'Madama Butterfly' parody

Smooth Operators
Opera for the time-poor
presents

Madama Butterfly
OR
Ultra-condensed Puccini in a can


SCENE: The shiny, new, custom-built SMOOTH OPERATORS CLUBHOUSE, which may or may not exist solely in INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY’S mind.

NATURETHEZAFARA troops downstairs into the basement to see INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY sitting at a desk, feverishly writing notes and muttering to herself.  To her left, music from Puccini’s La Bohème blares out of a rusted gramophone; to her right sit three television sets, each simultaneously displaying three markedly different productions of the opera, along with a fourth which displays Mozart’s The marriage of Figaro, for no apparent reason.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: It’s clear as day that she’s a manic pixie dream girl, but how to best illustrate that in a world where everyone else is at least halfway there themselves . . . ?

NATURETHEZAFARA: Seriously, Jabbers, it’s Christmas Eve – can’t you give the parody-writing a rest?

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: (not looking up from her notes) Can’t talk – brainstorming.

NATURETHEZAFARA: You can’t even give yourself one day off?

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: I’ve got people waiting on this, you know – or at least, I will, once people are actually aware that I’m writing it.  I certainly don’t hope you’re expecting it to suddenly gain sentience and complete itself!

NATURETHEZAFARA: (looking at the televisions) But isn’t it distracting watching different videos of – OH, MY GOSH!  WHY IS SUSANNA UNBUTTONING HER BLOUSE AND MAKING CHERUBINO TOUCH HER –

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: Hey!  No complaining in the Hovel of Editing!

So saying, she gestures vaguely to a sign on the wall that reads: Welcome to the Hovel of Editing (enter at your own risk).  And remember: no ID, no entry; no composer-bashing; no substandard coffee; no non-opera-related fanservice; no hawkers; no animals; no sport; no dispute over Inverted-Jabberwocky’s choice of opera; no cheeseburgers; no discussing of anything not pertaining to opera; no singlets, no thongs; no complaining about any of the above rules.

Visibly traumatised, NatureTheZafara decisively switches off the television sets, removes the needle from the record and takes the notebook from Inverted-Jabberwocky, throwing it behind the desk.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: Hey, I was in the middle of writing a comma!

NATURETHEZAFARA: You are going to take a break, whether you like it or not!  And since it’s the festive season, why don’t you tell me the story of a Christmas opera?

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: I’d love to . . . but beasts of that nature are few and far between – well, barring the first half of La Bohème.

NATURETHEZAFARA: Then we’ll just have to make up our own!  I’ll start – once upon a time, there were two siblings who got lost in the forest and found a witch’s house made of gingerbread –

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: That’s already been done.

NATURETHEZAFARA: Oh.  Then perhaps it could be about a band of heroes who embark on an epic quest to possess a devastatingly powerful ring –

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: There are already four operas about that.

NATURETHEZAFARA: Then you’ll just have to tell me the story of that opera!

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: . . . since it’s you speaking, I can only assume you mean one thing by “that opera”.

NATURETHEZAFARA: You’re going to tell me the story of Madama Butterfly?!  Jabbers, you’re so kind!

Without a word, Inverted-Jabberwocky approaches the list of rules on the wall and adds No insincere flattery, before returning to her seat.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: Very well then, my child, come gather ‘round the fake fireplace, grab yourself a mug of eggnog –

NATURETHEZAFARA: We don’t have any – you drank it all a week ago.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: – and listen to this tale from deepest, darkest Japan . . . which looked remarkably similar to early twentieth-century Italy . . .


SCENE: A HOUSE ON A HILL in NAGASAKI.

On the day he is to be married, American lieutenant BURRHUS FREDERIC PINKERTON, is being shown around his new house by GORO, a marriage broker – which is a fancy operatic term meaning “sleazy, money-grubbing pimp”.  We know that Pinkerton is American because THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER plays anytime he stands, walks, sings, breathes, or indeed does virtually anything at all.

PINKERTON: WOW!  CEILINGS!  AND WALLS!  WHO’DA THUNK?!

GORO: Indeed, but getting back to something more relevant – servants!

He claps thrice, summoning three of the household’s servants – among them, the lady’s maid SUZUKI.

GORO: Now, I’ll be completely honest with you . . . I’ve no idea who the male servants are, and I’m pretty sure they aren’t actually relevant in any way, shape or form.  But the girl there actually is relevant enough to have both a name and personality – she is your wife-to-be’s maid, and we call her “Motorcycle Company”!

PINKERTON: Foreign names are just ridiculous!  I’mma call ‘em scarecrows, because that’s what they are!  DANCE FOR ME, LITTLE SCARECROWS!

SUZUKI: GO TO HELL.

Goro hastily ushers the servants away before Suzuki can start anything.  Behind Pinkerton, the American consul SHARPLESS arrives, very out of breath.

SHARPLESS: Ugh, why are there . . . wheeze . . . so many stairs here?

Having said this, he promptly collapses in a heap.

PINKERTON: Oh well, it’s not like he’s important or anything.

SHARPLESS: Oh, but I actually do have that one important scene in the second ac –

PINKERTON: Yup, not important at all – and he certainly won’t be missed!

SHARPLESS: (picking himself up) Would you care for a drink, sir?  Whiskey?  Milk punch?

PINKERTON: Milk punch?  Ooh, what’s that?  It sounds fancy – I’ll have one of those!

SHARPLESS: Happy to oblige, sir.

He promptly throw a glass of milk in Pinkerton’s face –

SHARPLESS: Milk!

– and proceeds to punch Pinkerton in the nose.

SHARPLESS: Punch!

PINKERTON: That was delicious!

With milk and blood streaming down his face, he holds the now-empty glass aloft and speaks heavily-Italian-accented English.

PINKERTON: AMERICA FOREVER!

SHARPLESS: . . . is there something wrong with you?

PINKERTON: Of course there is!  How else would you explain my getting married to a girl with the sole intention of leaving her high and dry after only a few months so I can marry someone else from my homeland?

SHARPLESS: I can think of another explanation . . . you’re a complete jerkass!

PINKERTON: I couldn’t agree more, Gormless!

Moral: When in doubt, chicken out.

NATURETHEZAFARA: That moral’s stupid and makes no sense.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: Hey, don’t be like that – these morals add boring educational value to what would otherwise be an almost entirely entertaining parody.

A chorus of female voices can be heard approaching, over which soars a clear soprano.  Could it possibly be our titular heroine?

. . . take a wild guess.

Our heroine, CIO CIO – which is Italian for CHOUCHOU – arrives over the crest of the hill, accompanied by a large group of women – all of whom are about as authentically Japanese as LING-LING FROM DRAWN TOGETHER.

CIO CIO: She is here at long last – Pinkerton’s bride-to-be!

WOMEN: And we are her sisters, and her cousins – whom she reckons up by dozens – and her aaaaauuuuuunts!

Standing before Pinkerton and the others, Cio Cio tells the assembled women to bow in a rather infantile and patronising manner.  Our heroine, ladies and gentlemen.  Then, proving that she is absolutely rubbish at small talk, Cio Cio has Sharpless attempt to guess her age, only to reveal it as fifteen – even though she could very well pass for forty-three in the dusk, with a light behind her.

READERS: Really?  Another Gilbert and Sullivan reference?  We were willing to overlook that first one, but you’re kind of scraping the bottom of the barrel now.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: Shut up, readers – you’re not even in this story!

NATURETHEZAFARA: . . . who are you talking to?

At long last, the wedding can take place – naturally, Cio Cio decides to waste a bit more time by showing Pinkerton a mostly irrelevant collection of objects she intends to bring to the marriage, including a dagger – FORESHADOWING! – and some small, clay figurines called ottokè – a word which is neither Japanese nor Italian.  After this FORESHADOWING!-filled interlude, the wedding ceremony finally occurs.  In the meantime, Cio Cio’s relatives are busy taking bets on how long the marriage will last.

SUZUKI: Oh, come on – they haven’t even been married for five minutes yet!

She turns to see Pinkerton violently shaking the ottokè.

PINKERTON: And you really think the spirits of your ancestors are inside these things?  Ha-ha, Japanese people sure are wacked!

CIO CIO: I’m sorry, anata, did you say something?  I couldn’t hear a thing over your handsome non-Japanese handsomeness.  I love you so much!

Exasperated, Suzuki turns back to the relatives.

SUZUKI: Oh, hell – a thousand yen says they won’t last two months!

Out of nowhere, Cio Cio’s uncle, the BONZE, appears; he’s a bass, cuts an imposing figure, and is probably cool enough to be deserving of his own opera.

BONZE: Cio Cio-san!  I am here to create conflict and strife in the story!  In order to create more drama, you should be concerned!

CIO CIO: Oh, my!  I am concerned!

BONZE: You converted to a religion that is not our own for as insipid a reason as love!

RELATIVES: Oh!  Cio Cio-san!  Oh!  Cio Cio-san!  Oh! (repeat ad infinitum)

BONZE: This is unforgivable!  Kami sarundasico!

SUZUKI: Okay, that isn’t even Japanese . . . “kami” I can understand, but what the hell is a “sarundasico”?

BONZE: Relatives!  I expect you all to now completely renounce Cio Cio-san because the plot demands it!

RELATIVES: ‘Kay!

Having fulfilled their required five minutes of stage time, the Bonze and the rest of the chorus retreat backstage – presumably to get drunk on whatever alcohol they can find in the green room.  Cio Cio devolves into a pile of wangst for roughly two minutes, before launching into a little ditty about the moon, which Pinkerton clearly doesn’t care for.

PINKERTON: That was truly hideous.  Promise me you’ll never sing again.

CIO CIO: The American sense of humour is so wonderfully direct!

PINKERTON: Actually, I was just being rude.


SCENE: Cio Cio’s house THREE YEARS LATER, because Inverted-Jabberwocky stopped the story to go get herself a drink, and forgot where she had left off upon returning.

Suzuki kneels before a small shrine, lighting a stick of incense and bowing her head in prayer.

SUZUKI: Three years, and we’ve heard absolutely nothing from my mistress’ husband.  If I was smart – and I am – I’d say he’s deserted us and is planning to never return!

CIO CIO: Oh, poor naïve Suzuki-chan!  How little you know!

SUZUKI: Drink the irony of you accusing me of naivety.

CIO CIO: Allow me to tell you a little something I’ve learned about love.

SUZUKI: I’m certain your “advice” would be lost on the likes of poor, naïve me.

CIO CIO: Sometimes, two people – one person and another person, for example – are simply fated in the stars to be together!  Take, for instance, my American husband and I – we’re like destiny!

Exasperated, Suzuki turns back to the shrine.

SUZUKI: Ame no Murakumo, Shishigami-sama, Ultimate Madoka, Suzumiya Haruhi, hear me!  Do something to knock some sense back into Cio Cio-san!  Kami sarundasico!  Aw, crap, now I’m saying it too!

CIO CIO: There’s no use asking anything of your silly Japanese deities now – the only one worth praying to is the American god known as “Consumerism”!

Sharpless – remember him? – suddenly arrives, carrying a PLOT DEVICE masquerading as a letter.

SHARPLESS: I have a letter here for Madam Butterfree, or Beautifly, or whatever it is she calls herself these days.

CIO CIO: A letter?  Oh, then it must be from my husband!  There’s absolutely no other explanation!

SHARPLESS: . . . I can’t tell if you’re being genuine or facetious.

CIO CIO: Like all important people, I’m completely illiterate!  Read the letter for me, Gormless!

Sharpless proceeds to read the letter, only to be interrupted by Cio Cio roughly every two seconds.

CIO CIO: ‘Kay, bored now.  Here’s a far more interesting development!  Hey you, come on out!

At her call, a SMALL BOY IN AN ILL-FITTING BLOND WIG wanders into the room.

SHARPLESS: What what what?!  A child?!  When did this happen?!

CIO CIO: Around three years ago.

SHARPLESS: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!

CIO CIO: His name is Doloresorrowtroublekanashimi, but he answers to “Hey you”.

SHARPLESS: But . . . how did this happen?

CIO CIO: Well, when a man and a woman get married, they –

SHARPLESS: AAAHHHHHHHH – YOU KNOW THAT’S NOT WHAT I MEANT – AAAAAAHHH!

CIO CIO: – fortunately, they arrived in Bethlehem in time for the census . . . forgive me, my mind wanders.  But yes, that’s basically how it happened.

SHARPLESS: Well.  This certainly complicates matters somewhat a bit.  Long story short, your husband is returning.  Just . . . remember that you’re the titular heroine in a Puccini opera, so, you know . . . don’t go expecting anything resembling a happy ending, okay?

He departs, and Cio Cio – who possesses absolutely nothing in the way of genre-savviness – forces Suzuki to decorate the house with every flower plucked from within a 35,640 square kilometre radius.  Having utterly ruined the hanami plans of every person on the island of Kyushu, Cio Cio sits in the closed house with her son and Suzuki, waiting for the dawn to the strains of the HUMMING CHORUS – a piece which instantly terrifies anybody who has seen the film Heavenly Creatures, and causes anyone familiar which the Les Misérables musical to sit up and shout, “HOLY BAGUETTES!  I RECOGNISE THAT TUNE!”

CIO CIO: The cannon from the harbour!  I heard it!  That means that with absolutely no shadow of a doubt whatsoever, my husband has returned!

As if to confirm this, Sharpless appears once again.

SHARPLESS: Okay . . . uh, well, there’s no delicate way to put this, but . . . about that cannon you heard firing – the cannonball actually struck the ship that your husband was on, capsizing the ship and almost certainly killing him.  I’d wager that this is because our navy is . . . well, not “hopelessly incompetent”, but they’re whatever the word just up from that is.  So . . . that happened . . .

Cio Cio, having ignored him completely, suddenly enters the room dragging an enormous sack behind her.

CIO CIO: Look what I just found underneath the house – an enormous sack containing enough money for us to live comfortably for the rest of our lives!

SUZUKI: . . . what.

CIO CIO: Harrumble for implausible, contrived happy endings!

SHARPLESS: . . . what.

CIO CIO: Happy day, Hey you!  Now your name shall now be Gaiety!  Or perhaps it should be Glee . . . or possibly Jubilation . . . no, I’ll never remember those names; I think we’ll just stick with “Hey you”.

SUZUKI: I had my doubts earlier, but now I’m certain – there is something fundamentally wrong with my mistress.

There was also something about a prince, a Japanese marching theme – the presence of which makes slightly more sense here than it ever did in The Mikado – and possibly some harakiri, but nobody really cares.  And they all lived operatically ever after.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: . . . and that’s the story of how the Italians stole Christmas!

NATURETHEZAFARA: What.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: Look, I tacked on a happy ending, didn’t I?  What more do you want?

NATURETHEZAFARA: I want to know what happened to you – you used to be cool.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: How dare you!  I was never cool!  Now, kindly buzz off and let me get back to work.

NATURETHEZAFARA: Why do I get the feeling that I’m probably not going to see you again for at least a fortnight?

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: Don’t worry, I’ll resurface periodically and will probably have this done sometime before New Year’s Day.

NATURETHEZAFARA: She said, not finishing this until four years later.

INVERTED-JABBERWOCKY: I’M A BUSY WOMAN.