I saw The King's Speech this afternoon. Everyone should see this film, but it holds especial resonance for people who have recently lost a parent. The sheer pathos of Colin Firth as a disabled - both physically (through the speech defect) and psychologically - Duke of York speaks, if you'll pardon this use of the verb, volumes : the expressiveness and shaded vulnerability in his eyes tell of a childhood lost, years ago, and of how the decades since then have chipped away at what little remains of that confidence and innocence. In one scene, he hands Geoffrey Rush's character a shilling : payment of a somewhat trivial debt. On the shilling is the image of his father, King George V. Rush, as the drily bantery speech therapist Lionel Logue, tells "Bertie" the Duke of York, "You don't always have to carry him around with you." Strong, if ironic, words from the star of Shine - another movie about another brilliant man haunted by his father and his own childhood self.
I took away from The King's Speech a poignant lesson about selfhood in a culture of identity transmission. Firth, as Bertie, breaks down when he realizes the true burden of carrying on his father's work - in his father's absence. I suppose this idea rings especially true to me right now, as I sift through papers and try to imagine the future of this house, these musical instruments, a whole life's work … without Dad here to live it and make it meaningful. No one, I think, is ready to be King. The trick lies somewhere between the work of mourning and the process of moving forward. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, whether the crown be made of gold or clarinet reeds.
I have started a new blog, about a project I am envisioning for the year 2011. One instrument per month for twelve months. Details and a fuller description are here : The Year of Living Musically.
Please read, comment, suggest, advise, and send along practice tips.
Better yet, join me. Let's start a virtual orchestra.
