Falstaff Redux

by Matias Travieso-Diaz

[I wish] to sketch the characters in a few strokes, to weave the plot,
to extract all the juice from that enormous Shakespearian orange. — Giuseppe Verdi

The tyrant was indeed corpulent. Decades of gorging on junk foods, drinking beer, and limiting his exercise to walking around the estate he had inherited from his progenitors had left him with a rotund shape and an unhealthy pallor that he sought to disguise with colorful face paints. He was also going bald and tried to cover up his condition by wearing a shiny wig that made it appear as if an exotic bird had landed on his head.

Despite his physical shortcomings, Mr. Pancione (or “Mr. P.” as he liked to be called) was endowed with boundless vanity and a voracious appetite for money, women, and fame, all of which he pursued avidly. He was despised by many, idolized by others, and ignored only by the few who could afford to do so.

Mr. P had been blessed with an inordinate supply of luck that relieved him from having to pay for his misdeeds. Thus, the latest woman to accuse him of rape had died under mysterious circumstances on the eve of a trial that might have landed him in jail, and the case had to be dismissed for lack of sufficient evidence.

Along similar lines, he had been convicted of several racketeering crimes but never served a day because his sentencing got delayed past the election that elevated him to the highest office in Barataria. And that election had not resulted in the rejection of his candidacy because two of his political opponents destroyed each other in a smear-filled campaign, leaving the field open for Mr. P’s party to win the election and elevate him to become supreme leader of the country.

Once he assumed his preeminent position, Mr. P proceeded to satisfy his ambitions to the greatest extent possible. He had his political opponents jailed or exiled, confiscated the assets of those who disagreed with him, and turned the public treasury into his private piggy bank. He dissolved or put in the hands of his minions all the government agencies, seized control of the armed forces, emasculated the courts, persecuted the intellectual and artistic communities, and transformed the educational system into an indoctrination vehicle.

But he was not content and became increasingly morose. “I have nothing left to accomplish. I need a new way to share my genius with the world. I would like to learn to play an instrument: a piano, a guitar or a lute, a violin... but my fingers are too fat, and I have a tin ear. But perhaps I could try acting?” he mused aloud as he munched on a greasy hamburger.

“Sir, you would be the greatest actor to ever grace the stage!” beamed one of his sycophants.

“But what role would suit me?” continued Mr. P. “I am somewhat limited by my age and the need to project a dignified, yet powerful image before the audience.”

“Perhaps something by Shakespeare?” offered another sycophant.

“Yeah, that would be great. But what hero would fit my persona?”

“Hamlet!” suggested one.

“No, too young. I have to be credible,” demurred Mr. P.

“Othello,” cried another.

“Wrong color,” dismissed the ruler.

“Julius Caesar!!” enthused a third.

“Nooo!” vetoed the tyrant. “He gets stabbed to death in the Senate. Let’s not put ideas in people’s minds.”

“How about Sir John Falstaff?” asked a fourth, a notorious bookworm.

“Never heard of him,” replied Mr. P. “Who was he?”

“An important character that appears in three of Shakespeare’s plays. Among other things, he is the companion of Prince Hal, the future great King Henry V of England,” replied the bookworm.

“Does he have any good lines?”

“Many,” replied the bookworm. “For example: ‘The better part of valor is discretion, in which better part I have saved my life.’”

“What does he look like?”

Realizing he was treading on thin ice, the bookworm took a moment to answer. “He is corpulent, but manly and well-spoken.”

“But is he the main character?” challenged Mr. P.

Another of the tyrant’s underlings cut in: “Isn’t Falstaff the main character in some opera?”

Thankful for the interruption, the bookworm answered quickly: “Yes, he has the title role in Verdi’s last and greatest opera, Falstaff. He is at the center of all the action.”

“Opera, eh?” chortled the tyrant. “I can’t even carry a tune.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t need to,” shot back the bookworm. “You could lip-sync the lines.”

“Interesting,” commented Mr. P. “Let’s think about it.”

* * *

Several of Mr. P’s advisors recommended against his appearing in a performance of Falstaff. “There are too many opportunities for failure and embarrassment,” opined one. “Falstaff is a pitiful character, and your associating with him would be detrimental to your image,” warned another. A third one, either through indiscretion or in a secret attempt to goad him into action, suggested: “One thing is to appear on television and another to stand and act for two or three hours. You may not have the stamina or the ability to go through with it.”

Mr. P dismissed the comments with a single wave of the hand: “I am the greatest orator this country has ever seen. Give me a microphone, and I can do anything.” He felt his greatness was being challenged and set out to prove the naysayers wrong.

The National Opera was given the assignment through an order from Mr. P, who had assumed the reins of all state-sponsored artistic events in Barataria, to prepare a revised version of Falstaff sung in English by an all-star cast and headed by an Australian baritone who would sing offstage while Mr. P. acted and lip-synched the lines of the title role. The plot had to be modified significantly to remove some sequences that could prove embarrassing, but the self-assured, bigger than life image of Sir John Falstaff — and Mr. P, — shone through.

The performance of a modified version of the opera was a mixed bag. The singers — particularly the offstage lead baritone — were quite accomplished; the sets — a series of semi-abstract renditions of a medieval village — were eye-catching, and the orchestra played with verve.

The only discordant notes were the motions of the main character, who pranced around the stage as if haranguing the masses at a political rally. Also, his gestures and facial expressions, exaggerated to the point of caricature, elicited hushed titters throughout the house.

A climax of sorts was reached at the end of Act II, when the amorous Falstaff was close to being discovered by the husband of one of the women he was trying to seduce. As her consort approached, the lady directed Falstaff to hide in a dirty linen basket and had him dumped into the river.

Mr. P flailed his arms frantically and opened and closed his mouth, trying to imitate a submerged man rising to the water’s surface; as he did so, the entire theater burst into an explosion of laughter and, somehow, a single voice rose above the hubbub: “Drown, you bastard!” The curtain fell precipitously to curb the avalanche of imprecations that followed.

The last act provided additional instances of Falstaff’s humiliation. Then, as the opera ended, all the other characters laughed at Falstaff. In response he sang, and Mr. P. enunciated with obvious glee, “I am not only witty myself, but am the cause of wit in other men.” And, in fact, as the final curtain fell, everyone was happy: the tyrant, at what he perceived as his triumph as a thespian; and the performers, musicians and the audience, all making fun of the tyrant’s self-conceit.

* * *

How Mr. P’s ultimate demise occurred is a tale for another story. His passing was lamented by some, applauded by others, and quickly forgotten by the vast majority of the population, whose amnesia would pave the way for another sad clown to appear and inflict a fresh cycle of woes upon Barataria’s population.