June

     Next month, I will have the extreme pleasure of fulfilling three decades long, unwavering dreams: see a marvelous play by a beloved playwright, witness a beloved actor take on the challenge of one of history's greatest roles, and experience a live performance of a wonderful opera by a beloved composer.   I have never had such a mind-boggling abundance of riches happening in such a short time.     Imagine...three things I have desired with a passion bordering on lunacy coming my way, all within a few weeks.    Funny what life pushes at you.    Dreams do occasionally come true.    The greater North East corner of The United States--naturally centered around New York--is home to places teeming with great art.   So here is an ode to the living example of 'good things come to those who wait.'
     The marvelous play is Arcadia by Tom Stoppard.   Like most of his oeuvre (he would appreciate the word), this was seen on Broadway shortly following its successful premiere in London.    Alas, I did not live here, so I missed out on the play the first time around.    And few regional theaters are willing to risk it.   First, the cast is large for all but the bigger groups.    The play is long.    And it requires many talented, skilled (no, they are not the same thing), experienced actors who are well versed in sophisticated language--and sophisticated humor--filled with technical jargon, philosophy, discussions about art and scholarship, and signs of higher education.    Yet they must bring out the feelings and conflicts with which these characters deal, for this is a highly emotional play for all its unfamiliar words.   So I found no locals to take on the challenge.    I was pacified by reading the text and hearing it only in my mind.   But what words!     The play is a peak of higher speech, even for Stoppard, certainly one of the most erudite writers of the past century.    Yet what humanity is there.   True, he assumes you will follow the action, even if you do not understand every word.    This requires an audience who is willing to watch and listen carefully, but the ride, if you take it, is a glorious one.    The new production has received mixed reviews, but I do not care: just to have it unfold before me is reward enough.    In my mind--a Stoppard junkie--this is the greatest play by a man who has produced quite a few of those during his (still busy) lifetime.    Count me in.
     The beloved performer in the historic masterpiece is Sir Derek Jacobi in King Lear.    Ever since I watched Jacobi play Hamlet (title role of my favorite Shakespearean work; King Lear is my second favorite) on a no-frills BBC production, I have been entranced.    Movies, television movies, taped plays, even sitcoms--he won an Emmy playing a very untalented Shakespearean actor in a priceless episode of Frasier--have come and gone over the years, but I have only managed to witness him in his medium, the stage, once in my life.    The play was Uncle Vanya and he was unforgettable.   I can think of no higher praise than to bear witness to the seemingly impossible: even his silences were riveting.    But Lear is the other role of a lifetime, and I have waited for most of mine to watch him do it.    He has the rare gift of finding new life in old phrases.   Even in that cheap, nay cheesy, BBC Hamlet, he makes you feel the pain, the frustration, the anger, and finally the resignation that makes the performance one-of-a-kind.    How rich the work proves, how heartbreaking.   Get the DVD, check for yourself.   The fine cast around him helps, included a surprisingly good Horatio, but he is the key to its success.    (As far as taped versions, only Olivier compares, in a vastly truncated text.    Richard Burton is not bad.    The rest?    Forgettable.)    And now Lear!    One of the regrettable losses coming from my living in Texas for so long is my missed opportunities of seeing him create so many cherishable characters onstage.    Video will have to do for most.    (If you come across him in Cyrano de Bergerac, buy it.   Immediately.)   I may cry before it starts.
     And the wondrous opera by the beloved composer is Phaedra by Hans Werner Henze.    I could not have been more than 20 when I stumbled across a recording of a black comedy called Der Junge Lord, an opera about, among other things, a singing monkey.    I thought, 'What an odd, difficult, beautiful, funny piece it was (and is.)'    Writing his own very personal variations on every 20th Century 'movement', he will place Neo-classicism next to 12-tone rows (of rather free implementation) next to a highly personal brand of tonality, mixed in his own inimitable way.    For the uninitiated, Henze is a God among composers for goodly sum of classical music lovers world wide.    (Don't believe me?    He had a major success translating one of his operas into Japanese.)    America has had many orchestras (New York Phil especially), opera companies (Santa Fe especially), chamber music groups, and soloists (two sets of guitar pieces written for Julian Bream) perform his works...but I have missed most of them.    Either I was not where they were, or I was not able to be there when they were where I was.    But now--an opera, his pinnacle of forms, even with such skill shown in most of the others.    As much as I treasure the recordings of so much of his concert music, nothing quite compares to the operas.    Phaedra is a recent one with a strange history.    He wrote the second act after awakening from a coma from which no one expected him to emerge.    He says it changed him, and the music that came after seems to prove he is right.    Myths have always fascinated him, and this work moves from a  fairly straightforward setting of the ancient tale to a second act of dreamlike, mercurial ruminations on the possible meanings inherent in it.    The music is brooding, angular, discordant one minute and lyrical, flowing, beautiful the next.    The melodies (yes, they are there) may sound difficult at times, but they are rewarding for the singers, always enabling them to create such human characters despite his abstraction.    I've sung some Henze, so I can attest to this fact.   He is a master of pace, variety, emotions--he exploits all his skills in this remarkable piece written in the remarkable Indian summer of life.    Though not a lengthy piece, it is a full one.    This is a peak in my experience with classical music.
     So June will bring in three great evenings.    I am nervous with anticipation.   Yet I do not fear disappointment.   The works are the things, even if in flawed in interpretation and / or execution.   May I have many more months like this one.