Tag: isolation

A Musical Haunting

On December 15, 2015

Chris Mann as The Phantom and Katie Travis as Christine Daaé. Photo: Matthew Murphy

Many of my regular readers will know I’m an opera fan. Through my formal reviews, features, and profiles, as well as my blog posts and tweets, I’ve not exactly made my opera passion a secret. I feel deeply blessed to have been able to so frequently combine my two loves — writing and opera — into a professional pursuit. I’ve always had mixed feelings toward musicals, however. Classic works like Guys and Dolls, Showboat, and Oklahoma! are forever favorites, while the more recent(ish) ones, like Les Miserables, Jersey Boys, and Miss Saigon, leave me with a vaguely discomforted feeling. Productions values in all of them are consistently exceptional, it’s true, but emotionally, much of their content leaves me utterly cold.

Andrew Lloyd Webber’s 1986 work The Phantom of the Opera, was, until recently, very much in the latter category, with the damning addendum that it was also unnecessarily mean-spirited to actual, real opera, something I still believe to be partially true. But the new production of Phantom (currently running at Toronto’s Princess of Wales Theatre as part of a North American tour) was a delightful surprise from my first viewings in the 1980s and 1990s. Based on the 1909-1910 serial novel (Le Fantôme de l’Opéra) by Gaston LeRoux, the musical follows strange and scary happenings at the Paris Opera House in the late 19th century; a ghost (the phantom of the title) haunts the theatre, living beneath the house and controlling what productions and performers will and won’t be on its stage. Ingenue dancer/singer Christine Daaé catches the phantom’s attention, and his fancy. Initially she is fascinated by him, and the connection he seems to have with her late musician-father, but she instead falls for childhood love Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. When the Phantom’s real background, and then underground lair, are both revealed, tragedy ensues.

The dread-filled atmosphere and rich, velvet-vintage production stylings of The Phantom of the Opera conjure up Jean Cocteau’s beautiful 1946 film Beauty and the Beast and Tim Burton’s stream of goth-y outsider movies (notably Edward Scissorhands). There’s something about that aesthetic I enjoy immensely –the dark opulence of each feels comforting, cozy, a good place to hide. Lloyd Webber’s score is one I taught a seemingly endless stream of piano students two decades ago; now, I can honestly say thumbs up to the whole package. Though it has some creative production differences from the original (including a very cool revolving tower with plank-like, pop-out steps), the new production of The Phantom of the Opera has a fascinating and very involving atmosphere that is less owing to the mechanics (which are impressive, to be sure), and more to do with casting and chemistry. Gone is the pseudo-Grand-Guignol dread that hung over the original, and firmly in place is a sense of relationship between characters, and, notably, a greater, richer sense of the titular phantom. Chris Mann, a finalist on The Voice, infuses his portrayal with a sense of damaged, lovelorn isolation; the commanding, nasty character of old has been (wisely) replaced by a deeply lonely, desperate, rather pathetic figure. Any sense of terror is inextricably linked to (and catalyzed by) a sense of deep despair.

Chris Mann as The Phantom and Katie Travis as Chris tine Daaé. Photo: Matthew Murphy

When, in the final act, we see him surveying the underground world he’s known for so long, we don’t see a monster, but a damaged little boy begging for love; this is an important revelation, and it goes a long way to validating the kiss Christine plants square on the mouth before she departs. Truthfully, it was a kiss I used to flinch at — it seemed forced, corny, gross, especially considering how the Phantom had been less an “angel” to her than a domineering demon, shouting commands to “sing for me!” (here, that scene is presented as a formal voice lesson, with Mann gesturing across his chest and making wide motions with his arms, imploring her to “breathe”) — but that kiss is now one of acceptance and understanding, and it goes a long ways to unpacking the character’s psychology. In other words, it’s touching. Mann’s portrayal is less boorish, more boyish, and reveals the man, not the monster. The Phantom’s dangerous pranks — the slamming sandbags, the falling chandelier (which is, in this production, perched literally above the orchestra section of the audience), even the murdered stagehand who’d made fun of him — feel more like childish antics, more emo, less abomination. That may not be what traditional musical-theatre audiences want, but it’s what works for 21st century musical theatre. A more identifiable (and indeed, familiar) Phantom is one that hopes to attract a younger audience, one with higher expectations in terms of characterization, and specific cultural touchstones when it comes to portrayals of romantic, tormented outsiders.

In watching this new Phantom, one couldn’t help but be reminded of the moody anti-heroes from the Twilight series. The resemblances are, in many respects, striking, and it’s smart of producer Cameron Mackintosh to mainline this vibe for a whole new audience. His efforts are greatly enhanced with a young, dynamic cast, and Mann, along with Katie Travis (as Christine) and Storm Lineberger (as Raoul) turn in performances that give this Phantom a youthful vigor, one filled with intense emotions and operatic reactions that, while not matching the dread of the original source material, mines the story for its hormone-laden, tainted-love storyline, not to mention Andrew Lloyd Webber’s eminently hummable score. The sense of the work being mean-spirited to opera is still one I can’t quite shake (does the formal “opera” presented here have to be so utterly disjointed, snobbish, and generally discordant?) but soprano Jacquelynne Fontaine’s stellar performance, as the opera singer Carlotta, helps to elegantly quiet that notion. As with Mann, Fontaine’s portrayal is far richer than a cartoonish, one-dimensional, diva cliche. In performing the pseudo-opera “It Muto” (clearly a satire of Mozart’s works, particularly The Marriage of Figaro), Fontaine expertly balances annoyance, pathos, humor, ambition, and terror in equal measure, softening the harsh lines between “opera” and actual opera presented in the work, and succeeding, through her remarkable voice and stage presence, in bridging the two worlds with grace and a wink-nudge smile.

Jacquelynne Fontaine as Carlotta Giudicelli. Photo: Matthew Murphy

Still, one comes out of this new production of Phantom less smiling and more haunted at the impression it leaves; the portrait of a damaged, damaging loner with delusions of grandeur and the weak link in a wretched romantic triangle feels uncomfortably near. Never before have I emerged from a Lloyd Webber work hearing a melody in my head long after the curtain comes down, but the famous Phantom tune (a kind of unofficial theme) “Music of the Night” sat, ear-worm like, for several days, its Baroque-influenced lined and haunting orchestration seeping into consciousness along with Mann’s entreating expression. A Phantom for all times? I’m not so sure. A Phantom for the 21st century? Definitely. See it and decide for yourself.

Opera Atelier’s Armide: No Happy Endings

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 24, 2015

In opera

Peggy Kriha Dye as Armide. Photo by Bruce Zinger.

Happy endings don’t always happen; happy endings can’t always happen. Happy endings shouldn’t always happen.

These thoughts ran through my mind driving home Thursday evening after seeing Opera Atelier’s sumptuous Armide, directed by co-Artistic Director Marshall Pynkoski. A tragic love story with great outfits and delicate court dancing, the 1686 Lully work, while highly mannered and fantastical, has many rich opportunities for deep emotion and gripping drama. As the Globe and Mail’s Robert Harris writes, Baroque opera “was and is a fascinating amalgam of ballet, drama, comedy, luscious costumes, extravagant sets and an overall dedication to theatrical opulence.” Opera Atelier, dedicated to preserving the art and integrity of the form, lovingly caters to each and every element with scintillating detail.

Set during the First Crusade, Armide (Peggy Kriha Dye), a powerful Muslim warrior-priestess partially modelled on Homer’s Circe, traps Renaud (Colin Ainsworth), a Christian knight; she knows she should kill him, but finds she can’t because she’s developed feelings. So she casts a spell that makes him love her back (and one that would make it much easier to murder him, since she recognizes her equal in a combative sense) — but she remains haunted by the fact Renaud’s love isn’t real, and she moves between wallowing in feelings, and swallowing them. Though she calls on Hatred (Daniel Belcher) to assist her in erasing her feelings, it doesn’t work. Before she can return to her beloved, two of Renaud’s soldiers, Chevalier Danois (Aaron Ferguson) and Chevalier Ubalde (Olivier LaQuerre) appear and break Armide’s spell. Renaud prepares to leave, but not before Armide returns and begs him to stay or take her with him; he refuses and departs, and Armide is left alone.

Peggy Kriha Dye as Armide and Colin Ainsworth as Renaud. Photo by Bruce Zinger.

There is a recognizably Eurocentric idea at work in the opera which immediately bring to mind Said’s writings on Orientalism. Lully and librettist Philippe Quinault cast their sights on the world of the near East and its perceived exoticism by Europeans, with the opera’s story based on a tale contained within 16th century writer Torquato Tasso’s poem La Gerusalemme liberata (Jerusalem Delivered); I recently saw another (shorter) opera by Monteverdi based on the same work, Il combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda (The Battle of Tancredi and Clorinda) at the Canadian Opera Company, with all the Orientalist nonsense firmly set aside. (It can indeed be done!) In that work, as in Armide, there is a horrible cloud of despair hanging above the would-be lovers. The idea of different cultures coming together awkwardly, clashing, melding, and clashing again runs like a fine (if hard) gold thread throughout Lully’s work; it’s as if the realities of the outer world — outside of magic and other fantastical situations — are too difficult to be surmounted.

That’s awfully gloomy, but somehow, sadly precise, because it’s a tacit acknowledgement of the harsh geopolitical situations that prevent so much true understanding between cultures, not to mention the deep sociocultural chasms that exist between men and women. Though Tasso’s work ends with its dubious heroines converting to Christianity (surely a mark of the Europe in which it was written, one that perhaps hasn’t changed much), it’s interesting Quinault felt the need to end the opera where he did, with Renaud’s departure and Armide’s devastation.

Peggy Kriha Dye (Armide) and Tyler Gledhill (Love). Photo by Bruce Zinger.

So of course, the soldier-sorceress has no happy ending. Why would she? How could she? Not only would Tasso’s 16th century never allow it, but a picture-perfect ending would be too saccharine, and frankly disingenuous to the overall sour tone of the piece. Sure, there is the comedic relief of the soldiers (Ferguson and LaQuerre make an immensely likeable pair onstage, channeling Laurel-and-Hardy-style buddy humor) and the lovely dancing of the Atelier Ballet (choreographed by co-Artistic Director Jeannette Lajeunesse Zingg); there is also the winged presence of Love (Tyler Gledhill), a stretching, leaping, embracing figure who silently entreats the titular magician to follow a softer path.

But, ultimately, as the final notes sound and designer Gerard Gauci’s set reveals hotly-colored flames surrounding a solo Armide, we know the butter-soft visuals and languid scenes of romance that have gone before are a ruse; Lully’s music has darkness in buckets, and it’s the perfect complement to Philippe Quinault’s libretto and Tasso’s wrenching poem. More cynical (or perhaps over-romantic) types would argue the ending can’t be good: Armide is alone and devastated, and she has to live with a love that can never be satisfied or consummated. But there’s a strange freedom in that isolation. Keeping her power (limited as it may be) and sense of independence within the borders of her homeland, close to family and trusted peers feels like a better (less exciting, probably more adult) option than traveling to another country and a culture that would undoubtedly be hostile toward and ultimately reject her, or keeping her lover in a land where he might experience the same treatment.

Colin Ainsworth (Renaud) and Peggy Kriha Dye (Armide). Photo by Bruce Zinger

What’s more, keeping Renaud in a haze of love isn’t love at all — it’s manipulation, a nasty form of control, domination, and possessiveness, behavior that surely drives love (the real kind) away very quickly. Besides, there’s something strangely satisfying about the woman not getting the man at the end and living happily ever after, and about the disruption to the cliched princess fairytale that too often dominates cultural depictions around women and love.

Armide still lives in love at the end, just not with a love that is incarnated within the physical form of Renaud. The ending strips away the bullshit romance aspects of the story to reveal something far more interesting and human: vulnerability. That quality is precisely what powers this production, and indeed, so much great art. Staring at the abyss and letting the world see our raw, naked, true selves is frightening — even moreso when we have to do it alone. But do it we must. The question is, will we move forwards, vulnerable and exposed, in love, or in hate?

Hero

By Catherine Kustanczy

On January 8, 2014

In Canada, writing

For the first time in a (very) long time, I sat down and watched a favorite movie from childhood. I’d only ever seen James Cameron’s Aliens on video cassette —I was too young to see it in theaters, and, in truth, I never would have, being far too nervous and prone to nightmares. But I remember endless grey-skied afternoons spent glued to the screen, wide-eyed and short-breathed, biting nails and breathing sighs, over the exploits of Ripley and the Marines. Then I’d hit rewind, make a bowl of popcorn, and watch it all over again.

Recently I had the movie on my television in the background, as I prepared for a very stress-filled move within NYC. I found myself, as a woman, strangely relating to Ripley and her uphill battle against the malignant forces that seemed bound and determined to follow her. Far be it for me to make an action movie into some kind of deep metaphor (it wasn’t meant to be, was it?), but, for a few brief minutes, between taping, shaping, squishing, folding and molding, I found myself marveling at the mastery of James Cameron’s 1986 work —its hard edges, gleaming surfaces, dripping corners and long silences. I also fell in love with its feisty female heroine… dare I say I even drew a bit of inspiration?

This past fall was nothing like I’d imagine it being. I thought moving to NYC would mean I’d slip into a life I’d long wanted to be part of, one filled with work and friends and the media world I so deeply love; instead, I found rules and loneliness and desolation. Without going into too much personal detail, suffice to say the last few months of 2013 were very dark. Never have I felt more rejected, more more disillusioned, and more singularly alone. Everything was wrong, horrible, dreary and lonely; I felt less like the heroine of my life than the victim of a cruel prank. My romantic vision of New York was ripped away from me in a series of bruising, blackening experiences. I spent weeks telling myself things would get better, that it was my attitude, that it was my fault, that I wasn’t good enough, trying hard enough, that I wasn’t doing enough or being enough or bringing enough to make my NYC experience all it could and should be. I was wrong; things were bleak; it was awful. That doesn’t mean I didn’t do work I’m damn proud of, however – I just wish I’d done more of it, and made my culture writing, radio reporting, and social media activities (creativity and communicating, the stuff I love, the stuff that makes me the happiest) more of a priority. I plan to in 2014.

(Photo mine)

It was a supreme relief when, exiting Billy Bishop Airport last month, I breathed in the cold, clean air of a Canadian winter. Never has the term “home” meant so much, or been so personal, as that moment. Being back in Canada —with my mother, my dog, the snow, and a warm, familiar house full of functioning heat, good food, and plenty of light in the day and silence at night —has been deeply healing. Just as rewarding have been the many warm, welcoming messages from old friends reminding me there’s still a place I’m accepted, valued, and loved.

My return to NYC (at the end of month) will be done with more even-keeled approach, not expecting anything but with real attempts to keep despair at bay too. I am traumatized from my experiences last year, but I will not be defeated or defined by them. I’m keenly aware of my sensitivities, and I plan on wearing a better armor in order to protect them from the harshness the Big Apple is so good at serving up. I’m not about to bust into a chorus of “Survivor,” but I will be thinking of my favorite movie hero. I don’t care how corny that sounds. Watching Ripley fight off and ultimately escape the darkness that stalks her, with such fierce determination —and return to a place of stillness and love, not quite whole but not quite defeated —seems like a good way to welcome my second chapter. In my mind, Aliens never has any sequels; that ugly Mama Alien remains floating around, forever, always watching. Ripley knows. We always know. We can only move forwards.

Good and Hot

By Catherine Kustanczy

On June 26, 2012

In video

The New York Times featured this lovely work by animator Gary Leib today. With a gorgeously simple sax soundtrack by Mike Hashim, the just-over two-minute video portrays city life in all its surreal splendour an sordid squalor. There’s so much going on this piece of animation that reflects life in New York in 2012: peoples’ sense of isolation mixed with a weary independence; their close relationship to pets; their love/hate relationships with nature and nurture; the dreariness of work; and the fortifying comfort of old (addictive) habits as a means of bolstering an ever-shifting identity. The animation is both whimsical and surreal, innocent and haunting – suitable for a man who created the sublimely bizarre underground comic Idiotland (gorgeous front and back covers here), and whose work I’ve enjoyed seeing in The New Yorker now for a while.

Also: viva coffee! Though I used to be a hardcore tea drinker, lately I can’t start the day without a good strong cup poured from the French press. Thank you NYT; thank you Mr. Leib; I’ll think of ravenous birds and waitresses with bottomless carafes as I take my first morning sips now.

Here And Not

By Catherine Kustanczy

On June 20, 2011

This being both Midsummer as well as World Refugee Day, considering concepts of new and old – and how they relate to the passage of time – seems particularly apt. I’ve been considering these ideas a lot since moving to New York, especially how they relate to one’s physical presence (and simultaneous perceived social absence) in a large urban setting. It’s easy to get lost in the crowd in a big city; it’s even easier to fit entirely, utterly alone amidst the never-ending seas of people.

As a teenager, one of my very-favorite songs was ‘Lonely Town’, specifically Frank Sinatra’s mournful, majestically sad recording from 1957. It so inspired me, in fact, that I wrote an entire story around it, one that later transformed into a screenplay for my university film writing class. Filled with youthful romanticism, it nonetheless reflected my wide-eyed fascination of the mysterious divide between the busy, buzzing world of urban life, and the weird, disorienting position of being completely alone in that environment.

A recent concert I attended beautifully captured this dynamic. The Aventa Ensemble‘s concert, appropriately called Voluptuous Panic, saw four American premieres, and took place at Scandinavia House, a gorgeously designed building with predictably lovely decor and an intimate performance space, the Victor Borge Hall. The concert captured the absence/presence dialectic I’ve been experiencing lately, and writing about madly in my beloved moleskine journal. Something about the mix of cacophony and stillness tapped into the heart of this mystery. Do Nordic composers have a better grasp of emptiness because of the insufferably long winters their respective countries bear? Is there a deeper connection to ideas around nothingness and absence, and their clash with populated areas, because much of Scandinavia is so dark and cold for several months at a time? Per Norgard’s …gennem torne… (…through thorns…) was haunting and morose, but gained some sprightly accompaniment from the impressive harp work of Maria Boelskov Sorenson.Canadian Paul Frehner‘s work, which titled the concert, was playful and boisterous, while the final work, Poul Ruders‘ Kaf Kapriccio, was based on the work of Franz Kafka’s The Trial, and was suitably haunting, with tons of percussive elements like bells and drums and whistles.

The concert forced a series of questions as to what emotions music, and indeed, art, are meant to evoke: a simple escape from the everyday? An acknowledgement of darkness? An embrace of the void? What is art, if it doesn’t force us into the traffic jams of going to and from that inner void, amidst the honking horns of every day life? The Aventa Ensemble, small yet mighty, captured the confusing, awesomely overwhelming contradiction of alone-ness amidst busy-ness, forcing me to look at not only my situation, but that of many people in a new way. Starting out isn’t easy; sticking with the journey is harder, especially when it feels like “the day that never ends.”

As Gabriel Byrne remarked in his chat with Edna O’Brien, there comes a point where you won’t be at home in either place – back where you came from, or in your new place of residence -and, either way, you’re going to be alone in some sense, whether it be mentally, spiritually, creatively, intellectually, physically, or all of the above. What to do? Maybe Jenny Holzer was right: contradiction is balance. Maybe I should’ve gone to the Abrons Art Center this weekend to get tips from Phillipe Petit on that one. As it is, I think I’ll keep trying to see as much cultural stuff as I can, walking as much as I can, and enjoying the glorious heat — solo, curious, with water bottle and journal in tow.

Photos from my Flickr photostream.

See The World Up Close

By Catherine Kustanczy

On November 26, 2010

In art, history, movies, popular culture, theatre

“iPhone gloves… really?!”

That was my exact reaction reading a friend’s tweet recently. Technology is everywhere; so go the accessories. Life without a cellphone (and the ubiquitous apps) seems unreal; twenty years ago, life without a Walkman was unthinkable. Technology has been so ubiquitous now that it’s turned into a simple matter of choosing what we want, and when, and being absolutely confident it’ll be there at our convenience.

It’s hard to imagine the shock waves English photographer Eadweard Muybridge created with his early experiments in photography -experiments that lead to the creation of cinema. Can any of us imagine life without movies or still images? It’s easy to take them for granted, especially since they’re everywhere: TVs, movie screens, the internet, computer monitors. A work colleague of mine has a lovely photo of her daughter set as her desktop; in Muybridge’s time (the mid/late 1800s), the only image of the girl that could’ve existed would have been a painting. Beautiful, but hardly the same thing.

The conveniences of technology, and its role in our lives -scientifically, artistically, socially -ran through my mind watching Studies In Motion: The Hauntings of Eadweard Muybridge, produced by Vancouver’s Electric Company Theatre and presented by The Canadian Stage Company, currently on in Toronto at the Bluma Appel Theatre. The lauded work opens with a naked man carefully manoeuvring his way across the stage; I write “manoeuvring” because there is a real sense of trying to capture the basic -or seemingly-basic movements Muybridge did in his own experiments. The English-born, American-living/working photographer worked at the University of Pennsylvania between 1884 and 1887, and invented new techniques and technologies that significantly furthered the art of photography and lead directly to the world of cinema. The opening scene of Studies In Motion is exactly what its title suggests: studies (that is, people) in motion, across a grid-like space, forcing us to look at muscles, bones, structure and form, and the various shadows they cast across the bare expanse of stage -this mortal coil, perhaps or the new terrain someone might embark on whenever they try anything new.

Within the context of societal mores depicted within the play, the nudity is a source of shock, of course. One not-so-amused woman looks on pie-eyed and mouth gaping as the models demonstrate their daily business in the lab. Yet Muybridge (Andrew Wheeler) tells the shocked visitor this isn’t about titillation; if he could, he’d rip the flesh off to see the bone, and then take away the bone to see pure movement itself. Models cover and uncover according to the readiness of the equipment, but they are also comfortable around their technician cohorts. Thus the straight-laced Victorian world falls away, and we are taken somewhere considerably more modern; this modern sense is reflected, meta-theatrically at least in a sense, via Crystal Pite’s dance interludes, where the actors become the motion their theatrical counterparts set out to study. With a pulsating soundtrack (courtesy of composer Patrick Pennefather), the ensemble reaches, runs, stretches, and sashays through all variance of human-doings.

The team behind Studies In Motion are a talented bunch; director Kim Collier is a Siminovitch Prize-winner, and the impressive set, lighting, and video design is by Canada Council award winner Robert Gardiner. Crystal Pite is celebrated across Canada and has won a Dora Mavor Moore Award (a Toronto version of a Tony). Writer Kevin Kerr’s other works include Unity (1918) and Skydive, and the show itself was previously produced at Montreal’s impressive Festival TransAmériques in 2009. While there’s a true sense of exploration and curiosity and even wonder, I was left cold emotionally -but then, that’s probably the point. Kerr’s work eerily echoes the cold efficiency with which Muybridge approached his work, and even the inclusion of the famous murder he trial he was involved with (he shot his wife’s l0ver) fails to touch; it’s at its most compelling when in the lab, showing movement you take for granted -human technology at work -across a massive, sprawling grid.

Gardiner’s contribution was, I admit, my favorite part of the show. His eye-poppingly gorgeous grid-like design was complemented by various projections of Muybridge’s original works flashed across the long screen running the length of the stage. The natural tendencies of the eye (moving left to right, small to large) were challenged, gently, skillfully, with a notion of continually widening, then narrowing Kerr’s narrative focus. The design was a dramatic dance companion to the occasionally-maudlin script, though it should be noted that Kerr is incredibly good at knowing when his characters should shut up and let the images do the talking. Here Collier’s incredible eye for integrating the piece’s various elements -dance, video, images, movement -comes forward as truly impressive, and truly remarkable. There was a nice future-looking play of words and sounds and images I experienced in watching Studies In Motion too; artists like the Lumiere brothers, Fritz Lang, F.W. Murnau, and in a more contemporary sense, Daft Punk, Jenny Holzer, the early 90s videos of U2 (Mark Neale’s direction of “Lemon”, above, was directly influenced by Muybridge’s work), and the entire Krautrock and industrial movements are all here, in various guises, occasionally naked, occasionally still, probing and pulsating and prowling.

Muybridge, and by extension, Collier’s work attempts to look at the mystery of humanity and existence by taking mall slices of movement and analyzing them to bits; thing is, there’s an art in those small moments, in and of themselves, that doesn’t require analysis so much as acceptance. We may marvel at the technical and scientific feat Muybridge achieve, but it brings us no closer to the mystery of the human heart, or indeed, the mysterious ways we’re moved by art itself.

So this, then, is the final question Studies In Motion left me with, one I’m still wrestling with: does a person make better art through isolation? isolated movement, position, placement -consciously created -good or bad for art? I don’t expect easy answer -and in fact, I’d rather enjoy the questions anyway. There’s poetry in the motion, and in stillness, and having both at my disposal through this little life feels like the best kind of technology I could want, iPhone gloves be damned.