The Transfiguration of Mister Punch (4 page)

Well, I thought they were the earliest roots. In truth, they were barely the greenest of seeds. The truth was so much deeper, richer and impossible—but TRUE. Countless hours poring over parchment chapbooks, faded and beautiful broadsides, brittle and powdery brown booklets of ‘slang and cant’ poetry. Many of these obscure booklets are written in dialect, and can only be read with a glossary in hand. Yorkshire Dialect poetry tickled my fancy for some time. I would read this forgotten genre late into the night. (Reciting a lengthy, fifteen minute saga in nineteenth-century dialect is, sadly, a sure way to clear the room, in this impatient age we live in.)

Is there anything ghastlier than the sound of a lonely person laughing aloud, to themselves, upon reading something amusing? Or thinking something funny? I had to put down my book because of this. I heard my own reedy, rasping emissions and was simultaneously reminded of my fortunate existence and completely repulsed at this tube-like bag of unsettled liquids, suspended bones and noxious gas that I am. My rattling, old-man exhalations are appallingly human, a breath by breath reminder of this solitude I have built and weathered, brick by dolmen.

‘We must not, however, forget to mention the amusement most prized by the common people, viz., the Fantoccini or puppets, among whom, the world-renowned Punch and Judy occupy so conspicuous a place. Some of the burattini played comedy, some tragedy, and scripture pieces, which last bore a close family resemblance to the old mysteries and moralities of the English stage. The death of Judas Iscariot was a favorite subject and particular attention was paid to the hanging scene, and to the last scene of all, where the little devils with horns and tails came to clutch the traitor and apostate:

“Piombo queir alma a V infernal riviera,

E si f^ gran treniuoto in quel momento.

“Down went the sinner loaded with his crime—

Down to deep hell; and earthquakes marked the time.”’

R. Sears - ‘Scenes’ Pg. 351

No bookish scholar I, without compromising the sacredness of my hours and lifetimes spent amongst them, I, too, have devoted much of my life in the pursuit of that which we all seek. The divine spark within the Other.

If I was not reading, not creating puppets, not writing my soul out, nor walking beneath the mighty oaks; when not preoccupied with these I was looking for the unknowable, that is to say, authentic Love within the Other. Who this woman was I had no idea. I had not met her, nor knew if I ever would within my slender lifetime. I dreamed of her, though and knew what True Love might be starting at, oh, I imagine age five or so.

There was a little girl I knew growing up named Judy Voshkie Bridle. Her middle name is Armenian for ‘golden.’ She lived across the street from our house, when I was growing up. She was an angel in her brand new yellow dress and shining, blonde hair. We were both seven years old at the time. I gave her candy as a gift and we liked each other. I shall never forget that day, one summer, when she came over to our home wearing that blindingly bright yellow dress. “Look! Look at my pretty new dress! Isn’t it beautiful? Don’t you love it?”

“Yes. I LOVE it!” I shrieked, having spotted the mud puddle at her feet.

I leapt in the air without warning and stomped both feet hard into the puddle. A huge blossom of liquid filth exploded and totally splattered Judy’s new yellow dress.

I am not sure what was worse, the look of horror on her face, or the scream of disbelief and sorrow over what had just happened. It was probably the worst thing that had ever happened to her in her entire lifetime. I recall, even now, over four decades later, my little-boyish glee, my joy at the sheer anarchic, blatantly pure EVIL of my actions. I was so young, yet so wicked. She did not, possibly, even know or comprehend the existence of the possibility of such a thing as true EVIL, of things monstrous that strangle in the shadows, until this moment. I mark this as the beginning of my ominous march to the abyss of demoniacal puppetry.

We all live multiple lives of secret fear and wonder. No one except ourselves can fully confess and witness the things we have become and survived. I have a secret suspicion that more of our fellows and others have experienced inner and outer hells of a nature more harrowing than we dare admit.

The ancient cat approaches me as I write here, outside, by the little fish pond on my friend’s property down an unpaved country road. She is quite vocal, and the boniest cat I have known. I hope her cries are for attention or a form of cat-song, and that this is not discomfort I am hearing, which I subtly fear it is. She has slinked beneath the steps to sleep in the shadows after cleaning a forepaw. Two hornets circled me before vanishing like fairies into an open fusebox where they have a tiny nest. A total of three cats come from time to time to investigate and rub against my shin as they pass. Stacks of books surround me, most devoted to the history, origin or performance of the Punch and Judy show. The rest are devoted to diverse subject matters which will, I hope, like separate clumps of herbs planted together in a small container, in time, come together in one green, collective cluster.

I had a dog, named Toby, of course, after Mr. Punch’s famous dog. In the Punch and Judy show, Toby’s purpose is to antagonize the master antagonist, Sir Punch, the God of Pokes and Bashings. The dog appears as a stray and bites Punch on the nose! In his rage, the maniac finds the dog’s master, Scaramouche, and makes him face horror of his stick. Scaramouche was a roguish clown figure whose roots may be found in the Italian Commedia. He found his way over to England, as part of the early plots, often vast as the owner of the feral canine. Have you ever been, or known someone who has been, bitten by a stray dog because of the negligence of a buffoonish, clownish owner. The bones of the hand or arm are rendered outward through the muscle like so many carrots through cheese, and it hurts a lot. Have you not wanted to wreak similar pain and vengeance upon that idiot, just for a moment? Once bitten, the nerves remember. Then we forgive. Despite the throbbing plum shaped blob on that thing we used to call a hand. We forgive and try to forget, because the World tells us that this is the right thing to do. That we must let some kind of love or myth absolve the reality of inviolate Hate and Wickedness, is what struck and stunned the wonderful poet, writer and misunderstood aesthete, Count Stenbock, about Punch. In his short and precious essay, ‘The Myth of Punch,’ he wrote:

It may seem that I have treated the puppet show too seriously. But I have not. The Punch-drama illustrates exactly the idea that I mean to convey. Really, in its essence, it is more terrible than the three other subjects which I mentioned in the beginning [Faust, Tannhauser and Don Juan], seeing that it is a subject of laughter to children; and the subject is—the triumph of absolute evil!’

It has been suggested by scholars that the dog character has been part of the Punch and Judy show since the very first written scripts. It is known that the dog was represented by a puppet just as often as a live dog. Trained animals have an ancient history of being aligned with traveling puppet shows. Men and beasts have marched the ancient stone passages, spanning the globe, from town to town to entertain. There was a puppeteer in regency times named Pike. He had been apprentice to famous and great Punch-man, Piccini. It was claimed by his followers, after he died, that he had been the first to use a live dog, with a ruffled collar, to represent Toby. Let us marvel at the sheer dearth of frolicking, performing beasts found dancing upon the walls of prehistoric Lascaux. Applaud to the canine figures etched, as if by strange angels, upon haunted amphora found in Grecian mausoleum.

She was my beautiful old dog. She dipped into this very same pond four months ago. She cooled her old bones there upon two or three occasions. My friend quelled his own irritation at my canine companion, despite the mud, destroyed lily pads and distressed Koi. The sight of her ancientness and aching bones and joints calmed and healed in the deep green waters was beyond words and he let her come and go as she pleased, destroying his micro pond project. The dog is gone. It was a day I will not forget. Nor the 16 years of days that preceded it. It is so strange how in this life we can get caught up in the midst of an ironic scenario and not even see things for the full, outrageous jest of it all—until years after the events.

That is why I could not write the record of my life and researches into the shadowy history of Punch and Judy in my old home, full of memory and dreams. I hear her walking in my head and see little white flashes of mice sized lights flashing past me. It is hard to eat there and I lose weight.

My friends said it would be all right for me to write this out under the old tree by the pond. I am far from any large city and miles from the smallest of villages.

This is the perfect setting to begin the story, for it is so reminiscent of the exquisite and idyllic surroundings of my childhood. Snow and sleds. Summer and love. My parents had a Jimmy Durante recording that I enjoyed listening to as a child. One song rather obsessed me with these lyrics, full of playful cartoon-grotesque imagery:

‘It’s my nose’s birthday, not mine.

And I’m proud to say the schnoz is doing fine.

My nose was born upon this day in 1893, exactly 3 weeks later, the stork delivered me.

(spoken) It was the first time a nose outweighed the child.’

Jimmy Durante ‘It’s My Nose’s Birthday’

Is it weird to tell you that years later I would meet Jimmy Durante, the comedian and singer world famous for his enormous nose and sentimental humor? My parents took me to see his variety show, which was playing in a popular, fancy musical venue in the city. It was unusual for him to be performing overseas, but here he was. What a treat! It was so special for us to be going out like this. It was the first time I saw woman so scantily clad. That was thrilling. They danced, and were part of his variety act, which hearkened back to old time vaudeville and music hall days. He squinted out his bright, small eyes and saw my young form in the audience, one of the few children there. “Bring dat kid backstage after da act!” he belted out, and continued singing. After the show I was brought backstage, by my parents. We knocked on the door of ‘The Great Schnozola.’ “Come in,” a hoarse voice barked. The man was already back into his poker game with his cronies, stripped down to a sleeveless t-shirt, hat still on, clinking glass of scotch in his hand. He turned and beckoned me. “Come here, kid. Let me see ya.” I was still small enough to pick up, and so Durante lifted me up in his arms and now we were staring nose to nose, eye to eye. He studies me, and I him, and his nose. Here was one of the most famous noses of all time, nearly touching my own rather pronounced, youthful proboscis. Cyrano, Dumbo and Mr. Punch had little on Durante. This nose was mapped with a criss-cross of red and blue vermicelli-thin veins. There were white hairs curling out of the flaring, old nostrils. The nose stared at you, not his eyes. The eyes were brilliant, small gems of light, mere echoes of the infamous organ before them. It was huge and the nose of an alcoholic. It was beautiful, compelling and really, really grotesque. (You might find that I like the word ‘grotesque’ as much as others like the word ‘Groovy.’) He stared at me again as if to divine my future. He inscribed the show program to me, ‘From your pal Durante.’ I treasure it greatly to this day.

I like noses.

‘—And at times, oh thrilling moments, he looked out of the frame directly at me with an intense sense of recognition.’

Puppeteer and author Walter Wilkinson,
on seeing his first Punch and Judy show.

Rye Lane, Peckham.

Sisyphus with puppets.

I shall never forget that twilit morn over near half a century past when the Punch and Judy man passed by our home. It was October second. I was eight years old. It was late spring. He was making his way to town down our lonely country road. Sleepy dogs lifted sun-warmed heads to watch him pass, before passing out again. He pushed his entire show, frame, puppets, props and all, in front of himself as they walked. It was a wheeled barrow contraption of sorts. His wife walked beside him carrying a six month old baby. Leading this theatrical family was the most beautiful, little white dog with a bright red ribbon around its neck. Morning had broken, and an amber coloured rosy light bathed the players as they marched to their destination, as so many public merrymakers have done before. The walk before the public initiation, execution, birth, feisty marketplace.

To see anyone, much less an eccentric sight as this was the most exciting thing to happen in ages. I rose up from my marbles in the dirt and instinctively started following the distant figures. I was not alone. As I followed the puppet performer and his wife, other children began to join the throng. As if following a Pied Piper of Puppetry we paraded, skipped, danced excitedly. Oh, it was a magical, thrilling afternoon of anticipation. Our childlike enthusiasm was well rewarded, for the show that I saw, and the lifetime that followed are part of stories I find well worth telling.