Théâtre de la Ville

“Mary said what she said”

A play by Darryl Pinckney,

With Isabelle Huppert,

Directed by Robert Wilson

The play, a monologue, is entitled Mary said what she said.  The actress is Isabelle Huppert and the director is Robert Wilson, two major figures in the performing arts. The venue is the Théâtre de la Ville in the Espace Cardin, an  extremely nice and comfortable theater, which is not true of most theaters in Paris, much more charming with their 18^thcentury décor but usually so tight that you have to sit sideways.

My first comment is that whatever Mary said was for the most part inaudible.So to try to recap and understand what the play was all about, I did what people do nowadays, and googled Queen Mary. In a nutshell, Mary Suart (1542-1587) became queen of Scotland at the ripe age of 6 days, but not being able to express her ideas yet, had to relinquish her royal duties to regents. She was brought up in France, where she married the heir to Henri II, the Dauphin Francis, who died a year later. She returned to Scotland and the Scottish throne in 1561, and later, in 1565, married Henry Stuart, whence the name she goes by. They had a son, James. In 1567, following a sinister plot which resulted in Henry’s death, she married his presumed assassin, James Hepburn. In 1567, she abdicated in favor of her son James and went to England to seek Queen Elizabeth I’s protection (against whom or what, I don’t know). The cousins were not close and Elizabeth who was, probably justly so, paranoid had Mary beheaded in 1587, accused of plotting against her.

Unfortunately, I only gathered this information after the play, which really spoiled most of it for me. So here we are (I went with 3 friends which makes 4 different opinions about the play). The beautiful red velvet curtain rises. The vision is stunning. A stark white backdrop, two lighted lines marking the stage, and a black silhouette of a woman in Elizabethan attire with her back turned to the audience. The music is agressively repetitive, but the staging is so incredibly beautiful that you sit back with great expectation, eager to see how the play will develop. There are strange sounds, voices and shrieks and giggles in the back ground, maybe to indicate the presence of a baby Mary Stuart. And then Mary-Isabelle Huppert starts her monologue of which I, a native French speaker, could not understand a word, as the microphone was awful and the music covered the words.

And so it went on, a woman with her back turned to the audience, in an obviously black Elizabethan costume, ranting on about something. Then she turns around and the lighting shows a fittingly pale Isabelle Huppert in the gorgeous costume, with the characteristic “collerette”, a narrow high collar which reminds one of the Burmese giraffe women of Padaung. And Mary goes on saying what she has to say, a little easier to fathom as you can at least read her lips. So goes the play, a monologue which one can unfortunately not hear, which makes all the stage directions rather incomprehensible. Once in a while you realize what she is talking about as, at a certain point, mysterious  birds contrabanded from Brazil which died at sea, and as the fact that, a torn mother, she had never seen her son James. And that’s about it. A lot of pacing back and forth, a lot of grimaces, a bizarre and often ludicrous delivery, going from extremely slow to racing, and always the beauty of the décor and lighting,and  a sudden burst of mist which could represent the misty climate of Scotland or the clouds of heaven, again indecipherable as the source of information was sorely obscure.

A word must be said about Ms. Huppert’s tour de force. The monologue was very long, the stage directions very demanding, and she never missed a beat. And yet, it was extremely tedious. One of the reasons was that the actress does not have a very clear delivery and voice. Luckily, most of the audience had better ears than I do as they raved and cheered and threw flowers at the end of the one-woman show.

Very predictably (and how I kept waiting for that moment!), the play ended as it had begun, with Mary again a black silhouette across the snowy white backdrop, but with the only great surprise of the evening: she still had her head on!

The post Much said, little heard appeared first on Classical Concert Reviews, by Violetta da Gamba.

Thursday, May 9^th, 2019

The Munich Chamber Orchestra

Daniel Giglberger, concertmaster

Elgar – Serenade for Strings in E minor, op.20

Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy – Symphony for Strings no. 8 in D major

Antonín Dvorák – Serenade for Strings in E major, op.22

It was a somewhat rainy evening, as they come in Rio at this time of the year,when the days are beautifully sunny but the clouds tend to gather at twilight, making for dark gray skies and a few drops of rain, or, quite often, a tremendous downpour. The perfect setting for a romantic repertoire, if you think of the tempestuous characters and landscapes of authors such as Victor Hugo, Stendhal, Chateaubriand or Balzac.

So the music was by Mendelssohn, Dvorák and Elgar, in chronological order, but not that chosen by the musicians, who opted to surround Mendelssohn’s symphony with Elgar’s and Dvorák’s serenades. The three pieces are not similar, on the contrary,but equally beautiful.

Mendelssohn wrote this symphony in 1822, at the ripe age of 13. It is as if he knew he would not have much time. The symphony is still very close to classicism but the romantic mood is unmistakably there. The second movement is almost somber, in the vein of the second movement of Beethoven’s “Ghost” trio and that of Schubert’s second piano trio, of Barry Lindon fame. The use of violas, cello and bass, without violins (as Bach’s 6^thBrandenburg concerto!) adds to the movement’s dark color.

Elgar’s serenade, composed in 1892, which preceded it on the program, is one of his most famous and, not surprisingly, beloved works. It is unabashedly romantic and, to me, has a scent of Mahler, especially in the second and third movements.

Dvorák’s serenade, which followed the Mendelssohn, was composed in 1875 and is also one of his most popular works, in which one can hear many uses of national themes, and one cannot help thinking of Tchaikovsky’s serenade and of the Onegin waltzes (listen to the tempo di valse) .

All this to say that the evening was definitely romantic, whereas one is more used to hearing Baroque and Classical repertoire from chamber orchestras. Nevertheless, this repertoire fit the Munich Chamber Orchestra to a T. At the risk of sounding trite and overdoing the reference to textiles, I must say that the strings were absolutely silky, and delivered a beautiful rounded, velvety sound. What produces this the quality of the players, obviously, but also their total accord and compatibility. As a violist friend of mine used to say, four great soloists don’t necessarily make a string quartet. This can definitely be extended to the chamber orchestra, where it is possibly even harder to achieve perfect coherence because the greater number of players makes it more elusive. Bowings, dynamics and vibrato must be brought to perfect union, and in that sense the Munich Chamber Orchestra was simply breathtaking (another trite expression, but what can one say?). The concert master Daniel Giglberger is a superb violinist and a precise maestro, an undeniable factor in bringing the group so meticulously together, without detriment to the musical quality. The principal cellist was also a magnificent player and leader. But what called my attention most was the strong presence of the violas, not a voice somewhere in between that of the violins and the cellos, but a gorgeous baritone not often or enough heard. I think I will never tell a viola joke again.

And I have added the Munich Chamber Orchestra to my short list of favorites, joining the Freiburger Barockorchester and La Petite Bande.

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Marcio Carneiro cello master class

Unirio, Rio de Janeiro

Concerts are the end product of years of practice, talent and musical insight. Master classes are the showcase for the work in progress. For the amateur musician, master classes are the opportunity to understand not only the technical details that make a performance sparkle, but the musical insights that make it dazzle. To me, master classes are as fascinating as concerts and recitals, or maybe even more. They are analogous to an aspiring watchmaker’s study of the intricacies of timepieces, or a driver’s urge to understand the mechanical details of an automobile, or a budding chef’s desire to absorb the secret ingredients of a master chef’s creations.

There are, of course, master classes and Master Classes. The quality of a master class stems from several components. The most important, I believe, are the teacher’s capacity to analyze the student’s playing and to pinpoint the issues to address, and the teacher’s ability to get his ideas across. It seems obvious, but the diversity of approaches and success is actually quite amazing. There are many styles of master classes. One can, maybe a trifle superficially, divide them into categories. You have the lenient and undemanding approach, not very effective. You have the forbidding and exacting approach, not very productive either. You have the muttering and incomprehensible approach, which is what it is, incomprehensible. You have the verbose and convoluted approach, equally incomprehensible. There is the swift and to the point approach, a little frustrating. There is the unbearably slow and muddling approach, which ends up being soporific, and one could go on and on reciting the different possible combinations. So let us describe the paradigm, which we could call the perfect master class. In it, the teacher is attentive and analytical, never critical. He or she is articulate and capable of putting the analysis into clear language, with the occasional touch of humor, knowledge, examples and  anecdote. Needless to say, the teacher must have a perfect command of technique and repertoire, and preferably have a solid cultural (not only musical) background. He or she must also allow for individual interpretative preferences and maybe discuss them with the student, but never judge them. What can and should be keenly judged are intonation, intonation and intonation, left hand and bow technique. The latter is by far the most difficult, in my humble opinion. As I have learned over the years, you can have an impeccable and extremely precise left hand, with good intonation, but if your bowing is sloppy, all is lost. The bow creates the sound, the interpretation, the effects, the dynamics, the legato and staccato. In a way, it relies on the left hand to give it freedom. The left hand hammers, the right hand glides. As on a golf club, the grip on the bow should be like holding a bird, just tight enough so that it doesn’t fly away, but gentle enough not to kill it.

I have attended many, many master classes, good and bad. I will not mention the bad ones, it would be pointless. But I will mention the ones I liked best, and I urge you, if ever you are near the place where one of these masters is about to speak, to run, not walk!

One of the best master classes I have ever attended was not a cello master class. It was a piano master class which I have described in another article. The superb teacher was Leon Fleisher. I attended a piano master class of his, and a few years later a chamber music master class. They were both thrilling. Fleisher is a philosopher and a psychologist and his profound culture and wisdom lead him to express his ideas convincingly rather than forcefully.

He has a beautiful, flowing delivery and he is simply mesmerizing. The result is that the students immediately pick up his suggestions and apply them with seemingly little effort.

Another splendid teacher is Yo Yo Ma. In his extremely gentle yet firm manner, he gets his message across far more effectively than the “dragons” or the “milksops”. He knows what to single out and how to correct it. He does this with a smile and a courteous manner, never abrupt or judgemental. Although he is more “instrument-minded” than Fleisher, he does cover a wide range of subjects, especially his beloved “crossover” experimentation.

And others, like Gary Hoffman and Lynn Harrell (actually, there are not so many. The snotty and dogmatic kind is far more numerous) are also considerate and earnest, much to the students benefit.

Last Friday I was fortunate enough to be able to add another example to  my rather short list of masterful master classes. The teacher was Marcio Carneiro, a marvelous Brazilian cellist and renowned teacher. He taught in Germany and in Switzerland for many years and says that he is now retired, but luckily continues teaching master classes. The classes took place at  Unirio, one of the public universities in Rio de Janeiro, which has a strong music department, despite short funding and myopia from the mayor’s office. The students were mostly promising young cellists from the school’s graduate program, and some who are doing post-graduate work. The pieces played by the students were all staples and went from the prelude to Bach’s suite no. 3, to Beethoven’s second sonata and to Dvorák’s concerto. Unfortunately, recording is forbidden and I cannot remember all the individual comments and advice. But I retained a few important principles which will guide my practicing until Maestro Carneiro’s next visit to Rio.

The main one is that a cellist, and any musician or even artist for that matter, has to be two people in order to achieve whatever it is that he wants. The first person is the craftsman who carefully hones and polishes his skills, working slowly and demandingly on intonation, left hand and bowing technique. Once this work is digested, the artist may step in and fine-tune the result, shaping it into the interpretation he wishes to give.  Neither process can be skipped and the order is obvious.The other recommendations stem from this basic principle. The young girl who played the Beethoven sonata was gently scolded for her careless intonation. The two who played the Bach prelude, or at least the first one, had little technical problems, if any, but had to refine their interpretation, and forget the notes (metaphorically, of course!) so as to transform a skillfully performed exercise into music. The Dvorák was the occasion of addressing the issue of technique serving or hindering interpretation. And so on.

Throughout his lessons, the teacher illustrated the point he was making on the cello, delivering a superb tone (which is not easy to produce on different borrowed instruments of variable quality) and absolutely incredible bow work, demonstrating that the seemingly impossible is actually possible.

So how can one summarize the makings of a masterful master class? The most important features, I think, are what player and listener come away with. For the player, it is pride and assurance in his or her playing and constructive humility as to what needs to be corrected. For the listener, it is a deeper understanding of the mechanisms of playing the particular instrument being taught and a greater knowledge of its repertoire. As I said in the beginning, some master classes are more fascinating than concerts. And some concerts are master classes in the sense that they confirm and put together that which the teacher carefully takes apart.

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Sunday, April 28^th, 2019

Paul Lewis, piano

Ilumina Festival Chamber Group

J.S. Bach– Brandeburg Concerto no.6

In B flat major, BWV 1051

Maurice Ravel

2^ndmovement of String Quartet in F major

Assez vif; très rythmé

Bela Bartók

4th movement of String Quartet no. 4, Sz 91

Allegretto pizzicato

Luigi Boccherini

La Musica Notturna delle Strade di Madrid,

No. 6 op. 30

W.A. Mozart

Piano Concerto no. 27 in B flat major, K.595

A couple of weeks ago, I was nonchalantly flipping the pages of the April program of Sala Cecília Meireles, which, with the Theatro Municipal, is one of the two venues for classical music in Rio de Janeiro. (There is a third, the Cidade das Artes, City of the Arts, which doesn’t count because it is very far from the civilized part of the city. I can’t imagine why they chose to build it in this insufferable Miami Beach-like neighborhood, inhabited mostly by people who don’t give a hoot about any form of art). I was about to toss the booklet in my wastepaper basket, when the announcement of a concert caught my eye. Ilumina, no idea who that is, with Paul Lewis. Paul Lewis? I was suddenly shaken out of my indifference. Paul Lewis? One of my favorite pianists, maybe even my favorite pianist, in Rio? This must be another Paul Lewis. No mistake though, the resumé on the page definitely matched that of Paul Lewis, the magnificent British musician. I hastened to my computer to make sure I could find tickets. To my surprise I did so without difficulty. So I could relax and revel in this exciting perspective.

There are, on this site, two previous reviews of concerts I attended featuring Paul Lewis. The first one was at a rather unusual music festival in Mecklemburg-Vorpommern, aka West Pomerania. I will not repeat my comments about little dogs and big horses. The other was at the Y in New York, better known for its excellent concerts. Now, I was going to hear Paul Lewis again in rather surprising circumstances: at the Sala Cecilia Meireles in Rio, with an unkown orchestra.

As I always prefer to know what I’m in for, I turned to Google and Wikipedia to find out something about this Ilumina orchestra. It turns out that it’s a wonderful project directed by violist Jennifer Stumm, whose musical acquaintance I was delighted to make.

When she came on stage along with a group of musicians, she spoke to explain what this project is all about. It is a program to help gifted young musicians who would otherwise not have much opportunity to show their talent, by giving them a chance to appear in public. Ilumina has a yearly festival in diverse places in Brazil, with different young artists every year (and some who take part year after year.) If I were to tell you all about this wonderful project, I would only be repeating what you can read in their website: iluminafestival.org – go there, you will not be sorry.

After her short but illuminating explanation – I’m sorry, but this pun was just irresistible – Jennifer Stumm led the group on stage in the 6^thBrandenburg Concerto, yes, the one without violins. The lively performance was quite good, to my surprise, as I still didn’t know what to expect from Ilumina. My mistake, I’m sorry to say. I forgot to mention that the program was divided into thematic parts: Improvisations in B flat major, illustrated by the Bach concerto. There followed a part called Three Forms of Pizzicato, featuring three pieces showcasing the plucked string technique, the second movement from Ravel’s string quartet, the fourth movement of Bartók’s 4^thquartet, and Boccherini’s delightful Musica Notturna delle Strade di Madrid, in an arrangement for chamber orchestra of the string quintet in C major with guitar. All very aptly and enjoyably performed.

Here I must mention one of the most gratifying discoveries of the evening, violinist Alexi Kenney (I think it’s him, as the program, unfortunately, failed to give us the artists’ names) whose playing is magnificently refined and polished. One of the most difficult things to do on any instrument is to deliver audible pianissimi. The ability to achieve this never fails to amaze me. In Kenney’s case, the full dynamic range is admirable, but that aspect was particularly impressive.

After the intermission, I sat on the edge of my seat, poised to give Paul Lewis’s performance of the last Mozart concerto my full attention. I was not disappointed and held my breath as the pianist’s impeccable and sensitive interpretation unfolded. I had heard him in Beethoven and in Schubert, in which he excels. Mozart is always a stumbling block for even the greatest musicians. The deceptive simplicity of the music often leads to slightly careless renditions. In this case, every note and every phrase were carefully constructed by Lewis without prejudice to sensitivity and emotion. The impression that Lewis had made on me before, that of intellect serving emotion, was amply confirmed. No empty virtuosity, no syrupy sentimentalism, but the just use of a splendid technique to bring out every detail and shape a riveting interpretation. And again, that great quality of audible pianissimi, in the vein of pianists like Clara Haskil, Artur Schnabel and, a bit later, Alfred Brendel.

The audience would not let Lewis go without an encore. A lovely, tranquil piece I am sure I know, but cannot, for the life of me, pin a title on. On the way out, I asked two friends who are both extremely knowledgeable in music matters, but they didn’t know either. So I left the concert hall content and guilt free.

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Saturday, July 22nd, 2018

Orquestra Sinfônica do Theatro Municipal

Marcelo Lehninger, conductor

Nelson Freire, piano

Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

Eugen Onegin – Polonaise

Frédéric Chopin

Concerto no. 2 for piano and orchestra in F minor, op.21

Johannes Brahms

Concerto no. 2 for piano and orchestra in B flat major, op.83

This is neither an article for Architectural Digest, nor a take on one of GBShaw’s infamous lines – when he received a card saying “Lady So-and-So, at home, Thursday….,1925”, he gave a simple reply:”George Bernard Shaw, likewise”. I also thought of calling this article “The Return of the Prodigal Son”, which would have made a great title, but is simply not true.

In fact, Nelson Freire lives in Rio de Janeiro, although, as most musicians, he is mainly on the road (or rather, in the air) and plays  here once or twice a year. He is a sort of national hero, to the happy few who enjoy classical music, as is cellist Antonio Meneses. Both have made huge names for themselves in the international musical establishment, where Brazilian musicians are scarce. In the past, we had Guiomar Novaes and Magdalena Tagliaferro and Bidú Sayão, three formidable artists. Nowadays, apart from Freire and Meneses, we have another Met star, Paulo Szot. Still, Brazilian classical musicians who have “made it” are rare. In pop music, it’s a whole different story, thanks to samba and bossa nova, and to musicians and lyricists like Tom Jobim, João Gilberto and Vinicius de Moraes, for instance, who have influenced jazz and pop all over the world.

But last night we were back at the splendid Theatro Municipal for a musical happening, as Nelson Freire was going to treat us not to one concerto, but two – and what concertos! Chopin’s and Brahms’s second concertos, two superb examples of Romanticism, although I would venture to say the Brahms is by far the most important of the two. It was fitting that the Chopin should be a sort of apéritif, served after the ravishing Polonaise from act III of Eugen Onegin. The Brahm’s had the whole second part of the concert to itself.

A short digression to stress a point I would like to make. I am now a member of a Facebook group (yes, Violetta da Gamba has come a long way since her Cremona days) called PCME – Pretentious Classical Music Elitists. Apart from some fun moments, the group also provides very irritating ones, such as the “best” mania: who do you think is the best pianist, violinist, composer, cellist, conductor, stagehand, etc. etc. in the world today, yesterday and even tomorrow. It is, in my opinion, extremely silly to label any artist or any human being, for that matter, as “the best”. Now to the point: I once ventured to criticize Nelson Freire’s Mozart, when he played one of his concertos at the Mostly Mozart Festival (check my article “Mostly Mozart, Mostly Disappointing”, if you like.) Oh my, the screams of lèse-majesté! But, and this is the point in question, no one is the best in everything.

Back to our sheep, as the French would say. As disappointed I was that summer evening with Freire’s Mozart, I was blown away with most of his Chopin and with his Brahms this time. Unfortunately, one had to make a tremendous effort to obliterate the very pedestrian orchestra and rather metronomic conductor. The accompaniment was disastrous, with particularly hoarse brasses, which is definitely a terrible shortcoming when playing Brahms. Enough said about what cannot be remedied. Freire was probably taken aback in the first movement of Chopin, although he must have rehearsed and therefore knew what was coming, as it was slightly unsteady. But then came the Larghetto in which the orchestra is very discreet, leaving space for Freire to show us the full extent of his lyricism, the exquisite phrasing, the crystalline pianissimi, the subdued crescendi, the sweetness, the drama, what can I say? From then on, it was all breathtaking, the Allegro of the Chopin a tranquil joy, which took me back to my teen years and my fascination with King Vidor’s rendition of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, with the ravishing Audrey Hepburn, the very handsome Mel Ferrer and the extraordinarily sensitive Henry Fonda as Pierre, by far the best performance of the whole movie. Nino Rota’s score has little to do with Chopin, but then there is that gorgeous waltz, to which Natasha and André’s ill-fated romance first blossoms.

Intermission, and then Brahms! Probably one of the most beautiful concertos of the repertoire. Or am I just drawn to it as I am to all of Brahms’s works for the glorious parts he gives the cello? Anyway, the opening was marred by the mediocre horns, so unfitting for Freire’s magnificently subtle entrance, followed by the forceful chords. The concerto is mesmerizing, you soak up every note and Nelson Freire definitely gives you food for soul and thought. The orchestration, when the orchestra it is up to its task, is spine-tingling. You are carried away to far out regions and wish you need never come back. Freire’s performance was everything one can expect and wish for, with special mention to the so, so beautiful pick-up of the opening cello and strings in the Andante; the alternation of sheer passionate strength and sweet pianissimi in the Allegro Apassionato; the dancing playfulness in the Allegretto grazioso, in which, probably a very personal view which would irk most musicologists, I sense a foretelling of Shostakovitch.

However disappointing the accompaniment, this was indeed a very rare treat, and a master-class. Freire is at his best in the great Romantic concertos, most especially in Schumann’s and in both of Brahms’s. I have always, in the depth of my feelings, paired him with Clara Haskil in Schumann, although she was also a great interpreter of Mozart, which, in my opinion, Freire is not.

Encores are not the rule in concerts with orchestra, but who could resist the tsunami of applause? Not even Nelson Freire who gave us two encores, first a piece I didn’t recognize at all and then what I suspect was one of Grieg’s Lyric Pieces, but he did not, unfortunately, reveal his secret.

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Saturday, August 19th 2017

András Schiff, piano

Johann Sebastian Bach – Three part sinfonias BWV 787-801

Béla Bartók – Suite op. 14 and Suite sz.81 “Out Doors”

Leos Janacek – Sonata X. 1.1905 in E flat minor

Robert Schumann – Sonata no. 1 in F sharp minor, op.11

A long while ago, in 2012 if I remember well, I got extremely irritated by Sir András Schiff. I will not go into that again, but if you are reading this and are interested you can always go back to the article entitled “Whimsical Marionettes and Stuffy Pianist”. It was therefore with mixed feelings that I accepted a friend’s invitation to go to Schiff’s recital at Rio’s “Theatro Municipal”. To think that I almost missed an extraordinary afternoon because of a bygone grudge!

The recital was on Saturday at 4 pm. I’m totally in favor of weekend matinées, when you are usually much more relaxed than on weekday evenings, after all your daily chores and stress. On weekday evenings, by the time you reach the concert  hall, you are completely exhausted and listening to music becomes much more a passive way to unwind than an active participation in a musical experience. You may get distracted, doze off a little, feel uncomfortable in your seat. On Saturday or Sunday afternoon, your mind is fresh and receptive, your body looser and your power of concentration far greater. That at least was my general mood when I walked into the stately concert hall, a cousin of the Palais Garnier, and took a superb seat to listen to Schiff.

From my first glance at the playbill, I already felt intrigued and expectant. Rarely have I seen such a carefully constructed program. Bach’s fifteen three part inventions (or sinfonias), in groups of five, separated by Bartók’s suites op. 14  and  sz 81 nos. 1 to 3  and, after the last group, nos. 4 and 5. After the intermission, Janacek’s E minor sonata “October 1^st , 1905” followed by Schumann’s sonata no. 1 in F sharp minor.  Not only were the choices unusual – the Bartók suites and Janacek’s sonata are definitely not standard repertoire – but the total disdain of chronology was intriguing.

The last time I wrote about Schiff, I called him stuffy. That would be my last choice of adjective to describe him on Saturday afternoon. He walked in amiably, smiling and totally unassuming. His Mao jacket is always impeccable and very elegant. Tails are so dated! No fuss before starting, as I feared – the occasional cough and scurrying didn’t seem to bother him at all.

He  began the Bach, playing with intimacy, as if alone. The touch was at once magical, with that quality which makes you think that the music is coming from the air, something I have always associated with Clara Haskil’s playing. Yet, I was slightly taken aback (never having attentively listened to Schiff play Bach) when I realized that he seemed to be playing a pianoforte – no pedal, very discreet dynamics, practically no legato, in short, a complete recreation of the sound of a pianoforte on a concert Steinway. It took me some time to adjust to it, as I had the feeling he was using such restraint as to seem almost contrived. As I got used to this manner of playing, I began to appreciate it more, but I still felt dubious about the whole idea. There was a necessary restraint of the Steinway’s power that did not seem natural. Yet, Schiff’s interpretation was so coherent and so beautifully rendered that any misgivings became irrelevant.

Another unusual approach had extraordinary results. Schiff left the audience absolutely no time even to think about applauding not only inadvertently between movements, but also in between pieces. Thus the whole first part, from Bach to Bartók to Bach and over again, was played without interruption. This cast a spell over the audience which was one of the most silent I have ever heard. It allowed for total immersion as well as for grasping the idea of associating Bach with Bartók. I’m not expert enough in musicology (not at all, in fact!) to be able to pinpoint why the combination was so perfect. But the differences in style and in time made for a surprisingly logical blend.

I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t know the Bartók suites for piano. They are beautiful and understatedly powerful music. The op. 14 is also extremely impressionistic, reflecting Bartók’s fascination with Debussy. The last two movements of sz. 81 are in completely different character, and  show the affinities between Bartók, Prokofiev and Stravinsky, and the younger Shostakovich.

The second part of the recital was every bit as fascinating as the first, with again a meticulous choice of repertoire, played in chronologically reverse order. The somber Janacek was played before the exuberant Schumann sonata. Again no pause. It could have been one long piece. I do wonder whether Schiff’s decision to play the Janacek before the Schumann has to do with the fact that actually, in a kind of role reversal, the Janacek is arguably the most romantic of the two!

A very affable Schiff returned again and again to receive the resounding and well-deserved applause, all the more energetic for having been repressed for most of the afternoon.

All smiles and graciousness, he gave three encores:  the first movement of Bach’s Italian  Concerto, in a piano version this time, with pedal and dynamics; the first movement of Mozart’s C major sonata; and finally Schumann’s Merry Peasant from the Album for the Young. These two last pieces are part of every beginning piano student’s repertoire and were played masterfully but with all the freshness of youth.

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The title of this article was inscribed, along with a mini Eiffel Tower, on pink cocktail napkins that I found in a little paper store on the Left Bank. “Of course”, I thought as I bought them, “how come I never came up with the phrase myself?”

The myth is that Paris in August is precisely not a good idea. And, as all myths, it is open to discussion. I could try to prove why August is, on the contrary, a glorious month to be in Paris. I could say that the city has changed and is no longer just a ghostly, albeit tourist infested, place. That the absence of half the cars is a boon to the atmosphere and that the lack of pollution makes the city dazzle. That many good stores are now open in the summer, even on Sunday. That some of the best restaurants no longer shut their doors for the holidays. That some theatres put on good shows. The only aspect which is rather distressing is the total lack of good music, replaced by chamber orchestras of dubious quality performing, year after year, the same hackneyed pieces, especially the Four Seasons and Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, with heretic Bach suites thrown in, although the venues, quite beautiful and seldom visited churches like St. Eustache and St. Julien-le-Pauvre,  might be well worth the detour. Nevertheless, I believe that describing some events of a three week long stay in Paris during this unfashionable month should be more effective than sweeping comments.

A  few exceptional restaurants kept their doors open, more than enough to ruin one’s diet – along with the bakeries where baguettes, croissants, brioches and macarons were a constant provocation. And the chocolate stores…no comment.

Two exhibitions, among quite a few offerings, caught my attention. The first one, at the Musée d’Orsay, was a retrospective of portraits by Cézanne. As he is far better known for his still lifes and his landscapes, this collection of admirable portraits took me by surprise. The brush strokes are unmistakably Cézanne’s, but there is a diversity and intensity of expressions which are, obviously, absent from the other works. The exhibition’s flyer mentions the fact that Cézanne’s technique was often referred to as a “mason’s painting” in the sense that the strokes are heavy and textured, as plaster splashed on a wall. In fact, the commentary goes on, some of the portraits were painted exclusively with a spatula instead of a brush. There are many self-portraits which reveal

much about the painter’s moods, from self-assured to anxious and almost dejected. There are portraits of the artist’s father, of workers and friends. One, “The Boy in the Red Vest”, thrilled me not only by its beauty, but because of the boy’s uncanny resemblance to my grandson Alex! His more formal portraits, those of the “lady in blue”, also have an incredible resemblance to Maggie Smith as Lady Grantham, who could have sat for Cézanne at Downton Abbey. But the most striking, in my opinion, are his portraits of Hortense Fiquet, his companion and later wife, with whom he had a son, also Paul. Even after their marriage, they rarely lived together, and he married her despite having fallen out of love with her. So there is not a single portrait where she seems to be happy. They all show degrees of indifference, most with a tinge of sadness, others with a gleem of vindictiveness and yet others simply resigned. No two expressions are alike. And one immediately foresees Picasso and Matisse, the former in the faces, the latter in the fabrics.

From emotion to glamour. The other exhibition was at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, a tribute to Christian Dior, the legendary master of Haute Couture. I imagined something bright, frothy, elegant… yet the exhibition, although admirably researched and all encompassing, was what my son would call “TMI”. The abundance of photographs, all crowded in a few rooms, followed by windows showing full size dresses, miniature dresses, shoes, the evolution of perfume bottles, costume jewelry, hats, gloves, exhibited all together according to color, left one completely dizzy and incapable of sorting things out. Then came a whole wall of magazine covers, hundreds of them, again a dizzying array. Finally, fortunately, things began to spread out, you could breathe again and take in the stunning designs, especially in a hall with a very tall ceiling and painted bright white  where all the “toiles”, the sort of maquette of the dress made in white canvas, were shown in niches going all the way to the top, and in another room with gorgeous dresses and slides of celebrities wearing them. I wouldn’t say the exhibition was a waste of time, there was beauty to behold, but most of it was too oppressive to truly enjoy.

The final August treat was an excellent play on the creation of Edmond Rostand’s masterpiece “Cyrano de Bergerac”, simply entitled “Edmond”, beautifully and ingeniously written by Alexis Michalik, and performed by a smashing crew, following extraordinarily intricate stage directions which kept the action in fast, perpetual movement, miraculously without depriving the audience of any bit of the story.  A wonderful “tour de force”.

There is definitely much more to do in Paris during the “season”, but August certainly does not deserve to be shunned. You see, Paris is always a good idea.

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Theatro Municipal do Rio de Janeiro

Monday, August 22, 2016

Leif Ove Andsnes, piano 

1. L.v. Beethoven – Sonata no. 18 in E flat major, op.31 no.3
2. J. Sibelius – Impromptus, op. 5, nos. 5 and 6

                    Rondino, op.68, no.2

                     Elegiaco, op.76, no.10

                    Kylliki, op.41, no.3

                    Romance, op.24, no.9

1. C. A. Debussy – Trois Estampes

                                    Pagodes

                                    La soirée dans Grenade

                                    Jardins sous la Pluie

1. F. Chopin – Ballade no. 2 in F major, op.68

                    Nocturne in F major, op.15 no.1

                    Ballade no. 4 in F minor, op.52

The piano is arguably the most popular of all solo instruments, if not of all instruments. Although you can play a solo recital on any instrument you wish, I have yet to hear a solo tuba recital or a solo timpani recital.  Violin, viola and cello come very close, as do most of the winds and the harp. The double-bass has a hard time, as illustrated in Patrick Süsskind’s  bitter-sweet play “Der Kontrabass” of which I saw the French production in Paris  with the late Jacques Villeret, the great actor who also played in the movie “Le Dîner de Cons”.

The reasons for this supremacy are obvious: a seemingly endless  and mostly well-known repertoire , although there is a lot of room for surprises, as we will see later. It is also an orchestra in itself, as witnessed by Liszt’s beefy transcriptions of the Beethoven symphonies and by the inumerous reductions from concertos with orchestra to instrument with piano accompaniment. And it was for a long time a permanent fixture in most homes, for children to flee or fall in love with, and for the purpose of Hausmusik. This is, most unfortunately, no longer true.

Great pianists, for the same reasons, become legends, but there they have competition from violinists who are equally revered.  Nevertheless, it is the piano we are focusing on, so let us remember Mozart, Liszt, Clara Schumann, Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Cortot, Horowitz, Rubinstein, Clara Haskil, Gieseking, Schnabel, Glenn Gould, Michelangeli… this enumeration is by no means exhaustive.

I am sure that Leif Ove Andsnes will join them for posterity, already being one of the greatest of the present moment. So it was with the utmost expectation that I prepared to hear him live for the very first time. Let me be frivolous for a moment, as the recital has not started yet. Andsnes is a very handsome and elegant man, with the build and demeanor  of a tennis star – well, at least as they were a while ago, as they are nowadays far more relaxed, to say the least. I am thinking of Pete Sampras, Agassi and Björn Borg, all gentlemen of their sport. So appeared the gentleman-pianist.

Having of course heard of Andsnes’s ambitious Beethoven Journey, I was sure the first piece on the program was going to drive me to ecstasy. Surprisingly enough, and I really don’t understand why, not only it didn’t, but it was rather a disappointment. Although it was impeccably played, I found the tone somewhat dry and the interpretation too articulate, almost didactic or explanatory. Was the piano to blame or the fact that it was the first piece in the recital? Possibly. As far as the piano is concerned, what followed would prove the contrary. So let’s stick to the second reason.

Sibelius’s piano repertoire is probably not the most familiar, thus illustrating the point I made earlier, but Andsnes showed us why it should be. He definitely bloomed here, and expressed everything I found lacking in the Beethoven sonata. An exquisite and sensitive touch, perfect phrasing, which told the whole story and kept you riveted, a rich dynamic and rhythmic range, evidently well controlled but apparently effortless and flowing freely. It was in turn playful, lyrical, romantic, melancholy and impressionistic, auguring well what we would hear after the intermission.

And so it was. The Debussy was everything one could expect after hearing the Sibelius. The three Estampes were as impressionistic as a Monet painting. The subtle (or maybe not so subtle) program music was immaculately and discreetly rendered, but beautifully eloquent. From the Oriental timbres in “Pagodes”, to the smell of wet grass and the sound of children playing (listen to the quotations from the nursery song “Nous n’irons plus au bois”) in “Jardins sous la Pluie”, by way of what is maybe the most obviously descriptive, “La soirée dans Grenade”, where you can hear both Moorish and Spanish strains, while visualizing the Alhambra and the Jardines del Generalife. In each one, Andsnes set the perfect mood, always hinted, never shouted, but always sparklingly clear.

Andsnes seemed equally at ease and to the point when entering Chopin territory, a common stumbling block for many pianists who mistake romanticism and passion for cheap sentimentality and a display of keyboard bravura. An interpretative error Andsnes would obviously never commit. His flawless yet understated technique did serve the music superlatively well, and again, the intelligent and well-rounded use  of dynamics and rhythm, as well as the extreme delicacy of  the pedal, made for a very personal and gorgeous Chopin, faithful to  the passionate character of the music, often fiery, often exceptionally romantic in the sense Lord Byron and Chateaubriand were romantics, a cerebral yet often desperate passion, I would say.

Two encores – a short Chopin prelude (maybe no. 17 or no. 19, I get them a little mixed up…) and the showy Grande Polonaise concluded the recital from this man from the North, a land which, belying its reputation for coldness and gelid aridity, has produced some of the best composers and interpreters of past and present days – composers such as Grieg, Halvorsen, Sibelius, Carl Nielsen, in the past, and in the present Arvo Pärt, Peteris Vasks and Aulis Sallinen; interpreters such as David Geringas, Gidon Kremer, Truls Mork and, last but not least, this evening’s star, Leif Ove Andsnes.

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I believe I have said in another article that Rio de Janeiro is hardly an international classical music hub. Nevertheless, sometimes there are great surprises. Only this month, Jean Guihen Queyras, one of the leading cellists of our day, played three Bach suites at the Cidade das Artes, a music and theatre venue which is unfortunately somewhat out of the way, so it escaped my attention and I sadly missed him. But last week I was very much aware and elated that Gidon Kremer and his Kremerata were to play at the Theatro Municipal, much more accessible and a beautiful early 20^th century building the architecture of which was inspired by that of the Opéra Garnier.

Kremer is one of the pillars of the Kronberg Cello Festival, which is actually a chamber music festival centered on, but not exclusively, the cello. It is there that I heard him play trios with Martha Argerich and Mischa Maisky, and also play with the same Kremerata Baltica he brought to Rio. Not quite the same, maybe, as I had the impression the women were much more spectacular and the men more dashing, a totally frivolous observation.

Leaving frivolity aside, Saturday’s concert was no disappointment. That Kremer is one of the best contemporary violinists is open to discussion, as all subjective assessments are, but I am ready to defend my position wholeheartedly.  To speak of virtuosity is beside the point, as it must be taken for granted in musicians of such caliber. But, at the risk of sounding commonplace, I will only say that virtuosity alone is totally uninteresting and that musicianship without virtuosity does not exist. One must have the technical means to express oneself, so I am wary of the so-called “sensitive” musicians who play sloppily and/or out of tune.

If the playing, both from Kremer and his exquisitely prepared Kremerata, was superlative, I have a few misgivings about the program, which consisted totally of arrangements. Only one, Raskatov’s “The Season’s Digest”, was what I would call an original arrangement, as it is rather, as the program stated, a set of vignettes based on Tchaikovsky’s piano composition. It was more fun than I expected, with a “prepared piano” and voice parts (sung by the musicians) intermingled with more traditional writing. It reminded me both of Schnittke (his Epilogue for cello, piano and tape) and of Kremer’s compatriot Peteris Vasks (Grammata Cellam, in which an eerie voice which turns out to be the cellist’s is suddenly accompanies the cello), but only because of the gimmicks. His writing has little to do with theirs.

Apart from that, I would say that the Beethoven String Quartet, although the arrangement is by Mahler, sounds much better as a string quartet. And, of course, my cellist’s heart strongly objects to the arrangement of “our” concerto, especially considering that the violin repertoire is much richer (quantitatively, not qualitatively) than the cello’s. Also, the violin somehow does not manage to convey the same power and pathos in the Schumann as the cello, but it may be argued that this is only bias. When the viola borrows from the cello, it is another matter, considering the paucity of the solo viola repertoire.

Now, at the risk of having my head bashed in by purists, I would dare say that Piazzolla’s music has one thing in common with Bach’s , and that is that it lends itself to different arrangements without ever losing its uniqueness. Whichever instruments are playing, whatever the ensemble may be, Piazzolla remains Piazzolla, with his extraordiary rhythmic variety and unmistakable timbres. Even in Desyatnikov’s arrangement which includes quotations from Vivaldi that Piazzolla never wrote in, and lacks the sound of the bandoneón, the Four Seasons are quintessential and mesmerizing Piazzolla.

Kremer and his camerata delivered a shining performance of  this odd repertoire of arrangements, which would probably have suffered tremendously in less competent hands. Bliss came at the end, when they played Pizzolla’s poignant milonga “Oblivión” as an encore. It was again an arrangement, this time unattributed, of the original violin and piano composition, but I would never complain, having myself played it with an added cello part, in an arrangement for trio by Argentine cellist and composer José Bragato, a close associate of Piazzolla’s.

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I have witnessed terrible blunders at the Berlin Staatsoper (Carmen, for instance), at the Teatro Colón (a horrendous Onegin) and even at the Met (a tacky Magic Flute), but I have yet to see a bad production at the Opéra de Paris, either at Garnier or the Bastille.

I was simply dazzled by Strauss’s Capriccio in Robert Carsen’s lavish production at Garnier, and by wonderful performances of Onegin, Nozze (the superb Giorgio Strehler version), la Traviata, to name a few, at the Bastille.

The latest, which I saw a week ago, was the repertoire production of Der Rosenkavalier.

Der Rosenkavalier is, in Strauss’s own words, his homage to Mozart. He himself considers his work as a sort of sequel to Nozze. The quotes are obvious. The story involves, especially,  the Marschallin-Countess Almaviva, Octavian-Cherubino, Sophie-Barbarina, as well as the grotesque figure of the Baron Ochs-D.Bartolo. Hugo von Hofmannsthal, also the librettist of Elektra, Ariadne auf Naxos, Die Frau ohne Schatten, Die ägyptische Helena and Arabella, is very different from Lorenzo da Ponte, but followed suit in writing a bittersweet as well as comical libretto which also echoes that of Nozze. The beautiful but maturing Marschallin must part from her much younger lover and witness his newfound happiness with Sophie, a girl his age. The distasteful Baron Ochs plans to marry the same young lady (this fact is more reminiscent of Rossini’s Barber of Seville, the prequel to Nozze). Octavian dresses like a maiden to trick Ochs, in the same manner that Susanna and the Countess  disguise Cherubino to lure Count Almaviva. Nevertheless, Der Rosenkavalier is quintessential Strauss, if not in the libretto, most certainly in Strauss’s characteristic orchestration with its unmistakable harmonies and timbres.

This Herbert Wernicke (1946-2002) 1997 production, therefore almost 20 years old, is as bold as it is splendid. The changes of scenery must require enormous technical resources but they are well worth the effort: the result is an action that moves perfectly in tune and in time with the music. Just as in Carsen’s Capriccio, and even more so, there is an extensive use of mirrors which reflect the sets and the singers from every side. The mirrors open and close to reveal the different décors of the opera, in a lavish ballet of shapes and colors. The Marschallin’s quarters are strikingly modern, rather art déco.

Faninal’s house is luxuriously and tackily overdone and the big surprise is that what is supposed to be a room in an inn in the last act was interpreted by Wernicke as a sort of Relais et Châteaux hotel, with silks, velvets and ormolu, much more in keeping with the glittering silver rose Octavian bears for Sophie on the baron’s behalf.

The singing was extremely homogeneous and competent. Both the feminine and masculine voices were excellent, with special kudos for Michaela Kaune as the Marschallin, Peter Rose as Baron Ochs and Daniela Sindram as Octavian. The latter also managed to have the physique du rôle, with her almost masculine features and stature.

Last but not least, the orchestra sounded just right under music director Philippe Jordan’s expert and inspired guidance.

All in all, this is for me, who did not see the production at its creation, yet another jewel in the Bastille’s crown.

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