Now that the cultural phenomenon that was The Metropolitan Museum Of Art's installation of Alexander McQueen's fashions, some questions come to mind, age old questions like: what is art and is it relevant and how many people seeing (or hearing or watching) something equals greatness? No answers exist, of course--or more accurately, endless postulations exist with no final decisions possible, except person by person. So this person asks them--and tries to give some answers. (Which anyone can take or leave, naturally.)
To cheat a bit, art is anything someone considers art. Hardly Earth-shattering. And I am thrilled a museum considers clothing design art. "Design" implies artistry. No question, McQueen was an artist. But is that why people liked his work? Really, with no excuses, how many people went because the man was famous for putting clothes on rich, exciting, fabulous people who showed up at well documented events wearing something he put his name on? I'm not saying this is necessarily a bad thing--but I fear it is not a particularly good one either. Worth, skill, originality are not in the vocabulary of most of the people waiting hours in line. They wanted to see up close what they've seen on TV. They probably couldn't give a damn about anything else in the building. The prevalent wisdom is that exposure to the other pieces that were on view to the hordes in line would somehow make them want to come back. Right. How many will that mean? 100? Sure, it's good for the 100 but does it further any kind of knowledge about anything else than celebrity to the 99.99999% of the remaining viewers? Isn't that what this is--the cult of the celebrity? I guess it could be argued that seeing a Michelangelo sculpture is just a variation on the same. Probably. Still, it's depressing. What if someone named Skidder had carved David? Would we recognize its greatness? My guess: no. And what about all those artists who are no longer being taught in schools because they won't appear on any tests? Is their art now lessened? Since fewer and fewer people are learning who, I don't know, Thomas Eakins was, will his work eventually disappear from the higher institutions? And what about his 'nameless' contemporaries? Sure, museums hang some of them, but for how long? The Alexander McQueens of the world will always pull in bigger crowds. With dwindling funds, fewer donors, fewer visitors, how long before smaller places only hang 'crowd pleasers' to pay the bills? The Met will go on without the enormous crowds...they already get enormous crowds, even on days between exhibits. But the past is becoming less and less a part of our education system. People aren't encouraged to know, or care, about anything that is not disposable or popular on some electronic device. I would guess most of my relatives have no idea who Thomas Eakins was. This is tragic to me. Eakins was an influential, talented man. They would like his art, I have no doubt. But fewer people in the world saw his work than Alexander McQueen's one summer in 2011, probably even if you counted all the people who went to all the museums where Eakins is displayed. And saddest of all? Just how many people cared?
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Listening Experiment
Taking my last post as a jumping off point, I listened to two very different pieces to see how my new reactions might differ from my original ones (though I never wrote the first ones down. Sorry about that.) I chose a piece I did not 'appreciate': Luciano Berio's Laborintus II and one I did: Nicholas Maw's Violin Concerto. Yes, their styles are completely different, but that is the point of the thing: how does emotion and mental acuity play into (my) perceptions. I listened to them only once, on the same day, with a sizable break between. I will admit upfront I was surprised by my response. I enjoyed the 'experiment' thoroughly. What conclusions did I draw? Well, let me tell you what I heard...this time.
Berio's piece is an early one compared to the more famous, 'influential' ones. It has a 'libretto' (no plot nor narrative drive is at play) by a Dante Scholar and poet Edoardo Sanguineti. It is scored for tape, narrator, three female voices, a mixed choir of eight, and ensemble from which a jazz combo can be formed. It contains poems by Sanguineti, plus texts from Dante, the Bible, T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. They all have something to do with each other, but explanations are unnecessary, because the music neither 'explains' the texts nor 'enlightens' them. Frankly, they could be any group of words. It was commissioned by the French and Italian Radios to celebrate the 700th anniversary of Dante's birth. So the Dante connections make sense. The rest? Well, the Narrator does have to speak very quickly to get some of them in before his 'time' is up. On my recording, Sanguineti is the narrator. That must have helped.
I am a true fan of Berio, but I find (to my irritation or impatience) that he has these pieces I call 'sketches'--works that seem to hold unperfected ideas that will find far more success in larger, better, more accomplished works. ('Sketch' does not imply shorter length in his case...alas.) Certainly half-formed ideas here will show up in Sinfonia and Coro, not to mention his operas that occupied him during the later years of his life. For one thing, Sanguineti formed the performing texts for both of those following masterpieces using many of the same authors. And the musical ideas--in particular, the overlapping, 'battle' of voices both sung and spoken; the deconstruction of words into morphemes, vowel sounds, even phonemes repeated in no particular order; the soloistic / virtuosic nature of the instrumental parts; the abrupt changes in musical style, especially the appearance of some form of pop music; the juxtaposition of two things that do not share any obvious qualities --will show up over and over throughout his career, sometimes more successfully, sometimes less. The more of his work you know, the more likely you are to hear the connections and enjoy seeing where they came from. But Laborintus II is roughly thirty-five minutes long. It is episodic to a fault. Ideas seem to either evaporate before you can grasp their make-up or drone on long after their pleasure has past. Certainly, multiple sopranos will be used far more advantageously in later pieces like the two named and one of his great operas, Un Re In Ascolto (A King Listens). Not that this piece has no merits--on the contrary, this is a major composer fleshing out important ideas he will use for decades. The vocal music is for the most part masterly, if a bit disjointed at times. The flashes of fragments of jazz poking out of the fabric of the first half comes to fruition in a delightful jazz combo fighting for its life amongst all the other things going on (it loses, by the way.) The ideas that would soon lead to O King are here in miniature and can be beautiful, as they are in the later work (though not much later, a few years.) But mostly, I still feel, this is a 'worksheet' on 'what to use later in my better pieces.' Well. I liked it more than I first did, certainly, but I am still not won over. I'd rather listen to Sinfonia.
Nicholas Maw wrote his Violin Concerto 'for' Joshua Bell, claiming he had finally heard someone who was in the grand Romantic line of violinists. (Or so says Bruce Adolphe in the liner notes. The conversation took place in Maw's kitchen while the composer carved a turkey. I want to ask, "How many violinists were you listening to?" I can name at least half a dozen who could lay more claim to the title back then. And now, triple that. ) So the piece was premiered by the people who play on the recording: Joshua "Romantic" Bell, the conductor Roger Norrington, and the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Bell plays wonderfully, actually, though I still wouldn't call him a "Romantic" violinist. He seems to prefer a more "Classical" balance of things (for want of a more technical term) where nothing is too understated nor too overstated, the tone never too dark or coarse, nor, in fact, anything but lovely. Sometimes this suits the music perfectly; sometimes, it does not help it through some of its weaker points, where someone less afraid to go too far might conceal weakness a bit better. For the piece has some. One: a huge mistake in my mind, a poor idea overextended. It doesn't destroy the piece, but it blunts its impact.
The work is in four movements: 1) Prelude 2) Scherzo 3) Romanza 4) Finale marked Allegro moderato e grazioso. The style owes something to the mid-Twentieth Century Romantics, like Barber, but far more through-composed in form. The movements have some ideas that bind them together very loosely: some melodic shapes that return, rhythmic motives, a recurring idea where the lower strings play a unison slow melody, usually forte, while the violin spins high free-flowing countermelodies. A few others too technical to describe. Most of the music is slow(-ish or not so -ish)--not all of it it, mind you, but more than half. This tends to lessen the effect at times, but only for short durations. The Prelude has one or two too many slow builds to a climax. We'll skip the Scherzo and say the Romanza is lovely, probably the most successful of the four, and the Finale is a bit fragmented, luckily coming together with a welcome satisfaction at the end with some strong music. But it does have a few awkward spots, meanders for a few short stretches, before finding its footing. Not that I couldn't follow it, any of it. It is most skillfully written. Maw knows what he is doing as he should after writing music for forty years. This is not abnormally complex music (nor too simple) but close concentration is needed for you not to drift off a bit on occasion. Still, three of the four movements have mostly beautiful, memorable, enjoyable writing. 'Beautiful' often comes to mind while listening. But there's that Scherzo. Unfortunately. It begins quite well: interesting fast movement of even note values, moving from small cells to larger, broader melodies...and then it gets highjacked by a big slow movement in the middle (!) Why???? We've just had a slow movement to start (over ten minutes) and will have another at Scherzo's end. And this is the least well-crafted of the lot. And it seems to lose what momentum the movement had. But Maw goes back to the original material and you shake your head but sigh relief that you're back on more solid ground. And then he does it again. Slower. Thinner, mostly for long held chords with violin obbligato. For more than just a passing instance. Deadly. Not ugly, just deadly. Boring even. A really poor idea that such an experienced composer should not use. It all but ruins the effect of the beginning of the Romanza which begins like a second cousin to the chords in Britten's Billy Budd --the scene where Vere goes inside to tell Budd he has been sentenced to death. If you know the opera, you know what I mean. Isolated chords, in this case with small movements within them (just chords in the Britten.) The piece moves into more lovely complexity, a fine chance for the violinist to play beautifully in all registers, which, of course, Bell does in spades. The piece is a marvel of finely detailed work. It would work perfectly well on its own. If I could, I would cut the Scherzo right before it 'dies' and move directly into the true slow movement. Maybe if this is how the piece went, the small weaknesses of the outer movements would pale. Probably. I was mostly happy with the Prelude. The myriad ideas of the Finale might seem more germane if the piece hadn't been breaking into these slow reveries so often. I found some flaws with it the first time I heard it. I didn't like the Scherzo then either (from my recollection.) I liked the outer movements more then (though I like them quite a lot now.) I appreciate the Romanza more now. Frankly, if a more risky, highly emotional soloist and conductor played it, they might help that big giant gaffe. Say, Gil Shaham and Simon Rattle. Or maybe not. In a few more years?
Berio's piece is an early one compared to the more famous, 'influential' ones. It has a 'libretto' (no plot nor narrative drive is at play) by a Dante Scholar and poet Edoardo Sanguineti. It is scored for tape, narrator, three female voices, a mixed choir of eight, and ensemble from which a jazz combo can be formed. It contains poems by Sanguineti, plus texts from Dante, the Bible, T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. They all have something to do with each other, but explanations are unnecessary, because the music neither 'explains' the texts nor 'enlightens' them. Frankly, they could be any group of words. It was commissioned by the French and Italian Radios to celebrate the 700th anniversary of Dante's birth. So the Dante connections make sense. The rest? Well, the Narrator does have to speak very quickly to get some of them in before his 'time' is up. On my recording, Sanguineti is the narrator. That must have helped.
I am a true fan of Berio, but I find (to my irritation or impatience) that he has these pieces I call 'sketches'--works that seem to hold unperfected ideas that will find far more success in larger, better, more accomplished works. ('Sketch' does not imply shorter length in his case...alas.) Certainly half-formed ideas here will show up in Sinfonia and Coro, not to mention his operas that occupied him during the later years of his life. For one thing, Sanguineti formed the performing texts for both of those following masterpieces using many of the same authors. And the musical ideas--in particular, the overlapping, 'battle' of voices both sung and spoken; the deconstruction of words into morphemes, vowel sounds, even phonemes repeated in no particular order; the soloistic / virtuosic nature of the instrumental parts; the abrupt changes in musical style, especially the appearance of some form of pop music; the juxtaposition of two things that do not share any obvious qualities --will show up over and over throughout his career, sometimes more successfully, sometimes less. The more of his work you know, the more likely you are to hear the connections and enjoy seeing where they came from. But Laborintus II is roughly thirty-five minutes long. It is episodic to a fault. Ideas seem to either evaporate before you can grasp their make-up or drone on long after their pleasure has past. Certainly, multiple sopranos will be used far more advantageously in later pieces like the two named and one of his great operas, Un Re In Ascolto (A King Listens). Not that this piece has no merits--on the contrary, this is a major composer fleshing out important ideas he will use for decades. The vocal music is for the most part masterly, if a bit disjointed at times. The flashes of fragments of jazz poking out of the fabric of the first half comes to fruition in a delightful jazz combo fighting for its life amongst all the other things going on (it loses, by the way.) The ideas that would soon lead to O King are here in miniature and can be beautiful, as they are in the later work (though not much later, a few years.) But mostly, I still feel, this is a 'worksheet' on 'what to use later in my better pieces.' Well. I liked it more than I first did, certainly, but I am still not won over. I'd rather listen to Sinfonia.
Nicholas Maw wrote his Violin Concerto 'for' Joshua Bell, claiming he had finally heard someone who was in the grand Romantic line of violinists. (Or so says Bruce Adolphe in the liner notes. The conversation took place in Maw's kitchen while the composer carved a turkey. I want to ask, "How many violinists were you listening to?" I can name at least half a dozen who could lay more claim to the title back then. And now, triple that. ) So the piece was premiered by the people who play on the recording: Joshua "Romantic" Bell, the conductor Roger Norrington, and the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Bell plays wonderfully, actually, though I still wouldn't call him a "Romantic" violinist. He seems to prefer a more "Classical" balance of things (for want of a more technical term) where nothing is too understated nor too overstated, the tone never too dark or coarse, nor, in fact, anything but lovely. Sometimes this suits the music perfectly; sometimes, it does not help it through some of its weaker points, where someone less afraid to go too far might conceal weakness a bit better. For the piece has some. One: a huge mistake in my mind, a poor idea overextended. It doesn't destroy the piece, but it blunts its impact.
The work is in four movements: 1) Prelude 2) Scherzo 3) Romanza 4) Finale marked Allegro moderato e grazioso. The style owes something to the mid-Twentieth Century Romantics, like Barber, but far more through-composed in form. The movements have some ideas that bind them together very loosely: some melodic shapes that return, rhythmic motives, a recurring idea where the lower strings play a unison slow melody, usually forte, while the violin spins high free-flowing countermelodies. A few others too technical to describe. Most of the music is slow(-ish or not so -ish)--not all of it it, mind you, but more than half. This tends to lessen the effect at times, but only for short durations. The Prelude has one or two too many slow builds to a climax. We'll skip the Scherzo and say the Romanza is lovely, probably the most successful of the four, and the Finale is a bit fragmented, luckily coming together with a welcome satisfaction at the end with some strong music. But it does have a few awkward spots, meanders for a few short stretches, before finding its footing. Not that I couldn't follow it, any of it. It is most skillfully written. Maw knows what he is doing as he should after writing music for forty years. This is not abnormally complex music (nor too simple) but close concentration is needed for you not to drift off a bit on occasion. Still, three of the four movements have mostly beautiful, memorable, enjoyable writing. 'Beautiful' often comes to mind while listening. But there's that Scherzo. Unfortunately. It begins quite well: interesting fast movement of even note values, moving from small cells to larger, broader melodies...and then it gets highjacked by a big slow movement in the middle (!) Why???? We've just had a slow movement to start (over ten minutes) and will have another at Scherzo's end. And this is the least well-crafted of the lot. And it seems to lose what momentum the movement had. But Maw goes back to the original material and you shake your head but sigh relief that you're back on more solid ground. And then he does it again. Slower. Thinner, mostly for long held chords with violin obbligato. For more than just a passing instance. Deadly. Not ugly, just deadly. Boring even. A really poor idea that such an experienced composer should not use. It all but ruins the effect of the beginning of the Romanza which begins like a second cousin to the chords in Britten's Billy Budd --the scene where Vere goes inside to tell Budd he has been sentenced to death. If you know the opera, you know what I mean. Isolated chords, in this case with small movements within them (just chords in the Britten.) The piece moves into more lovely complexity, a fine chance for the violinist to play beautifully in all registers, which, of course, Bell does in spades. The piece is a marvel of finely detailed work. It would work perfectly well on its own. If I could, I would cut the Scherzo right before it 'dies' and move directly into the true slow movement. Maybe if this is how the piece went, the small weaknesses of the outer movements would pale. Probably. I was mostly happy with the Prelude. The myriad ideas of the Finale might seem more germane if the piece hadn't been breaking into these slow reveries so often. I found some flaws with it the first time I heard it. I didn't like the Scherzo then either (from my recollection.) I liked the outer movements more then (though I like them quite a lot now.) I appreciate the Romanza more now. Frankly, if a more risky, highly emotional soloist and conductor played it, they might help that big giant gaffe. Say, Gil Shaham and Simon Rattle. Or maybe not. In a few more years?
Sunday, July 10, 2011
In the mood
Like many people in The Arts (capitalized, naturally), I have bi-polar disorder. Yes, me and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Some people affected by this are stigmatized by ignorant people who either overreact or dismiss it, so often sufferers keep it hidden, from a real fear of mistreatment. But public education is heightening awareness of this and thus, aiding responses. Zeta-Jones should be commended. Public perception is everything in Hollywood. If a producer thinks she might hold up production even one day, they will most likely not use her. Luckily, medicine helps me—others with the disorder are not so lucky. But I am anything but “cured”. I still experience symptoms, both elevated and depressed. Due to this, though, I examine my emotional responses more than most people without it. It is easy to overreact when I’ve done or said something unintentionally that may have bothered someone—and they let me know it in a blunt or cutting way. This can make life a bit difficult, but who doesn’t have problems? I’ve grown to live with it. And it has its benefits. When I experience a truly wonderful performance, or play, or piece of music, of work of art, I can feel it deeply. That adrenaline rush can make even low emotions rise. And I believe this helps me perform. I think I can communicate emotions rather well since I am so aware of them. Sometimes. Let us not sugar coat things. Some days, nothing gives relief. But it passes, as long as I take my medicine, which I will take for the rest of my life. This is a serious life-altering problem. If you think you are experiencing some extreme emotional changes, seek help. Go here to find out more information: http://www.webmd.com/bipolar-disorder/default.htm. And see a doctor. Please. The sooner the better. Symptoms can grow extreme without treatment. For the people who love you, if not for yourself.
But with all this self-reflection, I have come to ask myself some interesting questions involving my reactions to artistic experiences (and other’s as well.) So often people watching, listening to, or looking at a work declare they do not like it, with the caveat “maybe I just wasn’t in the right mood.” How often is this really true? I’ve said it myself, but I mean it. Really. I rarely just drop the matter. When I think that, I try to revisit it later to prove my hypothesis. Was I truly in the wrong mood? Sometimes, I truly was. And the opposite can also be true: sometimes I’m in such a great mood, a piece can seem better than it probably is—using my own personal scale, naturally. One man or woman’s masterpiece is another’s misfire. [Which leads me to repeat one of my basic tenets of taste. Only morons think there are intrinsic values that everyone shares. No, Mozart’s works are not necessarily better than Britten’s . Their music has very little in common. I adore both of them. Avocados and pears have pits. Is one intrinsically better than the other? Frankly, Mozart’s music is less complex—if you use that as a criteria, Britten is a better musician(!) And nothing Verdi wrote remotely suggests he could write something on the scale of Berg’s Lulu, which proves neither one’s superiority nor inferiority. And I’ve only mentioned operas. The same goes for all the arts. Time to get rid of the prejudices. And to all who will continue to make the comparisons and find everyone other than the same “standard” artists wanting: maybe you’re just too lazy or too ignorant or even, maybe, you’re just too stupid to get what other artists are doing…ever thought of that? At least one New York Times reviewer I’d like to say that to, because he seems to be a little of all of three.]
So, my mood almost always dictates my reaction: but not just the first hearing, sometimes the second or fourth. And many things I have heard, watched, seen more times than that. This is where I find things get interesting. In a sentimental mood, I just can’t make my way through a Elliott Carter piece. His music isn’t sentimental. It’s brilliant, and often wonderful (I am a big fan of his piano concerto and his vocal piece A Mirror On Which To Dwell) but requires different needs. When I am in a clear-headed, probing mind-set, I can follow him to some far out places and get much excitement from the journey. Usually, I love Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, truly love it, but not always. Sometimes it just seems too overly familiar and perhaps a bit dull. I can listen to the same performance a month later and feel completely different about it. How many listener’s out there are feeling the same? No one I know ever says that (s)he never appreciated, say, Birtwistle’s Punch and Judy until heard the second (or, gasp! the third) time. But I know people who can listen to the same few pieces by Bach over and over and never be bored. (I have to ask…How?)
And what about those people who seem to dismiss anything not immediately ingratiating as useless, since “life is too short to listen to bad (useless, dull, ugly, complicated, ‘atonal’, modern, strange, new) things.” Are they actually trying to like these new works? Do they take into consideration their true feelings before they experienced them? Do they also mean it when they say “maybe I was just in the wrong mood”? Do they go back to give it a second chance? Don’t get me wrong: if I think a work is “junk”, it is usually “junk” when (or if) I hear it again. Lloyd Webber’s Cats is not Stravinky’s Requiem Canticles. (And, yes, I did give Cats another hearing. I’ve seen it. It is utter junk. I just needed to know a little more music before I could appreciate the Stravinsky.)
Well, life isn’t that short. And ingratiating is overrated. Cover your ears if your squeemish, but what the fuck does “ingratiating” even mean? Every piece and composer I have mentioned so far can be ingratiating heard in the right way. Yes, even Birtwistle. “People listen to what they know” doesn’t explain it all. I think mind-frame is a more accurate determiner. Case in point: an audience consisting mostly of older opera fans watched a 90 minute German piece written in odd atonal beauties mixed with violent musical ‘attacks’ for lack of a better word. The people in this audience were probably the same people who go to see Le Nozze di Figaro. But they came ready to hear what they could get from it. And the place was silent but for a couple of coughs. (And I do mean a couple.) The piece was Henze’s Phaedra. The loud ovation at the end was genuine. I was one of them—quite moved by its strange sonorities. I have a recording off the radio, so I was somewhat familiar with it, but the first listen, I did not come away with much. A second time, I was enraptured by it, and the third (the live performance) I was sure I was experiencing a masterpiece. But had I gone on my first impression, I would most likely have stayed at home. By the same token, the first time I heard Bernstein’s Wonderful Town, I thought it a gem. But further listens have always left me somewhat cold. It has its pleasures, still. But as a whole? I think I was just in a really good mood, so anything with some skill and some wit seemed brilliant. Sometimes, being happy can just give you the wrong impression. But I’ll keep listening ever so often. Just in case, it was just my mood.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Freedom
The 4th of July is a big day for musicians (and other performers) so I celebrate the day not just for the country but for the men and women in it who are still able to do what they love and live by doing it. With so much fighting over every penny, The Arts are the easiest things to cut. For every win, like Gay Marriage in New York, we have a loss, like NEA dismantling. Yes, gay marriage is an appropriate topic for this blog, because the number of free lance performers that will get benefits from it is a large one. So celebrate who we are, all of us. And yes, that is hard, especially when people go on TV and lie, distort, demonize to keep power (or gain it.) Just don't listen to 1812 Overture! You fools, it's written by a Russian about a war between Russia and France...as in War and Peace. Why are you using Russian music to celebrate American Independence? Play some Gershwin instead. Or Berlin, or Bernstein, or Sondheim or Porter or Barber or Ives or ANYBODY other than Tchaikovsky. (Play him any other day.)
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Back from vacation
I just 'returned' from a stay-at-home vacation where many loved ones came to us, taking in hours of museums, theater, and music, while they were here. Does everyone know The New York Public Library is celebrating it's 100th year? Go to the main branch (if you haven't already.) The exhibit there of just a tiny, tiny fraction of the holdings of the library will take your breath away...like an early draft of The Declaration of Independence written in Jefferson's hand. Or sketches of a Beethoven work in his wild calligraphic scrawl. And the free book of 100 people choosing their 'favorites' is a treat. Don't forget to show your kids the actual stuffed animals that inspired the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. Greatest of all? The knowledge that anyone in the world can look at anything the library owns for free. Always has been that way, always will be.
Now, to that wild few weeks of gorging on theater and opera--still reeling from it. People being far from perfect, and art being created by people, not everything was without flaw, but all was filled with joys to be had for those willing to accept them. Of the five live events that I wrote of last time, we had one masterpiece of a play with a woefully miscast character, one musical that was two thirds great with fine performances onstage along with the not-so, one divisive work with a towering performance, one masterpiece of operatic literature given an all-but-perfect performance / production...and one of the single most shattering, extraordinary nights in the theater it has ever been my privilege to experience. In order of mention:
Arcadia is the masterpiece of theater writing with the serious casting flaw. Set in the same house in two different time frames, 100 years apart, this is Tom Stoppard at his best, meaning as good as it gets. I have loved reading the work over the years but have never been to a production and feel happy to have seen one filled with great actors. Alas, the young woman playing the precocious young woman in the 'past' was abominable. Sorry to be so cruel to a fellow performer, but damn, she was dreadful. This is a serious disaster for a work about love where the said youngster finds her first blush leads to her demise. In many ways, Thomasina finds the most 'growth' in the play, so the screeching, obnoxious, shallow characterization was a 'tragedy' not in the script. Still, to see and hear this beloved product of Stoppard's brain was still enjoyable. The rest of the cast could not be faulted, including the understudy who went on for one of the other major characters. His name was John Cutmore Scott: he was superb. Pity we did not see the understudy for the young woman.
The two thirds great musical was Billy Elliott. Anything but toned down from the gritty movie, the tale of a spirited youth pursuing the improbable dream of being a ballet dancer in the midst of a miners strike during the Thatcher years is filled with pain, anger, hope, happiness, sadness, humor--and the twin results of loss for the miners as Billy moves on to his success far from his troubled home. If only they had stuck to their guns and given us the grittiness and the fantasy without the assured-audience-approving Broadway excess, even contradictions, for the sake of a good number. And those cloying kids playing 'cute'! Yikes! Thomasina times a dozen. Several times, I wished for a gun, either to kill myself or the brats onstage overacting with hideous grins on their faces . And the 'curtain call' was a complete negation of the story in front of it! The miners 'lose' I wanted to shout! Billy went on to be a major force in ballet, not a grinning tap dancer. Why are all these desperate, forgotten men and women wearing tutus? That is the authors' idea of humor? Yes, seeing this young man tap after so much exertion the previous three hours had its own rewards--up to a point--but more along the lines of 'wow, the kid has unlimited energy' than 'wow, what a great ending'. But the mindless throngs in the seats seemed to eat it up. Not all of them, but most. Give them what they want, I guess. But 'I' did not. Will commend the Billy. He could sing, dance and act very well indeed (no small feet for a pre-teenager) and never fell into the trap of 'Gee, look Ma! I'm dancin' trap. Well, other than the number with his cross-dancing friend and the end. Luckily, the former had dancing dresses (don't ask) to steal your attention away from the kids being cutesy, and the end...finally ended. But not before a giant sign lit up spelling Billy! Give me the gun.
The divisive play with the truly legendary performance was Jerusalem. The jaw-dropping acting came from the unbelievably impressive Mark Rylance. He was 'never forget it' good. The play I could take or leave. Yes, it had plenty of humor (I laughed often if a bit loudly for a few people around me) but a fair share of pretension, assuming the 'meaning' had something to do with the last vestiges of paganism being destroyed by modern technology and inhumanity. (Just once, I'd like to see a play where the 'old ways' are the foolish ones, and the 'modern technological' world is a salvation from mindless adherence to destructive, knee-jerk religious fervor. But I dream...) But half the audience left without even agreeing on a 'meaning'--or if one needed to be present. This is fine. The rather ham-fisted metaphors were not, for me anyway. The minute the Rylance character looked into the eyes of another and she shook from his magical powers, I began to silently groan. Even before then, the 'message' seemed to me a little too telegraphed for comfort. But, hey, many people who enjoyed it didn't think it meant anything more than a character study of one man's dissolution. More power to them.
The operatic masterpiece given the beautifully successful production in Philadelphia is Hans Werner Henze's Phaedra. Modern, allusive, literary (death knells to some), the piece is also filled with lyricism throughout to set the violence, both physical and emotional, in high relief. Truly, despite its lack of tonality (though it has its own strange suggestion of it) the beauties pile up. And what a fantastic--both meanings apply--production. Superb singing throughout its small cast, a few strained notes from the women excepted, in a simple, direct, emotional, highly theatrical staging. It was beautiful, too, just like the music. I was only sad I could not see it more than once. The brochure for next year's program promises a new production of one of my favorite Henze operas, Elegy For Young Lovers. With a libretto by W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman who gave us the words of Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress, it has long been known by smart music lovers as a(nother) masterpiece. I'll be there, even if I have to shoot an overacting child actor to do it.
And that perfect night was, of course, Derek Jacobi in King Lear. Words really cannot give the true impression. Staged simply but soooooooo effectively. Shattering. Has to be repeated: shattering!! Played so memorably by everyone. Original, even with centuries of performances. (Who will ever forget the storm scene?) And Jacobi is unparalleled. I mean it. What a fantastic actor he is! One-of-a-kind. Unforgettable. So arrogant in his foolish pride. So pitiable in his madness. So crushing in the final realization of his own failure. A Lear for the ages. What a masterpiece Lear is! (My second favorite Shakespeare, Hamlet being my ultimate.) In fact, what masterpieces I saw. (Oh, and a pretty good musical and a so-so play made cherishable by its star.)
Now, to that wild few weeks of gorging on theater and opera--still reeling from it. People being far from perfect, and art being created by people, not everything was without flaw, but all was filled with joys to be had for those willing to accept them. Of the five live events that I wrote of last time, we had one masterpiece of a play with a woefully miscast character, one musical that was two thirds great with fine performances onstage along with the not-so, one divisive work with a towering performance, one masterpiece of operatic literature given an all-but-perfect performance / production...and one of the single most shattering, extraordinary nights in the theater it has ever been my privilege to experience. In order of mention:
Arcadia is the masterpiece of theater writing with the serious casting flaw. Set in the same house in two different time frames, 100 years apart, this is Tom Stoppard at his best, meaning as good as it gets. I have loved reading the work over the years but have never been to a production and feel happy to have seen one filled with great actors. Alas, the young woman playing the precocious young woman in the 'past' was abominable. Sorry to be so cruel to a fellow performer, but damn, she was dreadful. This is a serious disaster for a work about love where the said youngster finds her first blush leads to her demise. In many ways, Thomasina finds the most 'growth' in the play, so the screeching, obnoxious, shallow characterization was a 'tragedy' not in the script. Still, to see and hear this beloved product of Stoppard's brain was still enjoyable. The rest of the cast could not be faulted, including the understudy who went on for one of the other major characters. His name was John Cutmore Scott: he was superb. Pity we did not see the understudy for the young woman.
The two thirds great musical was Billy Elliott. Anything but toned down from the gritty movie, the tale of a spirited youth pursuing the improbable dream of being a ballet dancer in the midst of a miners strike during the Thatcher years is filled with pain, anger, hope, happiness, sadness, humor--and the twin results of loss for the miners as Billy moves on to his success far from his troubled home. If only they had stuck to their guns and given us the grittiness and the fantasy without the assured-audience-approving Broadway excess, even contradictions, for the sake of a good number. And those cloying kids playing 'cute'! Yikes! Thomasina times a dozen. Several times, I wished for a gun, either to kill myself or the brats onstage overacting with hideous grins on their faces . And the 'curtain call' was a complete negation of the story in front of it! The miners 'lose' I wanted to shout! Billy went on to be a major force in ballet, not a grinning tap dancer. Why are all these desperate, forgotten men and women wearing tutus? That is the authors' idea of humor? Yes, seeing this young man tap after so much exertion the previous three hours had its own rewards--up to a point--but more along the lines of 'wow, the kid has unlimited energy' than 'wow, what a great ending'. But the mindless throngs in the seats seemed to eat it up. Not all of them, but most. Give them what they want, I guess. But 'I' did not. Will commend the Billy. He could sing, dance and act very well indeed (no small feet for a pre-teenager) and never fell into the trap of 'Gee, look Ma! I'm dancin' trap. Well, other than the number with his cross-dancing friend and the end. Luckily, the former had dancing dresses (don't ask) to steal your attention away from the kids being cutesy, and the end...finally ended. But not before a giant sign lit up spelling Billy! Give me the gun.
The divisive play with the truly legendary performance was Jerusalem. The jaw-dropping acting came from the unbelievably impressive Mark Rylance. He was 'never forget it' good. The play I could take or leave. Yes, it had plenty of humor (I laughed often if a bit loudly for a few people around me) but a fair share of pretension, assuming the 'meaning' had something to do with the last vestiges of paganism being destroyed by modern technology and inhumanity. (Just once, I'd like to see a play where the 'old ways' are the foolish ones, and the 'modern technological' world is a salvation from mindless adherence to destructive, knee-jerk religious fervor. But I dream...) But half the audience left without even agreeing on a 'meaning'--or if one needed to be present. This is fine. The rather ham-fisted metaphors were not, for me anyway. The minute the Rylance character looked into the eyes of another and she shook from his magical powers, I began to silently groan. Even before then, the 'message' seemed to me a little too telegraphed for comfort. But, hey, many people who enjoyed it didn't think it meant anything more than a character study of one man's dissolution. More power to them.
The operatic masterpiece given the beautifully successful production in Philadelphia is Hans Werner Henze's Phaedra. Modern, allusive, literary (death knells to some), the piece is also filled with lyricism throughout to set the violence, both physical and emotional, in high relief. Truly, despite its lack of tonality (though it has its own strange suggestion of it) the beauties pile up. And what a fantastic--both meanings apply--production. Superb singing throughout its small cast, a few strained notes from the women excepted, in a simple, direct, emotional, highly theatrical staging. It was beautiful, too, just like the music. I was only sad I could not see it more than once. The brochure for next year's program promises a new production of one of my favorite Henze operas, Elegy For Young Lovers. With a libretto by W. H. Auden and Chester Kallman who gave us the words of Stravinsky's The Rake's Progress, it has long been known by smart music lovers as a(nother) masterpiece. I'll be there, even if I have to shoot an overacting child actor to do it.
And that perfect night was, of course, Derek Jacobi in King Lear. Words really cannot give the true impression. Staged simply but soooooooo effectively. Shattering. Has to be repeated: shattering!! Played so memorably by everyone. Original, even with centuries of performances. (Who will ever forget the storm scene?) And Jacobi is unparalleled. I mean it. What a fantastic actor he is! One-of-a-kind. Unforgettable. So arrogant in his foolish pride. So pitiable in his madness. So crushing in the final realization of his own failure. A Lear for the ages. What a masterpiece Lear is! (My second favorite Shakespeare, Hamlet being my ultimate.) In fact, what masterpieces I saw. (Oh, and a pretty good musical and a so-so play made cherishable by its star.)
Sunday, May 22, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Life Upon the Wicked Stage...or in the Living Room
Performers can be schizophrenic: they want to feel good about what they do yet want the audience to appreciate their work as well. Most craved approbation when they were attracted to performing, and it does not always leave. They want their fellow performers to be comfortable, the give and take to be easy and productive. At best, they feel equal partners, each adding their skills to create art they are proud to present. At worst, they can feel like a perpetual host, caring for the feelings of others, becoming leery of confrontation and failing to comfortably negotiate differences of opinion. (Of course, there are some people who only care what they think about themselves, screw anyone who does not agree with their success. I’ve been stuck with some of these. They are usually horrible to work with, especially if you are the kind of person who wants to please and be pleased. They think only of themselves, rarely consider another’s point of view, are myopic and blunt. They do not know the true meaning of ‘collaborate.’ They can be quite good at what they do and become popular with audiences. I still don’t want to work with them. I have rarely experienced great ‘art’ with such people. Most things require more than one person. The only one of universal practice I can think of should be confined to the privacy of your own home.)
Sometimes this Janus face spills over into their offstage lives as well. They want to please, make the others in the group comfortable or laughing, ease tensions, so they begin to ‘perform’; to these people, parties, nights out, performances by others, etc. can be extremely good times…or extremely bad. Not all personalities mesh, so ‘pleasers’ can come across as too vehement, self-centered, ignorant, or just plain bizarre. When a sense of humor is shared, all will usually go swimmingly. When it is not, time can crawl—through emotional cut glass. Or if the two or three conversationalists are not on the same page, the effect will not always equal happy days. And sometimes the person next to them is a non-performing egotist. Some people, no matter what line of work, are just shitheads. Who hasn’t been stuck at a table with them? With time and experience, the performer might minimize the distress this might cause, chock it up to being infallible. Alas, I have never learned to STOP trying to please which leads me to…
I met some new people at an event recently and to prove how interested I was in what was being said, I engaged in banter, asked stories about their lives, told (probably too many) stories about my own, but egregiously misunderstood one of the stories being told to me. What I thought was a ludicrous tall tale told as exaggerated black humor ended up being an almost unbelievably bizarre truth. Naturally my ‘dark’ puns came across as a terribly insensitive view of a poor woman’s horrific plight. I tried to tell humorous, touching stories to ease out of it, but I began to overcompensate because the harm was done. I am sure my point of view was not understood. I felt sick about it. The teller never said an unkind word, but that was not necessary: I said plenty to myself. But really, I meant no harm. Sometimes things just don't work out like you think they will. Why bring it up?
Performances, like new meetings, are tricky things. An audience may be able to follow you to anywhere you take them, enjoy the ride, and everyone comes out happy, mentally and /or emotionally stimulated. Or some of the audience can follow you and love your work, and some not so much. Or a couple of people can enjoy what they are seeing and hearing while the vast majority does not. Or no one likes it. Sometimes this happens because the performers are having an off day. Even the greatest performers on Earth are not always great. Sometimes the wrong audience shows up for the type of art you are giving them, so no, or mis-, communication occurs. And sometimes you just get a roomful of shitheads. An unappreciated performance can be a living hell. Let me emphasize that: living hell! Performers (and party guests) are human, no matter the skill or intention Even if what they are presenting is not to your liking—or they screw up royally—try keeping this is mind. The ‘pleasers’ are already doing that. If you are not one, perhaps you might attempt seeing things from their point of view occasionally. It might be refreshing. Sometimes, great things come from it. Like art. And if you are simply incapable of empathy or just cannot refrain from judging the person next to you, or in front of you, as inferior to yourself—stay home and watch Doctor Who.
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