The rodent prince
AFTERTHOUGHT`
JOHN WELLS
Over the years the deathless strains and snatches of Sigmund Rhomboid's music have seeped into the cultural heritage of western civilisation like warm treacle: we allow them to pour over us, filling our ears and eyes with a nostalgic- sweet glow-glou that evokes memories of Prinz- regententorte, Apfelsinenkompott, Rhumbaba mit Schlagsahne, and all the smells of Old Vienna. How they linger on, those sugary-rich divertimenti of a vanished age—and nowhere more so than in The Rodent Prince, shortly to be revived in a 200,000-seat Astrodome near Pinner by Mr Cyrus Goldmein and his Limited Company. The brief outline of the libretto which follows appears by arrangement with Goldmein (Switzerland) Productions ltd, Bay Street, Nassau, Bahamas.
Lew Prince, aesthetic, cigar-smoking, twenty- four-stone impresario and entrepreneur, finds himself at the age of sixty-five the glamorous young heir to Totalfalia, a dream empire of spangled pleasure domes and painted palaces in a land beneath the sea. We discover him on stage at the beginning of Act 1, dressed in lemon tights, chestnut jerkin, maroon curly- toed booties and matching cowpat-style hat, with hornrimmed pebble spectacles, standing at the top of a sequinned stairway as he sings the romantic opening number, 'Money! ! ! ' The theme is taken up by a colourfully costumed chorus of theatrical agents, accountants, and income tax inspectors, who sway infectiously from side to side with arms linked, developing the idea of their patron's new-found wealth, their own delight in a degree of financial inde- pendence, and the rich revenues they confidently expect from the tinsel empire.
The song comes to a riotous climax, hats are thrown into the air, and the chorus mime ex- aggerated enthusiasm, joie de vivre, and warm mutual affection. We now meet the Lord Cham- berlain, a heavily comic figure with spindly legs and a bulbous nose, who comes to grovel before his master, and to receive the kicks and satirical abuse of the still jubilant chorus. To the accom- paniment of their ironic chant 'Tremble, the Evil Censor Comes' he then capers nimbly to and fro before the footlights, confiding to the audience in a sibilant stage whisper a series of exploits he has achieved with 'A. Little Bit of Blue'—a reference to the Blue Pencil. Insignia of Office he holds in his hand and with which he makes much phallic play. We learn that the whole economy of Totalfalia is based on the exploitation and sale of captive 'artistes,' and that merely by waving his magic pencil over
them, or at most giving them a suggestive poke with it, he can transform the most unattractive into a desirable purchase in the flesh market.
Lew Prince, called 'the Rodent' by his cour- tiers on account of the long grease-covered tail that grows from the base of his spine and trails along the ground behind him as he walks, now claps his hands, removes his cigar, and orders the captives to be brought on. The Lord Cham- berlain grovels, creeps backwards out of the Royal Presence to the somewhat mannered laughter of the chorus, who then break into tlw haunting buffo-horrific extravaganza 'The Luncheon Vultures.' Wheeling about the steps of the throne in the purple black darkness of a barely lit stage, they sing of the rich pickings and juicy cuts they are about to enjoy. The lights are brought up, there is a parodied fan- fare of trombones, and to the ironically trium- phant march 'Must the Show Go On?' a rabble of freaks in expensive rags is driven on to the stage. The chorus gathers threateningly behind them, and then hurls itself on them in a dazz- lingly choreographed massacre-orgy scene in the apache style, crowing with delight as they tear off their tattered costumes and toss them into the orchestra pit. The Rodent Prince sur- veys the scene benignly from above, and after a reprise of 'Money! ! ! ' orders his court to throw caution to the winds. The curtain falls.
Act 2 finds Totalfalia in carnival mood. The Rodent Prince has announced his inten- tion to seek out the loveliest and most bewitch- ing of all the artistes and to sell him or her to the highest bidder. Joined by the chorus he sings the light-hearted and ambiguous song 'A Lovely Little Performer,' and the Lord Cham- berlain is dispatched to lead the captives one by one before the court for auditions. The Lord Chamberlain returns, his spindly legs unsteady with grief, and one arm thrown across his eyes in a gesture of mute despair. There has been a mass escape. After years of contented clown- ing, mutual preening and lisping musical chat- ter in their mirror-walled cages, the 'artistes' have learned of other lands, far away, where money grows on trees, and, breaking their shackles and contracts, have run away. Only a few degenerate and apathetic specimens remain. The theatrical agents, accountants and income tax inspectors join the Rodent Prince in his lamentations, and with gestures of doom-laden grief he commands the tragic remnant to appear. Their arrival inspires even greater lamentations among the courtiers, and despite the frantic spells of the Lord Chamberlain, who lashes and cuts at the bemused dwarfs, idiots, children and overweight comedians with his Blue Pencil, they remain a sorry huddle of unsaleable human wreckage. In a misguided attempt to restore the Rodent Prince's spirits, scantily-clad maidens dance on the steps of the throne, scattering marbles. The Rodent Prince begins to descend, singing the tragic aria 'How's Business—Don't Ask Me!' loses his footing, and falls with in- creasing momentum down the sequinned stair-
way and disappears with a crash into the orchestra pit. Once more the curtain falls.
Act 3 begins on a note of wordless despair. Swathed in bandages, his foot supported in a weighted cradle, the Rodent Prince sees himself surrounded by a now openly hostile court, beginning already to tear feebly at his person with their grey claws. The shimmering empire of domes and palaces has decayed and they crumble deserted. The Lord Chamberlain, exhausted, performs a tragi-comic soft-shoe dance in which he debates with himself whether or not he should cease to exist. All seems black. Then, in the distance, we hear the warbling falsetto of the Fairy Queen. The Rodent Prince, theatrical agents, accountants and income tax inspectors half rise, hardly able to believe their ears. Swiftly, the Rodent Prince reminds them of the ancient myth 'Myth Who?' which says that an ancient effeminate, long ago cast out of the land for senile incontinence, would one day return to save them. The Fairy Queen enters, flanked by his elderly male dancers, and dressed in a threadbare see-thru nightie. The theatrical agents, accountants and income tax inspectors spring to their feet, seize him and carry him away to be sold, and to the rousing second re- prise of 'Money! ' and the ringing of cash registers glory returns to the land.
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