The Conservatory:: Novella in Form of Screenplay

By Ted Dalbotten

Like Ted Dalbottens previous books, Winterreise and Triptych a Mystery
(Part I, The Painting) which among other material dealt with various aspects
of both the performing and non performing arts, the present volume aside
from its examination of the human condition concerns itself particularly
with musical matters, though not only performing issues.
Since music has been the predominant activity of the author now in his eighty
fourth year it was almost inevitable he would eventually seek to explore
this aspect of his life in some extended fictional form and in some depth.
Aside from his work as both dance and vocal accompanist, for the last twenty
four years he has been involved in a small group calling themselves Two Piano-
Eight, which meet regularly and of which he is one of the founding members.
Their activity is reading through arrangements of mainly orchestral and chamber
works for two pianos, eight hands to which he has contributed over seventy five
of his own transcriptions of both large and smaller works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 25, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462844289

Ted Dalbotten

Ted Dalbotten, who published writing, includes Winterreise—a collection of fiction, theatre pieces and poetry, migrated to New York City from California at age 24 shortly after World War II. Though his principal activity over the years has been as a vocal and dance accompanist, he thought for over two decades in the Dance Education program at Columbia Teachers College and for a slightly shorter tenure at the Martha Graham School of contemporary dance. At age eighty three he continues to participate as performer with Margareth Beals’ dance improve group.

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Copyright © 2006 by Ted Dalbotten.

Musical Graphics by William B. Goodwin.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

T H E C O N S E R V A T O R Y

CLASSROOM NO. 11

THE MAIN PIANO STUDIO

KNUT’S BEDROOM

A PRACTICE ROOM

DR. BARENFUS’S ROOMS

A DIFFERENT PRACTICE ROOM

CLASSROOM ELEVEN

THE LIBRARY

DR. BARENFUS’ APARTMENT

THE CAFETERIA

YET A DIFFERENT PRACTICE ROOM

THE REHEARSAL HALL

THE OUTER LOBBY

A STUDY IN SIGNIFICANT FORM

CLASSROOM ELEVEN

THE SCHOOL’S BROADCAST STUDIO

INTRODUCTION, NARRATIVE, VOCALISE AND EPILOGUE

THE OUTER OFFICE OF THE SCHOOL’S ADMINISTRATIVE SUITE

DR. CARTRIGHT’S PRIVATE OFFICE

THE ORGAN CONSOLE IN THE AUDITORIUM

CARTWRIGHT’S OUTER OFFICE

THE REHEARSAL HALL

FOUNDER’S HALL

THE CEMETERY

STUDIO ELEVEN

CLASSROOM ELEVEN

THE INNER OFFICE

DR. BARENFUS’S LIVING ROOM

THE INNER OFFICE

THE DIRECTOR’S INNER OFFICE

A RECAPITULATION

A P P E N D I X

DEDICATION

This work is dedicated to my many teachers—not only those who I studied under, but any number of whom in my professional life I have been privileged to assist as an accompanist—and who have inspired me with their wisdom, vision, compassion—and above all their devotion to their art—and to their students. Their number is legion and their names would more than fill this page. Therefore I will mention only the two who bracket the over seventy seven years of my life as a formal student in the performing arts, and who are inscribed here to represent all the others:

My first piano teacher: Perle Baker

My current teacher of movement improv: Margaret Beals

INTRODUCTION

The idea that was to eventually inform the main plot line of THE CONSERVATORY was conceived back in 1943 during my brief stint in the US armed forces. It was simply this: The screenplay was to begin with a rather short but cryptic scene with ambiguous emotional undercurrents played out between a naive young man and an older man. The identical scene—same characters, same dialogue, same action—only this time shot from a different vantage point, was also to be played as the film’s final sequence. And the audience having witnessed the intervening drama should fully understand the devastation of one of the characters.

I remember being very pleased with myself—and a good thing too, because I was finding basic training a frightful experience. The only other bright spot in this murky and dismal time (it rained endlessly—and so, of course, we were constantly sloshing about in it) was the fact that I scored high on the mechanical aptitude test—though in subsequent civilian life I have often wondered if perhaps there had been some snafu—some mix up—about the test scores, because especially when confronted with any electrical problem my mind simply goes numb and refuses to function.

Anyway, though I patted myself on the back over what I supposed was an original concept, I hadn’t the vaguest idea how to get from the first scene to its terminal repetition. And a good thing too, because I had nowhere near the life experience or understanding that could have helped me do justice to such a project.

It was the summer of 2000 on a trip west to visit an old school friend that on the plane I suddenly had an overpowering urge to finally take up and flesh out what had intrigued me fifty seven years before. Though I never keep diary or other such personal record here at home, almost invariably on any journey of a week or more (and these are very infrequent) I always carry a notebook with me because on these occasions I enjoy setting down my observations and impressions of what I have seen and experienced. But in this instance not a word about the current jaunt found its way into my notebook. And though I made sure I was a good, sociable and attentive guest I took full advantage of my host’s habitual early bedtime to scribble furiously at this new/old project of mine into the wee hours of the morning. And once I was on the plane back to New York the writing never stopped—even at the two half hour layovers. In a few weeks a first draft was completed. A month or so later I had an idea for two extended scenes that I felt were needed, and which I proceeded to write.

As the work stands at the present time I believe I have presented a concise and comprehensive picture of conservatory life. Missing are only an element of dilettantism (mentioned, but not dramatized) that one will occasionally find in this milieu—and professional jealousy (though I have included hints of it here and there)—which would not be difficult to incorporate—even feature. After all, it is only human nature. Certainly one hears that music schools today reek with it, as they must have back in the time the story of THE CONSERVATORY takes place. Perhaps the reason I have only hinted at it here and there in my "novella in the form of a screenplay is that my view of that sort of thing has more and more come to tally with Martha Graham’s when she said, Competition? There is no competition. You are in competition with one person only—and that is with the individual you know you can become. That is what makes the life of a dancer (for ‘dancer’ read ‘what you have chosen to be’—or better yet—‘what has chosen you’) the life of a realist—and gives it some of its hazard—and some of its wonder. It is a creative process." Yet something told me that to add any more complexity to the story would not serve the screenplay. As it is, there are three main plot lines and two minor ones—all of which intersect in one way or another. And I believe that is enough.

However as a screenplay I fear THE CONSERVATORY has one grievous fault. It is often more verbally than visually conceived. Also there is the fact that some of the scenes are rather long for film. Hence the designation: "a novella in the form of a screenplay"—a bastard structure, no doubt. And though I am reasonably happy with it as it stands, perhaps one day when I am gone if some experienced screenwriter should read my work—and find it intriguing enough—he or she might see a way to make an effective shooting script from the story.

December 24, 2005

T H E C O N S E R V A T O R Y

(The first scene begins with no preamble. The title and preliminary credits are presented only after this scene is completed.

A man is seated at a piano keyboard. We see only his hands and torso—not his head or the lower part of his legs. This image—which is viewed from his right side takes up most of the screen. From what little else we glimpse we can assume that we are in some kind of living quarters—a studio perhaps.

The man’s hands are clenched on his knees. Then tentatively—almost fearfully—he reaches forward with his left hand and begins to play the opening of Ravel’s Ondine—the melody only. After a phrase or two he adds the right hand accompaniment and continues through several more phrases until a knock is heard. The hands move away from the keyboard in a startled gesture and remain suspended in indecision—or uncertainty. There is a tiny pause and then another knock and immediately afterwards a young man’s voice.)

BILL:      (Making to go.) So I’ll see you at three thirty.

KNUT:      (Tonelessly, hopelessly.) Yes, that too.

BILL:      Good-bye then—and thank you.

      (Bill has gone out of camera range. We hear the sound of a door closing. Knut has not moved. Slowly the camera begins to travel to the right—its focus still on Knut. Then at last it pans upward slowly to take in the entire upper part of his body. We see that he is early middle age—clean shaven with a thin long face and thinning dark hair graying about the temples. Except that one can see the glitter of tears in his eyes his countenance looks frozen—expressionless. Then as the camera moves in to enlarge and intensify the image, the features begin to crumble into lines of pain and desperation. Slowly he bows his head. Raising his left hand and supporting his elbow on the edge of the piano above the fall board he clutches his hair. We no longer see his face. The camera focuses closer till all one sees is the fist—the knuckles white—in its grasp of pain. There is a faint sound of music and laughter. A new image slowly fades in to obliterate what we have just seen. The title and preliminary credits are projected over this new ambience.)

      (It’s aspect is not so much a formal party as an impromptu gathering of young students—both men and women—and one or two faculty members. The medium sized room is crowded—one of the four chairs in it is occupied by a man in his late forties who is treated by the others with deference and affection. A number of guests are seated on the floor. The laughter is directly inspired by the music which is Chabrier’s Souvenir de Munich, a set of quadrilles for piano, four hands based on themes from Tristan und Isolde. We do not see the performers because of the three or four people crowded about the upright piano—one of them turning pages.)

      (Immediately following the director’s credit the music ends with a flourish, a loud burst of laughter and applause during which Hunington Musical Conservatory and below it September 1930 are seen projected over the scene.)

GLADYS:      (One of the students. We will get to know her very well as the story progresses, so all that need be said here is that she is dark haired, comely, rather tall, and statuesque.) Where on earth did you find this thing? It’s a scream! (She has spoken to the primo player who, we now glimpse, is Knut Lofgren.)

KNUT:      It’s in the school library—though I will take credit for its acquisition. You may not believe it but Chabrier was a great admirer of Wagner. Actually if he hadn’t been, I don’t think he would have bothered to do this.

GLADYS:      But how did you know about it?

KNUT:      (With a mock wise look.) When one does research one learns a good many things not particularly germane to what one is exploring.

DR. BARENFUS: (The older man in the chair—who has been listening.) And they are usually the things that makes research interesting—and the researcher too. That is if he remembers them. As you see.

KNUT:      (Airily.) Oh, I remember things the elephants forget.

BARDEN:      (Student—dark hair, deep voice—grimly.) That can have its drawbacks. Sometimes one would rather not remember certain things.

KNUT:      Well, so far this pachyderm hasn’t found it an inconvenience. (General laughter.)

MARIAN:      (Student—indicating Barden.) Don’t pay any attention to him. He just broke up with his girl friend.

ALEC:      (Student—blond, rather short. His normal manner is serious, with a natural dignity—though he will occasionally exhibit flashes of antic humor. He is also someone we will come to know well in the scenes that follow.) What a great learning experience!

BARDEN:      You don’t know anything about it.

KNUT:      Well, I think I do. And Alec’s right. (There is a sudden silence. With a laugh.) Look—everybody’ been young—at least once. And I’m no exception. (Everyone but Barenfus, who is looking slightly askance, is regarding him expectantly—realizing the implication.) No—oh no—I’m not going to give you my very own three act version of Tales of Lofgren. Besides the prologue’s all wrong.

GLADYS:      I don’t see how. You’ve got a bunch of honest to God students here—Dr. Barenfus can be Lindorf, and—

KNUT:      Ah, you forget. This is prohibition. Where is the wine to loosen my tongue? Sorry, no confessions tonight.

GWYN:      (Student. It is in her quarters in the school dorm that this rather impromptu gathering is taking place.) Some other night maybe?

      (Knut gives an impish shrug.)

MORGAN:      (Who has been seated quietly near Dr. Barenfus.) Dr. Barenfus, what was Mr. Lofgren like when he was a student?

JANE:      (An incoming freshman.) He got his degree here?

ALEC:      Well, you’re new—and evidently didn’t read the catalogue very carefully.

BARENFUS:      (Consoling the girl.) Never mind—a narrow focus can produce a brilliant thesis—and some perfectly wretched human beings.

MARTIN:      (Another student. Near the piano—under his breath.) Boy, that’s about the most oblique come on I’ve ever heard. It was a come on, wasn’t it?

LUCAS:      (In his fourth year.) Oh, that’s right—you’re new here too.