We stayed home this past weekend. Other than a brief house-hunting expedition on Saturday and attendance at service on Sunday, we remained in all weekend.
My mother has been busy devising ways to use the pumpkin pulp that had resulted from the previous weekend’s pumpkin project. On Friday night, she made pumpkin bread (with raisins and walnuts), one of my mother’s specialties. On Saturday afternoon, she made pumpkin cookies. Late Sunday afternoon, she made pumpkin soup. If we parcel things out properly, we shall have pumpkin pulp on hand through Thanksgiving—and, if we run out, we shall go buy more pumpkins.
On Saturday morning, everyone in the family went to examine a house Joshua and I were considering for a purchase. Josh and I had been looking at houses since Labor Day, and we had settled upon a house that we think is right for us. We wanted all family members to see the house in order to collect their opinions.
The exterior of the house is completed, but the interior has not been finished. Interior walls are in place, but the interior is otherwise a shell.
No one had any objections to the house other than my nephew and niece, who both thought the barren interiors very odd.
We discussed the matter for the remainder of the weekend—and we consulted about such matters as price and offer terms. At the conclusion of the weekend, our decision was to offer twenty-one per cent less than the asking price and await a response from the builder.
On Monday morning, Josh and I submitted a written offer and tendered earnest money.
Our offer was accepted within three hours.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Looting
In the final days of World War II, there was widespread public looting in many cities of The Reich, as civilians attempted to obtain and stockpile whatever foodstuffs and consumer goods they could find.
The photograph above depicts looting in Vienna in April 1945.
The photograph below depicts looting in Munich in April 1945.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Munich 1945
This aerial photograph of Munich was taken on June 19, 1945, six weeks after cessation of hostilities.
At the very top of the photograph may be seen Frauenkirche, although the photograph cuts off the towers.
At the right is Neues Rathaus, immediately below which is Peterskirche, with only the base of its spire intact.
The open area at the bottom of the photograph is, of course, Viktualienmarkt.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
A Shakespeare Day
We had a very good three-day holiday weekend.
On Friday night, my parents and Joshua and I ate out—we had a quick, simple meal at Edina Grill, where we ordered meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green beans—after which we did some serious food shopping.
For three hours, we visited food stores and specialty stores, and we stocked up on practically everything, including special October items such as pumpkins, ciders and Indian corn. When we got home, it took us almost an hour to store all the food we had picked up.
On Saturday morning, everyone came over early in order to eat breakfast at my parents’ house. I had alerted everyone that I was going to make waffles on Saturday morning, and apparently no one wanted to miss out.
We ate shredded wheat, bananas and cream, and tomato-onion-green pepper omelets before getting the waffles underway. I made waffles with walnuts, and we ate the waffles with fresh ground sausage. No one had cause to be hungry when breakfast was over.
We spent most of Saturday doing yard work and other outdoor tasks. My nephew and niece spent much of the day outside with us, observing and supervising our activities. It was a beautiful autumn day, and we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
For lunch, my mother made Norwegian fish chowder, a type of chowder made with assorted fishes and vegetables, all cooked in a cream base seasoned with several spices. My mother had not made this particular chowder for quite some time—Saturday was the first encounter with the chowder for Josh and my sister-in-law as well as my nephew and niece—and everyone loved it. The chowder is filling but not heavy, with subtle and refined flavors that belie its undoubted origin in ancient Norwegian peasant food (probably emanating from Bergen, where—owing to the town’s membership in the Hanseatic League—non-native spices would have been available).
We completed our outdoor work by the time the kids woke from their afternoon naps, at which point we all had a snack of poached apricots and gingerbread men warm from the oven.
After our snack, it was time for the main attraction of our day: preparing pumpkins.
First thing, we carved out four pumpkins, trying not to make too much of a mess in my mother’s kitchen. When we were done, my mother immediately began to cook the pumpkin pulp with spices in order to preserve the pulp, while the rest of us began to create Jack-O’-Lanterns from the pumpkin carcasses. For the sake of my nephew and niece, we tried to make the Jack-O’-Lanterns as interesting and as elaborate as possible while still maintaining structural integrity (after all, we do not want the pumpkin carcasses to collapse until Halloween has come and gone). Two Jack-O’-Lanterns were to remain at my parents’ house and two Jack-O’-Lanterns were to go home with my nephew and niece. The intended result: my nephew and niece will have personal Jack-O’-Lanterns at their grandparents’ house as well as at their own home.
We tried to make two Jack-O’-Lanterns look like males for my nephew, and we tried to make two Jack-O’-Lanterns look like females for my niece, but I doubt that anyone outside the family, seeing the results, would have a clue that we had tried to make such a differentiation. Nevertheless, we all had a ball with the pumpkins; there had been a purpose to our activity.
We had a major dinner Saturday night: homemade tomato-cream soup; grilled thick-cut pork chops, stuffing, escalloped cheddar potatoes, steamed lima beans, steamed parsnips, steamed white corn, red cabbage baked in cream and butter, and homemade applesauce; and blackberry cobbler with ice cream.
On Sunday morning, after church, we all had breakfast at my parents’ house: bacon, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes. We were saving pancakes for Monday, a holiday—and, because we had afternoon plans, we had wanted a breakfast that involved very little preparation time.
After breakfast, my brothers took the kids (and the dog) over to my older brother’s house, while my parents, my sister-in-law, and Josh and I headed downtown to catch the 1:00 p.m. matinee at The Guthrie.
“Much Ado About Nothing” was on the bill. Directed by Artistic Director Joe Dowling, The Guthrie’s “Much Ado” was mostly a traditional production, with two wrinkles: the setting was updated to the 1920s; and the ages of the primary characters were greatly advanced. In this “Much Ado”, Beatrice and Benedick were in their late sixties while Hero and Claudio were in late middle age.
If Dowling believed that “Much Ado” would gain new perspective by advancing the ages of the main characters, he was mistaken. No new insights into one of Shakespeare’s best comedies were revealed. There had been no real purpose in making the two pairs of lovers much older than Shakespeare intended, any more than there had been a real purpose in updating the play’s setting to the 1920s (other than as a gift to the production’s design team).
The actor portraying Benedick had been imported from London, and the actress playing Beatrice had been imported from Dublin. Both were perfectly fine, but neither was in any way remarkable.
No one else in the production was remarkable, either. The Guthrie “Much Ado” was very much a standard Guthrie presentation: everything on a high level, nothing genuinely distinguished.
The physical production was lavish (and costly), but it was neither appealing nor elegant. In fact, I thought the physical production was outright unattractive, perhaps one of the least attractive Guthrie productions I have ever encountered.
Dowling has been Artistic Director of The Guthrie since 1995—he came to Minneapolis from Dublin’s Abbey Theatre, where his guidance of that famed company had been greatly acclaimed—and I have concluded, after sixteen years, that Dowling is a better administrator than stage director. The Guthrie has a reputation for being phenomenally well-administered under Dowling, but Dowling’s own productions have not, in my experience, been particularly stylish or penetrating.
I cannot name a single Dowling production I have attended that has been memorable. I cannot recall a single Dowling production that has caused me to rethink or reassess a play. There has not been a single Dowling production I have wished to see a second time.
Dowling is nearing retirement age. In my view, The Guthrie should allow Dowling to remain Artistic Director as long as he wants, but the number of productions Dowling personally directs should be sharply curtailed.
After the matinee performance, we returned to Edina. On our way to my older brother’s house, we picked up an early dinner—we stopped at Boston Market for the second time in a week and bought chickens, stuffing, mashed potatoes and vegetables—and, once at my brother’s house, we were all able to sit down to a decent meal without expending any effort.
As soon as we finished eating, my parents, my sister-in-law, and Josh and I said “Good night” to everyone, and got in the car and headed back to downtown Minneapolis. We had another Shakespeare play to see, “Hamlet” at Jungle Theater, and there was a 7:30 p.m. curtain.
Knowing we would have a rest day before and a rest day after, we had deliberately set aside the middle day of a three-day weekend to see the two current Shakespeare productions in town, both lengthy and both requiring the viewer’s full attention. By design, we had chosen to see comedy in the afternoon and tragedy in the evening. It was, as we called it, “A Shakespeare Day”.
The Jungle Theater “Hamlet” was odd. Set in the present, the Jungle production was a high-technology “Hamlet”, with cell phones, laptops, iPads, video cameras, large-screen televisions and other assorted technological devices always present onstage—and always in use.
Elsinore Castle had its own security center, where security personnel monitored movements throughout the castle on video screens. The theater performance of the visiting theatrical troupe was replicated in real time via giant digital images on digital screens. Ophelia used a microphone for one of her monologues. Hamlet’s soliloquy was supported by a PowerPoint presentation.
Some of the reliance upon technology was clever, but most of it was not. It was possible for me to enjoy the performance only by ignoring the nonstop barrage of technological gadgets and by pretending that I was seeing a bare-stage “Hamlet”.
The production was not a disaster. The play, more or less, came across—and this was so despite the fact that the production was totally bereft of ideas (technological gizmos are not the same things as ideas). I had never before seen a production of “Hamlet” in which the director exhibited not a single thought about the play’s meaning. I did not think such a thing was possible—until Sunday.
The young actor playing the title role did not embarrass himself. His name is Hugh Kennedy. In each act, there was a ten-minute stretch in which Kennedy was quite good. Alas, in each act, there was also a ten-minute stretch in which Kennedy was quite bad. All night, Kennedy veered between being captivating one moment and inept the next. It was very vexing. However, without Kennedy, the entire performance would have been unendurable.
The rest of the company was unimpressive. The ladies fared worst, with a truly dreadful Gertrud and an even worse Ophelia. Indeed, the young woman playing Ophelia was so bad, I felt sorry for her.
In hindsight, I am surprised I was able to make it through the evening. However, while the play was underway, my attention was mostly held. Bad production that it was, the Jungle “Hamlet” was not a waste of time.
We caught the closing performance of the six-week run. Although an hour of text had been trimmed, the performance nonetheless ran almost three-and-one-half hours.
Josh and I had last seen “Hamlet” in April 2006, over that year’s Easter Weekend. Josh had come to Minneapolis for the first time that weekend, and he and I had gone downtown that Saturday to see “Hamlet” at the old Guthrie. “Hamlet” had opened the old Guthrie in 1963, and “Hamlet” had closed the old Guthrie in 2006. I had wanted Josh to experience the old Guthrie before the building was demolished, and that 2006 “Hamlet” was Josh’s only opportunity. (The razing of the old Guthrie was a disgrace—it was probably the only occurrence in world history in which a state-of-the-art theater facility was deliberately destroyed after only 43 years of use. Once The Guthrie moved into its new complex, The Guthrie should have turned over its former theater to another of the repertory theater companies in the Twin Cities instead of calling in the wrecking-ball crew.)
My parents had last seen “Hamlet” six months ago, when they had attended a performance of “Hamlet” at Theater In The Round, which had presented a four-week run of the play in March and April. According to my parents, the Jungle production we attended Sunday night was superior to the Theater In The Round production they had attended in April, a prospect I find rather frightening.
My sister-in-law had last seen “Hamlet” in 2000, when she had seen the National Theatre production by Sam Mendes, a production featuring Simon Russell Beale as Hamlet. That 2000 production is recalled by some with fondness, but my sister-in-law insists that Beale was seriously miscast and seriously misdirected. She says that Beale virtually rewrote the character of Hamlet in order to get by in the notoriously difficult part, and that Beale’s conception of the part involved playing Hamlet not as prince but as down-market dip.
Our “Shakespeare Day” was fun, but I would not want to repeat the experience anytime soon. It was almost midnight by the time we arrived home, we were exhausted, and the productions and performances truly had not been fine enough to justify our significant expenditure of time and trouble.
Monday was a happier day for us. Everyone came over for breakfast. We ate Eggs Benedict followed by buttermilk pancakes.
After breakfast, we took the kids (and the dog) to the park. Otherwise, we did nothing but stay home and play with the kids (and the dog).
We had a lunch of grilled tuna steaks, homemade egg noodles and peas. We ate strawberries and cream and fresh scones in the middle of the afternoon. We had a dinner of pot roast, homemade stewed tomatoes, homemade macaroni-and-cheese, baked butternut squash and fresh green beans, followed by apples baked in pastry with cinnamon sauce.
We did not intend to starve on Columbus Day.
On Friday night, my parents and Joshua and I ate out—we had a quick, simple meal at Edina Grill, where we ordered meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green beans—after which we did some serious food shopping.
For three hours, we visited food stores and specialty stores, and we stocked up on practically everything, including special October items such as pumpkins, ciders and Indian corn. When we got home, it took us almost an hour to store all the food we had picked up.
On Saturday morning, everyone came over early in order to eat breakfast at my parents’ house. I had alerted everyone that I was going to make waffles on Saturday morning, and apparently no one wanted to miss out.
We ate shredded wheat, bananas and cream, and tomato-onion-green pepper omelets before getting the waffles underway. I made waffles with walnuts, and we ate the waffles with fresh ground sausage. No one had cause to be hungry when breakfast was over.
We spent most of Saturday doing yard work and other outdoor tasks. My nephew and niece spent much of the day outside with us, observing and supervising our activities. It was a beautiful autumn day, and we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
For lunch, my mother made Norwegian fish chowder, a type of chowder made with assorted fishes and vegetables, all cooked in a cream base seasoned with several spices. My mother had not made this particular chowder for quite some time—Saturday was the first encounter with the chowder for Josh and my sister-in-law as well as my nephew and niece—and everyone loved it. The chowder is filling but not heavy, with subtle and refined flavors that belie its undoubted origin in ancient Norwegian peasant food (probably emanating from Bergen, where—owing to the town’s membership in the Hanseatic League—non-native spices would have been available).
We completed our outdoor work by the time the kids woke from their afternoon naps, at which point we all had a snack of poached apricots and gingerbread men warm from the oven.
After our snack, it was time for the main attraction of our day: preparing pumpkins.
First thing, we carved out four pumpkins, trying not to make too much of a mess in my mother’s kitchen. When we were done, my mother immediately began to cook the pumpkin pulp with spices in order to preserve the pulp, while the rest of us began to create Jack-O’-Lanterns from the pumpkin carcasses. For the sake of my nephew and niece, we tried to make the Jack-O’-Lanterns as interesting and as elaborate as possible while still maintaining structural integrity (after all, we do not want the pumpkin carcasses to collapse until Halloween has come and gone). Two Jack-O’-Lanterns were to remain at my parents’ house and two Jack-O’-Lanterns were to go home with my nephew and niece. The intended result: my nephew and niece will have personal Jack-O’-Lanterns at their grandparents’ house as well as at their own home.
We tried to make two Jack-O’-Lanterns look like males for my nephew, and we tried to make two Jack-O’-Lanterns look like females for my niece, but I doubt that anyone outside the family, seeing the results, would have a clue that we had tried to make such a differentiation. Nevertheless, we all had a ball with the pumpkins; there had been a purpose to our activity.
We had a major dinner Saturday night: homemade tomato-cream soup; grilled thick-cut pork chops, stuffing, escalloped cheddar potatoes, steamed lima beans, steamed parsnips, steamed white corn, red cabbage baked in cream and butter, and homemade applesauce; and blackberry cobbler with ice cream.
On Sunday morning, after church, we all had breakfast at my parents’ house: bacon, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes. We were saving pancakes for Monday, a holiday—and, because we had afternoon plans, we had wanted a breakfast that involved very little preparation time.
After breakfast, my brothers took the kids (and the dog) over to my older brother’s house, while my parents, my sister-in-law, and Josh and I headed downtown to catch the 1:00 p.m. matinee at The Guthrie.
“Much Ado About Nothing” was on the bill. Directed by Artistic Director Joe Dowling, The Guthrie’s “Much Ado” was mostly a traditional production, with two wrinkles: the setting was updated to the 1920s; and the ages of the primary characters were greatly advanced. In this “Much Ado”, Beatrice and Benedick were in their late sixties while Hero and Claudio were in late middle age.
If Dowling believed that “Much Ado” would gain new perspective by advancing the ages of the main characters, he was mistaken. No new insights into one of Shakespeare’s best comedies were revealed. There had been no real purpose in making the two pairs of lovers much older than Shakespeare intended, any more than there had been a real purpose in updating the play’s setting to the 1920s (other than as a gift to the production’s design team).
The actor portraying Benedick had been imported from London, and the actress playing Beatrice had been imported from Dublin. Both were perfectly fine, but neither was in any way remarkable.
No one else in the production was remarkable, either. The Guthrie “Much Ado” was very much a standard Guthrie presentation: everything on a high level, nothing genuinely distinguished.
The physical production was lavish (and costly), but it was neither appealing nor elegant. In fact, I thought the physical production was outright unattractive, perhaps one of the least attractive Guthrie productions I have ever encountered.
Dowling has been Artistic Director of The Guthrie since 1995—he came to Minneapolis from Dublin’s Abbey Theatre, where his guidance of that famed company had been greatly acclaimed—and I have concluded, after sixteen years, that Dowling is a better administrator than stage director. The Guthrie has a reputation for being phenomenally well-administered under Dowling, but Dowling’s own productions have not, in my experience, been particularly stylish or penetrating.
I cannot name a single Dowling production I have attended that has been memorable. I cannot recall a single Dowling production that has caused me to rethink or reassess a play. There has not been a single Dowling production I have wished to see a second time.
Dowling is nearing retirement age. In my view, The Guthrie should allow Dowling to remain Artistic Director as long as he wants, but the number of productions Dowling personally directs should be sharply curtailed.
After the matinee performance, we returned to Edina. On our way to my older brother’s house, we picked up an early dinner—we stopped at Boston Market for the second time in a week and bought chickens, stuffing, mashed potatoes and vegetables—and, once at my brother’s house, we were all able to sit down to a decent meal without expending any effort.
As soon as we finished eating, my parents, my sister-in-law, and Josh and I said “Good night” to everyone, and got in the car and headed back to downtown Minneapolis. We had another Shakespeare play to see, “Hamlet” at Jungle Theater, and there was a 7:30 p.m. curtain.
Knowing we would have a rest day before and a rest day after, we had deliberately set aside the middle day of a three-day weekend to see the two current Shakespeare productions in town, both lengthy and both requiring the viewer’s full attention. By design, we had chosen to see comedy in the afternoon and tragedy in the evening. It was, as we called it, “A Shakespeare Day”.
The Jungle Theater “Hamlet” was odd. Set in the present, the Jungle production was a high-technology “Hamlet”, with cell phones, laptops, iPads, video cameras, large-screen televisions and other assorted technological devices always present onstage—and always in use.
Elsinore Castle had its own security center, where security personnel monitored movements throughout the castle on video screens. The theater performance of the visiting theatrical troupe was replicated in real time via giant digital images on digital screens. Ophelia used a microphone for one of her monologues. Hamlet’s soliloquy was supported by a PowerPoint presentation.
Some of the reliance upon technology was clever, but most of it was not. It was possible for me to enjoy the performance only by ignoring the nonstop barrage of technological gadgets and by pretending that I was seeing a bare-stage “Hamlet”.
The production was not a disaster. The play, more or less, came across—and this was so despite the fact that the production was totally bereft of ideas (technological gizmos are not the same things as ideas). I had never before seen a production of “Hamlet” in which the director exhibited not a single thought about the play’s meaning. I did not think such a thing was possible—until Sunday.
The young actor playing the title role did not embarrass himself. His name is Hugh Kennedy. In each act, there was a ten-minute stretch in which Kennedy was quite good. Alas, in each act, there was also a ten-minute stretch in which Kennedy was quite bad. All night, Kennedy veered between being captivating one moment and inept the next. It was very vexing. However, without Kennedy, the entire performance would have been unendurable.
The rest of the company was unimpressive. The ladies fared worst, with a truly dreadful Gertrud and an even worse Ophelia. Indeed, the young woman playing Ophelia was so bad, I felt sorry for her.
In hindsight, I am surprised I was able to make it through the evening. However, while the play was underway, my attention was mostly held. Bad production that it was, the Jungle “Hamlet” was not a waste of time.
We caught the closing performance of the six-week run. Although an hour of text had been trimmed, the performance nonetheless ran almost three-and-one-half hours.
Josh and I had last seen “Hamlet” in April 2006, over that year’s Easter Weekend. Josh had come to Minneapolis for the first time that weekend, and he and I had gone downtown that Saturday to see “Hamlet” at the old Guthrie. “Hamlet” had opened the old Guthrie in 1963, and “Hamlet” had closed the old Guthrie in 2006. I had wanted Josh to experience the old Guthrie before the building was demolished, and that 2006 “Hamlet” was Josh’s only opportunity. (The razing of the old Guthrie was a disgrace—it was probably the only occurrence in world history in which a state-of-the-art theater facility was deliberately destroyed after only 43 years of use. Once The Guthrie moved into its new complex, The Guthrie should have turned over its former theater to another of the repertory theater companies in the Twin Cities instead of calling in the wrecking-ball crew.)
My parents had last seen “Hamlet” six months ago, when they had attended a performance of “Hamlet” at Theater In The Round, which had presented a four-week run of the play in March and April. According to my parents, the Jungle production we attended Sunday night was superior to the Theater In The Round production they had attended in April, a prospect I find rather frightening.
My sister-in-law had last seen “Hamlet” in 2000, when she had seen the National Theatre production by Sam Mendes, a production featuring Simon Russell Beale as Hamlet. That 2000 production is recalled by some with fondness, but my sister-in-law insists that Beale was seriously miscast and seriously misdirected. She says that Beale virtually rewrote the character of Hamlet in order to get by in the notoriously difficult part, and that Beale’s conception of the part involved playing Hamlet not as prince but as down-market dip.
Our “Shakespeare Day” was fun, but I would not want to repeat the experience anytime soon. It was almost midnight by the time we arrived home, we were exhausted, and the productions and performances truly had not been fine enough to justify our significant expenditure of time and trouble.
Monday was a happier day for us. Everyone came over for breakfast. We ate Eggs Benedict followed by buttermilk pancakes.
After breakfast, we took the kids (and the dog) to the park. Otherwise, we did nothing but stay home and play with the kids (and the dog).
We had a lunch of grilled tuna steaks, homemade egg noodles and peas. We ate strawberries and cream and fresh scones in the middle of the afternoon. We had a dinner of pot roast, homemade stewed tomatoes, homemade macaroni-and-cheese, baked butternut squash and fresh green beans, followed by apples baked in pastry with cinnamon sauce.
We did not intend to starve on Columbus Day.
Jungle Theater's "Hamlet"
Jungle Theater's high-technology "Hamlet".
In the photograph, security personnel are seen monitoring movements in the halls of Elsinore Castle.
Photograph by Twin Cities theater photographer Michel Daniel.
Saturday, October 08, 2011
Orchestra Hall On A Thursday Morning
On Thursday morning, Joshua and I sneaked out of our respective offices for an early and long lunch. We met at Orchestra Hall to hear the 11:00 a.m. concert by the Minnesota Orchestra.
Music Director Osmo Vanska was conductor, and pianist Simone Dinnerstein was soloist. On the program was music by Darius Milhaud, Maurice Ravel and Richard Strauss.
Milhaud’s “La Creation Du Monde” opened the concert. When he wrote this ballet score in 1922 and 1923, Milhaud thought he was writing jazz—but an American listener would never categorize “La Creation Du Monde” as jazz. It is 1920s French music through and through, insouciant and Neo-Classical, with a few jazz-like harmonies and rhythms weakly incorporated into the composition.
Before composing “La Creation Du Monde”, Milhaud had written an earlier ballet score, “Le Boeuf Sur Le Toit”, inspired by the popular music of Brazil. “Le Boeuf Sur Le Toit”, written in 1919, is much more successful in evoking the sounds of Brazil than is “La Creation Du Monde” in evoking the sounds of American jazz.
I have never believed “La Creation Du Monde” to be a successful composition. The basic materials are thin, the development cursory, the themes pedestrian. Passing incident is lacking. “La Creation Du Monde” does not work on any level and, to my ears, it lacks even an attractive surface sheen.
As a dance work for the theater, “La Creation Du Monde” disappeared instantly from the stage. To the extent it lives on, it lives on only in the concert hall—and performances in the U.S. are few and far between, probably because Americans do not perceive the piece as very jazz-like.
The Minnesota Orchestra performance was basically a throwaway performance. The performance had obviously been fully rehearsed, but there was nothing Vanska or the musicians could do to bring the piece to life.
The Piano Concerto of Ravel followed the Milhaud.
The orchestra played with tremendous accuracy and some brilliance in the Ravel, although the rhythms were a little stiff, especially in the outer movements. Blame for the rhythmic stiffness must be laid at the feet of Vanska—rhythmic stiffness is one of his most conspicuous and ever-present shortcomings.
The Minnesota Orchestra is not a “French” orchestra, and Vanska is not a “French” conductor, so there was very little French quality to the performance. In fact, the performance was as much Russian as French, always in search of color, boldness and the big gesture instead of fragrance, understatement and “chic”. That Ravel based much of the first movement of his Piano Concerto on Stravinsky’s “Petrouchka”—his was an act of grand larceny—only further emphasized the Russian quality of Thursday morning’s performance.
Dinnerstein’s playing was charming in the slow movement, and she held my full attention there. Such is an accomplishment, because the slow movement in the Ravel is notoriously difficult to bring off. Ravel worked on his Piano Concerto for three years (1929 to 1931) and it was the slow movement that caused him grief. Ravel wanted the slow movement to be effortless—and, after much toil, the composer succeeded in making it so, but often at the expense of ennui during performance.
In the outer movements, Dinnerstein had the notes down, but she did not do much with the movements compared to the leading exponents of this concerto past and present. In the first and third movements, Dinnerstein was proficient, not arresting.
I have no clue whether Dinnerstein is an important artist. I had never previously heard her, and the Ravel Piano Concerto—unless one is a Michelangeli—reveals very little about the pianist.
After intermission, the orchestra played Strauss’s “Ein Heldenleben”.
The performance was very, very fine; the level of ensemble was very, very high. The Minnesota Orchestra may now be America’s fourth-finest ensemble, trailing—in order—only Cleveland, Chicago and Philadelphia.
The Minnesota Orchestra of today is an exceptionally-fine orchestra. When playing for Vanska, the musicians play with tremendous focus, energy and commitment. There is a vibrancy in the music-making that is not present in Boston or New York.
The orchestra has not, however, acquired greatness. Its sound remains generic as does its music-making.
The orchestra’s strings lack color and weight as well as a uniform quality of sound throughout the dynamic range. When playing at high volume, the strings lack transparency and become strident and glassy. When playing softly, the strings produce a wispy sound.
The principal winds are not a distinguished group, lacking character and personality. They do not compare favorably to the principal winds in Cleveland, Chicago and Philadelphia.
The orchestra’s brass section is very strong—but it is often allowed to overwhelm the rest of the orchestra.
The generic nature of the orchestra’s music-making was exemplified by the “Heldenleben” performance: phrasing was generalized; musical episodes were broad, not pointed and precise. Of subtle characterization there was none. It was a bold but ultimately bland “Heldenleben” that Vanska and the musicians offered. The piece was played purely as showpiece for orchestra.
And yet the performance was enormously enjoyable. Any music-lover would be happy to hear such a performance—but would be aware, the entire performance, that Fritz Reiner and Rudolf Kempe found much more content in the score than Vanska uncovered.
There was a large and enthusiastic crowd in the hall Thursday morning. I would estimate that eighty per cent of the seats were filled (Orchestra Hall accommodates 2500 persons). Free coffee and donuts were available for concertgoers. There was almost a festive air about the occasion.
It was on Wednesday night that we first discussed attending Thursday morning’s concert. When Josh mentioned this fact Wednesday night on his Twitter account, the Minnesota Orchestra replied to him—twice.
We thought that was a nice touch.
My mother came downtown for Thursday morning’s concert, too. After the concert, Josh and I took her out for a quick lunch. We went to a modest place and ordered club sandwiches.
Music Director Osmo Vanska was conductor, and pianist Simone Dinnerstein was soloist. On the program was music by Darius Milhaud, Maurice Ravel and Richard Strauss.
Milhaud’s “La Creation Du Monde” opened the concert. When he wrote this ballet score in 1922 and 1923, Milhaud thought he was writing jazz—but an American listener would never categorize “La Creation Du Monde” as jazz. It is 1920s French music through and through, insouciant and Neo-Classical, with a few jazz-like harmonies and rhythms weakly incorporated into the composition.
Before composing “La Creation Du Monde”, Milhaud had written an earlier ballet score, “Le Boeuf Sur Le Toit”, inspired by the popular music of Brazil. “Le Boeuf Sur Le Toit”, written in 1919, is much more successful in evoking the sounds of Brazil than is “La Creation Du Monde” in evoking the sounds of American jazz.
I have never believed “La Creation Du Monde” to be a successful composition. The basic materials are thin, the development cursory, the themes pedestrian. Passing incident is lacking. “La Creation Du Monde” does not work on any level and, to my ears, it lacks even an attractive surface sheen.
As a dance work for the theater, “La Creation Du Monde” disappeared instantly from the stage. To the extent it lives on, it lives on only in the concert hall—and performances in the U.S. are few and far between, probably because Americans do not perceive the piece as very jazz-like.
The Minnesota Orchestra performance was basically a throwaway performance. The performance had obviously been fully rehearsed, but there was nothing Vanska or the musicians could do to bring the piece to life.
The Piano Concerto of Ravel followed the Milhaud.
The orchestra played with tremendous accuracy and some brilliance in the Ravel, although the rhythms were a little stiff, especially in the outer movements. Blame for the rhythmic stiffness must be laid at the feet of Vanska—rhythmic stiffness is one of his most conspicuous and ever-present shortcomings.
The Minnesota Orchestra is not a “French” orchestra, and Vanska is not a “French” conductor, so there was very little French quality to the performance. In fact, the performance was as much Russian as French, always in search of color, boldness and the big gesture instead of fragrance, understatement and “chic”. That Ravel based much of the first movement of his Piano Concerto on Stravinsky’s “Petrouchka”—his was an act of grand larceny—only further emphasized the Russian quality of Thursday morning’s performance.
Dinnerstein’s playing was charming in the slow movement, and she held my full attention there. Such is an accomplishment, because the slow movement in the Ravel is notoriously difficult to bring off. Ravel worked on his Piano Concerto for three years (1929 to 1931) and it was the slow movement that caused him grief. Ravel wanted the slow movement to be effortless—and, after much toil, the composer succeeded in making it so, but often at the expense of ennui during performance.
In the outer movements, Dinnerstein had the notes down, but she did not do much with the movements compared to the leading exponents of this concerto past and present. In the first and third movements, Dinnerstein was proficient, not arresting.
I have no clue whether Dinnerstein is an important artist. I had never previously heard her, and the Ravel Piano Concerto—unless one is a Michelangeli—reveals very little about the pianist.
After intermission, the orchestra played Strauss’s “Ein Heldenleben”.
The performance was very, very fine; the level of ensemble was very, very high. The Minnesota Orchestra may now be America’s fourth-finest ensemble, trailing—in order—only Cleveland, Chicago and Philadelphia.
The Minnesota Orchestra of today is an exceptionally-fine orchestra. When playing for Vanska, the musicians play with tremendous focus, energy and commitment. There is a vibrancy in the music-making that is not present in Boston or New York.
The orchestra has not, however, acquired greatness. Its sound remains generic as does its music-making.
The orchestra’s strings lack color and weight as well as a uniform quality of sound throughout the dynamic range. When playing at high volume, the strings lack transparency and become strident and glassy. When playing softly, the strings produce a wispy sound.
The principal winds are not a distinguished group, lacking character and personality. They do not compare favorably to the principal winds in Cleveland, Chicago and Philadelphia.
The orchestra’s brass section is very strong—but it is often allowed to overwhelm the rest of the orchestra.
The generic nature of the orchestra’s music-making was exemplified by the “Heldenleben” performance: phrasing was generalized; musical episodes were broad, not pointed and precise. Of subtle characterization there was none. It was a bold but ultimately bland “Heldenleben” that Vanska and the musicians offered. The piece was played purely as showpiece for orchestra.
And yet the performance was enormously enjoyable. Any music-lover would be happy to hear such a performance—but would be aware, the entire performance, that Fritz Reiner and Rudolf Kempe found much more content in the score than Vanska uncovered.
There was a large and enthusiastic crowd in the hall Thursday morning. I would estimate that eighty per cent of the seats were filled (Orchestra Hall accommodates 2500 persons). Free coffee and donuts were available for concertgoers. There was almost a festive air about the occasion.
It was on Wednesday night that we first discussed attending Thursday morning’s concert. When Josh mentioned this fact Wednesday night on his Twitter account, the Minnesota Orchestra replied to him—twice.
We thought that was a nice touch.
My mother came downtown for Thursday morning’s concert, too. After the concert, Josh and I took her out for a quick lunch. We went to a modest place and ordered club sandwiches.
Friday, October 07, 2011
Schwarzkopf And Callas
Based upon no evidence whatsoever, I assume this photograph of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf and Maria Callas was taken in July 1957, when both singers were recording Puccini’s “Turandot” in Milan for EMI.
Schwarzkopf was 42 and Callas was 34 at the time of the “Turandot” sessions, and the singers in the photograph look, respectively, 42 and 34 years of age. Further, the two singers crossed paths relatively infrequently, as their careers took them all over the world in the 1950s, the peak decade for both artists. Schwarzkopf and Callas were seldom in the same city at the same time.
Schwarzkopf was a glamorous figure in her own right, but in this photograph she looks like a hausfrau when standing next to Callas—although it must be acknowledged that Callas, after her weight loss, became an expert in “posing” for the camera. If Callas was not “posed” for this photograph, I cannot imagine what she was doing.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Rehearsing “Cosi”
Singers Elisabeth Schumann, Eva Hadrabova, Jarmila Novotna, Charles Kullmann, Alfred Jerger and Karl Bissuti rehearsing Mozart’s “Cosi Fan Tutte” in Salzburg in 1936, with conductor Felix Weingartner at the piano.
For the 1936 Salzburg Festival production of “Cosi”, Schumann sang Despina, a role she had first performed more than two decades earlier in Hamburg. Schumann had learned the role of Despina while a young soprano with the Hamburg Opera—and Despina was the only “Cosi” role Schumann ever sang onstage.
There were not to be many more opera performances for Schumann after the conclusion of the 1936 Salzburg Festival: Schumann was to remain a member of the Wiener Staatsoper company only for one more full season (1936-1937) and for a portion of a second (1937-1938).
Shortly before the March 1938 Anschluss, Schumann left Europe and sought shelter in the United States, where she was to reside for the rest of her life (Schumann became an American citizen in 1944). Although Schumann appeared widely in recital in America from 1938 until shortly before her death, she was not again to appear on the opera stage.
In A Pinch
My grandmother was released from the hospital on Thursday.
By Wednesday, the swelling in her knee had largely abated and she was able to walk without pain. Tests administered at the hospital demonstrated that she had suffered no ligament or cartilage damage, and that there was no evidence of bone spurs.
The physician said my grandmother must have experienced a minor knee incident, nothing more, and that she would have been released from the hospital two days earlier were it not for her advanced age. Low-stress physical rehabilitation is the only medically-indicated course of treatment for my grandmother.
My mother spent every day last week with my grandmother, both at the hospital and back at the care facility. It was a wearying and depressing week for my mother.
On Friday night, we all gathered at my older brother’s house for dinner in order to wind up six very stressful days. My sister-in-law had prepared an excellent meal: chicken consommé; Caesar salad; grilled salmon with seasoned rice, steamed broccoli and grilled red and yellow peppers; and raspberry sherbet.
Since my mother was away from the house all day every day, the dog stayed with my older brother’s family last week. We did not want him to be without company and without companionship—dogs are pack animals—and we thought he would be happier spending the week with my sister-in-law and my niece and nephew rather than at home by himself. He is accustomed to spending time at my older brother’s house, and he had a good week.
On Saturday, my mother again spent the day with my grandmother at the care facility, and my father accompanied her.
My middle brother and Joshua and I decided to do something fun on Saturday morning: we took the kids to the aquarium.
As aquariums go, Sea Life Minnesota is pretty small potatoes, but it is probably exactly the right size for the attention spans of small children: one can see everything in ninety minutes or less.
My niece and nephew enjoyed seeing the sea creatures. They were most fascinated by the cownose stingrays, the green sea turtles, the colorful clownfish—and the sand tiger shark, which truly is frightening. It was a perfect morning out for them.
After our visit to the aquarium, we took the kids to lunch at Ruby Tuesday, where we ordered hamburgers—and, after lunch, we took the kids home for their naps.
We remained at my older brother’s house for the remainder of the day, helping my older brother with tasks around the house and yard—and NOT watching Minnesota get demolished at Michigan, 58-0.
On Saturday night, we again all ate dinner at my older brother’s house. We ate Italian white bean soup; chicken quarters baked in an apple-cranberry glaze, small new potatoes in butter, steamed green beans, steamed baby carrots, and a tangerine-black cherry-almond cream cheese salad; and butterscotch pudding.
After dinner, we brought the dog home for the first time since Monday morning. He appeared to be pleased to be back home.
On Sunday morning, we attended service for the first time in two weeks (on the previous Sunday morning, it was while we were preparing to leave for service that we had received the emergency telephone call from my grandmother’s care facility).
Our church has—once again—amended the start time for Sunday service. Just when we had become accustomed to the early 9:00 a.m. start, the church changed the start time for traditional service from 9:00 a.m. to 9:30 a.m.
We were always happy with the 11:00 a.m. start time, observed by our church for decades. An 11:00 a.m. start allowed us to eat a Sunday breakfast before service. With the change in service, we now eat a Sunday breakfast after service—with the result that the Sunday breakfast now serves as our Sunday lunch, too.
After our Sunday breakfast/lunch, my brothers and my niece and nephew (as well as the dog) went to my older brother’s house, while my parents, my sister-in-law and Josh and I went to Saint Paul to attend the Sunday matinee performance of Minnesota Opera’s new production of Mozart’s “Cosi Fan Tutte”.
“Cosi Fan Tutte” is among my favorite operas—of Mozart’s works for the stage, only “The Magic Flute” has more sublime music—and I never miss a chance to attend a performance.
Minnesota Opera had opened its checkbook for its new “Cosi Fan Tutte”. The physical production was much more detailed and much more elaborate than most Minnesota Opera productions, signaling that the company intends to keep this production—its first “Cosi” in twenty years—in the repertory.
A very traditional production set in the time and place Mozart and Da Ponte specified, Minnesota Opera’s “Cosi Fan Tutte” was beautifully designed, offering a series of striking and colorful and handsome stage images. The costumes were of a standard seldom encountered at Minnesota Opera, and the lighting design was exceptional—the design team had clearly devoted hours and hours and hours to technical rehearsals and the complicated lighting plan.
The director of Minnesota Opera’s new “Cosi” was Peter Rothstein, the artistic director of one of Minneapolis’s many repertory theater companies. “Cosi” was one of Rothstein’s first forays into the realm of opera, and he chose to direct “Cosi” as a naturalistic and realistic theater piece. Nothing was exaggerated, nothing was overplayed, nothing was too obvious. Rothstein’s meticulous staging was the best-directed “Cosi” I have ever seen (“Cosi” being a new production, there was a longer-than-usual rehearsal period). Rothstein’s “Cosi” was as stage-worthy as anything to be seen on The Guthrie boards.
Musically, the presentation was not as notable.
The conductor, Christopher Franklin (a graduate of Saint Paul’s Macalester College who now lives and works in Italy), conducted the score as if it were Rossini. The great sadness and melancholy of Mozart’s score were not revealed in Franklin’s performance. Franklin’s was a very glib interpretation of what is, fundamentally, a very profound work. Franklin understood the comedy of “Cosi” well enough, but he was unable to realize the genuine tragedy that lies just beneath the surface. The best thing I can say about Franklin’s work is that he kept things moving.
In the past, Minnesota Opera has often used the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra for its Mozart presentations. The Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra was not called upon to play in the pit for the new “Cosi”—and not engaging the SPCO may have been a mistake. The contract musicians used by Minnesota Opera played cleanly but without any real distinction. The notes were there, but not the music behind the notes. Of glorious interplay between pit and stage there was none.
Much the same was true of the cast members, all young and all exceedingly handsome. Their acting and stage deportment, faultless to a “T”, trumped their singing. From a purely vocal standpoint, the performances were of a standard to be encountered at a fine but not particularly topnotch music conservatory: good but not distinguished voices, well-drilled but not guided with great insight.
Next month, we may hear “Cosi Fan Tutte” again. University Opera Theatre of the University Of Minnesota will present four performances of “Cosi” the week before Thanksgiving, and I suspect we will try to catch one of those performances. I do not expect the vocal quality of the upcoming student presentation to be significantly inferior to what we heard on Sunday afternoon.
On our way back to Edina after the opera performance, we stopped at Boston Market to pick up a carryout dinner. We bought chickens, mashed potatoes, stuffing and several vegetables, and took the food to my older brother’s house, where we all were able to sit down to a decent Sunday night dinner without expending any effort.
Boston Market will always do in a pinch.
By Wednesday, the swelling in her knee had largely abated and she was able to walk without pain. Tests administered at the hospital demonstrated that she had suffered no ligament or cartilage damage, and that there was no evidence of bone spurs.
The physician said my grandmother must have experienced a minor knee incident, nothing more, and that she would have been released from the hospital two days earlier were it not for her advanced age. Low-stress physical rehabilitation is the only medically-indicated course of treatment for my grandmother.
My mother spent every day last week with my grandmother, both at the hospital and back at the care facility. It was a wearying and depressing week for my mother.
On Friday night, we all gathered at my older brother’s house for dinner in order to wind up six very stressful days. My sister-in-law had prepared an excellent meal: chicken consommé; Caesar salad; grilled salmon with seasoned rice, steamed broccoli and grilled red and yellow peppers; and raspberry sherbet.
Since my mother was away from the house all day every day, the dog stayed with my older brother’s family last week. We did not want him to be without company and without companionship—dogs are pack animals—and we thought he would be happier spending the week with my sister-in-law and my niece and nephew rather than at home by himself. He is accustomed to spending time at my older brother’s house, and he had a good week.
On Saturday, my mother again spent the day with my grandmother at the care facility, and my father accompanied her.
My middle brother and Joshua and I decided to do something fun on Saturday morning: we took the kids to the aquarium.
As aquariums go, Sea Life Minnesota is pretty small potatoes, but it is probably exactly the right size for the attention spans of small children: one can see everything in ninety minutes or less.
My niece and nephew enjoyed seeing the sea creatures. They were most fascinated by the cownose stingrays, the green sea turtles, the colorful clownfish—and the sand tiger shark, which truly is frightening. It was a perfect morning out for them.
After our visit to the aquarium, we took the kids to lunch at Ruby Tuesday, where we ordered hamburgers—and, after lunch, we took the kids home for their naps.
We remained at my older brother’s house for the remainder of the day, helping my older brother with tasks around the house and yard—and NOT watching Minnesota get demolished at Michigan, 58-0.
On Saturday night, we again all ate dinner at my older brother’s house. We ate Italian white bean soup; chicken quarters baked in an apple-cranberry glaze, small new potatoes in butter, steamed green beans, steamed baby carrots, and a tangerine-black cherry-almond cream cheese salad; and butterscotch pudding.
After dinner, we brought the dog home for the first time since Monday morning. He appeared to be pleased to be back home.
On Sunday morning, we attended service for the first time in two weeks (on the previous Sunday morning, it was while we were preparing to leave for service that we had received the emergency telephone call from my grandmother’s care facility).
Our church has—once again—amended the start time for Sunday service. Just when we had become accustomed to the early 9:00 a.m. start, the church changed the start time for traditional service from 9:00 a.m. to 9:30 a.m.
We were always happy with the 11:00 a.m. start time, observed by our church for decades. An 11:00 a.m. start allowed us to eat a Sunday breakfast before service. With the change in service, we now eat a Sunday breakfast after service—with the result that the Sunday breakfast now serves as our Sunday lunch, too.
After our Sunday breakfast/lunch, my brothers and my niece and nephew (as well as the dog) went to my older brother’s house, while my parents, my sister-in-law and Josh and I went to Saint Paul to attend the Sunday matinee performance of Minnesota Opera’s new production of Mozart’s “Cosi Fan Tutte”.
“Cosi Fan Tutte” is among my favorite operas—of Mozart’s works for the stage, only “The Magic Flute” has more sublime music—and I never miss a chance to attend a performance.
Minnesota Opera had opened its checkbook for its new “Cosi Fan Tutte”. The physical production was much more detailed and much more elaborate than most Minnesota Opera productions, signaling that the company intends to keep this production—its first “Cosi” in twenty years—in the repertory.
A very traditional production set in the time and place Mozart and Da Ponte specified, Minnesota Opera’s “Cosi Fan Tutte” was beautifully designed, offering a series of striking and colorful and handsome stage images. The costumes were of a standard seldom encountered at Minnesota Opera, and the lighting design was exceptional—the design team had clearly devoted hours and hours and hours to technical rehearsals and the complicated lighting plan.
The director of Minnesota Opera’s new “Cosi” was Peter Rothstein, the artistic director of one of Minneapolis’s many repertory theater companies. “Cosi” was one of Rothstein’s first forays into the realm of opera, and he chose to direct “Cosi” as a naturalistic and realistic theater piece. Nothing was exaggerated, nothing was overplayed, nothing was too obvious. Rothstein’s meticulous staging was the best-directed “Cosi” I have ever seen (“Cosi” being a new production, there was a longer-than-usual rehearsal period). Rothstein’s “Cosi” was as stage-worthy as anything to be seen on The Guthrie boards.
Musically, the presentation was not as notable.
The conductor, Christopher Franklin (a graduate of Saint Paul’s Macalester College who now lives and works in Italy), conducted the score as if it were Rossini. The great sadness and melancholy of Mozart’s score were not revealed in Franklin’s performance. Franklin’s was a very glib interpretation of what is, fundamentally, a very profound work. Franklin understood the comedy of “Cosi” well enough, but he was unable to realize the genuine tragedy that lies just beneath the surface. The best thing I can say about Franklin’s work is that he kept things moving.
In the past, Minnesota Opera has often used the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra for its Mozart presentations. The Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra was not called upon to play in the pit for the new “Cosi”—and not engaging the SPCO may have been a mistake. The contract musicians used by Minnesota Opera played cleanly but without any real distinction. The notes were there, but not the music behind the notes. Of glorious interplay between pit and stage there was none.
Much the same was true of the cast members, all young and all exceedingly handsome. Their acting and stage deportment, faultless to a “T”, trumped their singing. From a purely vocal standpoint, the performances were of a standard to be encountered at a fine but not particularly topnotch music conservatory: good but not distinguished voices, well-drilled but not guided with great insight.
Next month, we may hear “Cosi Fan Tutte” again. University Opera Theatre of the University Of Minnesota will present four performances of “Cosi” the week before Thanksgiving, and I suspect we will try to catch one of those performances. I do not expect the vocal quality of the upcoming student presentation to be significantly inferior to what we heard on Sunday afternoon.
On our way back to Edina after the opera performance, we stopped at Boston Market to pick up a carryout dinner. We bought chickens, mashed potatoes, stuffing and several vegetables, and took the food to my older brother’s house, where we all were able to sit down to a decent Sunday night dinner without expending any effort.
Boston Market will always do in a pinch.