Count of Monte Cristo: Sad News and Sandwiches

NOTE: I began writing this blog before we knew that the run of Count of Monte Cristo would be cancelled, but I had too much fun writing about sandwiches for a thousand+ words to not share it with you all, and I figured that now was as good a time as any for some levity. So I’m sorry that this isn’t like a history of infectious disease and its relation to the theatre or something, sorry I couldn’t write up an essay about London theatres being closed during epidemic outbreaks or how the action of Ben Jonson’s The Alchemist is predicated on the city being emptied of its wealthiest inhabitants out of fear of the Plague. Hopefully in the future I’ll have more lead time and can put something like that together. -KH, Blogslave

Last week I shared with you all the historical context essential to the understanding of The Count of Monte Cristo, not only because it is my job to give you the audience the information that you will need to appreciate the show that my friends and I worked so hard to create for you, but also because history is one of my great passions. History is something I care about and trouble myself to understand deeply, because knowing and understanding history makes me feel connected to humanity at large. I’m a traditionalist sort of guy [sneak in to a pitch meeting some time to see just how boring, backwards and basic old-fashioned my show suggestions tend to be -KH] and the study of history gives me a comforting sense of continuity and fellowship with mankind.

This week, in an incredibly inadequate replacement for the Opening Night we were supposed to have tonight, I want to share with you another of my great passions, one about which I feel at least as strongly, and which comforts me at least as deeply, as the study of history. I am talking, of course, about sandwiches. And specifically, the Monte Cristo sandwich; what it is, how to make it, and arguably most importantly for the blog of a theatre company, what in the Sam Hill it could possibly have in common with our new show other than the name. Of all our shows in the past 9 years, this is the first time I have been able to shoehorn in a sandwich discussion [and I’ve been trying, believe-you-me -KH], and I’m certainly not going to let an opportunity like this go to waste. Please indulge me.

First things first: What is it? The Monte Cristo is one of a handful of sandwiches whose name is not self-explanatory, like Egg Salad or Beef on Weck or BLT or Turkey-Swiss Panini or Sausage Egg & Cheese McMuffin. It instead shares the cryptic naming convention of the Reuben, the Elvis, the Club, or that lovely French couple, Mr. and Mrs. Crunch themselves, the croque monsieur and croque madame. The Monte Cristo also defies simple description; it is one of the more…complicated sandwiches that I can think of, and as you might imagine from what you’ve read already I spend a lot of time thinking about sandwiches. It has three slices of bread, two kinds of meat, mandatory compression (an element shared only by the panini and archaic internet darling the Shooter’s Sandwich), egg batter, and is pan-fried [if you’re a Food Sinner it also has powdered sugar and raspberry jam -ed.] The best comparison I can make is a grilled cheese combined with a club sandwich, made with French toast.

So, second things second: how do you make it? [In case this wasn’t clear, this will indeed be one of those “three paragraphs of nonsense before the recipe” recipe. You know, those things everybody hates? But instead of being supposed to be a recipe, this is supposed to be an essay about what Monte Cristo sandwiches have to do with the Alexandre Dumas novel The Count of Monte Cristo, and We Happy Few’s adaptation thereof, so really this is the meaningless paragraph, not the previous ones -ed.] You start with the bread. Three slices, ideally brioche or something else rich and/or spongy. Like with French toast a little stale is fine, perhaps even ideal; my girlfriend taught me that in France French toast is called pain perdu, ‘lost bread’, because it is a way to use bread that you wouldn’t ordinarily eat, so dont fret about the freshness. Spread one slice with dijon mustard, then top with a slice of swiss cheese and two slices of deli turkey. If you like to mix sweet and savory, spread the next slice of bread with raspberry jam, then top with another slice of swiss cheese and two slices of ham. If you’re a good person use more dijon instead of jam. Put on the final slice of bread and smoosh it down real good. Cut off the crusts and press the edges together to seal everything in. Leave the sandwich weighted down while you prepare the batter; whisk together an egg and a splash of milk, maybe an ounce or two, and add in salt, pepper, nutmeg, and garlic. Dredge your sandwich in the batter (coat in breadcrumbs and re-dredge if you’re feeling fancy), place in a buttered frying pan over medium-low heat, cover and cook for 5 minutes. Flip and cook for 4 more, then remove and slice on the bias. If you’re anything like me both sides of the sandwich will be dark brown tending towards black but somehow the cheese won’t have melted yet; if you’re a good cook it will be golden brown and perfectly cooked through. If you used jam dust the sandwich with powdered sugar. Eat and enjoy!

Now, the real question. What does this have to do with our (cancelled) play? The name seems to be a misnomer, not used until the middle of the 20th century. It was apparently chosen because it sounded mysterious, fancy, and French-like. It did not seem to be intentionally chosen in reference to Dumas’ book, but it nevertheless has a number of similarities. The first I have already mentioned; the secret hidden by the name Monte Cristo. Just as Edmond Dantes hides his true name in order to seek his revenge, so does the sandwich conceal its ingredients behind a name. The second I have referred to as well; Monte Cristo, both for the sandwich and for Dantes himself, is a name that suggests fanciness. Dantes started as a simple sailor, and the sandwich begins with basic deli meats and old bread, but it sounds much more exotic and exciting to say “Monte Cristo” than to say “Edmond Dantes” or “Pan-fried Turkey, Ham, and Swiss Egg-Battered Sandwich with Raspberry Jam”, which we can all agree is a mouthful [but the bad kind, not the good kind, like the sandwich. -KH] The third is closely tied to the second; wealth and richness. Just as the Abbe Faria passes on the lost wealth of the Spadas to Dantes and gives him untold riches, so does the sandwich become much richer when you add the batter and fry it in butter.

There, unfortunately, we have it. Usually I would just now be swapping my Dramaturgy Chains for my Box Office Hat [MUCH prettier but, unfortunately, just as heavy. -KH] However, due to the unfortunate global outbreak of the Coronavirus we have cancelled our upcoming run of The Count of Monte Cristo. In lieu of my normal request that you purchase tickets to our upcoming show, I would instead ask that you keep yourselves safe and healthy in this uncertain time. And that, should you find yourself with excess coin after ensuring your own stability, you send a little of it our way as well. Times will be tight for us, as you might imagine, and every little bit helps us to pay our actors, designers, and technicians so we can keep making art for you.

Stay healthy, everyone. I hope to see you soon,
Keith and the team at We Happy Few

Blog in the Manger: Keep Your Distance

Welcome back, everyone. I hope you all had a lovely thanksgiving. I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that we’ve got another week of shows, starting tonight at 7:30 (including a talkback with the cast proctored by Yours Truly) and running every night until this Saturday. The bad news is that these performances will be the last of the run, we MUST close on Saturday, December 2nd. And who knows when you’ll have another chance to see a production of a Spanish Golden Age play performed, much less one of such quality by your favorite company? Run, don’t walk, over to our ticket-sales website and pick up your tickets for this weekend! Go ahead, do it now. The rest of the blog will wait.

Done? I’m glad you came back because I didn’t stop by simply to nag you all into coming to see the show. That was part of my reason for writing this, don’t get me wrong. But all stick and no carrot is no way to motivate someone, as I have repeatedly informed my superiors. Mostly they just laugh and bang the Writing Stick harder on my cage, so I doubt they’re likely to change anytime soon. But I am happy to include bribery in my coercion, so I wanted to give you some chewy dramaturgical explanations to consider while you watch or reflect on the show. Specifically, I wanted to look at the way that both allusion and geography are used to separate the action on stage from the audience, to simplify the audience’s suspension of disbelief by creating distance between their world and the world of the play. Confused? Good! Let’s see if I can clarify.

If you’ve already seen the show you might have noticed that Teodoro …certain characters just absolutely will not shut the hell up about the legends of Icarus and, to a somewhat lesser extent, Phaeton. Nor are these the only mythological references in the piece. Tristan outrageously claims to be a greater warrior than Hector. Diana’s very name is a classical allusion, to the notoriously prickly and virginal goddess of the hunt. These allusions serve the same multiple purposes that classical allusions always serve. First, they prove to the audience how literate both the character and the author are, that they can intelligently make such a reference. As Benji Djain pointed out to us in his talkback, De Vega would want to show off to the audience how much he knew about Greek mythology, and his audience in turn would be flattered and proud that they, too, caught the inside joke. Second, they use a common reference point to illustrate or elaborate on a concept. Allusions can be used as shorthand for a more involved explanation, provided your audience makes the connection; for example, referring to yourself as Atlas when you feel like everyone is unfairly relying on you.

Or by showing you this. From Star Trek: The Next Generation, season 5 episode 2, “Darmok”, 1991. L-R: Sir Patrick Stewart as Captain Picard, Paul Winfield as Captain Dathon.

And finally, classical allusions simultaneously elevate and distance the situation that they are applied to, places it on an even footing with the myth. It isn’t Teodoro’s fault, or Diana’s, or even just bad luck that caused this trouble, it was the will of the gods. Zeus himself struck down Phaeton when he rode the carriage of the sun too high. By drawing these overblown comparisons the characters, and by extension de Vega, are identifying themselves with these legends and myths. It makes the situation seem all the more impressive and important to be placed on the same footing as these stories, but it also justifies why something so outlandish is happening. This story exists in the same world as these myths and legends, the allusion says, not the normal world where you walk down the street to buy eggs and bread and nothing out of the ordinary ever happens.

And it isn’t merely by these flowery metaphors that this play seeks to disassociate itself from the ordinary. Something that we very consistently found ourselves forgetting, and then reminding ourselves of, during the rehearsal process is where, exactly, it was set. “It’s a Spanish play”, we said to ourselves, “it must be set in Spain!” Forgetting, as we did so, that only one-third of Shakespeare’s plays (mostly the bad ones) are set in merry old England. Another third of Shakespeare’s plays are set in strange one-off settings like Denmark, Bohemia, Athens, or some fanciful island or enchanted forest.  And the final third take place in Italy [I know this mostly because Isaac Asimov, in his infinite strangeness, took a break from his busy biochemistry professor/science fiction author career to organize his Guide to Shakespeare under these geographical distinctions instead of similarities in plot or type -KH]. Dog in the Manger is set in Italy, as well. This might seem confusing to us because we’re stupid, but de Vega didn’t choose an Italian setting for no reason. Italy isn’t THAT far away from Spain, but it’s not exactly close either. His audience would be familiar with the concept of Italy, but many would not be familiar with the country or culture. Presumably they would therefore be more inclined to believe some outlandish things about it, like maybe that some Countess would fall in love beneath her station and set in motion a complicated love triangle as the one they’ve just observed. After all, isn’t Italy where all of those touring theatre companies came from? And isn’t it where those plays were set, too? They must have gotten their stories from somewhere, right? It’s easier to believe that something unusual would happen in some other foreign place, than that it would happen on the street you walk down every day to go to work. By distancing, de Vega is giving the audience more opportunity to suspend their disbelief: this isn’t a Spanish story, it could never happen in Spain! But Italy, crazy things happen there all the time. Who knows what they do over there.

From We Happy Few’s 2017 production of The Dog in the Manger. Foreground; Raven Bonniwell as Diana. Background L-R: Charlie Retzlaff as Fabio, Deborah Crabbe as Dorotea, Tori Boutin as Anarda. Photo by Mark Williams Hoeschler.

Even within the play itself, we see distancing being utilized, almost to the point of exoticism. There is a reason that Tristan’s outrageous lie about Teodoro’s origin centers the story in Greece (and then, when he slips up again, even further afield in Armenia). Greece would be a place that an audience would have heard of, but know comparatively little about. And the things they would have heard of would be even stranger than they would have heard about Italy. They have their own crazy non-Catholic Christian church over there, for one thing. Duke Ludovico has a line about what a strange musical language Greek is, a line that really pushes the line between creating distance and being openly racist. They also eat all that exotic food that Tristan so enjoys, not normal Spanish food. And, lest we forget, it’s also where all those wacky stories I talked about before came from. Crazy shit [pardon my French -KH] like that happens all the time over in Greece, just look at all those legends. Just like the Italian setting excuses some plot shenanigans for the Spanish audience, the merchant’s faux-Greek-ness explains the preposterousness of his story. It becomes another unlikely miraculous coincidence from Greece, the land of unlikely miraculous coincidences. Ludovico is willing to seize on any pretext to regain his son, so he is prepared to ignore some inconsistencies as long as he can justify them to himself. His doing so gives the audience permission to overlook any flaws or errors that they might have noticed in the story, in order to suspend their own disbelief and allow the story to wash over them.

And there you have it! I hope my pedantic overanalysis helps you let go of your own overanalytical tendencies and just let the story happen. If you want to see this distancing I’ve just discussed played out on stage, or give yourself some context for what you just read, we’re still running until the end of the week! Tickets are available HERE. I hope to see you there!