys stop it.

But apparently the organizers’ incompetence stretched well beyond their amply demonstrated inability to learn anything from the Tulsa debacle.  Amanda Moore posted, “The marketing material said the entrance was on 14, but in reality it was on 12 St and you had to go through this pen for two blocks. Everyone who was around to answer questions was an asshole, too. Probably part of the issue!”  There are a host of other comments about poor planning and lack of crowd management.  Starting early to avoid thunderstorms also complicated things: it’s understandable and indeed appropriate in terms of safety, but problematic logistically because apparently some people didn’t make it through the barricades until the parade was over. 

That may have worked out OK for the prospective parade-goers, as the event itself was apparently a world-class snoozefest.  Numerous photos and videos show Trump and most of the people around him nodding off or nearly doing so. 

But let’s get one thing straight about that parade.  No one objects to recognizing the manifold contributions the Army and the other branches of the military have made to this country’s welfare, and having a celebration on the 250^th anniversary of the founding of the Continental Army seems an entirely appropriate time to do so.  We might not approve of everything the military has done, but that is almost never the fault of the troops themselves.  And there are still some vets out there who were on the front lines against actual Nazis: anyone who disrespects them will have Curmie to deal with. 

The ceremonies planned by the Biden administration were pretty much what the occasion called for, but, being pathologically incapable of doing otherwise, Trump turned the event into a vulgar, expensive (estimates just to repair damage to the streets from running tanks over them run to $12,000,000), narcissistic display that was one part cheap theme park and two parts North Korea.  This wasn’t a celebration of the anniversary that happened to fall on Trump’s birthday; it was a birthday celebration of Trump that used a coincidence to pretend it wasn’t really a tacky glorification of Dear Leader.  

It was in recognition of what was about to happen in DC that the day was chosen for the nation-wide “No Kings” protests, which organizers say attracted over 13 million participants.  Curmie is not so naïve that he believes that number without a raised eyebrow, but even the most conservative estimates put the turnout at or near eight figures.  The ratio of protesters to parade-goers is probably somewhere around 1000:1.

Part of that is because the Trump administration couldn’t stop the end run.  In either sense of the term.

Euripides Was a Keen Observer of Life in the Trump Regime

Euripides (480-406 BCE)

Curmie has been thinking about Euripides of late.  He’s spent an entire career as a theatre historian; forgive him, please.  This page attracts a pretty intelligent and well-educated readership, if Curmie does say so himself.  Still, the chances are that few readers of this piece know much about Euripides except that he was the fifth-century BCE Athenian tragedian who wrote Medea.  A handful of you will know The Trojan Women or The Bacchae.  Beyond those three plays, however, if you’re not someone specifically interested in classics or theatre history, you’re likely to be a little out of your element.

That, of course, is fine.  There are plenty of topics about which Curmie has a superficial understanding but you, Gentle Reader, are an authority.  That’s the way complex cultures and economies work.  So please allow Curmie to discuss three of Euripides’ lesser-known plays—Electra, Orestes, and Iphigenia in Aulis—and attempt to relate them to current events. 

All three of these tragedies are about the story of the House of Atreus.  Here are the basics of the story.  Helen (subsequently “of Troy”) was the most beautiful woman in all of Greece, and she attracted more suitors than you could shake the proverbial stick at.  Her father, Tyndareos, the king of Sparta, made the radical determination that rather than arrange a marriage of political convenience for his daughter, he would allow her to choose her own husband.  All of the suitors were required to swear on their honor that should Helen be abducted, they would immediately join forces to return her to the husband she chose.  She chooses Menelaus, from the royal family of Mycenae, over his older brother Agamemnon, the great warrior Achilles, and others.  Agamemnon subsequently marries Helen’s sister, Clytemnestra.  

And we jump ahead a few years, at which time the Trojan prince Paris shows up on the scene and takes Helen back to his homeland; sources differ as to whether Helen was abducted or whether she went voluntarily.  In any case, Agamemnon leads the military operation designed to bring Helen back to Greece and to Menelaus.

On their way to Troy, the expedition stops at the port town of Aulis.  Unfortunately, one of Agamemnon’s men kills a deer that was sacred to the goddess Artemis.  Goddesses don’t take such affronts lightly, and it soon becomes clear that the expedition will be unable to leave Aulis unless Agamemnon sacrifices his own daughter, Iphigenia.  But, Gentle Reader, you’ve already figured out that one way or another Iphigenia is going to end up in Aulis for there to be a play title like that.

After considerable soul-searching and a couple of changes of direction, Agamemnon sends a message to Clytemnestra to bring Iphigenia to Aulis, where she will supposedly marry the heroic Achilles.  When the mother and daughter arrive, they are made aware of the real reason they were summoned, and it isn’t for a wedding.  And then there’s a scene with Achilles.  He’s outraged, of course, but not for any kind of noble or even empathetic reason.  He’s mad because he wasn’t consulted!  He might have gone along with the ruse, you see, but now he is “nothing and nobody in the eyes of the army chiefs.” 

A couple minutes later, he’s afraid of “foolish scandal,” but, perhaps realizing he’s coming off as a colossal dickhead (whatever the Greek word for that might be), he produces a bit of braggadocio: “Oh may I die if I mock you in this / And only live if I shall save the girl.”  Needless to say, he’s alive at the end of the play, having capitulated to the demands of the rest of the army.  Iphigenia, of course, is sent to the sacrificial altar.  (There’s a version of the ending by which Iphigenia is miraculously swept away by the gods and replaced by a deer, but that’s likely a later emendation, and even if she indeed saved, it has nothing to do with Achilles.)

Perhaps, Gentle Reader, you might know of, say, a political leader who thinks of nothing but himself while pretending to be a caring and heroic leader, who makes tough guy promises he cannot or will not keep, and who has a tendency to back down when someone calls his bluff.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.  But, as they say in the late-night infomercials, “Wait, that’s not all!”  Between Achilles’ promise to defend Iphigenia and his craven betrayal of her, there’s a choral ode.

The chorus, young women of nearby Calchis, who have been fan-girling over the Greek fleet, especially the hunky Achilles (well, I gotta admit that’s one way the parallel gets more than a little strained) through the earlier parts of the play, have just heard Achilles’ claim that he will defend Iphigenia and “be on watch—like a sentinel.” And their ode?  Well, here’s a sampling: “But you, Iphigenia, upon your head / And on your lovely hair / Will the Argives wreathe a crown / For sacrifice. / You will be brought down from the caves / Like a heifer, red, white, unblemished, / And like a bloody victim / They will slash your throat.” 

Iphigenia is going to die.  Those chorus lasses aren’t buying Achilles’ bullshit.  Sort of like the most recent polling data from Quinnipiac suggests about that other guy, who is underwater in literally every area.  The only difference is that the chorus figured out in minutes what it took middle-of-the-road voters months to realize.  Oh, of course there are the true believers, who, like Iphigenia herself, make excuses for the cowardly pseudo-hero.  Iphigenia willingly sacrifices her life to defeat her nation’s enemies.  Today’s pale imitations are willing to endure financial hardship and loss of liberties because their blustering idol hates the same people they do.

Let’s jump ahead in the story line.  The Greeks do indeed go to Troy, and after a decade of combat, they win through the stratagem of the Trojan horse.  Clytemnestra, meanwhile, has never forgiven Agamemnon for the sacrifice of Iphigenia.  She starts shacking up with Agamemnon’s cousin (and mortal enemy… long story), Aegisthus.  When Agamemnon returns home from Troy, they kill him within minutes of his arrival.

And now we jump ahead again.  Orestes, Agamemnon’s and Clytemnestra’s young son, has been smuggled out of the palace by a loyal tutor and raised in the household of the king of Phocis.  Electra, Orestes’s sister, was married off to a peasant farmer in Euripides’ Electra (she was held captive in the palace in other versions), presumably so any offspring would be less than noble.  The play is set outside her humble abode.

This turns out to be extremely important.  This is the only story line for which we have complete or nearly complete versions by all three of the great Athenian tragedians.  All three, of course, tell the tale of Orestes and Electra exacting vengeance on Clytemnestra and Aegisthus in their father’s name.  There are differences in detail: which sibling is the protagonist, which of the victims dies first, and so on.  But the setting seems to be the most important difference in Euripides’ play. 

The opening speech is given to the peasant, who assures the audience that he recognizes Electra’s nobility and has therefore not had sex with her despite their marriage.  But Clytemnestra is summoned to attend her daughter while Electra gives birth.  Clytemnestra has hardly been an admirable parent, but tradition demands that she attend the birth of her grandchild.  In other words, she unknowingly places herself in danger by doing the right thing. 

If, Gentle Reader, you’re seeing a parallel to what’s happening today, you’re not alone.  Immigrants are showing up to routine hearings about routine renewals of work permits, or asylum hearings, or even meetings for what they believed would be a final step towards citizenship, only to be arrested by ICE, or DHS, or the SS, or whatever other craven assholes with assault rifles happened to be handy.  They’re doing the right thing, and that is what leads to their detainment.  True, their fate isn’t quite as bad as Clytemnestra’s—not immediately, at least.  But their crimes are a lot less severe, too, and many are getting precisely the same amount of due process that she got: none.

Sure, some of those folks are probably not the best of human beings, but if that “man or bear” meme from last year were re-formulated as “ICE agent or ‘illegal alien,’” Curmie is trusting the latter ten times out of ten.  Be it noted: recent protests against ICE-induced violence, agents’ anonymity, and denial of due process isn’t “in favor of illegal aliens” or some other bullshit, any more than sympathy for Palestinians in Gaza is anti-Semitic, or supporting our most vulnerable populations is communistic (in fact, it’s a helluva lot more Christian than literally anyone in the MAGA crowd).

But revenons à nos moutons: however righteous they might believe their cause to be, Electra and Orestes are, in Euripides’ play, pretty horrible people.  And Clytemnestra, for all her faults, is still the victim here. 

And so we move on through the story line.  In the best-known version of the aftermath of the killings of Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, Aeschylus’s Eumenides, Orestes is hounded by the Furies, who view matricide as the worst of all possible crimes.  Ultimately, he is tried in Athens with Apollo as what amounts to his defense attorney.  The vote of the Areopagus is even, but the goddess Athena casts the deciding vote for mercy, while also showing respect for the Furies and urging them to bless the city.

Euripides takes us in a totally different direction in Orestes.  Orestes, his comrade Pylades, and Electra have captured Hermione, Helen’s daughter, and are holding her at sword-point atop a building.  (There’s a lot of other stuff happening, too, but this is the relevant part.)  All three of the captors are pretty well deranged at this point.  Tyndareos and Menelaus threaten the trio, and there’s no way everyone gets out of this alive… until Apollo shows up to make everything all right (including having Orestes marry his cousin Hermione) in the most deus ex machina ending in the history of deus ex machina endings.

Curmie has written about this one before.  Here’s what he said a couple of years ago:

... the deus ex machina (literally!) ending to Euripides’ Orestes has been decried by many critics as faulty dramaturgy because it is so utterly implausible. But was one of the great classical tragedians really that sloppy? Or is it just possible that we’re supposed to notice the awkwardness, that the most famous atheist of his era might just be suggesting that it’s unreasonable to expect the gods to fix our problems, that the best way out of a difficult situation is not to get into it in the first place?

And now we’re at the “I didn’t vote for this” wails of “Latinos for Trump” and similar folks who thought he only hated the people they hated, too.  Actually, you did vote for this.  You voted for a convicted felon, an adjudicated sexual predator, a narcissist who sought to overthrow an election because he didn’t like the result.  He ran on a platform of white male supremacy and Christian nationalism.  These are simply facts.

And let’s dispense with the quibbles: “those prosecutions were politically motivated” (perhaps, but the verdicts weren’t); “there shouldn’t have been 34 different counts” (so being guilty of fewer felonies is OK?); “he wasn’t convicted of rape; it was a civil trial” (seriously, that’s your argument?); “he didn’t incite the January 6 hooligans” (well, he did, but that’s an interpretation; what is objectively true is that he could have prevented it or at least lessened the damage but did nothing).  Yawn.

Unfortunately, too many voters stayed home, or were (justifiably) mad at the Democrats for covering up Biden’s mental infirmity and installing about as bad a candidate as one could imagine, all without the rank and file, or even convention delegates, having any choice in the matter.  Curmie doesn’t completely discount the idea that Elon Musk or his minions hacked voting machines, but it seems unlikely.  In other words, currently disillusioned Trump voters could have stopped this if they’d bothered to pay attention.  On the one hand, they should be applauded for figuring things out, even if it took too long.  But it’s difficult to work up too much empathy for the willfully ignorant.

So: TACO could also be an acronym for Today Achilles Chickens Out, and the women of Calchis catch on a lot sooner than today’s ex-MAGAs did.  Clytemnestra would have lived a lot longer had she not—this once, at least—played by the rules.  Apollo isn’t going to show up and solve all our problems; we’ve got to make good decisions early on to prevent disaster.

Euripides nailed it.

Note: Curmie spent over an hour formatting this piece because Blogger kept screwing up.  Getting thr text to justify never really happened without causing a different problem.  If he missed something else, he apologizes.

A Defense of Marjorie Taylor Greene. Sort Of.

 

A big bill that actually is beautiful.
Curmie wouldn’t make you look at MTG, Gentle Reader.

A little over 15 years ago, in one of the first entries on this blog, Curmie wrote this about Sarah Palin: “I think she’s reckless, amoral, self-important, and proud of her own staggering ignorance: and that’s a very nasty combination. She seeks the spotlight more than Jesse Jackson, and she’s not above being incendiary for its own sake. And… this time… she’s being attacked unfairly.”

The specific topic was an ad featuring what appeared to be gunsights on Congressional districts represented by Democrats who voted for the ACA but which the McCain/Palin ticket had carried in the ’08 presidential election.  There was a follow-up tweet with the line “don’t retreat… re-load.”  The usual leftie suspects accused her of inciting violence for using the same kind of rhetoric pols and pundits had employed for decades (at least). 

But the sights were on the districts, not the incumbent politicians.  (It is sad but coincidental that one of the Congresscritters named on the poster was Gabby Giffords, who was indeed shot a few months later by a gunman not exactly playing with a full deck.)  Curmie presented what amounted to a “stopped clock” defense of Palin.

Skip ahead a decade and a half.  The 2020s version of Palin is Marjorie Taylor Greene, she of “Jewish space lasers” fame (yes, Curmie knows that was not a direct quote, but it’s close enough) and who more recently suggested that Pope Francis’s death was an example of “Evil… being defeated by the hand of God.”  Like Palin, she’s shrill, bigoted, desperate for attention, dumber than the proverbial stack of burnt toast, and just generally the kind of person we hope our kids grow up not to be.  But, like Palin 15 years ago, she’s being slammed unfairly.  Well, sort of unfairly.

This all stems from an MTG tweet (or whatever they’re called now) in which she admits that she hadn’t read the section of the “Big, Beautiful Bill” that strips states of their ability to regulate AI, and that she would have voted against the bill had she known of that language.  The stopped clock phenomenon has seldom been so pronounced. 

MTG’s declaration is particularly significant this time around, because if she had actually done so, the House wouldn’t have passed the bill.  (Or an idea so stupid that even MTG recognizes how dumb it is would have been excised… or… well, you get the idea, Gentle Reader.) 

She writes that “We have no idea what AI will be capable of in the next 10 years and giving it free rein and tying states’ hands is potentially dangerous.”  (Curmie added that apostrophe, hoping its omission was a typo.)  She’s right, of course.  Curmie searches in vain for anything positive to say about the BBB, but this section is, perhaps, even more odious than the reverse Robin Hood stuff. 

Curmie is no fan of taking money out of the hands of the most vulnerable among us to give a huge tax break to billionaires.  Even the most conservative (in both senses of that term) estimates suggest that even after accounting for perhaps illusory economic growth, we’re talking about a 10-year dynamic deficit increase of 1.72 trillion dollars.  (The CBO says $2.4 trillion.)

But let’s go with the “smaller” number: $1,720,000,000,000.  (That’s a lot of zeroes.)  People struggle to understand how big a number that is.  The median household income in the country in 2024 was $80,020.  Spend that much money every minute of every day, and it will take almost 41 years to get to $1.72 trillion.  And Curmie has yet to see a rationale, even a spurious one, for the obscene tax breaks for people who don’t come close to needing one.

There is literally no excuse for the Republican budget… but at least it’s a budget.  When They Make Me Tsar™, anyone introducing anything into a budget bill that isn’t about budget will be horse-whipped.  If it’s something as awful as capitulating to the techbros or interfering with courts’ ability to hold government officials in contempt, it will also include kneecapping.  (Note: the holding-in-contempt bit isn’t as bad as the leftie commentariat would have us believe—go figure, right?—but it’s bad enough.)

But revenons à nos moutons.  Of course, the lefties pounced on Greene’s confession.  Among those leading the charge was Rep. Eric Swalwell, who responded to Greene’s tweet with the following endearment: “You have one job. To. Read. The. Fucking. Bill.”  You remember Swalwell, don’t you, Gentle Reader?  The partisan hack (yes, the Dems have them, too) who was accused a few years ago of having a romantic/sexual relationship with an alleged Chinese spy? 

Swalwell’s fellow California Democrat Ted Lieu chimed in with “I read the AI provision, that’s one reason I voted no on the GOP’s big, ugly bill. Also, ICYMI, the bill also has the largest cut to healthcare in U.S. history. PRO TIP: It’s helpful to read stuff before voting on it.” 

Damned near every left-leaning pundit joined the party.  Curmie counted five different articles just on HuffPost. (He’s not going to link them; you can get there on your own, Gentle Reader.)   Were they right to try to humiliate MTG?  Yes.  And no.

First off, Curmie has got 20 bucks that says that both Swalwell and Lieu have voted on bills they haven’t read in their entirety, and they probably voted for a bill they didn’t read all the way through.  The distinction here is that if there’s something on page 6 that’s so horrible you couldn’t possibly vote for the bill, you can stop reading, at least until there’s an amendment to cut the offending provision.  But if you’re tempted to vote for a bill, you’ve got to read the whole thing, lest there be something on, say, pages 278-79 (to pick page numbers completely at random, of course) that would make you change your mind.

Second, the BBB is over 1100 pages long.  True, that’s with big fonts and lots of white space, but even someone who reads pretty quickly would still take over a day to read the whole thing with any care.

Third, MTG is being pummeled for doing the right thing.  In this case, it’s admitting a mistake and trying to fix the damage.  But it’s easy to expand that concept into, say, going to a check-in with immigration officials only to be walking into a trap.  Curmie hopes to follow up on this idea in a future post.

Fourth, and this may be the most important point: it’s easy to miss things.  Curmie’s Beloved Spouse works in the financial aid office of a university.  She reports that her professional organization, the National Association of Student Financial Aid Administrators, only recently (apparently after the House vote) noticed that the BBB eliminates subsidized student loans, meaning that students would start paying interest on loans the second the ink is dry instead of upon graduation.  The NASFAA folks aren’t incompetent; they just missed it.

This kind of thing happens all the time.  Curmie just finished a draft of an article he hopes to publish in a theatre studies journal.  His argument centers on his belief that in quoting one sentence of an unpublished document, two rightfully well-respected scholars erred in failing to recognize the significance of the succeeding two sentences, thereby leaping to a conclusion unproven by the facts. 

Finally, where were the Democrats and the allegedly leftie press?  Curmie knew that no argument would sway his own spineless and dim-witted Congresscritter from prostrating himself at the feet of Dear Leader, so he relied on news and opinion pieces rather than poring over the bill himself.  He did, however, read dozens of stories about the BBB.  And when did he become aware of this particular obscene provision?  When Marjorie Taylor Greene wrote about it.  Congressman Lieu has indeed been an advocate of regulating AI, but Curmie can find no references to his objections to this part of the BBB until after MTG’s tweet. 

To be fair, there were some articles published prior to the House vote, such as this one from the AP.  But Democratic leaders certainly didn’t make much noise about this provision, and Republicans went out of their way to avoid talking about the bill at all, especially after the evisceration of a few of their number by constituents at town halls.  Was Curmie’s ignorance about the AI proposal until MTG’s reversal excusable?  Perhaps not, but it’s certainly explainable.

If you are reading the blog, Gentle Reader, you are likely to believe that one of the few times Elon Musk has told the truth in this calendar year was in describing the BBB as an “disgusting abomination.” Anyone who voted for the BBB or will do so in the future is at least one, and probably more than one, of the following: an idiot, a sociopath, or a coward.  This person should be removed from office (legally, non-violently) as soon as possible.  That certainly includes Marjorie Taylor Greene, who is perhaps the dimmest bulb in the less-than-brilliant Congressional firmament. 

Yes, she was apparently fine with all the other intentionally cruel, fiscally irresponsible, and authoritarian aspects of the proposed legislation.  She is indeed a strong contender for the less-than-coveted title of America’s Most Embarrassing Legislator (Curmie almost said “Politician,” but the Executive branch has that title sewn up for the near term).  But admitting her error and probably getting one of the worst parts of an overall awful bill cut doesn’t warrant this level of vitriol.

Elon Musk, by ChatGPT, in the Style of Curmie

Curmie has two almost-finished essays that just need another few minutes of work, but he can’t seem to push either of them over the finish line.  So he figured he’d just follow the crowd and, you know, Gentle Reader, cheat.  Well, he’s telling you that he’s cheating, so that makes it a little better, one supposes.

A few days ago, one of Curmie’s friends posted something on Facebook about how much better those AI sites are at, well, virtually everything than they were even a year ago.  He posted something that had been written by AI but read a whole lot like my friend’s voice.  It all made Curmie rather glad he’s re-retired and doesn’t have to try to figure out if students are actually doing the work or just feeding the assignment into a chatbot and waiting 15 seconds.

It also made Curmie curious.  Are these sites as good (or as terrifying, as the case may be) as his friend suggests?  Yes, there are serious problems of ethics and accuracy (AI has a marked tendency to make shit up), but how advanced is the language feature?  Time for a little experiment.  Curmie went to ChatGPT and asked for an essay on Elon Musk in the style of one of his own blog posts: the one on that profoundly insecure group chat about an imminent military mission.  Here’s the result.

Elon Musk: The World’s Richest Troll

Let’s get something straight right off the bat: trying to keep up with Elon Musk’s antics is like trying to staple Jell-O to a ceiling fan. Every time you think you’ve seen peak Musk, he one-ups himself with a half-baked meme, a bizarre business decision, or a tweet (excuse me, X-post) about how humanity will be living on Mars by 2032, despite the fact that he can’t seem to get Teslas to stop spontaneously combusting in mall parking lots.

At this point, one has to wonder: is Musk a genius playing 4D chess while the rest of us are still figuring out checkers, or is he a chaotic tech-bro who stumbled into a fortune and now spends his time cosplaying as a Bond villain with a Twitter account? Curmie (yeah, let’s go ahead and borrow that name—it fits the vibe) leans toward the latter.

We know that Musk bought Twitter for a frankly ridiculous $44 billion—because when you have that kind of cash lying around, why not purchase a dumpster fire and pour gasoline on it? Since then, he’s fired half the staff, alienated advertisers, and rebranded the platform as “X,” a name so meaningless it makes “Meta” sound like a stroke of branding genius. There’s also the small matter of boosting free speech while banning journalists and any account that dares to track his private jet. Free speech for me, but not for thee.

But Musk’s incompetence (or indifference, or megalomania—it’s honestly hard to tell anymore) isn’t confined to social media. There’s SpaceX, which admittedly has done some cool stuff, like launching a car into space for no practical reason whatsoever. And then there’s Tesla, a company so riddled with quality-control issues it’s basically the tech world’s answer to the Ford Pinto, only with autopilot.

Speaking of autopilot: fun fact, it isn’t one. You’d think that minor detail would be clear in the user manual, or at least in the ads, but apparently it’s up to the driver to guess when the car will decide to aim for a median at 80 mph. But hey, it’s electric, so at least you’ll die sustainably.

And let’s not forget Musk’s hobby of making sweeping promises about brain chips, hyperloops, and underground traffic tunnels that totally aren’t going to become a claustrophobic hellscape when someone inevitably breaks down inside one. Curmie remembers the good old days when tech moguls stuck to overpriced software and left the sci-fi megalomania to movies starring Jeff Goldblum.

The thing is, Musk has so thoroughly convinced a segment of the population that he’s the savior of humanity that they’ll gleefully pay for a blue checkmark, defend his honor in Reddit threads, and pretend that Dogecoin isn’t a joke that got out of hand. Meanwhile, the actual adults in the room—engineers, regulators, and people with working frontal lobes—are left to clean up the wreckage of his impulsive decisions.

In the end, whether Elon Musk is a misunderstood visionary or just a rich guy playing SimCity with the global economy is irrelevant. What matters is that he’s driving the bus, it’s on fire, and he’s live-tweeting the whole thing. Buckle up.

Um… wow.  Yes, Curmie would enjoy having a beer with this particular AI manifestation.  But we’re already pretty much in “I’m sorry, Dave.  I’m afraid I can’t do that” territory.  Curmie will, however, continue to write (and think) for himself.  And all future Curmie posts will be written by… Curmie.

In the words of Ionesco’s Bérenger, “Je ne capitule pas.”

Proving the Relevance of "The Crucible"... by Cancelling It

The Offending Scene... we think

Administrators censor high school plays in many different ways.  Sometimes it’s refusal to put a show on the schedule; sometimes it’s butting into the design process; sometimes it’s shutting a production down during tech week or after a single performance; sometimes it’s firing a teacher/director for doing a show the administration had signed off on.  What’s consistent is that the school officials seldom if ever admit they screwed up, even if they do reverse themselves under nationwide or even international ridicule.

There have been, no doubt, dozens of cases over the past few years that Curmie missed… but there are a fair number he’s chronicled here.  In chronological order (in order of Curmie’s posts, not necessarily when stuff happened): Kismet in PA, Legally Blonde in OH, All Shook Up in UT, Almost, Maine in NC and Spamalot in PA, Indecent in FL, The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee in OH, The Addams Family Musical in PA, and Dog Sees God in CA and The Laramie Project in AZ… and now The Crucible in GA.

What’s particularly intriguing about this one is that no one is really sure why the show was cancelled after a single performance.  Or, rather, the only thing we know with any certainty is that someone, almost certainly the school’s administration, is flat-out lying. 

Curmie tends to learn about these incidents through one of three sources, all of whom have written about this one: Howard Sherman, Chris Peterson at the OnStage blog, and Jack Marshall at Ethics Alarms.  (Curmie hasn’t contributed as much as a comment on EA for months since it took a hard turn from its titular ethics orientation to GOP propaganda, but he suspected that Jack might weigh in on this one.) 

Here’s what we know for sure: a production of Arthur Miller’s McCarthyism-inspired play was scheduled for two performances at Fannin County High School in Blue Ridge, Georgia, and was cancelled after opening night.  We know, also, that the original director (a teacher?) was fired/forced to resign a couple of weeks before the show was to open, leaving a high school student in charge.  This much is about as far as we can go without fear of propagating untruths.  Well, there’s one more thing that we’ll get to in a moment, Gentle Reader…

We do have the school’s official statement on the affair.  Officials claim that “after Friday night’s performance of The Crucible, we received several complaints as to an unauthorized change in the script of the play.  Upon investigation, we learned that the performance did not reflect the original script.”  The likelihood that the school’s statement is an outright lie may be a little short of ontological certitude, but it’s pretty damned close.

You will notice, Gentle Reader, that no specifics about the alleged violation are forthcoming.  The students say they didn’t add, delete, or change any words, and there has been no assertion to the contrary by the administration.  That, one suspects, is because such a statement could too easily be shot down.  Better to leave it open-ended and hope the opposition—in this case, the students—admits to something. 

Well, that happened… sort of.  The production did open with a scene of the girls dancing in the woods, enacting a moment that was only narrated in the script.  One might suppose that you could argue that the scene represents a change in the script, but it’s pretty much of a stretch.  It’s only fair to point out that Jack Marshall writes that a director at the American Century Theater (where Marshall was Artistic Director) wanted to do precisely what the Fannin County students did, but was refused by both Dramatists Play Service and Arthur Miller himself.  There’s no reason to doubt this testimony, but professional and amateur contracts are different (Curmie has handled both), and things may be different since Miller’s death 20 years ago. 

Curmie, who directed about 50 educational theatre productions over six different decades, confesses he would never have even considered the possibility that he’d need permission to stage that scene… and he’s asked permission for a lot of trivial changes: changing “God dammit” to just “Dammit” for a production at a church-related college, changing the title of a Greek tragedy to the one we’d been using in publicity for the new season before deciding on a translation that used a less common Anglicization of the title, and so on.

More to the point, perhaps: Curmie has read, taught, and seen The Crucible multiple times, and he wouldn’t have caught the alleged departure from the text, or at least wouldn’t have thought it noteworthy in legal terms.  He might have been skeptical of the aesthetic choice, but that’s a different matter.  And you’re going to tell me that not one, but several, spectators at a high school production in a tiny town in northern Georgia caught that supposed breach of contract and were sufficiently incensed that they called the principal that night?  And that the “investigation” took only a couple of hours?  Curmie detects a distinct whiff of eau de cow pasture.

It’s also important to point out that terms like “as written” in licensing agreements not only need not, but literally cannot mean that literally everything in the staging must be exactly as prescribed.  Acting editions differ from published editions.  The latter version is what the playwright wrote; the former is generally transcribed by the stage manager of the original production.  Thus, for example, a character may be described physically according to what the actor in the Broadway show looked like; Broadway Licensing isn’t going to come after you if the “beautiful blonde” of a script is played by a beautiful redhead (or a beautiful Latina, Asian, or black woman, for that matter) unless there’s something in the script that demands that she be blonde.

Curmie remembers seeing a production of The Crucible performed in the round.  So what?  Well, the opening stage direction in the acting edition says “One emphatic source of light is at the left.”  There is no left or right in arena staging.  Is DPS going to forbid all but proscenium productions?  Of course not; they make their money, and their clients’ money, by getting as many legitimate productions as they can.  Some discretion is mandatory.  (Note also that the opening sequence in the acting edition is considerably more detailed than in the regular published form.)

The situation is aggravated by the fact that, according to Howard Sherman, two different parents contacted Broadway Licensing (now the parent company of Dramatists Play Service), and both were told that the licensing company did not shut the production down and would have been very unlikely to have done so, especially if the opening scene were removed.  You can hear both ends of one of those conversations here.  (We’ll casually avoid talking about the ethics and legalities of recording a phone conversation without the consent of the other person on the line.)

Sherman reports that students were initially told that the second performance was cancelled because of parental complaints that the show was “evil and disgusting and things like that.”  Fannin County is almost too stereotypical a place for this to happen: rural (not many county seats in the country with fewer than 1300 residents), overwhelmingly white (93% white and not Hispanic/Latino), overwhelmingly Christian, especially Protestant (over half the county’s congregations are Southern Baptist); MAGA (Donald Trump got over 82% of the vote in the ’24 election).  It is, in other words, precisely the kind of place where brie-eating, Chablis-sipping, clove-cigarette-smoking elitists (or, indeed, anyone with a little knowledge of the world) would suspect the locals would get their collective skivvies in a twist over a high school production of an American classic.

And then, as if by magic, the complaint changed to a strained argument about production rights.  Oh, by the way, Caden Gerald, who played the leading role of John Proctor, says in a video posted to Facebook that administrators saw the scene in question “every morning that we ran it.”

Curmie finds it difficult to argue with Chris Peterson’s conclusion that the administration “didn’t stop the play to protect a license. They stopped it to quiet the backlash. They threw their students under the bus for the sake of avoiding Facebook drama.” 

Someone is lying.  All the students, their parents, and two customer service reps from DPS… or a chickenshit principal (the usual apologies for redundancy).  That seems like an easy call to Curmie. 

But there’s one more point to make.  Even if the administration is telling the truth, they are still 100% responsible for the fuck-up and for the nation-wide embarrassment wrought upon their school.  Let’s assume for the sake of argument that it was appropriate to fire the original director, and that there are legitimate reasons for not making the details known.  Let’s assume, also, that the students are lying about administrators’ seeing rehearsals, about being told the play was shut down because of content complaints, and about the administration only discovering (as opposed to announcing) the alleged violation two days after cancelling the second night.

It’s still the school’s fault.  It is the responsibility of the school, not of a high school senior, to comply with the licensing agreement.  In the absence of a responsible adult director, the school had an obligation to ensure that someone in a position to speak for the school be able to sign off on the production’s adherence to the licensing agreement.  If someone from the school saw even a single rehearsal, it was that person’s responsibility to ask the simple question, “did you change anything?”  If Caden Gerald is lying, and no one from the administration saw any rehearsals, they bloody well should have.

The Crucible remains in the canon and on stages throughout the country because it speaks to conditions far beyond colonial Massachusetts or even mid-century hysteria about the Red Menace.  It’s about the problems created when people abandon truth and justice in order to pander to the mob.  To say that the actions of Principal Scott Ramsey and his minions in shutting down the production is thus deeply ironic is to err on the side of understatement.