Review: Theatre / “SHAKESPEARE AND HIS MISTRESS”, by Paul Kauffman, directed by Cate Clelland. At ANU School of Music Big Band Room, September 21. Reviewed by TONY MAGEE

Kirsty Budding as Emilia and David Pearson as Wil.
Photo by Janelle McMenamin

Local playwright Paul Kauffman has unveiled an interesting play, based on the premise that William Shakespeare took a lover some time around 1592, when he was aged twenty-eight, who provided inspiration for many of his sonnets of love, as well as the initial idea for the story of Romeo and Juliet.

The lover, or mistress, is Emilia Bassano-Lanier, who later became the first recognised female English poet. Her life is well documented in her letters, poetry, medical records and legal records, although none of these mention an affair or relationship with Shakespeare. She is known however to have had a knowledge of an unpublished first draft of his “Antony and Cleopatra”, as well as an understanding of the symbolic meaning of certain scenes in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and “The Tempest”.

More convincing is the possibility that Emilia is the “dark lady” referred to in Shakespearian sonnets 127-154, characterised by being overly sexual in passion. Elizabethan astrologer and occultist Simon Foreman believed this. Other scholars have argued that the dark lady could be brothel-owner Black Luce, or Aline Florio - the wife of a well known Italian translator of the period.

At any rate, there is more than enough speculative fodder to come up with the good yarn presented in this play. 

Strengths of the production are the excellent original music composed by David Pereira, expertly played live by himself on Cello, Dr Edward Neeman on keyboard and Isabeau Hansen on flute and piccolo. The score combines the Elizabethan style, not dissimilar to composer John Dowland, with contemporary harmonies and melodic phrases. One period piece, Michael Praetorius’ “La Volta”, is reprised several times and given an unusual harmonic treatment, mixed with a traditional reading.

The Werckmeister temperament chosen for the digital harpsichord added mystique with its period tuning system, although a real harpsichord would have been so much better. Surely at the chosen venue, The ANU School of Music, there must be one? Odd. Also, treble and sopranino recorders would have been preferable to flute and piccolo.

In addition to the instrumental score, Pereira has written several songs to ad period charm and advance the plot somewhat. David Pearson, playing Shakespeare, sang a convincing and beautiful rendition of “For the First Time I am Truly Alive”.

The other strength is the excellent Old-English style courtly dancing, choreographed by local Renaissance dance experts Alwyen and John Gardiner-Garden, who also supplied the authentic period costumes.

As a play, it drags and needs some re-writing and tightening up. In particular, there is a general lack of enthusiasm from the cast of four in delivery of lines and pace. Projection and diction varied from poor to acceptable. Also, from anything further back than the third row, it was hard to see what was taking place on the floor-stage.

If this is to work as a sustained production, particularly with a view to the intended parts II and III for 2019, it could be dramatically improved by being staged in-the-round, thus alleviating sight-line problems and bringing the story and the action right in front of the whole audience, who ideally should be in raked seating.

Theatre / “SHAKESPEARE AND HIS MISTRESS”, by Paul Kauffman, directed by Cate Clelland. At ANU School of Music Big Band Room, September 21. Reviewed by TONY MAGEE

First published in City News Digital Edition, September 22  2018.

Short story: "WHO FIRED THE GUN?", from "Titanic and Other Ships", by COMMANDER CHARLES LIGHTOLLER

C H Lightoller (1874 - 1952)

So, in the year of Our Lord 1900, armed with a letter of introduction and full of good resolutions, I made my appearance at 30 James Street, Liverpool, the headquarters of the wonderful White Star Line. It was customary in those days to have to wait anything up to six months before getting an appointment, so, feeling very virtuous at having done the great deed, I slipped away for a few months’ holiday. Within a week, to my utter disgust, I had orders to report; and on arriving in Liverpool, found I was appointed to the R.M.S. Medic, the first of the five huge White Star Liners that were to open the new Australian service. I suppose I ought to have felt flattered at being picked out from among the many, but it was rather a staggerer, since all my outfit happened to be roaming somewhere round the railways, more or less lost, and certainly unobtainable.

When the Marine Superintendent told me the ship was sailing within a couple of days, I blurted out, “Good Lord, I’ve no clothes.” His reply was short, and to the point. “Get some.” I did, and rambled off to Australia with slightly less than half an outfit. But it was the White Star Line, the summit, at that time, of my ambitions.

What a change after that precious old cattle truck. Here everything spotless and clean; everything just-so, discipline strict, but in no way irksome. Navigation such as I had never known it.

I soon fell into things and became frightfully keen at my job. Crowds of passengers and plenty going on. I lasted a whole voyage, and then I sent in my resignation in preference to being fired! Undoubtedly my own fault for again doing those things usually left undone by the discreet and wisely minded.

It came about this way. We were lying in Sydney, in Neutral Bay, and for one reason and another our sailing had been delayed. She was a show ship, the biggest that had ever been out there, and the people in Australia gave the time of our lives. Everything and everywhere it was the Medic.

I was always extremely fond of small boat sailing, and it was partly this amusement that got me into the scrape. I, as fourth officer (since she did not carry a fifth), with four midshipmen, had rigged up one of the ship’s boats. We fitted her with a false keel, and used to sail her all over the harbour, that most wonderful of harbours in the wide world, and the boat was no slouch either.

One day we had been across to Rosecutter’s Bay (sic), and, as an excuse for the jaunt, had taken sandbags to fill up with sand and bring back for the purpose of holystoning the decks. Now, standing in the middle of the harbour is a rock, on which is built a fort, known as Fort Dennison (sic), or more commonly Pinchgut, owing to the starvation diet on which the convicts were kept whilst confined in the fort. Mounted on this fort is a huge gun, that covers the whole of the harbour.

We were coming off with a light breeze, clad in our white ducks, thoroughly enjoying life, and went to pass windward of the fort. The boat did not seem inclined to lie up to it, and as it was of no consequence whatever, we ran close under the lee. One of the boys, Watson by name, lying on his back along one of the thwarts and looking up as we passed close under the fort, noticed the projecting muzzle of this huge gun. “What a lark,” he blurted out, “to fire that gun some night. Wouldn’t it shake ‘em up?” I looked up, and as they say in Yankeeland, fell for it. It was a proposition that appealed. So, with each one sworn to secrecy, we set about what proved to be a task that took over six weeks to accomplish, but it was worth it.

First, there was the powder to get, and, to avoid suspicion, it had to be obtained in very small quantities. There was fuse to get also, but before we committed ourselves very deeply, bearing in mind our very limited exchequer, it behoved us to go off some night and reconnoiter, and find out what sort of gun it was, and if it could be fired. For this purpose we commandeered a scow from Cavill’s Baths that lie off the Domain.

Sydney Harbour is reeking with sharks, as in fact is the whole of the water round Australia; any baths therefore, must have a shark-proof netting, and it is customary to have floating pontoons, on which are built the dressing rooms, and from which the shark-proof netting is suspended. These iron tanks rapidly become fouled in the warm water, and it was for the purpose of cleaning these tanks that this one man scow was used. It was capable of carrying one man, and one drum of tar, with a fair amount of safety.

Two of the boys were wise, and at this juncture backed out of the escapade, so the remaining two and myself boarded our noble scow one night, and proceeded to paddle out into the middle of Sydney Harbour. Our good Guardian Angel must have been pretty wide awake. Although it was dead calm and the surface like glass, we could not paddle quickly because the water came over the bows. As to what would have happened if the slightest breeze had sprung up, doesn’t need a very vivid imagination. However, I cannot say it bothered us; we wanted to get there and we got there, climbing up the lightning conductor and into the turret-like top of the fort.

The interior was a huge circular well, round which this massive gun carriage was supposed to revolve. The gun was an old muzzle loader, and I should think the whole outfit weighed somewhere in the region of twenty tons.

I was walking round the parapet on the inside with cat-like tread, looking to see what I could find, when I suddenly realised there was a face staring at me out of the darkness within two feet of mine. Instinctively I drew back my arm, in a way wondering who would get in the first knock when I realised that my opponent was my own reflection in the glass of the door, which led to the lower regions of the fort.

We found the bore and vent all clear, with ramrod, sponge, and extractor all complete. As the latter two could only be required in the event of a second shot, they did not interest us. If we could ram home and bring off the “One Gun Salute” as it was eventually called, we were going to rest on our laurels. Having completed our examination, we returned down the lightning conductor, into the scow, and back to Cavill’s Baths. That occupied one whole night, from just before midnight until five o’clock in the morning, and not a soul a penny the wiser.

We slowly collected powder, fuse, and masses of white cotton waste, which we marled down, with the object of ramming home in the form of three large wads, and so completing the charge. There were fourteen pounds of blasting powder alone, apart from a similar amount of fine grain, the former, of course, went in the rear of the charge, as it burns slower;

What really topped off the crazy joke, and gave it a real artistic finish, was the idea of hoisting the Boer colours on the flag staff of the Fort.

England was then in the throes of the Boer War, with Australia more loyal, more patriotic, more fervently keen for Empire rights, than was even displayed at home. It is notorious that the Australians are always more British than the English themselves, loyal to the heart’s core, and every thought for the homeland. The scene on the quaysides, and in the towns when a contingent was leaving for South Africa, simply staggered belief. The people were patriotic mad, and had there been the ships and the necessity, every man jack in Australia would have volunteered.

It was under these conditions that we conceived the glorious idea of hoisting the Boer Flag and flaunting a real roaring red rag to the Australian bull. It had, of course, to be made, and must not be made out of bunting, otherwise it would at once be traced to some ship in the harbour. Actually it was made out of linen pinched from the surgery, and painted with the Boer colours. All this had to be done behind locked doors, and after many days we were ready at last to put our scheme to the test.

We had located a boat which we could commandeer, and at eleven o’clock one night, with a nice fine drizzle falling, sufficient to keep most people in doors, we loaded up. I had the honour of carrying the fifty feet of fuse round my waist, and the bag of powder slung round my shoulder and under my armpits, covered by my coat. Three huge wads of waste and the coil of signal halyards, for hauling the ammunition up, were distributed equally between us.

With this, the three of us marched up George Street, Sydney, perfectly confident that every policeman we came to was going to arrest us on suspicion and trembling in our shoes in consequence; not so much I’ll say, in fear of ourselves, but that our plot might fail.

It did not.

Fort Denison, Sydney Harbour

We got our boat; then out to the fort, and up the lightning conductor. Everything worked nicely to plan. Having hauled up the powder, I laid on my back, and with my heels on the inside edge of the Fort, I was just able to reach the muzzle of the gun, jam in the flannel bag containing the power, and ram it well home. Next followed the two wads of waste, and they also were rammed well home. Then, finally, the third wad, which had first been soaked in water.

Our only disappointment so far had been that we were unable to train the gun until it bore on a Russian man-o’-war then lying in the harbour. If this had been possible, we intended to insert one of the sandstone balls from off the top of Government Garden Gates, which would have burst on impact with her decks, and left little or no trace, but added considerably to the fun. This did not come off, however, as the gun couldn’t be trained.

Having rammed the charge home, until the thud of the rammer was loud enough to bring out the sentry, we quit. The plan was for the other two boys to hoist the flag, let go the piece of signal halyard, that we had used to haul up the ammunition, get down to the boat, turn her stern on the rocks, haul the signal halyards into the boat, lay on their oars, and stand by.

I had allowed three minutes for this operation.

In the meantime the fifty feet of fuse had to be coiled round the breach of the gun; the pricker then driven down the vent to pierce the flannel bag of powder, a small box of fine grain powder poured down the touch-hole, the business end of the fuse stuck down the vent, and then to stand by with a match. All this I finally finished, and there was still one minute to wait; it seemed like an hour.

At last the great moment arrived. Striking the match, I lit the frayed out end of the fuse, and, as it spluttered and hissed, blew out the match, and put it into my mouth. The flag was now gaily fluttering in the breeze, as I dashed for the lightning conductor, to find, in the first place, that Watson had forgotten to let go one piece of signal halyard. This I cast off; then I more fell than climbed down the slide of the fort, on to the rocks below, only to discover that a plank in the boat had been stove in on the rocks, by the wash from a passing tug, and she was half full of water.

There was no choice; the fuse was burning, so we had to go. In we jumped and pulled like mad. The others were both Conway boys, and they could pull. I had to strip off my shirt and jam it into the hole, and hold a foot on to it to keep the boat afloat at all.

It was impossible, in the circumstances, to return her. We had to land, just at the nearest point, draw her up where she would be safe, and scoot for our lives.

We went through the Domain, over the fourteen feet spiked gates of Government Gardens, and across Government Gardens—where Watson came to grief by putting his toe in one of the hoops round a rose bed, turning a complete somersault, landing on his back in the middle of the bed. We picked him up, and some of the more prominent thorns out, and continued the race. As yet we had not stopped even to put on our shoes.

We went over the gates on the far side of the gardens and on to Circular quay. There we pulled up to take breath. They, of course, wanted to know, “was everything all right?” “Had the fuse been lit?” “Would the gun go off?” and so on. I said I’d done everything, but the only thing I had a doubt about was that, in my excitement in driving the pricker down the vent hole, I could not say for certain if it had pierced the flannel bag. If this had not been done, I was afraid the main charge would not ignite, and, of course, the gun would not go off. This was going to be a mighty grievous disappointment; still, we consoled ourselves whilst putting on our boots, with the thought that, at any rate, they would find the Boer colours flying.

At this instant the whole sky lit up with a flash like lightning. Each of us stopped in his tracks, and held his breath. Was it, or was it not the gun? Surely not, with a huge flash like that. More likely lightning.

We waited and waited.

Then it came, and no mistake indeed. There was a crash like thunder, we could feel the concussion even where we stood.

We danced and shouted; threw down our caps and danced on them, and even shook hands, and, in short, behaved like lunatics. We’d done the trick.

We soon realised that it behoved us not to act like imbeciles, or we should attract attention; so, very sedately and circumspectly, we made out way back on board. The Quartermaster had been disposed of when coming ashore by sending him on a wild goose chase to make some coffee, and whilst he was away from the gangway we slipped ashore unseen. Coming back, our luck was still in, and we each got to our cabins without anyone being the wiser.

How we chuckled during the remainder of our stay in Sydney. The noise, the uproar, the jeers and recriminations. Imagine the feelings of the inhabitants when they found the colours of Britain’s hated enemy, fluttering in the breeze, and on the flagstaff of the harbour’s main fortification. Oh! It was great. The military authorities tried to throw the responsibility on the naval authorities, who retaliated by insisting the the Fort was a military garrison, and not their responsibility at all.

Somehow they managed to keep the papers in the dark for a couple of days, with the result that when the papers did get hold of it, they pulled the official leg, until the authorities were jumping mad, and would have cheerfully hung, drawn and quartered the culprits had they caught them, but luckily for our hides, they never did.

Reproduced from the book Titanic and Other Ships, by Commander Charles Lightoller. 1935 (1st edition) Ivor, Nicholson and Watson, London. Hardcover.

“MADAME BUTTERFLY” by Giacomo Puccini. Opera Australia. At Canberra Theatre, September 6. Reviewed by TONY MAGEE

Sharon Zhai as Butterfly and Kershawn Theodore as her son, Sorrow.
Photo by Jeff Busby

DIRECTED by John Bell, this setting of Madame Butterfly is a touring production and by necessity uses a simple set, easily bumped in and packed down, with a chamber orchestra of eleven players and a small cast of nine principals.

Strengths of this production include strong performances by the soloists and beautiful and remarkably volumous playing and support by the small orchestra, conducted by Warwick Stengards.

In the vastness of the Canberra Theatre, I found the unchanging set visually tiresome over the two and a half hours of performance (which included a 20 minute interval). Simple, essentially colourless, sliding screens were used as a stage backdrop with a further curtained backdrop behind those. Occasional coloured lighting washes helped vary the atmosphere somewhat, but these were few and far between.

An acoustic quirk of the venue makes for an easy-to-hear and very detailed orchestral sound coming from the pit in front of the cast. The cast themselves were placed back within the depths of the stage on a raised platform and a great deal of the singing went up, rather than out. Lower and mid vocal registers were hard to hear. Only when the score called for them to use their upper more powerful registers could we hear the drama and intensity of the singing.

Director, John Bell

Sung in English, it should have been easy to follow the story very well. Mathew Reardon as Pinkerton and Michael Petruccelli as the matchmaker Goro both had excellent diction and contributed to the advancement of the plot significantly. Reardon in particular made an impact with his superb tenor voice. The remaining principles whilst having good voices, had poor diction.

Singing the title role of Butterfly, Sharon Zhai was excellent and presented a thrilling and heartfelt performance. She made a beautiful entrance in a veiled costume exuding gentleness and elegance, which she later disrobed, revealing her beauty. A huge role and one which she sang with control, power and projection.

Puccini originally conceived Butterfly as a three act opera. Four more revised versions in two acts followed, version five from 1907 being the one normally performed around the world today. Act two is incredibly long and I found it tedious after a while, saved by the famous humming chorus, sensitively and well sung by the Woden Valley Youth Choir, with a very welcome blue colour lighting wash, as Butterfly’s child is soothed to sleep. The dramatic and tragic conclusion also revived the interest, as Butterfly decides what to do after circumstances are taken out of her control. I shall not spoil the ending for you.

I can see this production being most effective in a small space and intimate setting, in country towns and other regional centres. It does not transfer well to a full-size theatre in a capital city and gave the impression of being a bit B-grade overall. 

This review also published in City News Digital Edition and Canberra Critics Circle blog.

“SUSANNA”, an Oratorio by George Frideric Handel. Presented by Handel in the Theatre. At The Playhouse, September 1. Reviewed by TONY MAGEE

Susanna and the Elders
by Artemisia Gentileschi

IN this most entertaining production of Handel’s “Susanna”, it is the chorus and orchestra that carry the piece along with intensity, drama and pace. In particular, the excellent and captivating choreography by Belinda Buck and the superb singing by the chorus, who are also very engaging and visually compelling, are in turns joyous, defiant, menacing and judgmental.

The orchestra, conducted by Brett Weymark, provides magnificent, melodious and sensitive support. First violin and leader Peter Clark is very animated in his playing and leads with passion and assurity. All members of the orchestra appeared to be “in the moment” and almost as one with the cast, very close to the stage and very visual throughout the performance. I loved their complete mode of inclusion in the piece.

The solo vocal performances by the seven principles were variable. Singing the title role of Susanna was Jacqueline Porter, whose beautiful operatic soprano voice soared through the theatre. She sang the part with lyric beauty and feeling. Also excellent was Jeremy Kleeman as Kenan, an Elder. His bass voice is pitch perfect, wide ranging and he sings with excellent diction. Also noteworthy was Keren Dalzell who sang the role of Susanna’s assistant, Anthea, with compassion and tenderness. Towards the end of the piece, the young profit Daniel enters, sung by Alison Robertson, who is a welcome breath of fresh air in a dazzling costume. She sang and played her role with great presence as well as excellent comic timing.

Co-producer Tobias Cole, who
sang the role of Joacim,
Susanna's husband

One scene in particular, the entrance of Ezra and Kenan, offers a most compelling reason for staging the performance as opposed to a traditional oratorio style concert presentation. The chorus and the two elders descend into a ribald sexual fantasy, bodies entwined in a seething mass of ecstasy all over the floor and where gender boundaries seem blurred. There is no doubt however, about the character and intensions of the elders as they make their sinister moves and plot to rape Susanna.

The set is simple and bereft of time or place. A scene of chains dangling from the roof to the floor creates a maze through which the performers dart and weave. It is almost at the risk of becoming visually tiring, but thwarted by a clever piece of stagecraft at the conclusion of the oratorio where the chains are pulled back by the chorus, indicating a sense of liberation and freedom for Susanna.

Director Caroline Stacey and producers Tobias Cole and Kelly Corner are to be congratulated on this imaginative and highly entertaining piece of theatre, which with its contemporary staging, aided by colourful and dramatic lighting, reinvent an old art-form into something quite new and exciting.


This review also published in City News Digital Edition and Canberra Critics Circle blog.

“RECITAL FOUR”. Nick Russoniello, Saxophone. At Wesley Church, September 2. Reviewed by TONY MAGEE

Presented by The Canberra Symphony Orchestra in association with Brian and Dianne Anderson, the Recital Series offers a musical glimpse into a solo artist, a few days prior to their principle engagement with the full orchestra.

Photo: Jacquie Manning

Nick Russoniello played a 50 minute solo recital, showcasing six instruments from the saxophone family, giving the audience a fascinating insight into the capabilities of each instrument and unveiling many unusual uses and playing techniques for each one. He is an outstandingly accomplished performer and a master of all his instruments.

Beginning with an off-stage improvisation which served as an effective entrance, he morphed into the Telemann “Fantasia No.1 in A major”, a sparking Baroque piece which also highlighted the repertoire he played as a student in many parts of the world.

The program was interspersed with his own informative and interesting dialogue, briefly about his career to date, the instruments he plays and the relationship they have to each piece.

Shifting from soprano sax to the tenor, we were treated to the first of three original compositions by Russoniello. His “Megalania” (The Lizard Monster) is an indigenous inspired piece, utilising guttural utterances, harmonic effects and didgeridoo sounds to achieve primitive tribal effects.

Britten’s “Six Metamorphoses After Ovid” followed, in six movements. Each one is a musical portrayal of a character from Roman mythology. In this the player chose, in order, soprano, tenor, baritone, sopranino, C melody and alto saxophones to illustrate and create the desired musical depiction of each deity.

His own “The New South” followed and this time featured circular breathing, another indigenous performance technique and one which he said took several months to master. The piece is inspired by a guitar duo he sometimes plays with and in this regard he was able to mimic a rhythmic accompaniment as well as melody, effectively creating a one person duet. It was very clever and entertaining and has also been performed by other saxophone players around the world.

His final original piece was “Dawn Searching”, which recreates bird-life in the wild, using the soprano sax.

The closing number, Cockcroft’s “Rock Me” is as the name suggests, inspired by rock music. Played on the baritone sax, it had a driving pulse and an intense rhythmic feel, coloured with raunchy screaming melody splashes, reminiscent of slap bass or slap guitar. People around the room were padding there feet mildly, tapping along and very much enjoying the groove.

A soprano sax encore had me, and I think many others, misty eyed - Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” - slow mournful and beautifully delicate.

Nick Russoniello will perform with the Canberra Symphony Orchestra next week, Wednesday 5th and Thursday 6th September in a program where he is the featured soloist in Debussy’s “Rhapsody for Alto Sax and Orchestra” and Milhaud’s “Suite for Saxophone and Orchestra - ‘Scaramouche’”. In addition, he will play within the orchestra for Ravel’s “Bolero”.

This review also published in City News Digital Edition and Canberra Critics Circle blog.

Opinion: I AM PART OF THE RESISTANCE IN THE TRUMP ADMINISTRATION. Reproduced from The New York Times, September 5 2018. By ANON.

I work for the president but like-minded colleagues and I have vowed to thwart parts of his agenda and his worst inclinations.

The Times is taking the rare step of publishing an anonymous Op-Ed essay. We have done so at the request of the author, a senior official in the Trump administration whose identity is known to us and whose job would be jeopardized by its disclosure. We believe publishing this essay anonymously is the only way to deliver an important perspective to our readers. We invite you to submit a question about the essay or our vetting process here.

President Trump is facing a test to his presidency unlike any faced by a modern American leader.

It’s not just that the special counsel looms large. Or that the country is bitterly divided over Mr. Trump’s leadership. Or even that his party might well lose the House to an opposition hellbent on his downfall.

The dilemma — which he does not fully grasp — is that many of the senior officials in his own administration are working diligently from within to frustrate parts of his agenda and his worst inclinations.

I would know. I am one of them.

To be clear, ours is not the popular “resistance” of the left. We want the administration to succeed and think that many of its policies have already made America safer and more prosperous.

But we believe our first duty is to this country, and the president continues to act in a manner that is detrimental to the health of our republic.

That is why many Trump appointees have vowed to do what we can to preserve our democratic institutions while thwarting Mr. Trump’s more misguided impulses until he is out of office.

The root of the problem is the president’s amorality. Anyone who works with him knows he is not moored to any discernible first principles that guide his decision making.

Although he was elected as a Republican, the president shows little affinity for ideals long espoused by conservatives: free minds, free markets and free people. At best, he has invoked these ideals in scripted settings. At worst, he has attacked them outright.

In addition to his mass-marketing of the notion that the press is the “enemy of the people,” President Trump’s impulses are generally anti-trade and anti-democratic.

Don’t get me wrong. There are bright spots that the near-ceaseless negative coverage of the administration fails to capture: effective deregulation, historic tax reform, a more robust military and more.

But these successes have come despite — not because of — the president’s leadership style, which is impetuous, adversarial, petty and ineffective.

From the White House to executive branch departments and agencies, senior officials will privately admit their daily disbelief at the commander in chief’s comments and actions. Most are working to insulate their operations from his whims.

Meetings with him veer off topic and off the rails, he engages in repetitive rants, and his impulsiveness results in half-baked, ill-informed and occasionally reckless decisions that have to be walked back.

“There is literally no telling whether he might change his mind from one minute to the next,” a top official complained to me recently, exasperated by an Oval Office meeting at which the president flip-flopped on a major policy decision he’d made only a week earlier.

The erratic behavior would be more concerning if it weren’t for unsung heroes in and around the White House. Some of his aides have been cast as villains by the media. But in private, they have gone to great lengths to keep bad decisions contained to the West Wing, though they are clearly not always successful.

It may be cold comfort in this chaotic era, but Americans should know that there are adults in the room. We fully recognize what is happening. And we are trying to do what’s right even when Donald Trump won’t.

The result is a two-track presidency.

Take foreign policy: In public and in private, President Trump shows a preference for autocrats and dictators, such as President Vladimir Putin of Russia and North Korea’s leader, Kim Jong-un, and displays little genuine appreciation for the ties that bind us to allied, like-minded nations.

Astute observers have noted, though, that the rest of the administration is operating on another track, one where countries like Russia are called out for meddling and punished accordingly, and where allies around the world are engaged as peers rather than ridiculed as rivals.

On Russia, for instance, the president was reluctant to expel so many of Mr. Putin’s spies as punishment for the poisoning of a former Russian spy in Britain. He complained for weeks about senior staff members letting him get boxed into further confrontation with Russia, and he expressed frustration that the United States continued to impose sanctions on the country for its malign behaviour. But his national security team knew better — such actions had to be taken, to hold Moscow accountable.

This isn’t the work of the so-called deep state. It’s the work of the steady state.

Given the instability many witnessed, there were early whispers within the cabinet of invoking the 25th Amendment, which would start a complex process for removing the president. But no one wanted to precipitate a constitutional crisis. So we will do what we can to steer the administration in the right direction until — one way or another — it’s over.

The bigger concern is not what Mr. Trump has done to the presidency but rather what we as a nation have allowed him to do to us. We have sunk low with him and allowed our discourse to be stripped of civility.

Senator John McCain put it best in his farewell letter. All Americans should heed his words and break free of the tribalism trap, with the high aim of uniting through our shared values and love of this great nation.

We may no longer have Senator McCain. But we will always have his example — a lodestar for restoring honor to public life and our national dialogue. Mr. Trump may fear such honorable men, but we should revere them.

There is a quiet resistance within the administration of people choosing to put country first. But the real difference will be made by everyday citizens rising above politics, reaching across the aisle and resolving to shed the labels in favor of a single one: Americans.

First published in The New York Times, September 5 2018

The writer is a senior official in the Trump administration.

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