NOTE: This Play Guide may contain mild spoilers about the story of the show. If you like to be completely surprised by the play, you may wish to wait until after seeing it to read the Play Guide.

Souvenir

» The Story: A brief synopsis of Souvenir
» Who’s Who: Characters in the play
» Feature: Divinely Inspired

The Story

Cosme McMoon moved to New York in 1927 to try to make it as a songwriter and pianist. Five years later, he’s still waiting for his big break, so he teaches lessons to make ends meet. Then he encounters Florence Foster Jenkins, an upper-class society woman in need of an accompanist. She tells him her great passion for music and “what matters most is the music you hear in your head.” McMoon soon learns what she means when she belts out the first song. Unable to sing two notes in tune, Jenkins voice comes out more as shrieking. However, she is completely oblivious to her utter lack of talent. McMoon even wonders if she is suffering from a type of dementia, but the only thing that is blinding her is pure passion for music and singing. Even more shocking to McMoon is Jenkins’ plan to give a recital at the Ritz-Carlton ballroom. Although it appalls him to accompany such a deluded, untalented woman, he is somewhat touched by her truly innocent belief in herself, so he agrees to play with her.

The recital doesn’t turn out exactly like McMoon expected. Jenkins’ singing is as atrocious as ever, yet people really enjoy her performance, so much that they request five encores. Audience members must cover their mouths to muffle their laughter, but Jenkins is convinced they’re trying to hide sobs from being so moved. She truly believes that they must leave the room because they are so overcome with emotion, but really it’s because they can longer hide the hysterics they’re in. She is so thrilled with herself and the effect she has on people that she tells McMoon that she wants to have annual recitals. Again, McMoon is hesitant, not because of his own pride but more out of wanting to protect Jenkins from becoming disillusioned. The audiences love her now, but he’s afraid that one day they’ll turn cruel. Yet he can’t say no to her, so they begin a partnership. To McMoon’s disbelief, word of their act spreads like wild fire, and people flock to the recitals. In fact, the demand is so high that they put out a record, which is not only immensely popular but makes Jenkins a celebrity. McMoon begins to question that maybe she isn’t the illogical one after all. Maybe she’s tuned in to a type of brilliance that most people cannot comprehend. “Who’s to say that if one note follow another, we call it a tune but a different note makes us wince?” he wonders. “Who made up the rules?” He is fascinated that she achieves true happiness doing something she loves, no matter what the reactions of others are. Her singing might make thousands laugh, but she is truly moving one person: him. 

Who’s Who?

Cosme McMoon: An intelligent pianist who has become cynical due to years of struggling but finds new inspiration where he least expects it

Florence Foster Jenkins: A society woman with grand visions of her singing ability, which is completely void of talent, but she truly believes it to be of superior quality

Divinely Inspired
She had no voice of an angel, but she was infused with spirit.

by Laura Schlereth

They say it’s always better to have people laugh with you than at you. However, that wasn’t the case for singer and unintended comedienne Florence Foster Jenkins in the early 20th century. Jenkins was famous for her sold-out recitals in which she sang for hours to the immense delight of hundreds of audience members. But there was one catch: Jenkins was completely tone-deaf, and people came more for a comedy act rather than a concert of musical greatness. Jenkins performed as if she was a true operatic soprano, and if she was ever aware of her truly atrocious voice, she never let on. She was known for her eccentric behavior as much as her unusual performances. She was said to have ordered bouquets of flowers for herself, and when they were delivered, she genuinely forgot and believed they were sent to her by admirers. After she was involved in a taxicab crash, she sent the driver a box of cigars because it made her realize that she could sing a “higher F than ever before.” It is said that her last words were: “It must have been the creamed chicken.” Just as we’ll never know if Jenkins sincerely believed she was talented, we’ll never know if any of these rumors are true. But all the speculation is only a testament to her renown. Admired or not, it is always the most outlandish character who who makes for the best gossip, and the divine Jenkins was a true original.

Florence Foster was born in Wilkes-Barre, Penn., around 1868. Her father, a banker and member of Pennsylvania legislature, gave her a passion for music by providing her with piano lessons. She was giving recitals by the age of eight and when she was 17, she longed to study music overseas, but her father refused to support her traveling. This caused a permanent riff between the two, and she ran off to marry Frank Thornton Jenkins and settle in Philadelphia. They divorced in 1902. Jenkins played piano at luncheons and gave lessons to get by, but after her father died in 1909, she moved to New York with her inheritance. Finding her way into high society, Jenkins was the president of 12 different women’s clubs and founded the Verdi Club, which raised money for artists and musicians. Her passion for music still had a powerful grip on her and although it isn’t clear when she started singing, it is known that she studied voice with Carlo Edwards, a maestro of the Metropolitan Opera. During the 1930s, Jenkins met the flamboyant pianist and composer Cosme McMoon, who became her accompanist at her annual balls for more than 800 people at the Ritz-Carlton, where she donated all proceeds to charity. Each ball was lavishly themed, her costumes being the main attraction, as Jenkins changed between each number and dressed according to the song’s theme. Brooks Peters says in an article for the Metropolitan Opera: “She would appear garbed as a Greuze shepherdess, a Mexican senorita, or draped lavishly in an 18th-century white silk hoopskirt and tiara, looking like a cross between Marie Antoinette and Margaret Dumont. She invariably capped her outfit with an outrageous hat, or twirled a parasol, or fanned herself with giant ostrich plumes.”

Eccentric and daring, Jenkins believed she could sing anything—and did. Included in her repertoire were cantatas by Bach, “Mein Herr Marquis” from Die Fledermaus and Mozart’s “Queen of the Night.” It didn’t matter how bad she was, audiences flocked to see her lively, unconventional performances. Her pure singing ability didn’t seem to matter. If audiences wanted to be moved by an excellent singer in the technical sense, there were plenty around at any opera house. But there was only one Florence Foster Jenkins, and she supplied a form of entertainment that was unique and rare. Extremely popular, Jenkins also gave recitals at the St. Regis and the Sherry-Netherland, and had fans in other music bigwigs of the time including Thomas Beecham, Lily Pons and Cole Porter who attended her concerts and even composed songs for her. It seemed that everyone was in on the joke that this tone-deaf woman sang as if she was truly gifted, but it is unclear whether Jenkins was in on the joke as well. McMoon once said: “No one can do what Florence Foster Jenkins did because they all try to send her up. She was totally sincere.” But playwright Albert Innaurato believes a different story. “Florence didn’t think she was pulling anyone’s leg,” he once said. “She was compos mentis, not a lunatic. She was a very proper, complex individual.” Ira Siff, artistic director of La Gran Scena Opera Company, seems to think that whether or not Jenkins believed she was truly talented doesn’t matter, so long as she believed in her ability to give a good show. “Jenkins was exquisitely bad, so bad that it added up to quite a good evening of theater, which is a major achievement unto itself,” he has said. “. . .think of all the mediocrity in the world. Florence was one of a kind. She was way off the mark. But she was not mediocre.”

No matter how people described Jenkins’ appeal, it was big enough to take her to Carnegie Hall, which was her lifelong dream. More than 2,000 thousand people had to be turned away from her final sold-out concert in 1944. The 3,000 audience members responded with as much applause and laughter as ever. However, it is rumored that Jenkins finally realized how much they were really laughing at her, and that mixed with critics’ horrific reviews is the reason she died a month later of a broken heart. Others take the more uplifting view that Jenkins felt she had no more to accomplish after singing in Carnegie Hall and that she died contently because she had peaked. However, it is very likely that it was simply old age; Jenkins claimed to be in her 60s at the time but was actually 76 years old. It is unsurprising that various rumors surround her death, as is common with legends. But what is most important is the legacy Jenkins left behind. She is not remembered for being given a gift, something she had no control over. She is remembered for an action, choosing to live by her passion, and in that, she gave a gift to others.