Ballet Preljocaj in "Snow White".
Monday, April 16, 2012
Burlesque
Ballet Preljocaj, based in Aix-En-Provence, is in the midst of an eight-city world tour, with Minneapolis the fifth stop on that tour (the company has already visited Davis, California, Los Angeles, Washington, D.C., and Chapel Hill, North Carolina; the company is soon to visit Ann Arbor, Michigan, Mexico City and London).
The company’s visit to the Twin Cities occurred last weekend, when the company presented its full-length “Snow White”, created for twenty-six dancers, at the Orpheum Theatre in downtown Minneapolis. My parents, my sister-in-law, and Joshua and I attended Friday night’s performance.
Ballet Preljocaj’s “Snow White” is not a version for children, as the local presenter, the Northrop Dance Series, made abundantly clear in its brochures and advertisements. The Preljocaj “Snow White” is an adult version of the tale, much darker and much more wicked than the children’s version—and with a focus on sex.
I have never had much of an interest in probative analyses of fairy tales, analyses that attempt to discern deeper meanings lurking beneath the surface of ancient children’s fables. The once-fashionable work of Bruno Bettelheim, now largely discredited, has always left me cold.
In any case, Angelin Preljocaj, choreographer of Ballet Preljocaj, would not be a source of penetrating analysis in this particular field, at least based upon his work in “Snow White”. Preljocaj is interested in sex, and little else; his treatment of “Snow White” had sex as its driving force, sex as its only theme, sex as its only plot device, sex as the only character trait visible onstage. The work was a perfect example of vulgar, pretentious bad taste—which is the purest definition of “kitsch” I know.
Preljocaj possesses some modest skill as a choreographer. He knows how to present a story, he knows how to create passable ensemble dances, he knows how to fashion a creditable pas de deux. The problem, in “Snow White”, was that there were twenty minutes of satisfactory choreography in a work that lasted just under two hours (the work was performed without intermission). The rest was filler, with much posturing, and much melodrama. Sitting through “Snow White” was like sitting through a performance of some ancient creaky stage vehicle, such as Robert E. Sherwood’s “Abe Lincoln In Illinois”, in which the dialogue was mimed and not spoken.
Preljocaj understands ballet vocabulary—in the 1990s, he was asked to create a work for New York City Ballet—but his “Snow White” was a modern-dance work with a few nods to traditional ballet technique. Dancers were barefoot or clod in shoes; there was no en pointe work. The dancing was centered on the lower body, not the upper body.
Much of “Snow White” was old-fashioned pantomime—yet the pantomime was derived not from 19th-Century ballet pantomime a la Marius Petipa but from the pantomime of early silent-screen melodrama. No American choreographer would dare such a thing.
Why was this piece of claptrap, resembling nothing so much as an old episode of some particularly cheesy late-night music variety show from 1960s French television, inflicted on American viewers?
The answer, I suspect, lies in the elaborate stage designs for “Snow White”, created by some of France’s most-renowned designers. While the names of the designers were meaningless to me, followers of fashion would recognize in an instant names from France’s most-hallowed houses of couture.
And the stage designs, costume designs and lighting designs for “Snow White” were, indeed, elaborate and complex, as elaborate and complex as designs for the most complicated Broadway musical. What the designs were not, however, was “attractive”—the “Snow White” designs were bold in their lack of visual appeal; they were some of the ugliest stage designs I have ever seen.
Played throughout the show was a tape of music of Gustav Mahler (Ballet Preljocaj, even in its home theater, always dances to taped music). It was jarring to hear snippets from different Mahler works played out of context—just as it was jarring listening to music of Mahler while watching onstage shenanigans whose genuine origins resided in burlesque.
Curiosity alone had compelled us to go to “Snow White”. We had hoped there might be something worthwhile in a project that had sounded awful on paper—but the “Snow White” experience was just as dreadful in reality as it had seemed in theory.
In future, we should keep our curiosity in check. “Snow White” provided an enervating, even gruesome, evening.
________________________________________________
On our drive home, my parents made a revelation: they had experienced an evening similar to “Snow White” thirty years ago.
In the words of my father:
When we were your age, we saw “The Idiot”, a full-length ballet based upon the Dostoyevsky novel. “The Idiot” had been devised by Valery Panov, who is no longer even remembered. “The Idiot”, I think, had been created for Berlin Opera Ballet.
“The Idiot”, too, had featured amazingly complicated stage designs, and a lengthy cut-and-paste score borrowed from thirty-some different pieces of Shostakovich. Like “Snow White”, tons of money had been thrown at “The Idiot”—and the thing was so impossibly inept, it simply rotted onstage. It had to be seen to be believed.
Some idiot made the decision to send “The Idiot” to America for a tour of American dance venues—and the thing was hooted off the stage here, as anyone might have predicted. It was so vividly bad, your mother and I still remember it, even though we saw it before you were born.
“The Idiot” got disastrous reviews and bombed at the box office. Afterward, we said to ourselves that we were, in a way, fortunate: no other European company would ever again send our way such a bad full-length story ballet. The ridicule heaped on “The Idiot” would be remembered by impresarios for years to come, and atrocious European story ballets would be kept strictly on home turf in future.
Well . . . you have just seen your “Idiot” . . . and your mother and I have now seen a second “Idiot”, which we had never expected to see.
Remember it well.
Unlike your mother and me, you may not have a second “Idiot” in your future.
The company’s visit to the Twin Cities occurred last weekend, when the company presented its full-length “Snow White”, created for twenty-six dancers, at the Orpheum Theatre in downtown Minneapolis. My parents, my sister-in-law, and Joshua and I attended Friday night’s performance.
Ballet Preljocaj’s “Snow White” is not a version for children, as the local presenter, the Northrop Dance Series, made abundantly clear in its brochures and advertisements. The Preljocaj “Snow White” is an adult version of the tale, much darker and much more wicked than the children’s version—and with a focus on sex.
I have never had much of an interest in probative analyses of fairy tales, analyses that attempt to discern deeper meanings lurking beneath the surface of ancient children’s fables. The once-fashionable work of Bruno Bettelheim, now largely discredited, has always left me cold.
In any case, Angelin Preljocaj, choreographer of Ballet Preljocaj, would not be a source of penetrating analysis in this particular field, at least based upon his work in “Snow White”. Preljocaj is interested in sex, and little else; his treatment of “Snow White” had sex as its driving force, sex as its only theme, sex as its only plot device, sex as the only character trait visible onstage. The work was a perfect example of vulgar, pretentious bad taste—which is the purest definition of “kitsch” I know.
Preljocaj possesses some modest skill as a choreographer. He knows how to present a story, he knows how to create passable ensemble dances, he knows how to fashion a creditable pas de deux. The problem, in “Snow White”, was that there were twenty minutes of satisfactory choreography in a work that lasted just under two hours (the work was performed without intermission). The rest was filler, with much posturing, and much melodrama. Sitting through “Snow White” was like sitting through a performance of some ancient creaky stage vehicle, such as Robert E. Sherwood’s “Abe Lincoln In Illinois”, in which the dialogue was mimed and not spoken.
Preljocaj understands ballet vocabulary—in the 1990s, he was asked to create a work for New York City Ballet—but his “Snow White” was a modern-dance work with a few nods to traditional ballet technique. Dancers were barefoot or clod in shoes; there was no en pointe work. The dancing was centered on the lower body, not the upper body.
Much of “Snow White” was old-fashioned pantomime—yet the pantomime was derived not from 19th-Century ballet pantomime a la Marius Petipa but from the pantomime of early silent-screen melodrama. No American choreographer would dare such a thing.
Why was this piece of claptrap, resembling nothing so much as an old episode of some particularly cheesy late-night music variety show from 1960s French television, inflicted on American viewers?
The answer, I suspect, lies in the elaborate stage designs for “Snow White”, created by some of France’s most-renowned designers. While the names of the designers were meaningless to me, followers of fashion would recognize in an instant names from France’s most-hallowed houses of couture.
And the stage designs, costume designs and lighting designs for “Snow White” were, indeed, elaborate and complex, as elaborate and complex as designs for the most complicated Broadway musical. What the designs were not, however, was “attractive”—the “Snow White” designs were bold in their lack of visual appeal; they were some of the ugliest stage designs I have ever seen.
Played throughout the show was a tape of music of Gustav Mahler (Ballet Preljocaj, even in its home theater, always dances to taped music). It was jarring to hear snippets from different Mahler works played out of context—just as it was jarring listening to music of Mahler while watching onstage shenanigans whose genuine origins resided in burlesque.
Curiosity alone had compelled us to go to “Snow White”. We had hoped there might be something worthwhile in a project that had sounded awful on paper—but the “Snow White” experience was just as dreadful in reality as it had seemed in theory.
In future, we should keep our curiosity in check. “Snow White” provided an enervating, even gruesome, evening.
________________________________________________
On our drive home, my parents made a revelation: they had experienced an evening similar to “Snow White” thirty years ago.
In the words of my father:
When we were your age, we saw “The Idiot”, a full-length ballet based upon the Dostoyevsky novel. “The Idiot” had been devised by Valery Panov, who is no longer even remembered. “The Idiot”, I think, had been created for Berlin Opera Ballet.
“The Idiot”, too, had featured amazingly complicated stage designs, and a lengthy cut-and-paste score borrowed from thirty-some different pieces of Shostakovich. Like “Snow White”, tons of money had been thrown at “The Idiot”—and the thing was so impossibly inept, it simply rotted onstage. It had to be seen to be believed.
Some idiot made the decision to send “The Idiot” to America for a tour of American dance venues—and the thing was hooted off the stage here, as anyone might have predicted. It was so vividly bad, your mother and I still remember it, even though we saw it before you were born.
“The Idiot” got disastrous reviews and bombed at the box office. Afterward, we said to ourselves that we were, in a way, fortunate: no other European company would ever again send our way such a bad full-length story ballet. The ridicule heaped on “The Idiot” would be remembered by impresarios for years to come, and atrocious European story ballets would be kept strictly on home turf in future.
Well . . . you have just seen your “Idiot” . . . and your mother and I have now seen a second “Idiot”, which we had never expected to see.
Remember it well.
Unlike your mother and me, you may not have a second “Idiot” in your future.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
A Class Act
A class act throughout his career, the great man remains a class act more than ten years into his retirement.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Early Romanticism In Saint Paul
On Saturday night, Joshua and I went to Saint Paul to hear the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra in concert.
We heard the second program of a three-week project devoted to music of Franz Schubert. During the three-week series, each program has as its foundation a Schubert symphony complemented by a shorter Schubert work, to which has been added a contemporary score.
Last weekend, Schubert’s Ninth Symphony was the centerpiece of the program. One of the greatest symphonies ever written, the Schubert Ninth is not often performed in the U.S., probably because American orchestras can no longer play Schubert (the Cleveland Orchestra excepted).
Thomas Zehetmair had been engaged to lead all three weeks of the SPCO Schubert project, and it was a pleasure to hear Zehetmair lead the Schubert Ninth.
Because the performance involved chamber forces, Zehetmair was obliged to offer a “light” Schubert Ninth—and a “light” Schubert Ninth can be perfectly satisfactory.
I found the SPCO performance more than satisfactory. Tempos were swift, textures were light, rhythms were sprightly. There was a notable “fresh” quality to the performance, a performance characterized above all by energy and zest.
I loved the reading—and this was so even though I view the Schubert Ninth, at heart, as a melancholy work. I do not view the Schubert Ninth as deeply tragic, as exhibited in Furtwängler’s recorded performances, and I do not view the work as above all dramatic, as demonstrated in Toscanini’s recorded performances—but I do see the work as an exemplar of Viennese melancholy melded to Viennese charm, as best displayed in the legendary Decca recording of Josef Krips.
By Krips’s standards, Zehetmair’s performance was lacking in melancholy—and was short on charm, too. However, the SPCO performance was beautifully played, with very pure intonation, and enjoyed the musicians’ full concentration. To ask for more from a chamber ensemble would be unreasonable.
The concert opened with a performance of the Overture to Schubert’s 1822 opera, “Alfonso And Estrella”, an overture equally indebted to the curtain-raisers of Weber and Rossini. The work, in sonata form, is pleasant enough, but is not often played because its development is cursory and not particularly imaginative.
Between the two Schubert works was played a contemporary work, “Neharót Neharót”, by Israeli composer Betty Olivero (born 1954), a former composition student of Luciano Berio.
The Hebrew title may be translated as “Rivers, Rivers” and refers to rivers of tears and rivers of blood associated with wartime. Olivero wrote the work in 2006, while hostilities between Israel and Lebanon were being played out on global television; Olivero has recounted, in countless interviews, how she wrote the score while riveted to newscasts.
The composition is scored for solo viola, two string orchestras, accordian, percussion—and tape. The taped sounds are laments of grieving women from Kurdistan, Yemen and North Africa.
The score, nowise good, was not half so hokey as the circumstances of its origination might suggest—although the taped sounds of grieving women, which I found laughable, unquestionably should have been omitted (and the accordian replaced with an oboe or English horn).
Insofar as possible, I ignored the taped sounds and focused on the musical argument.
It was apparent, ninety seconds into the piece, that Olivero had rewritten Berio’s “Voci” (1984), with significant additional borrowings from Frank Martin’s “Polyptyque” (1974). Both composers, if alive today, surely would sue for plagiarism.
At least Olivero had the good sense to model her work upon two acknowledged masterpieces. Her composition, derivative and uninspired, somehow managed to hold together as a unified work, which is not nothing. The composer played off the solo viola against the two string orchestras beautifully. The Eastern Mediterranean contour to the melodies may have carried the tinge of 1950s travelogues, but the Eastern Mediterranean flavor was mostly inoffensive.
The viola soloist was Kim Kashkashian.
I think it was a mistake to have engaged Kashkashian for a fifteen-minute piece requiring little if any virtuosity. I have always liked Kashkashian, but any competent violist could have played the solo viola’s mournful, one-dimensional tunes with ease. It was an unnecessary expense for the SPCO to have brought Kashkashian all the way to Minnesota to play something the orchestra’s principal violist could have tossed off while napping.
Kashkashian has aged significantly since the last time I saw her in performance. I barely recognized her when she came onstage.
Once the current Schubert project has run its course, the SPCO immediately embarks upon a three-week project devoted to the symphonies of Mendelssohn. All concerts in the Mendelssohn series are scheduled to be conducted by Roberto Abbado.
Early Romanticism is being celebrated in Saint Paul this spring.
We heard the second program of a three-week project devoted to music of Franz Schubert. During the three-week series, each program has as its foundation a Schubert symphony complemented by a shorter Schubert work, to which has been added a contemporary score.
Last weekend, Schubert’s Ninth Symphony was the centerpiece of the program. One of the greatest symphonies ever written, the Schubert Ninth is not often performed in the U.S., probably because American orchestras can no longer play Schubert (the Cleveland Orchestra excepted).
Thomas Zehetmair had been engaged to lead all three weeks of the SPCO Schubert project, and it was a pleasure to hear Zehetmair lead the Schubert Ninth.
Because the performance involved chamber forces, Zehetmair was obliged to offer a “light” Schubert Ninth—and a “light” Schubert Ninth can be perfectly satisfactory.
I found the SPCO performance more than satisfactory. Tempos were swift, textures were light, rhythms were sprightly. There was a notable “fresh” quality to the performance, a performance characterized above all by energy and zest.
I loved the reading—and this was so even though I view the Schubert Ninth, at heart, as a melancholy work. I do not view the Schubert Ninth as deeply tragic, as exhibited in Furtwängler’s recorded performances, and I do not view the work as above all dramatic, as demonstrated in Toscanini’s recorded performances—but I do see the work as an exemplar of Viennese melancholy melded to Viennese charm, as best displayed in the legendary Decca recording of Josef Krips.
By Krips’s standards, Zehetmair’s performance was lacking in melancholy—and was short on charm, too. However, the SPCO performance was beautifully played, with very pure intonation, and enjoyed the musicians’ full concentration. To ask for more from a chamber ensemble would be unreasonable.
The concert opened with a performance of the Overture to Schubert’s 1822 opera, “Alfonso And Estrella”, an overture equally indebted to the curtain-raisers of Weber and Rossini. The work, in sonata form, is pleasant enough, but is not often played because its development is cursory and not particularly imaginative.
Between the two Schubert works was played a contemporary work, “Neharót Neharót”, by Israeli composer Betty Olivero (born 1954), a former composition student of Luciano Berio.
The Hebrew title may be translated as “Rivers, Rivers” and refers to rivers of tears and rivers of blood associated with wartime. Olivero wrote the work in 2006, while hostilities between Israel and Lebanon were being played out on global television; Olivero has recounted, in countless interviews, how she wrote the score while riveted to newscasts.
The composition is scored for solo viola, two string orchestras, accordian, percussion—and tape. The taped sounds are laments of grieving women from Kurdistan, Yemen and North Africa.
The score, nowise good, was not half so hokey as the circumstances of its origination might suggest—although the taped sounds of grieving women, which I found laughable, unquestionably should have been omitted (and the accordian replaced with an oboe or English horn).
Insofar as possible, I ignored the taped sounds and focused on the musical argument.
It was apparent, ninety seconds into the piece, that Olivero had rewritten Berio’s “Voci” (1984), with significant additional borrowings from Frank Martin’s “Polyptyque” (1974). Both composers, if alive today, surely would sue for plagiarism.
At least Olivero had the good sense to model her work upon two acknowledged masterpieces. Her composition, derivative and uninspired, somehow managed to hold together as a unified work, which is not nothing. The composer played off the solo viola against the two string orchestras beautifully. The Eastern Mediterranean contour to the melodies may have carried the tinge of 1950s travelogues, but the Eastern Mediterranean flavor was mostly inoffensive.
The viola soloist was Kim Kashkashian.
I think it was a mistake to have engaged Kashkashian for a fifteen-minute piece requiring little if any virtuosity. I have always liked Kashkashian, but any competent violist could have played the solo viola’s mournful, one-dimensional tunes with ease. It was an unnecessary expense for the SPCO to have brought Kashkashian all the way to Minnesota to play something the orchestra’s principal violist could have tossed off while napping.
Kashkashian has aged significantly since the last time I saw her in performance. I barely recognized her when she came onstage.
Once the current Schubert project has run its course, the SPCO immediately embarks upon a three-week project devoted to the symphonies of Mendelssohn. All concerts in the Mendelssohn series are scheduled to be conducted by Roberto Abbado.
Early Romanticism is being celebrated in Saint Paul this spring.
Monday, April 09, 2012
Classical Music’s Most Secretive Gay Couple
Palestinian-Israeli pianist Saleem Abboud Ashkar and Danish violinist Nikolaj Znaider (who holds both Danish and Israeli passports).
This distinctly unappealing couple is shown here in Bergen, Norway, in June 2010.
For the life of me, I do not understand, in this day and age, why these two go to extremes, attempting to hide the nature of their relationship.
Everyone in Denmark, France and Israel (where the two spend their free time) has known about them for years.
Sunday, April 08, 2012
A Massive And Irritating Flop
On Friday night, my middle brother and Joshua and I went to The Guthrie Theater to see The Guthrie’s presentation of Noel Coward’s 1925 comedy of manners, “Hay Fever”. Oddly, the current “Hay Fever” is The Guthrie’s very first production of the play, one of Coward’s most-oft-performed works.
The production was not good. I suspect that “Hay Fever” can be made to work only if an incomparable cast of actors has been assembled, a cast that can deliver every single line with stylish and effortless virtuosity. What we saw Friday night was a cast of actors not genuinely comfortable with Coward’s thin-as-paper material and unable to deliver Coward’s lines with the polished nonchalance the play demands.
“Hay Fever” is not a strong play, even by Coward standards. It concerns the Bliss family, Mr. and Mrs. Bliss and the Bliss son and the Bliss daughter, each of whom invites a weekend guest to the Bliss estate outside London without telling anyone else in the family. When the four guests arrive, the result is consternation throughout the household—on the part of the Bliss family as well as on the part of the guests. The guests are unable to accommodate themselves to the quirky behavior of the Bliss family, while the Bliss family is so supremely self-obsessed that it is unaware of the disconcerting effect it has on outsiders. The weekend guests, caught in an impossible situation, decide to leave early, sneaking out without the Bliss family even being aware that the guests are departing—at which point the play ends.
“Hay Fever” is supposed to represent an entertaining examination of high-society inter-war Britain, a frivolous social milieu with endless weekend house parties in the country, but the play is a one-note affair, lacking genuine wit, well-drawn characters and interesting situations.
At the center of the play is Mrs. Bliss, a retired actress apparently ready to return to the thespian boards any minute if the sweeping theatricality of her conduct in private life is any guide. Mrs. Bliss is supposed to be an irresistible role for an actress “of a certain age”, but the role is insufficiently written and may be impossible to play.
The Mrs. Bliss at The Guthrie was Harriet Harris, a skilled actress who has shown in her television work that she can shine in arch roles. Harris’s Mrs. Bliss, however, was not arch—Harris’s Mrs. Bliss was, instead, camp. Harris played Mrs. Bliss as Madame Arcati, the wrong Coward role in the wrong Coward play, and Harris did so probably because there is no genuine character beneath the veneer of Mrs. Bliss’s nonstop theatrics for Harris to latch onto.
It is likely that no one can play Mrs. Bliss to satisfaction. My parents saw Rosemary Harris come to grief in the role of Mrs. Bliss on Broadway in 1986—and if the great Rosemary Harris could not bring Mrs. Bliss to life, probably no one can. My parents say that Rosemary Harris walked around the stage for three acts positively exuding radiance at every turn—and otherwise totally lost, utterly unable to find any grounded center in the part.
Harriet Harris lacks the innate radiance of Rosemary Harris. The result was that the Mrs. Bliss of Harriet Harris was fundamentally unattractive if not grotesque. That Harriet Harris was poorly costumed, poorly made-up and poorly coiffed by The Guthrie merely reinforced the camp nature of her portrayal.
The other cast members were no better. Simon Jones, a fine actor, was able to do nothing with the role of the much-put-upon Mr. Bliss. Barbara Bryne overdid the daffiness of the part of the maid until she became insufferable (Bryne had played the very same part in the Rosemary Harris production my parents had seen on Broadway long ago). The other cast members were at sea, variously overplaying and underplaying their parts, never finding any consistent tone, never discovering any meat on their characters’ bones.
A British stage director had been imported from London to direct “Hay Fever”, and I am surprised that he allowed the Guthrie production to be so broadly played. A comedy of manners, to be successful, must be subtle and finely-etched. There was nothing subtle or finely-etched about the Guthrie production.
The Guthrie performed “Hay Fever” with a single intermission. The intermission came after Act I, which made for a very long second half—and which interfered, fatally, with the careful three-part symmetry of Coward’s structure. Perhaps the most skillful element of Coward’s play is its construction: each of the three acts begins in a flurry of expository activity and dialogue; each of the three acts ends in awkward silence.
The Guthrie had devoted buckets of money to the production. “Hay Fever” featured elaborate and expensive stage designs and costume designs, all faithful to the period. The designs, alas, were not attractive, and did not display the surface elegance the play requires.
“Hay Fever” was, all in all, intensely disappointing. Three “name” actors had been engaged, lavish resources had been devoted to the production, and two months of rehearsals and a month of performances had already been under the cast’s belt by the time we caught the production. Yet The Guthrie’s “Hay Fever” was, I thought, a massive and irritating flop.
My parents will see “Hay Fever” next week. It will be interesting to see what they think of the production.
The production was not good. I suspect that “Hay Fever” can be made to work only if an incomparable cast of actors has been assembled, a cast that can deliver every single line with stylish and effortless virtuosity. What we saw Friday night was a cast of actors not genuinely comfortable with Coward’s thin-as-paper material and unable to deliver Coward’s lines with the polished nonchalance the play demands.
“Hay Fever” is not a strong play, even by Coward standards. It concerns the Bliss family, Mr. and Mrs. Bliss and the Bliss son and the Bliss daughter, each of whom invites a weekend guest to the Bliss estate outside London without telling anyone else in the family. When the four guests arrive, the result is consternation throughout the household—on the part of the Bliss family as well as on the part of the guests. The guests are unable to accommodate themselves to the quirky behavior of the Bliss family, while the Bliss family is so supremely self-obsessed that it is unaware of the disconcerting effect it has on outsiders. The weekend guests, caught in an impossible situation, decide to leave early, sneaking out without the Bliss family even being aware that the guests are departing—at which point the play ends.
“Hay Fever” is supposed to represent an entertaining examination of high-society inter-war Britain, a frivolous social milieu with endless weekend house parties in the country, but the play is a one-note affair, lacking genuine wit, well-drawn characters and interesting situations.
At the center of the play is Mrs. Bliss, a retired actress apparently ready to return to the thespian boards any minute if the sweeping theatricality of her conduct in private life is any guide. Mrs. Bliss is supposed to be an irresistible role for an actress “of a certain age”, but the role is insufficiently written and may be impossible to play.
The Mrs. Bliss at The Guthrie was Harriet Harris, a skilled actress who has shown in her television work that she can shine in arch roles. Harris’s Mrs. Bliss, however, was not arch—Harris’s Mrs. Bliss was, instead, camp. Harris played Mrs. Bliss as Madame Arcati, the wrong Coward role in the wrong Coward play, and Harris did so probably because there is no genuine character beneath the veneer of Mrs. Bliss’s nonstop theatrics for Harris to latch onto.
It is likely that no one can play Mrs. Bliss to satisfaction. My parents saw Rosemary Harris come to grief in the role of Mrs. Bliss on Broadway in 1986—and if the great Rosemary Harris could not bring Mrs. Bliss to life, probably no one can. My parents say that Rosemary Harris walked around the stage for three acts positively exuding radiance at every turn—and otherwise totally lost, utterly unable to find any grounded center in the part.
Harriet Harris lacks the innate radiance of Rosemary Harris. The result was that the Mrs. Bliss of Harriet Harris was fundamentally unattractive if not grotesque. That Harriet Harris was poorly costumed, poorly made-up and poorly coiffed by The Guthrie merely reinforced the camp nature of her portrayal.
The other cast members were no better. Simon Jones, a fine actor, was able to do nothing with the role of the much-put-upon Mr. Bliss. Barbara Bryne overdid the daffiness of the part of the maid until she became insufferable (Bryne had played the very same part in the Rosemary Harris production my parents had seen on Broadway long ago). The other cast members were at sea, variously overplaying and underplaying their parts, never finding any consistent tone, never discovering any meat on their characters’ bones.
A British stage director had been imported from London to direct “Hay Fever”, and I am surprised that he allowed the Guthrie production to be so broadly played. A comedy of manners, to be successful, must be subtle and finely-etched. There was nothing subtle or finely-etched about the Guthrie production.
The Guthrie performed “Hay Fever” with a single intermission. The intermission came after Act I, which made for a very long second half—and which interfered, fatally, with the careful three-part symmetry of Coward’s structure. Perhaps the most skillful element of Coward’s play is its construction: each of the three acts begins in a flurry of expository activity and dialogue; each of the three acts ends in awkward silence.
The Guthrie had devoted buckets of money to the production. “Hay Fever” featured elaborate and expensive stage designs and costume designs, all faithful to the period. The designs, alas, were not attractive, and did not display the surface elegance the play requires.
“Hay Fever” was, all in all, intensely disappointing. Three “name” actors had been engaged, lavish resources had been devoted to the production, and two months of rehearsals and a month of performances had already been under the cast’s belt by the time we caught the production. Yet The Guthrie’s “Hay Fever” was, I thought, a massive and irritating flop.
My parents will see “Hay Fever” next week. It will be interesting to see what they think of the production.
Saturday, April 07, 2012
“From Hanover Square North, At The End Of A Tragic Day, The Voices Of The People Again Arose”
There's a personal experience behind [the third movement of The Second Orchestral Set], the story of which I will now try to tell.
We were living in an apartment at 27 West 11th Street. The morning paper on the breakfast table gave the news of the sinking of the “Lusitania”. I remember, going downtown to business, the people on the streets and on the elevated train had something in their faces that was not the usual something. Everybody who came into the office, whether they spoke about the disaster or not, showed a realization of seriously experiencing something. (That it meant war is what the faces said, if the tongues didn't.)
Leaving the office and going uptown about 6 o'clock, I took the Third Avenue "L" at the Hanover Square Station. As I came on the platform, there was quite a crowd waiting for the trains, which had been blocked lower down, and while waiting there, a hand-organ, or hurdy-gurdy, was playing on a street below. Some workmen sitting on the side of the tracks began to whistle the tune, and others began to sing or hum the refrain.
A workman with a shovel over his shoulder came on the platform and joined in the chorus, and the next man, a Wall Street banker with white spats and a cane, joined in it, and finally it seemed to me that everybody was singing this tune, and they didn't seem to be singing for fun, but as a natural outlet for what their feelings had been going through all day long.
There was a feeling of dignity all through this. The hand-organ man seemed to sense this and wheeled the organ nearer the platform and kept it up fortissimo (and the chorus sounded out as though every man in New York must be joining in it). Then the first train came and everybody crowded in, and the song eventually died out, but the effect on the crowd still showed.
Charles Ives
The tune, which Ives goes on to identify, was the 1868 hymn, “In The Sweet By-And-By”.
Monday, April 02, 2012
Odd Bedfellows
From left to right: Marja Molewijk, Steven Mackey, William Colvig (Lou Harrison’s boyfriend at the time), Henryk Górecki, Janis Susskind and Lou Harrison, taken 27 June 1993 at the Concertgebouw, Amsterdam, during the Holland Festival.
Odd bedfellows, indeed.
A psychiatrist might have a field day addressing the spatial preferences of the persons in the photograph.
My sister-in-law, a psychiatrist, says it is crystal clear that Górecki wanted absolutely nothing to do with the other persons present in the auditorium.
My sister-in-law also says she would guess, from the photograph, that Colvig and Harrison, with empty seats between them, must have fought like cats and dogs (and such was their reputation).
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The morning after Harrison’s farcical demise at a Denny’s in Lafayette, Indiana, Donald Harris, Professor Of Composition And Theory at Ohio State University, sent the following email message to numerous recipients:
Last night, while traveling from Chicago to Columbus, Lou Harrison passed away. We had sent Adam Schweigert and Joe Panzner, two students in Composition and Theory, to Chicago with a University van to greet Lou and his traveling companion, Todd Burlingame, and drive them back to campus for the Festival. Lou does not like to fly and took the train, the California Zephyr, from near San Francisco to Chicago. The train arrived at about 5:15 PM. While en route to Indianapolis, their overnight destination, Adam, Joe, Lou and Todd decided to stop at a Denny's restaurant in Lafayette, Indiana, for some dinner. Lou stumbled and fell upon getting out of the vehicle and apparently suffered a heart attack. He had great difficulty breathing. Paramedics were called and they arrived within minutes. Lou was transported to the hospital but was unable to be revived.
He passed away around 9 or 9:30 PM. We are awaiting the coroner's report for final confirmation of the cause of death.
Lou Harrison will be cremated today; his remains shipped back to California. He was eighty-five years old.
Todd Burlingame, identified as a “traveling companion” in Harris’s email message, was Harrison’s boyfriend at the time of Harrison’s death.
Contrary to the statement in Harris’s email message, the Indiana coroner did not perform an autopsy on Harrison.
Harrison’s remains were cremated, near instantly, because his estate had insufficient funds to arrange for a proper burial.
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Harrison was, of course, a very, very strange man.
The photograph below shows Harrison in 1939, when Harrison was 22 years old. One may see from the photograph that Harrison, as a young man, was already a social misfit—although one would be unable to guess from the photograph alone how truly bizarre Harrison would become only a few short years hence.
Any cursory reading of Harrison’s letters, published and unpublished (many are available online), puts his sanity—as well as his intelligence—into question. He was, all in all, a rather frightening creature.
Sunday, April 01, 2012
“It’s A Shame It Ended After An Hour And A Half” Or “Throw In A Gamelan And Call It Modernism”
Below is reproduced the funniest news story of the last decade.
I recall falling over with laughter the first time I read this news item almost nine years ago.
My reaction remains the same today.
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Columbus, Ohio, June 6, 2003—85-year-old American composer Lou Harrison died after collapsing in a Denny's parking lot in Lafayette, Indiana, while on his way to Columbus, Ohio, to be honored at Ohio State University's Contemporary Music Festival 2003.
Joseph Panzner and Adam Schweigert, who serve as production assistants for this year's festival, were excited by the opportunity to meet the renowned composer.
Harrison was in Chicago when he received the invitation to the festival. Harrison usually traveled by train or car—he did not want to fly to Columbus. With this in mind, Panzner and Schweigert volunteered to drive Harrison to Columbus.
"We were looking forward to spending six hours in the car with him,” Panzner said. “It's a shame it ended after an hour and a half.”
"Thankfully, the Denny’s was only 12 blocks from a hospital. I'm glad I was there to help," Panzner added.
Schweigert said many who had crowded around Harrison as he lay dying in the Denny's dining room did not know who he was and what his life had added to American culture.
"It was really ironic," Schweigert said.
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No, the irony is that anyone ever took Harrison seriously (and few did).
The man had rejected modernism, for crying out loud. He was a complete boob.
Even more ironic is that Harrison had been a pupil of Arnold Schoenberg, yet Harrison had never bothered to learn the elements of harmony from the great master, surely one of the all-time crassest cases of opportunity wasted.
Death at Denny’s: can there be a more ignominious end for a more ignominious man?
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And patrons of a Denny’s franchise in Lafayette, Indiana, had been expected to recognize this old fool?
Harrison could have died onstage at Carnegie Hall, and no one would have recognized him.
I recall falling over with laughter the first time I read this news item almost nine years ago.
My reaction remains the same today.
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Columbus, Ohio, June 6, 2003—85-year-old American composer Lou Harrison died after collapsing in a Denny's parking lot in Lafayette, Indiana, while on his way to Columbus, Ohio, to be honored at Ohio State University's Contemporary Music Festival 2003.
Joseph Panzner and Adam Schweigert, who serve as production assistants for this year's festival, were excited by the opportunity to meet the renowned composer.
Harrison was in Chicago when he received the invitation to the festival. Harrison usually traveled by train or car—he did not want to fly to Columbus. With this in mind, Panzner and Schweigert volunteered to drive Harrison to Columbus.
"We were looking forward to spending six hours in the car with him,” Panzner said. “It's a shame it ended after an hour and a half.”
"Thankfully, the Denny’s was only 12 blocks from a hospital. I'm glad I was there to help," Panzner added.
Schweigert said many who had crowded around Harrison as he lay dying in the Denny's dining room did not know who he was and what his life had added to American culture.
"It was really ironic," Schweigert said.
________________________________________________
No, the irony is that anyone ever took Harrison seriously (and few did).
The man had rejected modernism, for crying out loud. He was a complete boob.
Even more ironic is that Harrison had been a pupil of Arnold Schoenberg, yet Harrison had never bothered to learn the elements of harmony from the great master, surely one of the all-time crassest cases of opportunity wasted.
Death at Denny’s: can there be a more ignominious end for a more ignominious man?
________________________________________________
And patrons of a Denny’s franchise in Lafayette, Indiana, had been expected to recognize this old fool?
Harrison could have died onstage at Carnegie Hall, and no one would have recognized him.
