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Saturday, Nov 28, 2009
There was that rarity in big production numbers, lovely original music (particularly in the "Nature" sequence), communicated to the audience by a remarkably good sound system. The "Tin Symphony" was nothing short of inspired -- Joan Mirs would have been proud of those squiggly machines. And, of course, there was that stunning finale, with Aboriginal runner Cathy Freeman casting her fire upon the waters.
Yes, there were those inspirational pop ballads -- is there some law that every Olympics must feature some crooner hitting the endless high note on a song about following your dream? -- but even those were redeemed by original staging: when Olivia Newton-John and John Farnham walked right in the middle of the surging host of athletes as they sang, it was genuinely touching, not least because the athletes themselves seemed touched.
As for the lengthy scenes paying homage to Australia's Aboriginal people, they could be viewed, if one were cynical, as ass-covering kitsch, but since the Aborigines' major political issue is simply that white Australia apologize to them (which the current administration oddly refuses to do), the benign, comfortingly anthropological sentiments expressed in the scenes seem unobjectionable, if hardly challenging.
So it's hard to imagine how it could have been much better. And yet the glorious show still left ever so slight a taste of unearned emotion. That probably isn't so bad -- part of the joy of the Olympics, like Christmas, is letting yourself believe that magic is alive, and dreams are free. Maybe it's more that the emotion didn't quite link up with the actual drama that was both unfolding before our eyes, and that is about to, in the 16 unknown, glory-drenched days ahead.
For what is truly unique and moving about an opening ceremony is not the artistry of the pageant, no matter how inspired, but the parade of athletes. There are a staggering 10,000 athletes from 200 countries at the Games. And when each nation enters the vast arena to the cheers of the crowd -- Armenia, Aruba, Austria, Azerbaijan -- it's the only time that the world really gets to look at itself, It's a stirring ritual, nationalism without the ugliness, a Noah's Ark of sport in which every single human animal -- whether they win gold, or win nothing -- is respected. And as the procession unfolds they're just as thrilled by the moment, all those beautiful young brown and yellow and black and white people happily walking along in their ill-chosen headgear, as the countless millions watching them.
And watching this real United Nations, this U.N. of the spirit, it's hard not to try to imagine what it would be like if the family of man really lived up to its name. Certainly the Aussie-dominated crowd showed its heart, cheering loudly when North and South Korea entered together for the first time and roaring when it was announced that East Timorese athletes were competing as so-called individual Olympic athletes. (Australia has sent troops to help the beleaguered young nation.) It's true -- the Olympics rarely change anything. But in an age without festivals, without much of anything besides Starbucks and Visa cards to bind the world together, it's worth something that an old image still touches something in us: a black-and-orange vase with men running, forever, across a silent field.
And that's what we'll remember, when the dazzling tributes have faded away. We'll each have our own personal piece of these games, and we'll make up our own stories, write our own tunes, celebrate our heroes our way. Sydney -- which richly deserves its reputation as one of the world's great cities, but more of that later -- poured its heart and soul into pulling our heartstrings, and did a superb job. Now it's our turn to find our own glory. There shouldn't be any shortage.
Next dispatch: The Games begin. Kamiya reports on swimming, beach volleyball and football.
