I woke up from a vivid nightmare which was of the last few horrible moments of Madame Butterfly, Act III, in colour, modernised. Pinkerton was crashed out, fully dressed on a double bed, too jetlagged to realise that his dead wife was on the floor at the foot of it. The onlooker (me) or film viewer could see her face in the mirror. Where on earth did that image come from? I have never witnessed such a production of the opera anywhere.
I must have been watching too many videos lately, Babette's Feast (Babettes Gaestebud) being one, which has plenty to say about music as well as food, but which is not at all horrible. Here's a very good article that says what I feel about that film. Last night I also started watching a beautifully made French film (1988), lent to us by one of Chris' colleagues, about singers and singing teachers, Le Maître de Musique.
I vaguely remember my son-in-law Peter pointing the camera at us during my last visit to Wales, but thought nothing more of it until I log on to Facebook after getting up this morning and find myself posted to all and sundry in a YouTube video clip, playing the piano, although the star of this film is my grandson, of course. As my brother-in-law ironically comments, "One day he'll be really grateful to you for making this available to everyone ..."
I composed that accompaniment myself, by the way.
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