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20.1.05

Meine unsterbliche Geliebte: Who Was Beethoven’s Immortal Beloved?
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 9:23 AM | Link to this article
It was a wild and wintry night after ONE (1) INCH of snow had fallen, which in the District of Columbia amounts to near-blizzard conditions. Miracle of miracles, there were a few hardy souls who came out to the latest offering of the Benjamin T. Rome School of Music's new film series at Catholic University's Pryzbyla Center. Here is, more or less, what I said by way of an introduction to last night's film.

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Immortal Beloved (1994), starring Gary Oldman

British director Bernard Rose (b. 1960) wrote and directed Immortal Beloved for release in 1994, after arriving on the American movie scene by directing Clive Barker's Candyman in 1992. Immortal Beloved appears to have shifted his interest or marketability away from horror movies, which he had also directed in Great Britain, toward historical epics. He has since made a period version of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina (1997) and an unusual adaptation of Tolstoy's Death of Ivan Ilyich, updated to 20th-century Hollywood, called Ivansxtc (2000). However, he is reportedly finishing another horror movie right now, called Man with a Movie Camera.

First, I will mention some scenes in Immortal Beloved that are at least based on factual evidence, beginning with the striking depiction of Beethoven's funeral in Vienna, which was indeed mobbed with crowds. Anton Schindler (played by Jeroen Krabbé), was indeed Beethoven's secretary; in fact, he wrote the first biography of the composer, including a heavily embroidered, really falsified, transcription of the Immortal Beloved letter, which provides the basis for the movie's plot. Beethoven's father was an abusive alcoholic, although no memory of his troubled youth was ever mentioned by Beethoven in connection to his creation of the Ninth Symphony. Napoleon did invade Vienna, and Beethoven, who had originally dedicated the Eroica Symphony to him, scratched Napoleon's name from his handwritten score. Beethoven did indeed live in the home of his friend, the Hungarian countess Marie Erdödy (played in the movie by the ravishing Isabella Rossellini), and he even called her his Beichtvater, or father confessor. It is unlikely that there was any sexual relationship between them, however.

Maynard Solomon, Beethoven Essays (1988; reprint 1990)

Maynard Solomon, Beethoven (1977; 2nd ed. 2001)

Beethoven did spend several years in a protracted legal battle with his sister-in-law Johanna, managing ultimately to gain legal custody of her son, his nephew Karl, at the expense of his compositional productivity for several years. Beethoven's brother Caspar had married Johanna in 1806, and their child was conceived out of wedlock. Karl was born in 1806, and at the time the Immortal Beloved letter was written he would have been 6 years old. Judging from Beethoven's journal entries, Johanna was, as Beethoven biographer Maynard Solomon put it, "the woman whom the real Beethoven despised more than any other." Whatever his motivation, Beethoven did use his celebrity and influence to turn the courts against Johanna, although the tide of popular opinion in Vienna was on her side. Karl was indeed driven to the point of attempted suicide because of his uncle's insane obsession. In the worst parts of this troubled period, rumors circulated in Vienna that Beethoven had lost his mind: he changed lodgings with alarming frequency, his living space was invariably terribly cluttered, and he was actually seen in violent confrontations with street urchins who mocked him. All of these factual details appear in some form in Immortal Beloved, although its central premise is entirely a work of fiction.

Interesting Links:

Misha Donat, Death and the muse (The Guardian, June 12, 2004)

Beethoven's Immortal Beloved, a Web site devoted to "solving the riddle"

Cast your vote for the Immortal Beloved, with the promise that the results will eventually be made public

The Immortal Beloved (Simon Johnston)

Betsy Streisand, Immortal befuddled: The search goes on for Beethoven's great love (U.S. News and World Report, July 24, 2000)

The Immortal Beloved: The Numerous Possibilities (Dominique Prevot)

Janet Maslin, The Music Almost Tells the Tale (review in the New York Times, December 16, 1994)

Although he achieved a remarkable level of celebrity for a composer in his lifetime, Beethoven never married. His biographers have documented a bewildering number of fleeting romantic attachments in his often turbulent life, but none that we might call, to use that dreaded word in our modern language, a relationship. Beethoven felt deeply, we are told, falling in love with a series of women, but each time that one woman appeared about to take a permanent place in his life, he plunged himself single-mindedly into his composition. After about 1810, as Solomon again has documented, his sexual energy was spent mostly in the company of prostitutes.

This pattern holds true for all of the romances in Beethoven's life, with one important exception. Among the papers recovered from the composer's apartment, after his death in 1827, were two especially important documents. The first was the Heiligenstadt Testament, a sort of last will addressed by the composer to his brothers, written years earlier in a moment of despair, when Beethoven realized that his loss of hearing would worsen inevitably until he was completely and irrevocably deaf. The second was a letter the composer had written in pencil, addressed to an unidentified woman as "mein Engel, mein alles, mein Ich . . . meine unsterbliche Geliebte" (which translates as "my angel, my all, my I . . . my immortal beloved"). In what is still the best critical biography of Beethoven, musicologist Maynard Solomon called it the only "unalloyed love letter of [Beethoven's] bachelor existence—an uncontrolled outburst of passionate feeling, exalted in tone, confused in thought, and ridden with conflicting emotions" (Beethoven, p. 159).

Beethoven dated the mysterious letter Monday, July 6, with a post-scriptum added on July 7, but did not specify the year. The tone is familiar and impassioned (he uses the German familiar du), destined for someone who not only knew of the composer’s deep love for her but who shared those feelings. However, nowhere in the text is there any indication of a name. This has not prevented biographers, musicologists, and Beethoven nuts of all stripes and levels of scholarly rigor from proposing solutions to this problem. Some have even forged false evidence to prove their theories, which have all been systematically debunked.

Musicologists generally agree that we may never know the identity of Beethoven's unsterbliche Geliebte with scientific certainty. However, there are plausible theories and implausible ones, and the plot of Bernard Rose's movie is based on one of the latter. I think that Lewis Lockwood spoke for the entire musicological community when he published a very funny review of Immortal Beloved in The Musical Quarterly in 1997 called "Film biography as Travesty: Immortal Beloved and Beethoven" (The Musical Quarterly 81: 190–198). In terms of its historical accuracy, this film has been "pretty much condemned to oblivion" by Beethoven scholars, as he put it. Never one to mince words, Lockwood wrote, "My view is that the pablum this film doles out to the masses is not just of poor quality but should carry a warning to say that it is deleterious to their health." Prof. Lockwood would not be happy with me today, if I did not make it clear to you that, with the exceptions I mentioned at the opening of my presentation, the story we are about to see is, speaking from the learned viewpoint of the music historian, absolute baloney. We should not be surprised: it is the screenwriter/director's job to make an entertaining film, and the historian's to tell the truth. In the broad range of movies about composers, Immortal Beloved probably takes more liberties than Amadeus (1984) but not as many as Ken Russell's many films about composers, such as Lisztomania (1975) or The Music Lovers (1970).

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Soundtrack from Immortal Beloved (1994)

The only possible benefit of the whole enterprise, as Lockwood saw it, was that the movie has impelled large numbers of viewers to buy recordings of Beethoven's music and, presumably, to listen to them. As he put it, "the whole film is in some sense a vehicle for Sony performers, who are heard on the soundtrack," and who were featured on a specially issued CD that accompanied the movie's release. I promise not to reveal the film's dénouement, but I will give you the verifiable background from this episode in Beethoven's life, which will hopefully enhance your enjoyment of the movie. For my money, the most credible theory of who was most likely the real Immortal Beloved is that proposed by Maynard Solomon and defended by him and others over the last 30 years. In Solomon's solution, the Immortal Beloved was a married woman named Antonie Brentano.

First, there is the problem of the year of the letter's composition. Solomon cites calendarial research that limits the possible years, in Beethoven's adult life, that the letter could have been dated as it is. That is, July 6 could have fallen on a Monday, as the letter specifies, only in 1795, 1801, 1807, 1812, or 1818. Through a process of elimination, the only year in which Beethoven could have written this letter is 1812, since he refers to being in a specific temporary lodging in the midst of a voyage. Beethoven typically left Vienna for an extended vacation each summer. In 1812, instead of his usual trips to the Viennese suburbs, Beethoven left his adopted city on June 28 or 29 and arrived in Prague on July 1. On Saturday, July 4, he took the coach to the town of Teplitz, on the way to the spa at Karlsbad, the town mentioned in the letter simply as "K." This solves the second problem, that of Beethoven's location at the time of writing the letter. He was in Teplitz.

According to the sequence of events worked out by Solomon, the addressee must have been in contact with Beethoven in the preceding year and probably lived not far from him in Vienna. She should have been in Prague between July 1 and July 4, where Beethoven specifies that he has just seen her. Finally, she must have gone ahead to Karlsbad, where she and Beethoven planned to meet later in the summer and where Beethoven intended to send the letter but apparently never did, and she must not have arrived prior to July 6. The police in Karlsbad at this time recorded the arrival of all visitors to their town, including Antonie Brentano, who arrived at exactly the right time. Newspaper reports also place her in Prague, with her husband and children, in the previous week. Antonie's husband was Beethoven's friend, as was her sister-in-law, Bettina, who arranged Beethoven’s introduction to the German poet Goethe.

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Anne Sofie von Otter, Beethoven, Meyerbeer, Spohr Lieder, including Beethoven's An die Geliebte (WoO 140)

Solomon goes on to lay out an impressively thorough case for identifying Antonie Brentano as the Immortal Beloved. A later love interest of Beethoven's, Fanny Giannatasio, wrote in her diary in 1816 that her own possible romance with the composer was overshadowed by Beethoven's continuing love for another woman, whom he had met five years earlier, that is, shortly before our letter was written. Other brief references to a great love, from around this period, in Beethoven's journal mention the initials A. and T., which fit perfectly with Antonie's first name and her nickname, Toni. The manuscript of Beethoven's song An die Geliebte (WoO 140, poem by Josef L. Stoll), dating from 1811, bears an inscription, the handwriting of which Solomon identified as Antonie Brentano's, to the effect that she requested the song from Beethoven. He composed it first with an accompaniment for guitar, an instrument that Antonie was known to play well. Finally, Solomon analyzed two unsigned portraits also found in Beethoven's possession at the time of his death (one shown here) and showed that they match portraits that can verifiably be identified as Antonie Brentano.

Scholars continue to publish articles, some supporting and some disputing Solomon's theory, including a handful in German journals over the last five years. One of these, Klaus Kopitz's 2001 article in Bonner Beethoven-Studien examines newly discovered letters from Antonie Brentano to her sister-in-law Bettina, which "offer the first really precise look at her years in Vienna. They reveal that Beethoven visited her almost daily starting in 1810, and that her husband Franz Brentano did not, as was previously assumed, live in Vienna during those years." Antonie was of a noble Viennese family, and her husband was a banker from Frankfurt. In the time before Beethoven wrote the letter, Antonie's father had died and she had been in Vienna arranging the sale of her childhood home and its art collection. Facing the prospect of leaving her native city for good to return to her husband back in Frankfurt, Solomon surmises, her well-documented worship of Beethoven's music could have turned into love. In 1811 to 1812, when Antonie was ill, she received no visitors except for Beethoven, who improvised at the pianoforte in her apartment for long periods of time. The tone of the letter seems to indicate that Beethoven had decided that the relationship was untenable. By November 1812, Antonie had moved back to Frankfurt with her husband and children. However, in the 1820s, Antonie and her daughter Maximiliane were still clearly on Beethoven's mind. They were the only women to whom Beethoven dedicated compositions in this period: the op. 109 piano sonata, the magisterial Diabelli Variations, and the English edition of the op. 111 piano sonata.

Why Bernard Rose did not dramatize this plausible theory instead of inventing one that is ludicrous is its own mystery. Through the wonder of DVD, I sat listening to Rose's director's commentary on the movie last week, and he speaks there with full awareness of Solomon's theory and of other serious musicological research that he must have read. At the same time, he clings to the belief that his own solution is just as valid, although the Brentano's do not even appear at all in the movie, nor does any of the information described above about this period in Beethoven's life. However, the condemnation of music historians does not mean that we cannot enjoy Immortal Beloved as the beautifully crafted and entertaining movie that it is. With this introduction I hope only to provide, if not a warning label ("deleterious to your health," as Lewis Lockwood would have it), the gentle reminder that this film is a work of fiction, not of history.

4.1.05

Measures Toward Artistic Education
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 10:45 PM | Link to this article
Marie-Douce Albert, Des mesures pour l'éducation artistique (Le Figaro, January 4)

En 2007, on chantera dans toutes les écoles. Et partout les élèves auront adopté un élément du patrimoine à étudier. Généraliser les chorales d'établissements ainsi que les actions de partenariat avec les monuments classés, voilà, entre autres moyens, comment le gouvernement compte faire entrer un peu plus de culture dans les salles de classes. Hier, au Conseil des ministres, Renaud Donnedieu de Vabres, ministre de la Culture, et François Fillon, en charge de l'Éducation, ont parlé d'une seule voix pour présenter leur politique en matière d'éducation artistique et culturelle.

Alors que le président Jacques Chirac remarquait qu'elle était jusqu'à présent insuffisante et appelait à plus d'ambition, les deux ministres ont présenté leur feuille de route, d'abord devant leurs pairs puis dans l'après-midi, au collège Charles-François-Daubigny d'Auvers-sur-Oise (Val-d'Oise). Ils ont signé là une circulaire commune, texte qui doit être présenté aujourd'hui à ceux qui le mettront en oeuvre, les recteurs d'académie et les directeurs régionaux des affaires culturelles (Drac).

On ne cherchera pas dans le document un bouleversement des emplois du temps. Plus, ou mieux, d'art à l'école ne passera pas par une refonte des enseignements obligatoires. Il s'agit plutôt là de relancer un travail commun des deux tutelles. L'Éducation et la Culture coopèrent depuis vingt ans sur le terrain scolaire mais, de l'avis de certains, le dialogue s'était quelque peu tari ces dernières années.

Alors, pour répondre à l'enjeu défini hier par Renaud Donnedieu de Vabres, qui est de «faire prendre conscience à chaque élève de ses capacités créatrices, en suscitant de nouveaux regards, des échanges, des rencontres avec l'histoire de l'art, avec les créations, dans le cadre des enseignements artistiques dispensés par les professeurs de l'Éducation nationale, mais aussi avec des artistes», il s'agira d'abord de «recentrer l'action de l'État». Mais aussi, surtout, de s'appuyer sur les partenariats. Pour le ministre de la Culture, on tient une des «clés de la réussite» dans une meilleure rencontre entre professeurs et artistes, établissements scolaires et institutions culturelles. Puisque bibliothèques, écoles de musique ou musées se sont multipliés ces vingt dernières années, la volonté est de renforcer leur lien avec écoles, collèges et lycées. Pour mobiliser les structures culturelles, il est d'ailleurs prévu que l'attribution des subventions de fonctionnement soit subordonnée à la production d'actions éducatives. Les services éducatifs de nouvelles institutions comme le futur Musée du quai Branly recevront une aide particulière.

Par ailleurs, puisque les lacunes des enseignants en matière artistique, surtout en premier cycle, ont bien souvent été pointées du doigt, le gouvernement annonce un effort sur les formations. Les Drac passeront des accords avec les IUFM pour mettre en place des «dominantes arts et culture». Quant aux étudiants en école d'art, d'architecture et autres établissements relevant du ministère de la Culture, ils seront encouragés à intervenir dans les classes.

Dans tout ce programme, les fameuses classes à Projet artistique et culturel (PAC), lancées par Jack Lang et qui permettent de mener des actions de longue durée dans les classes, ne sont pas abandonnées. Mais ce dispositif qui avait été critiqué connaîtra une diminution du nombre des projets.

Au ministère de la Culture, où la préservation de la diversité culturelle est une priorité, on insiste enfin sur la volonté de mieux prendre en compte ce qu'on appelle les «nouveaux enjeux de la société». L'ambition est là de développer le sens critique et la conscience des plus jeunes pour qu'ils ne cèdent pas au matraquage des industries culturelles et ne se contentent pas des produits les plus diffusés. L'idée est encore de favoriser la lutte contre le piratage.

28.12.04

When Opera Dreamed of Egypt
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 1:16 PM | Link to this article
Anne-Marie Romero, Quand l'opéra rêvait d'Egypte (Le Figaro, December 28)

De l'Isis de Lully, en 1677, à l'Akhnaten de Philip Glass, en 1984, en passant par l'inoubliable Aïda de Verdi, pas moins de deux cents créations lyriques – cantates, oratorios, opéras et ballets – ont eu pour thème l'Egypte, dont la moitié exclusivement consacrées à Cléopâtre. C'est dire l'attirance que ce pays et ses mystères, réels ou supposées, ont exercée sur les compositeurs et les librettistes, toujours à la recherche d'un nouvel exotisme ou d'un romantisme déchirant.

«Avec la deuxième collection d'égyptologie après celle du Musée Guimet de Lyon, dit Brigitte Bouret, conservateur du musée et commissaire de l'exposition «L'Egypte et l'Opé ra», il était légitime que nous nous intéressions à ce thème d'une grande richesse d'autant que j'ai pu travailler avec un égyptologue de renom, Michel Dewachter.»

L'Egypte qui attire les compositeurs n'est cependant pas celle des manuels d'histoire, plutôt celle des collectionneurs et des cabinets de curiosités, «une Egypte de pacotille mélangée d'une grande érudition mythologique à travers les textes d'Hérodote et d'Héliodore», explique Mme Bouret. C'est ainsi que certains personnages émergent, comme Isis, symbole éternel de l'épouse et de la mère, ce qui peut aller jusqu'à une assimilation à la Vierge. Lully ouvre le bal avec son Isis, d'après Ovide, mais elle n'aura guère de succès et ne sera jouée qu'une fois. Rameau suivra avec Les Dieux d'Egypte, prétexte à une fête de cour.

Autre héroïne à succès, Cléopâtre. Elle représente l'anti-Isis et instaure le mythe de la femme orientale dangereuse, parée de tous les attraits et de tous les vices. Peu importe les époques. On jouera Cléopâtre dans des costumes d'odalisques du XIXe siècle. Bellini, Massenet, Victor Massé en feront le sujet d'un opéra, Saint-Saëns d'une pièce symphonique, Berlioz d'une cantate. Thaïs, la prostituée repentie et revenue à la foi chrétienne, créée par Anatole France, aura aussi son heure de gloire en inspirant un drame lyrique à Massenet.

Car l'Egypte passe aussi à travers la Bible. Dans ce cas, elle est le méchant, l'ennemi. Une dizaine d'oeuvres traitent du personnage de Joseph, dont la plus célèbre est le Joseph en Egypte de Méhul, créée en 1807 et reprise un siècle plus tard à l'Opéra de Vienne.

Mais la plus belle fusion entre l'Egypte et la musique demeure le dernier chef-d'oeuvre de Mozart, La Flûte enchantée, thème maçonnique dans lequel apparaissent les principaux éléments de cette philosophie – l'air, le feu, le silence, la nuit – avec une nuance de taille toutefois puisque Mozart fait de la Reine de la Nuit un personnage maléfique, alors qu'elle était dans la mythologie égyptienne une étape bienfaisante dans la course du soleil. L'assimilation à l'Egypte fut telle qu'au début du XXe siècle on redonna La Flûte à Paris en l'intitulant Les Mystères d'Isis...

Comment muséographier un tel sujet ? Brigitte Bouret s'en tire fort bien avec des objets significatifs de l'égyptolâtrie qui régna au XIXe et au début du XXe siècle : des jardinières de Gallé représentant Isis en milan femelle, des affiches d'opéra mélangeant avec allégresse temples grecs et obélisques, et surtout d'extraordinaires costumes, d'une loufoquerie totale. On sourit en voyant Pierre Loti déguisé en Osiris pour une soirée costumée ; on s'étonne devant les vêtements gréco-égyptiens de Lully et les innombrables «turqueries» dont on revêtait des héros censés vivre à l'époque pharaonique. Même le grand Mariette Pacha, père de l'égyptologie «sérieuse», dessina pour Aïda des costumes qui sentent un peu le soufre, comme des babouches aux pieds de Radamès !

Mais l'oeuvre la plus marquante de ce mariage égypto-lyrique est tout de même Aïda, commandée à Verdi par les Egyptiens pour célébrer l'ouverture du canal de Suez et qui fut finalement créée pour l'inauguration de l'Opéra du Caire en 1881. Aïda fit un triomphe : 32 rappels ! Et l'air des Trompettes fut même choisi, durant un temps, comme hymne officiel de l'Egypte...

Jusqu'au 6 février 2005, au Musée des Beaux-Arts et d'Archéologie J.-Déchelette, 22, rue Anatole-France, Roanne (42). Tél. : 04.77.23.68.77. Catalogue : 30 €.

Pierre Loti's Tiny Theater
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 12:45 AM | Link to this article
Esther Moschkowitz, Le tout petit théâtre de Pierre Loti (Le Figaro, December 28)

La première oeuvre de Pierre Loti n'est pas un roman mais un jeu d'enfant : une «légion» de figurines réalisée entre 7 et 12 ans. Plus d'un siècle plus tard, Le Petit Théâtre de Peau d'âne est présenté pour la première fois. Hommage à «l'homme né de l'enfant», selon les mots de Pierre Loti, plus qu'au célèbre écrivain que nous connaissons.

A 7 ans, Pierre Loti rencontre son premier amour, Jeanne de deux ans sa cadette. Un jour, elle lui raconte avec admiration la féerie de Peau d'âne qu'elle avait vu jouer à Paris. Émerveillés, ils décident de la monter à leur tour sur le petit théâtre de marionnettes du garçon. Ils fabriquent alors toutes sortes de personnages inspirés de l'histoire de Perrault : des noyaux de cerise pour les têtes, des allumettes pour les bras, des morceaux de carton pour les jambes. Puis, l'imaginaire finit par excéder le seul univers de Peau d'âne et c'est tout un monde miniature de fées, d'elfes, de gnomes, de princesses, d'exotisme et de monstres qui prend forme. Après que Jeanne se fut lassée, le jeune inventeur continue à fabriquer de féeriques décors, des palais fantastiques et surtout nombre de personnages pour habiter ces lieux enchantés.

Mais, à quinze ans, Pierre Loti range toute son oeuvre dans un coffre qu'il n'ouvrira plus jamais. Pourtant, il espère qu'«un jour futur» des «successeurs inconnus, en furetant au fond des plus mystérieux placards, feront l'étonnante découverte de légions de petits personnages» (Le Roman d'un enfant, P. Loti).

Un inventeur a exhumé ces figurines du grenier de sa maison et leur a créé un décor à la mesure de leur taille et de leur fantaisie : c'est Jean-Michel Othoniel, habilleur de la bouche de métro du Palais-Royal. C'est ainsi que Le Petit Théâtre renaît et s'expose à Rochefort-sur-Mer – ville natale de Pierre Loti – au Théâtre de la Coupe d'or et au foyer du Théâtre du Châtelet.

Comme pour combler un désir d'enfance, l'artiste plasticien a fait revivre les personnages qu'il met en scène dans un univers de verre d'une finesse remarquable. Kiosque baroque, trône féerique, habitacle de perles de verre, balustrade irisée... trente-deux architectures miniatures sous globes raniment une quarantaine des poupées de Pierre Loti. La transparence du verre, les jeux de lumière, et les lignes de construction, tout en rondeur et comme à la limite de l'équilibre, donnent naissance à un ensemble à la fois grandiose et léger. Le tout repose sur des présentoirs en bois sculptés et laqués, habillés de quatre claustras de tulles d'organdi brodés d'or.

Féerie de Loti ; féerie d'Othoniel. Mais aussi riches rencontres avec trois lycées professionnels qui ont participé à la construction du Petit Théâtre, notamment au travail sur verre, au décor brodé et au mobilier. Ces nombreux partenariats, témoins de la volonté d'allier art contemporain et artisanat, ont permis de fondre toutes ces inspirations en une même installation d'une cohérence inattendue.

Sans oublier la musique. Le foyer du Châtelet organisera avec ce projet sa première exposition dans le cadre des Moments musicaux qui accueilleront des élèves du Conser vatoire. Autour du Petit Théâtre de Peau d'âne, un café turc s'ouvrira dans le Salon des Glaces, clin d'oeil à la maison de Loti à Rochefort, et des broderies et autres richesses rappelleront le conte de Perrault. Un melting-pot artistique qui se distinguera par sa finesse et sa richesse !

Le Petit Théâtre de Peau d'âne de Loti et d'Othoniel se fait passage de l'enfant à l'adulte, du fantastique au tragique, le conte de Perrault dévoilant autant d'imaginaire enjoué qu'il cache des choses monstrueuses. Mais, il est aussi la nébuleuse des inspirations et des rêves de l'écrivain : «Tous les rêves d'habitations enchantées, de luxe étrange que j'ai plus ou moins réalisés plus tard, dans divers coins du monde, ont pris forme, pour la première fois, sur ce Théâtre de Peau d'âne ; au sortir de mon mysticisme des commencements, je pourrais presque dire que toute la chimère de ma vie a été d'abord essayée, mise en action sur cette très petite scène-là» (Le Roman d'un enfant).

Jusqu'au 15 janvier, au Théâtre de la Coupe d'or à Rochefort-sur-Mer (17). Du 7 février au 13 mars, au Théâtre du Châtelet à Paris. Tél. : 01.40.28.28.40.

Un ouvrage édité par la ville de Rochefort et IRO à l'occasion de l'exposition sera disponible mi-janvier 2005.

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21.12.04

Les petites déesses de Suse
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 9:15 AM | Link to this article
Anne-Marie Romero, Les petites déesses de Suse (Le Figaro, December 21)

Elles sont minuscules, elles tiennent dans la main, depuis les plus primitives, simples silhouettes de terre pincée pour marquer la tête et les bras, jusqu'aux plus sophistiquées, nues, parées de bijoux et coiffées d'extravagants chignons. «Elles», car les hommes ne représentent qu'une infime partie de ces figurines humaines qui totalisent elles-mêmes à peine 1% de tou tes les terres cuites retrouvées dans la Suse antique, capitale d'un mouvant territoire entre Iran et Mésopotamie, appelé Elam.

Annie Philippon, directrice du Musée Fenaille, à Rodez, célèbre pour ses statues-menhirs, ses statues gauloises et son bouleversant Christ en croix de la Renaissance, a choisi de continuer à illustrer ce qui semble être la vocation de son établissement, l'image humaine. Elle a demandé à Annie Caubet, conservateur général du département des Antiquités orientales au Louvre, de monter cette exposition, avec des pièces exclusivement prêtées par le grand musée parisien. D'autres suivront, Chypre, peut-être le Levant.

L'Elam se situe au pied des monts Zagros, à l'orée de la grande plaine mésopotamienne avec laquelle elle a, à plusieurs reprises, partagé son sort. Son art évolue donc, au cours des temps protohistoriques entre celui de Sumer et une inspiration plus lointaine venue de Perse. L'exposition, chronologique, commence avec la création de Suse, vers 4200 avant J.-C. pour s'achever avec la période sassanide puis précède l'arrivée de l'Islam. «Dieu a créé l'Homme en modelant l'argile et l'Homme a tout naturellement fait la même chose pour créer les représentations de ses dieux», dit Mme Philippon, allusion au plus vieux mythe de tout le Proche-Orient. Car, à n'en pas douter, nous nous trouvons, avec ces petits personnages, en présence de divinités ou d'orants. Quoi qu'il en soit, dans un contexte religieux, que confirment les caractères sexuels très marqués de ces divinités de la fécondité. Pres que toujours nues, on a rapporté des pastilles de terre pour marquer les seins, on a incisé le triangle pubien ou on l'a évoqué par de petites cupules en forme de bouclettes. Et de plus récentes, datées du IIe millénaire, sont en forme de violoncelle, avec des cuisses monstrueusement développées, encore un signe traditionnel de la fécondité.

A travers l'exposition, on suit l'évolution de cet art modeste, trouvé dans des contextes funéraires ou près des temples, depuis les premières statues cobras, dont la tête s'avance comme celle du serpent, datées du IVe millénaire, jusqu'aux statuettes hellénistiques, lorsque l'Elam et la Mésopotamie étaient unies sous la même domination des Séleucides, après la conquête d'Alexandre. Très vite, ces statuettes cobras, tout en restant frustes, sans jambes marquées, sont parées d'étonnantes coiffures, de chignons remontés comme ceux des geishas retenus par un bandeau qui laisse passer des boucles autour du visage et alignent de nombreux anneaux d'oreilles qui semblent pincés tout autour du lobe. Dans un premier temps, elles ont un bras le long du corps et l'autre replié sous la poitrine, ce qu'on ne retrouve nulle part ailleurs dans la région. Mais l'art élamite se rapprochera de celui de la Mésopotamie à la fin du IIIe millénaire, sous l'empire unifié de Sargon d'Akkad, après une longue période d'absence totale de représentations. On ignore du reste comment se traduisaient pendant ces longs siècles les rites magico-religieux qui reprennent de plus belle pendant l'empire akkadien. Les statuettes sont alors très semblables à celles de la Mésopotamie, avec un buste en triangle, des mains en ailerons ou jointes et toujours une profusion de bijoux.

C'est alors qu'apparaissent les premières représentations d'hommes. Vêtus du kaunakès, le manteau de franges de laine que l'on retrouve dans toute la Mésopotamie, les yeux largement maquillés, le crâne rasé, ce qui évoque le fameux dieu-lune de Babylone, Sin. A cette époque, les statues sont moulées et souvent remodelées après moulage de manière à les asseoir sur un siège dont on rajoute deux petits pieds à l'arrière. D'autres hommes, musiciens, joueurs de luth, coiffés d'un bonnet pointu, sont de pures merveilles de réalisme miniaturisé.

A la fin du IIe millénaire, l'Elam est une grande puissance qui a repris son autonomie. C'est à cette période qu'est apporté à Suse le «butin mésopotamien», dans lequel les archéologues français du XIXe siècle trouveront le code d'Hammourabi. Les statuettes féminines se multiplient, les mains sous les seins, harnachées d'un baudrier et toujours ornées de quantité de bijoux. Des moules fabriquent en série des couples enlacés sur des lits de vannerie d'à peine 10 cm de long. Peut-être s'agit-il de scènes d'hiérogamie, mariage d'un dieu avec une mortelle ?

Sous les Perses, puis les Parthes et enfin les Sassanides qui règnent jusqu'en 638, apparaît, sur les statuettes, la même magnifique glaçure turquoise qui sera celle de la frise des archers de Suse et de Persépolis. Puis ce sera l'Islam et la fin de toute représentation humaine.

Musée Fenaille, Rodez, jusqu'au 27 mars 2005. Tél. : 05.65.73.84.30.

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Le sourire forcé et critique de Chostakovitch
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 1:06 AM | Link to this article
Jacques Doucelin, Le sourire forcé et critique de Chostakovitch (Le Figaro, December 21):

Vous n'imaginez tout de même pas Kafka en auteur de vaudevilles désopilants. Et pas davantage Chostakovitch, le grand tragique des compositeurs russes du XXe siècle, écrivant des opérettes coquines. L'auteur de la Lady Macbeth de Mzensk a pourtant composé en 1958 une vraie comédie musicale, Moscou, Quartier des cerises, pendant soviétique de celles de Vicente Minelli outre-Atlantique. Torturé comme il l'était, il a même «regretté» dans une lettre à un ami cette incursion dans la musique légère.

La première française est à l'affiche de l'Opéra de Lyon pour les fêtes de fin d'année dans une production de Macha Makeïeff et Jérôme Deschamps, sous la direction exemplaire d'Alexandre Lazarev, ancien directeur musical du Bolchoï. Si je vous dis qu'on ne rit pas à gorge déployée dans ce Quartier des cerises régenté par un commissaire politique et ses sbires, vous ne serez guère surpris. Mais Chostakovitch, qui connaît toutes les musiques du monde – trop aux dires de certains –, a magnifiquement réussi à distraire le public moscovite contemporain de l'ère Khrouchtchev tout en laissant filtrer à travers ses notes un désenchantement qui n'est pas seulement celui de l'éternelle Russie, mais aussi celui de l'artiste soumis à la dictature tatillonne de médiocres petits chefs.

Tout en riant de leurs propres difficultés, les protagonistes de l'histoire, aux prises avec les tracasseries d'une administration kafkaïenne, nous livrent, à un demi-siècle de distance, un témoignage poignant de leur quotidien. Sous les éclaboussures de Valses à mille temps, de fox-trot déguisés – car plusieurs oukases staliniens ont condamné le jazz ! –, d'allusions plus ou moins appuyées au répertoire russe, de citations cocasses du folklore comme d'airs célèbres d'opéras de Moussorgsky et de Tchaïkowsky, le compositeur laisse entrevoir les malheurs de son temps.

Sous le déguisement du bouffon, Dimitri Chostakovitch reste frère de l'Innocent de Boris Godounov. Mais ce double fond de l'oeuvre serait moins perceptible si la traduction musicale et scénique qui est donnée à Lyon n'était aussi réussie. Avec beaucoup de finesse, les Deschamps évitent soigneusement de faire du Deschiens. Et c'est avec un instinct très sûr qu'ils recréent, par petites touches, la vie en HLM dans l'URSS des années cinquante.

Seules les couleurs vives des vêtements de Macha Makeïeff apportent une note de gaîté continue en caractérisant chaque personnage. Sinon, règne dans cette barre d'immeubles très «cage à lapins», une nostalgie et une grisaille des âmes qui sont la marque d'une époque et d'un système dont le fonctionnement a prouvé aujourd'hui son inefficacité, mais dont Chostakovitch dénonçait alors, mine de rien, toute l'absurdité.

Mais il faut bien rire, même au pays du goulag : soudain, l'orchestre s'emballe et ronfle dans un galop digne d'Offenbach. D'ailleurs, les citations pleuvent comme autant de colifichets ironiques disposés par le compositeur sur un monde dont l'infinie tristesse l'étreint. Les Deschamps régissent au quart de tour, allumant des feux de joie qui embrasent un moment la façade en suggérant ce rêve où se réfugient les hommes et les femmes qui attendent les clefs de leur appartement comme celle d'un bonheur sans cesse différé.

N'est-ce point un cancan qui pointe son nez ? Et voilà la parodie de ballet romantique, déjà dansée par la petite soeur de Yolande Moreau, qui se mue en esquisse de french-cancan. Alexandre Lazarev connaît tous les méandres, toutes les arrière-pensées et les remords de Chostakovitch qu'il sait communiquer à un orchestre merveilleusement réceptif. Les choeurs maison ne sont pas moins admirables et viennent se greffer sans heurts sur une distribution russe pour l'essentiel des protagonistes.

Ceux-ci s'adonnent avec succès à un exercice pourtant particulièrement risqué : faire alterner le chant en russe avec le parlé en français. Quel professionnalisme ! Acteurs, ils sont plus vrais que nature. Chanteurs, ils ont un sens du style inné. Un spectacle collectif qui donne à réfléchir, mais où l'on s'amuse tout de même.

Opéra de Lyon : ce soir et les 23, 28, 30 et 31 décembre à 20 heures, les 26 décembre et 2 janvier à 16 heures. Tél. 04.72.00.45.45 et www.opera-lyon.com

18.12.04

Quai Branly, naissance d'un musée
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 1:37 AM | Link to this article
Véronique Prat, Quai Branly, naissance d'un musée (Le Figaro Magazine, December 18):

En plein coeur de Paris, l'immense chantier du quai Branly se transforme peu à peu en musée des Arts premiers. Ouverture prévue en 2006. Sans attendre, dès aujourd'hui dans nos pages, visite du chantier et indiscrétions sur le futur musée.

Au beau milieu du chantier du futur musée, encore à ciel ouvert, une oeuvre d'art est déjà installée. C'est un mégalithe sénégalais en forme de lyre, taillé dans une belle pierre volcanique rouge. Lourde de presque 6 tonnes, haute de 2,40 mètres et large de 1,60 mètre, elle accueillera le public à l'entrée du département des Arts africains dès l'ouverture du musée du quai Branly, début 2006. Pour l'instant, à l'abri dans sa caisse de bois, elle a l'honneur d'être la première pièce des vastes collections à trouver sa place. Et pour cause : son poids et sa taille rendaient impossible son passage par les portes ou les fenêtres du bâtiment après son achèvement ! La voilà donc installée au milieu du chantier tandis qu'autour d'elle on continue à construire le toit et les murs. Petite histoire et grands travaux. Un nouveau musée, c'est toujours un événement, grandiose et émouvant à la fois. Les présidents de la République ponctuent volontiers leur septennat de ces grandes réalisations culturelles : Georges Pompidou a voulu le centre qui porte son nom. Valéry Giscard d'Estaing a attaché le sien au musée d'Orsay. François Mitterrand a désiré le Grand Louvre. Et Jacques Chirac ? On connaît son goût pour les arts dits «premiers». Sur le plan muséographique, le fait majeur de son second septennat sera en effet ce musée du quai Branly dévolu aux arts d'Afrique, d'Océanie, d'Asie et des Amériques.

Entre la Seine et la rue de l'Université, sur deux hectares de terrain à l'ombre de la tour Eiffel, le chantier du futur musée avance à pas de géant, mais dans la discrétion la plus totale : on ne visite pas, on ne photographie pas. L'équipe du musée et son président, Stéphane Martin, ont fait une exception pour nous et il faut bien l'avouer : ce que l'on découvre ici étonne et séduit tout à la fois. On le voit en détail avec les prises de vue de notre photographe Jean-Michel Voge, qui jouent avec la lumière et creusent les contrastes comme le feraient des gravures de Piranèse. Mais d'emblée, dès que l'on pénètre sur le chantier, on est saisi par un sentiment d'harmonie : le bâtiment promet de se couler dans le paysage en épousant la courbe de la Seine qui lui fait face et en se dressant, à faible hauteur, entre deux jardins qui évoquent quelque bois sacré. En plein Paris, cette architecture soucieuse d'écologie est une promesse de bien-être.

En exclusivité dans nos pages, soyez les premiers à arpenter le chantier du musée du quai Branly. Quatorze équipes d'architectes étaient en lice pour ce projet. C'est Jean Nouvel qui l'a emporté devant le duo Fanuele-Eisenman et Renzo Piano. «J'ai voulu, dit Nouvel, un bâtiment qui ne soit pas immédiatement visible, qui ne soit pas un objet qui se montre. Côté quai Branly, il est protégé par une paroi de verre sur laquelle jouent les ombres des arbres. Le bâtiment mesure 200 mètres de long et semble émerger d'un jardin féerique. Perché sur des pilotis, il est pourtant pratiquement invisible pour le piéton, enserré qu'il est de part et d'autre dans les masses végétales.» L'édifice est surmonté d'une terrasse d'où l'on voit, à l'ouest, la tour Eiffel et le Trocadéro, en face, le palais de Tokyo, et qui est bordée par des surfaces d'eau infranchissables jouant le rôle de balustrades. L'énumération des essences végétales qui entourent le musée tient de l'inventaire de Prévert mais ne manque pas de poésie : chênes, érables argentés, lianes géantes, vignes de Chine, glycines et clématites sauvages côté nord ; magnolias, cerisiers à écorce cuivrée, clairière d'épineux et bambous côté sud.

Dernier grand terrain constructible situé au coeur de la capitale, le projet du quai Branly devait affronter deux problèmes majeurs : le respect strict de l'urbanisme environnant et la construction d'un musée des Arts dits «premiers» dont l'architecture se devait d'être aussi légère que possible afin de s'effacer devant les objets exposés : «Un musée, confirme Jean Nouvel, est bien sûr essentiel pour participer à l'éveil des sensibilités et à l'approfondissement des connaissances. Mais un musée des Arts et des Civilisations expose des objets qui ont un sens dans des civilisations encore bien vivantes et qui ne doivent donc pas être perçus comme des trophées. Un musée comme celui du quai Branly ne doit pas être simplement un lieu d'informations didactiques, mais aussi un lieu d'émotion.» Un musée, donc, conçu et construit autour de la collection. Tout est là : ce n'est pas l'architecture qui se montre mais les oeuvres.

Cette collection, quelle est-elle ? Autrement dit, que verra-t-on au musée du quai Branly ? Principalement le regroupement des richesses de deux institutions appelées aujourd'hui à d'autres fonctions : celle de l'ancien Musée national des arts d'Afrique et d'Océanie, à la porte Dorée, et celle du laboratoire d'ethnologie du musée de l'Homme. Les histoires de ces deux institutions sont superbes...

Depuis François Ier, l'habitude s'était prise d'envoyer des émissaires dans les lointaines contrées pour y dénicher ces objets étranges et merveilleux que l'on regroupait dans des «cabinets de curiosités». Les explorateurs, les aventuriers, les administrateurs des colonies accumulèrent eux aussi des trésors dont une partie permit la création, en 1931, du musée des Colonies, qui fut l'ancêtre direct du musée des Arts d'Afrique et d'Océanie dont les 25 000 pièces ont été intégralement reversées au musée du quai Branly. Le musée de l'Homme, lui, ouvrit ses portes en 1938, héritier de l'ancien musée du Trocadéro et de ses collections. Il y avait là de véritables trésors, souvent illustres, mais dont beaucoup croupissaient dans de poussiéreuses réserves : ces 250 000 pièces ont elles aussi été transférées au musée du quai Branly.

Tout cela laisse augurer un musée fort riche et fort beau. Au premier étage, une galerie longue de 150 mètres servira de salle d'exposition permanente aux quatre départements qui correspondent aux quatre grandes aires géographiques auxquelles s'intéresse le musée Branly : Afrique, Amériques, Asie et Océanie (successivement, Océanie-Asie, avec un carrefour Insulinde et un carrefour Machreq-Maghreb, Afrique, Amériques, le visiteur pouvant accéder indépendamment à chacune de ces zones). Chacune d'entre elles se dédoublera en un espace d'exposition où l'on pourra privilégier le regard esthétique sur l'oeuvre et un espace d'information où l'on insistera sur la signification de l'objet présenté, son rôle dans la civilisation d'où il est issu, son contexte, son parcours. Délectation d'un côté, didactisme de l'autre. Il y aura encore deux mezzanines, l'une pour des présentations temporaires et thématiques, l'autre pour des expositions dossiers. Tout cela sera articulé autour du «pavillon de musique», sorte de colonne de verre de 16 mètres de diamètre où seront visibles les 9 000 instruments de musique des collections, un ensemble tout à fait exceptionnel. Autre «curiosité» du musée, qui ne manquera pas de surprendre les futurs visiteurs : encastrées dans la façade nord, face à la Seine, des «boîtes» de tailles variables serviront de «niches» d'exposition : chacune sera consacrée à un thème différent comme la divination, le culte des ancêtres ou les formes du pouvoir. Le coût de ce beau projet (y compris le recensement et la restauration des oeuvres d'art) s'élève à 216 millions d'euros. Le musée Branly en chiffres, ce sont encore 2 000 tonnes d'armatures posées, 500 000 boulons, 300 000 objets d'art dans 6 000 mètres carrés de réserve, une médiathèque de 180 000 volumes et 350 000 photographies... «Au-delà, précise Stéphane Martin, le président-directeur général du musée du quai Branly, en charge du projet depuis ses origines, notre institution apportera à tous ceux qui étaient épris de la beauté du Panthéon la découverte d'un art délivré du fardeau de l'histoire, un art, comme le disait Henry Moore "en réponse directe et immédiate à la vie".» D'objets de curiosité qu'ils étaient aux yeux des Occidentaux, les arts premiers sont aujourd'hui entrés dans le patrimoine universel des formes. Il leur restait encore à rencontrer leur public : ce sera la mission du musée du quai Branly.

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13.12.04

The Aviator Takes Off — by Todd Babcock
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 2:52 PM | Link to this article
This week I had the opportunity to catch Martin Scorsese's soon-to-be-released film The Aviator at Mann's Grauman's Chinese Theatre with a billed Q&A with the director and its star Leonardo DiCaprio afterwards. The film, perfectly positioned for a Christmas release as a heavy Oscar contender, had its premiere only the night before, so I jumped at the opportunity to nab a viewing before any hype sets in (or any MORE hype, if you will). You never know how these invites come your way in this town, as this one came in the form of a friend driving by the star-studded premiere in his car and called me on his cell saying he had two passes for the following afternoon.

He laughed a bit as he invited me, since we had experienced the same serendipity of timing previously with The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King as we accidentally drove through that one's premiere while discussing seeing it on the phone with my brother. ("Accidentally" meaning you look out your car window after a wrong turn in Westwood and wonder if you mistakenly happened upon a parade. Realizing you had driven directly into the opening gala of the year's biggest movie event, you see cop after cop motioning you to turn off the street you are on. Of course, after much laughter, you make the same "wrong turn" again and again and then begin waving as if you were on a Macy's Day Parade float and begin formulating a million con games in your head on how far you can push this to the red carpet.) He didn't miss a beat while pointing out the relative comparison of throngs there for Jude Law (who portrays Errol Flynn in an inspired bit of casting) to those for Orlando Bloom but was hard pressed to peg a clear winner.

I had heard very little in terms of advance news concerning the The Aviator, except for the simple fact that DiCaprio would be portraying Howard Hughes, with Scorsese directing. Those two facts carry hype and expectation alone, and when one positions its release just before Oscar consideration ends in January you can't help but think that Miramax feels pretty confident with their product. (Incidentally, it was such a relief to see a film without commercials and previews running before it. When the Miramax logo silently illuminated the screen and the movie began, you felt the immediate thrill of getting right to what you came there to see. Often, after 20 minutes of distraction I can find myself forgetting what movie we were there to view that day.)

I must admit here, in advance, that I, like many others, was very skeptical in the casting of DiCaprio as Howard Hughes. While having no real specific knowledge of Hughes outside of his legend, I resisted the DiCaprio choice simply based on his boyishness. The problems with icons (Hughes, that is, not Leo) is that while you may not know anything of them personally you have somehow formed an idea or image of them mentally in your head. I'll admit it's not fair, but when I think of a 40s-era mogul who goes toe-to-toe with Katherine Hepburn, Leo doesn't jump to mind. "Trust Marty" is the mantra that guides your steerage, and I must say that he doesn't let you down.

The film begins quietly after a retro logo of The AVIATOR fades into a study where a mother is washing her son's body lovingly while he stands nude in a metal washtub. She is teaching him to spell the word "quarantine" letter by letter. Anyone familiar with the tales of Hughes's obsession with women (the mother is aglow with youthful beauty) and germ phobia will be wriggling in their seat in Freudian zeal at the dead-on set-up this scene creates for the rest of the film. The quiet, eloquent scene serves as the calm before the storm as we jump cut to years later to see Hughes in the form of DiCaprio (with striking flat black hair) manically trying to orchestrate the filming of his Hollywood juggernaut Hell's Angels on an airfield buzzing with noise and confusion. DiCaprio hits the ground running with a Howard that is clearly possessed with a drive and passion that has the rev and motion of one of his airplanes. One clearly gets the idea that to get in the way of his idealism is to be chopped up in his propeller as he will motor on past.

This is young Howard, the clear-headed multitasker, who only knows what he wants and will not stop until he gets it, no matter the cost (both mentally and financially). There is no avoiding the boyish quality that washes over any depiction that DiCaprio inhabits, and this is where the "Trust Marty" mantra screams the loudest. Fastening himself to a slight Texan accent, a small mustache, and searing confidence, DiCaprio doesn't attempt to ease into Howard but rather to blaze him forward with no apologies. This is the right move as any skepticism of his portrayal is put on the backburner: you are immediately caught up in his passion and goals and latch onto his very clear quest to get his movie made. While I must admit that as Howard ages in the film through its thoroughly diverting episodes and during his various seductions of women (or them seducing him), I could never shake the impression of DiCaprio as still the ambitious boy.

Yet, I found no distraction from that fact during my enjoyment of the film, but more as an afterthought. Immersed in purpose, DiCaprio is all ahead as the film never lags or misses the beat. Like any good storyteller, both actor and director keep the motor running throughout so you are focused on the various prizes and never mind what you thought something might be. Scorsese is nothing if not thorough, and his collaboration with DiCaprio cannot simply be viewed as a cloying grab for a seat-filling face. I am sure the director took into account the nature of his star's persona ("Trust Marty, trust Marty...") and used the overgrown boy notion to heart with his toy airplanes, mother complex, and insistence that he gets whatever he wants. (It must be noted here in a trace of irony that it was actually DiCaprio that brought this project to Scorsese after a ten-year period of his own obsession. During the Q&A DiCaprio revealed it was actually a project he was developing with director Michael Mann (Collateral, The Insider) before bringing Scorsese on board. This was also the case with Catch Me If You Can, where the actor hired Spielberg and Hanks after he had already been developing the material. Now remind me why I was skeptical of this "kid" portraying an epic mogul?)

As I learned during my recent viewing the documentary Broadway: The Golden Age on DVD, there are many accounts of the magic of seeing new productions on that historic strip. I must say that Hollywood has few locations that still generate a sense of awe based on its past, but Grauman's Chinese can still generate an inner buzz while seeing a film for its first time onscreen. Recently restored in the form of a mega-complex at Hollywood and Highland (upwards of 200 million, I believe, as the new home to the Oscar ceremony), this locale can turn many a new release into an event with lines curling down the block, because of its auditorium that seemingly can accommodate a small nation. This energy is only heightened when one views an old Hollywood perfectly captured in The Aviator idealized with multiple premieres of Hughes's films playing at that exact locale.

Scorsese has always had a gift for recreation and detail, from his legendary soundstages for Gangs of New York (which he lovingly destroyed in a decadent grand guignol end sequence) to his historic period detail in The Age of Innocence. Set free from the Big Apple, Marty luxuriates in recreating The Coconut Grove in all its idealistic splendor. I took particular delight in his using of the Wainwright family as big band crooners: father and son (Loudon and Rufus, respectively) rip up the stage in piece after piece as Hollywood icons such as Louis B. Mayer, Errol Flynn (Law), and Ava Gardner (a stunning Kate Beckinsale) make the rounds on the floor.

For me, the pièce de résistance came in the form of the Hell's Angels filming sequences. In an absurd bit of obsession and bravado, Hughes informs Mayer that he is seeking two additional Panavision cameras in order to catch the sequence in the fashion he deems appropriate. When asked condescendingly by Mayer how many cameras he has now Hughes replies bluntly, "Twenty-four." This joke perfectly demonstrates early on the grandiosity of Howard's vision and also the mindset of a man who's accustomed to getting what he wants when he wants it in order to get things "right." (And we all thought the Wachowski's were the first to pull this trick off.) The sequence when Hughes, after demanding that his crew find someone who can control the weather, takes to the air is simply awesome. Gorgeously photographed by cinematographer Robert Richardson (pen your Oscar ballot now, folks), this sequence with its classical score and whirling first-person view of hundreds of planes whirling about, as Hughes frantically attempts to capture every swoop and dive of his biplanes, will have your heart pounding. I have never been a fan of digital effects (I couldn't SIT through Van Helsing at home, no matter how many drinks), but one must marvel at the fusion of camera, actor, blue screen, and CGI in a whirling spectacle all around you. The Chinese's sound system had my seat rumbling as the screen bowed at its edges trying to keep the images from spiraling off into the house.

Along with the epic quality of the storytelling come performances that rise to the occasion. Most notable of these is Cate Blanchett's portrayal of Katherine Hepburn, which must be seen as an unenviable task at the outset. While Hughes's persona is more clouded in mystery, there isn't a person on the planet that doesn't have Hepburn's specific speech cadence imprinted in their memory. Blanchett attacks the role with a symbiotic approach by creating the actress with the same snap and verve of early film roles and then easing off at poignant moments to see the vulnerable outsider who feels she has a bond with Howard because of their idiosyncracies. The result is a performance that at first feels a bit broad and stylized (seemingly commenting on the character) but then settles in with the viewer and pays off more and more as the film goes on. One finds comfort in Kate's grandness, and you begin to see that her strident edge is simply a shield to keep her going. In a particularly hilarious moment, Hughes tells Hepburn to "stop acting" in the middle of an argument and Blanchett riffs back with the retort "I'm not acting!," all the while revealing that indeed, to her own shame, she has trouble telling the difference. In this very same sequence my favorite line in the film (with due honors to screenwriter Josh Logan and longtime Scorsese collaborator Jay Cocks) came in the form of Howard diminishing his time with Hepburn by declaring, "You're a movie star. Nothing more." A sentiment not heard often this day and age where celebrity is held as an end in itself. The damage was extra harmful from a man who had ideas that changed the world and a woman whom he was banishing simply to an image that she didn't feel comfortable in.

While the film regales with many divergent episodes ranging from Howard's manic reclusiveness, where he lived in his own screening room ranting at the screen and meditating on how his lunch would be delivered (DiCaprio did much research on the nature of OCD), to his Senate hearings conducted by Owen Brewster (played deliciously by Alan Alda) it has the loose structure of going from one plane design to another. Each one either getting bigger or faster than the last. It's remarkable to note that the director has a notorious dread of flying, and yet the aerial sequences do not suffer a bit from his lack of experience. As DiCaprio noted when asking Scorsese if he was interested in a film framed around aviation the director responded, "Well, I didn't know anything about boxing when I did Raging Bull so I don't see it as a problem." (Another anecdote: when he was approached by Ellen Burstyn to direct Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore she asked if he knew anything about women; he then said, "No, but I'd like to learn.") To the contrary, each plane sequence is riveting and builds on the last to its breaking point, where a particularly gruesome crash sequence will have you bracing your seat in the same way Jaws had you pulling your feet up off the floor of the theater.

After the film's completion, the crowd was introduced to two of the actors, John C. Reilly and Alan Alda (as Howard's righthand man, Noah Dietrich, and Senator Ralph Owen Brewster, respectively). Scorsese, it seems, couldn't make the session and Leo was running late. So be it, as Reilly and Alda could have filled the entire day with great stories and perceptions from their widely ranging experiences from the set of this film and many others these two prolific actors have worked on. (Particularly amusing were both of their retelling of their Woody Allen stories. Alda stated that Woody hadn't even spoken to him on a film set until their third where after a particularly difficult take Allen came over and stated, "That really stunk," and Alda wished he would go back to being silent again. Reilly recalled that he met the director in a dark room for a casting meeting. He entered the room talking, and before he could set his hat down next to him he was being ushered out the door. He laughs as he tells the story because he got the job regardless.)

Soon enough, DiCaprio was ushered into the theater to much applause. With his long, blond hair slicked back and a slight beard he apologized for being late (interviews went late) and stated he was very glad to be there. Of all the questions that were asked and insights each actor gave from his particular experience with this director and others it was most remarkable to see three such diverse actors in age, look, and style, each answering questions with such a symbiotic relationship. One would think that veteran TV and movie star Alda, edging seventy, Reilly, a Chicago-trained theater and film actor almost forty, and DiCaprio, the "It Boy" of the last ten years now turning thirty would have vastly divergent approaches to the craft. Yet, whenever the actors were asked to discuss their process, all three managed, in their own language, to answer in the form of it being about the story. While all three make their specific choices based on what their character wants in that particular moment on that particular day, they all came back to the unifying theme of the story they want to tell.

Reilly stated that he isn't even aware of his craft anymore, that it is mostly intuitive, and that makes it difficult for him to discuss in practical terms. He stated that any potential conflict with a director is circumvented by going back to the basics of the story they are trying to tell so they are on the same page as it were. Alda said that he never trained and that his learning was all "on set" and that other actors simply were his guide. His approach is figuring out what that character wants in the story and then figuring out "why he deserves it." You could practically hear the actor licking his lips over this notion, and from his interpretation of Brewster in the film you can see his incredulousness wash over him beat after beat when he doesn't get Hughes to break. DiCaprio, it seems, is a bit of a hybrid. Like Alda, he has been on sets from a very young age and learned from the greats like Lasse Halstrom, Johnny Depp, and Robert DeNiro, to name a few early associations. Yet DiCaprio also revealed his extensive training (indeed he has been cited as being in Brando's eccentric acting classes among others) and that one of his favorite instructors had given him the advice to annotate his script with the letters NAN and AN. NAN for "no acting needed" and AN for "acting needed." The "no acting needed" meant that the actor's own life and experiences were enough to carry him in that moment and there would be no need to create anything outside of himself. Yet his main throughline was always the story he was telling and what the scene was giving about Howard that particular day that was different from any other.

Kate Beckinsale was recently quoted in the press for saying, "If you are bad in a film the blame is usually shared. If you are bad in a Scorsese film . . . well, that probably means you're just bad." The forward trajectory of the director, his story, and his willing actors have spared any and all of them of this fate. The Aviator blows right through its three-hour running time in no time flat . . . a feat Howard would surely be proud of.

2.12.04

A Tame Version of a Steamy Opera
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 9:59 AM | Link to this article
George Loomis, A tame version of a steamy opera (International Herald Tribune, December 1)

MOSCOW — After years of post-Soviet stagnation, the Bolshoi Theater has made notable progress in upgrading the theatrical and musical standards of its opera productions under the general director Anatoli Iksanov and its music director Alexander Vedernikov, even importing international producers on the order of Francesca Zambello and Peter Konwitschny.

Much of the interesting dramatic work is centered in the company's New Stage, which opened two years ago. In the venerable main theater, ties to tradition remain stronger, as one was reminded by its new production of Shostakovich's "Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District."

This should have been an exhilarating experience - the final step in the post-Soviet rehabilitation of Shostakovich's expressionistic masterwork in its original form (as opposed to the toned-down 1962 revision). It was at the Bolshoi, after all, that Stalin attended a performance in 1936, disliked what he saw and heard, and caused the opera to disappear from the Russian stage. Alas, the competent but bland staging by the Georgian director Temur Chkheidze manages to take the edge off this steamy tale of a provincial merchant's wife who seeks relief from boredom through sexual fulfillment and murder.

In the big lovemaking scene of Act 1, when Ekaterina yields to one of her husband's workmen, Chkheidze might as well have been doing the work of a Soviet censor. A critic of the first American production famously called the music of this scene "pornophony." But Chkheidze deflected attention from the lovers by having men appear with flashlights as if searching for them. Meanwhile, Ekaterina and Sergei carry on behind a bed. You needed a synopsis to know what they were doing - an ironic state of affairs given all the gratuitous sex in opera productions nowadays.

Yuri Gegeshidze's sets, all in wood and dimly lit by Vladimir Lukasevich, make for a ramshackle representation of the prosperous Izmailov family home, which is entered by climbing a ladder. The set serves throughout, but in the final convict scene, after Ekaterina and Sergei are charged with her husband's murder, a pedestrian bridge appears - just the place, one might think, for Ekaterina to do away with Sonyetka, the young convict for whom Sergei abandons Ekaterina. Perhaps it proved too dangerous in rehearsals, for when the moment comes Ekaterina simply pushes Sonyetka off a lower platform, then jumps off, Tosca-like, herself.

Tatiana Smirnova was in fine, rich voice and alert musicality, but in the absence of stronger direction her Ekaterina appeared more downtrodden than feisty. Similarly, Valery Gilmanov relied almost exclusively on his huge, black bass voice to characterize Ekaterina's odious father-in-law, Boris. Roman Muravitsky sang Sergei with a burly tenor. Zoltan Pesko, an experienced opera conductor who is music director of Lisbon's San Carlos Theater, enforced exemplary musical standards in his Bolshoi debut.

Tchaikovsky's "The Queen of Spades," presented by the Mariinsky Theater in Moscow's Tchaikovsky Hall, didn't provide any theatrical breakthroughs either, but then less was expected to, even though it was billed as a staged production. Valery Gergiev has recently created Moscow opportunities for his St. Petersburg-based troupe, among them the Moscow Easter Festival and an exchange program with the Bolshoi. His newest venture is to present concerts and operas on an occasional basis in Tchaikovsky Hall.

Given the venue, Alexei Stepanyuk's staging was understandably minimalist but had the singers engaging with each other tellingly. The action took place with few props on a large square surface that changed colors - green served, appropriately, for the final gambling scene - against black surroundings, with rectangular illuminated openings in back and fuzzy projections of St. Petersburg above. Traditional 18th-century costumes from an old Mariinsky production served until the final act, when the male chorus, probably for practical reasons, wore black tie without jackets. Though perhaps unwittingly, it made for an effective change.

Vladimir Galusin's portrayal of the obsessed gambler Hermann is justly celebrated, but his powerful approach can make the character seem overly crazed. Here his strong tenor functioned admirably within a disciplined performance that aptly reached its climax in Hermann's final song of resignation. Olga Guryakova, in iridescent voice, was an outstanding Lisa, delicately expressive and impassioned as needed.

The orchestra was arranged in concert format, but as if playing toward the stage instead of the audience. Gergiev thus faced the audience, though he often turned to cue the singers. Viewed from this perspective, you could see that his unorthodox technique stems from his willingness to modify the beat pattern, or to suspend it, when he wants to communicate musical points. It's one reason his interpretations are so interesting.

Femme Fatale
Contributed by Charles T. Downey at 9:57 AM | Link to this article
Raymond Stults, Femme Fatale (Context: The Moscow Times, November 26)

After decades of censorship, "Lady Macbeth" returns to the Bolshoi as, the theater hopes, Shostakovich meant it to be.

For its first new production of the current season last Friday, the Bolshoi Theater brought to its main stage Dmitry Shostakovich's opera "Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District," in a performance of the highest order. Unhappily, the musical excellence was offset by a staging that misfired at many critical moments.

Of the 20 solo parts in "Lady Macbeth," not one was filled with a voice less than adequate, but Tatyana Anisimova as Katerina Ismailova (the Lady Macbeth of the title) and Vadim Zaplechny as Katerina's lover, Sergei, soared above the rest in the central roles. Based in Kiev, but enlisted last season by the Bolshoi for the title part in Giacomo Puccini's "Turandot," Anisimova has just the sort of voice that Katerina requires -- a firm, bright, superbly controlled dramatic soprano. Added to that, she brings to the part the very qualities that the composer, who regarded the homicidal Katerina as a true heroine, would probably have admired -- passion, dignity and grace.

Zaplechny, making his Bolshoi debut, has long ranked among the Helikon Opera's finest singing actors. Indeed, it is somewhat surprising that the Bolshoi took so much time to discover him, as it has not boasted a dramatic tenor with a voice of equal quality -- much less with Zaplechny's acting abilities -- for more than a decade. As those who have seen and heard him at the Helikon could readily have predicted, Zaplechny sang Sergei with clarity from top to bottom and played the part with utter conviction.

In the pit, conductor Zoltan Pesko, a well-seasoned veteran of the European operatic circuit, provided Shostakovich's marvelous score with authoritative leadership and drew playing of a richness and accuracy the orchestra rarely displays.

As for the staging, the best that can be said for it is that the director, Timur Chkheidze, succeeded in creating an array of sharply defined characters. What he failed to do, more often than not, was bring those characters together in meaningful fashion. The obvious comparison is Dmitry Bertman's production of "Lady Macbeth" at the Helikon, which garnered no less than four Golden Mask awards in 2001. At almost every crucial point, Bertman found a solution far more in keeping with the music and the libretto that Shostakovich wrote in collaboration with poet Alexander Preis.

Take, for instance, the attempted gang-rape of the servant girl Aksinya in the opera's second scene. Helikon's staging left not the slightest doubt as to what was happening. At the Bolshoi, it all looked like harmless fun. Beyond that, neither the murders of the elder Ismailov and his son, Zinovy, nor the lovemaking of Katerina and Sergei came across on the Bolshoi stage with anything approaching the conviction Bertman brought to them. The intertwined scenes of the third act -- the lovers' wedding banquet, the discovery of Zinovy's body, the comical dance of the police patrol and the eventual arrest of Katerina and Sergei -- seemed little more than a stately parade of events. The Helikon, meanwhile, gave full rein to their inherent absurdity.

To frame the Bolshoi production, designer Yury Gegeshidze created a rustic wooden set, with wide slats at the rear and balconies on either side. This worked well enough as the Ismailov family home. But the trouble came in the final scene, when the action moved to the banks of the Volga River and the slats were replaced with a raised gangway and long staircase. Though the resemblance was doubtless unintentional, the slow march of the prisoners across the gangway and down to the stage looked like a parody of the Entrance of the Shades in the ballet "La Bayadere," while their crowding as they set off along the same route in reverse brought rush hour on a Moscow Metro escalator to mind.

Doing real damage to the drama, the gangway also served as the place from which Katerina threw herself and Sergei's other lover, Sonyetka, into the waters of the Volga. Carried off at a distance, in perfunctory fashion and half-hidden by a crowd of fellow prisoners, the opera's climactic moment probably escaped anyone who just then happened to blink.

Despite the drawbacks of its staging, the Bolshoi's "Lady Macbeth" -- which next appears in January -- is well worth a visit for its musical virtues. Be warned, however, that those virtues may be fully apparent only on evenings when Anisimova, Zaplechny and Pesko are all on hand. The alternate singers and conductors announced by the Bolshoi seem unlikely, based on past performances, to come close to matching them.

17.8.04

Find God in Music — by Jens F. Laurson
Contributed by jfl at 11:56 PM | Link to this article

Robert R. Reilly

Robert Reilly's Surprised by Beauty: A Listener's Guide to the Recovery of Modern Music has been with me since its publication. It is one of the most heavily bookmarked, annotated books I have, and much cherished. In the interest of full disclosure, I readily admit that I had the immense pleasure of getting to know its author and critiqued this book twice; once preemptively, before its publication, and again in a tome of a letter, unsent, still. This book is not perfect, and it is probably not first-order brilliant either, but it is beautiful! I treasure it as much as I treasure much of the music that I have since enjoyed because of this book.

Surprised by Beauty is highly spiritual. Stephen Hough, the wonderful pianist who records for Hyperion (interviewed in the book), says on the jacket cover:

Robert Reilly has the unusual and delightful ability to infect the reader with insatiable curiosity about the composers he champions. Names that often were unknown, and sometimes unpronounceable, suddenly seem totally fascinating and worthy of discovery at the earliest opportunity. Yet beyond this level of exploration is his personal vision of music as something profoundly spiritual, expressive of what is best and most enriching in human life and having the possibility of leading us to encounter God Himself.

That is a good introduction to Surprised by Beauty. The opening quote of the book is from Max Picard: "[In] sound itself, there is a readiness to be ordered by the spirit, and this is seen at its most sublime in music." The love for music never ceases to impress, and as knowledgeable a man as Mr. Reilly is always a pleasure to have along for instruction. Before I delve at some length into examples I (dis)agree with in this book, let me summarize.

If you want loving introductions to the music of John Adams ("The Search for a Larger Harmony"), George Antheil ("Bad Boy Made Good"), Malcolm Arnold ("English Enigma"), Gerald Finzi ("Imitations of Immortality"), Stephen Gerber ("Keeping America Real"), Morton Gould ("Maestro of Americana"), Roy Harris ("Singing to America"), Vagn Holmboe ("The Music of Metaphysics"), László Lajtha ("Music from a Secret Room"), Gian Francesco Malipiero ("Beyond Italian Opera"), Frank Martin ("Guide to the Liturgical Year"), William Mathias ("Musical Incantations"), Carl Nielsen ("Music is Life"), Einojuhani Rautavaara ("New Northern Light"), Albert Roussel ("The Freedom of Personal Vision"), Edmund Rubbra ("On the Road to Emmaus"), Harald Saeverud ("A Norwegian Original"), Aulis Sallinen ("Scandinavian Consolation"), Peter Schickele ("Schickele Unmixed"), Franz Schmidt ("Setting the Apocalypse"), Alexander Tcherepnin ("From Russia With Love"), Eduard Tubin ("In From the Cold"), Geirr Tveitt ("The Music in the Waterfall"), Mieczyslaw Vainberg ("Light in the Dark"), Peteris Vasks ("Another New Northern Light"), as well as Duruflé, Elgar, Janáček, Martinů, Poulenc, Shostakovich, Sibelius, Vaughan-Williams, and Villa-Lobos—you have picked up the right book.

These are the composers dealt with in little chapters, ordered alphabetically and cobbled together from reviews and pieces written in different magazines. Nonetheless, there is a coherent line through the work, culminating in a few interviews with composers such as Robert Craft, David Diamond, Gian Carlo Menotti, Einojuhani Rautavaara, George Rochberg, and Carl Rütti.

Just for John Cage, Mr. Reilly has no kind words ("Apostle of Noise"). And the specter haunting some chapters, not to be rescued until Robert Craft takes up his cause, is Arnold Schoenberg. In fact, Schoenberg so rubs Mr. Reilly the wrong way that he elicits the book's strongest (and perhaps most contentious) statement from him: Ugliness is the aesthetic analogue to evil. When he discusses Moses und Aron and comes to the conclusion that Schoenberg couldn't finish that opera because he hadn't discovered Jesus in his life, I almost choked on my single malt. (To be fair, he is making a metaphysical point of negotiable validity here...)

Let me say it right away. As a lover of modern music—with a much higher tolerance for the unnecessarily absurd (Concerto for two cheese-graters, jet engine, electric toothbrush, and chromatic garbage disposal? Bring it on!)—I have ~~grid (grinded?)~~ ground my teeth many a time. A more conservative reader than me would find himself nodding along throughout the book. Either way, it is a veritable treasure trove. After every chapter, there is a little section discussing the merit of important works of that composer in different editions. This is immensely helpful in choosing where to start the musical discovery tour. I will make it my on-and-off project to track down every title on epinions and link to it at the bottom of this review.

"All Music is Equal"

In a chapter on Peter Schickele (whose program structured my Saturdays until it was, unfortunately, taken off WETA—as, for lack of funding, no new programs are produced of Schickele Mix) Robert R. Reilly (RRR) notes his objection to Schickele Mix's mantra that "all music is created equal," which he continues to expose as nonsense by asking the highly rhetorical questions: "Is all poetry equal? Is a bottle of Thunderbird equal to a 1987 Caymus Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon? Is 'Who Let the Dogs Out?' on the same plane as a Mozart aria?"

Perhaps there is a kinder way to treat Schickele's statement. The proposition is that music ought to be qualitatively judged not by genre, but by where it stands within its genre. "All music is created equal" is not, to play with analogies, to say "all apples are created equal"—which is indeed nonsense; just look at the innate superiority of the Granny Smith!—but instead "that all FRUIT is created equal." Thus the question of whether strawberries were on the same plane as watermelons seems as silly as it probably deserves to be. One ought not to compare Mozart to Wagner or Wagner to Cage or Cage to Ligeti, and so forth, much less Mozart to Snoop Dogg or Diana Krall or Led Zeppelin. It would be not so much "unfair" (though, perhaps, that too!) but again: silly. The enjoyment gifted to us by—or garnered from—Mozart cannot be the same as that which we derive from Wagner or Ligeti or Duke Ellington. It may be equal for some in intensity, but it is not the same.

"All music is created equal" is not tantamount to saying that all music is the same (or even of equal quality). Hence, the same measure of beauty is grossly inadequate. Perhaps the joy from Cage's music can never be as intense as the joy from Mozart's pieces. This may be true for most listeners—and it is true for many reasons, intent not being the least among them—alas, they have value on their own grounds, if only in my opinion. In part I think that this way of thinking of music might be reflected by the actual quote with which Schickele Mix used to open, namely that it was a show dedicated to the proposition that "all musicS ARE created equal!"

In RRR’s discussion on Nielsen he makes a comment along these lines: "This makes a dramatic, but not musical point." Unfortunately, he continues calling it a "miscalculation." Quite frankly, I do not understand why. Is music not supposed to be about more than merely music? L'Art pour l'art? I find nothing wrong with that; indeed, I may well expect it from art to make a point that is not part of its essence. If that were the case, art would become a warped meta-communication about art; a chain of self-referential statements. If applied to films, this would mean that there would be no good cinema aside from 8 ½ or State and Main. I specifically want art to make statements. Afterwards, I may judge the statement to have been transmitted successfully or not, or perhaps so much at the cost of the art itself, that I do not value it for much besides the statement. Perhaps a piece of music is less a movie under such circumstances, but rather a documentary. But I will listen with great interest to such documentaries, even if they are titled String Quartet for the End of Time.

Robert R. Reilly, Surprised by Beauty

These are just two of some of the qualms and reflections that occurred for me when reading the book. They happen to be qualms rather than delight, but that is, if anything, coincidence. For example, I enjoyed this sentence: "Anyone who enjoys Britten's music of this kind should likewise appreciate Mathias's" (p. 144). Indeed telling of the nonchalance with which he treats the breadth of his appreciation of modern music, while I imagine the greater part of his initial readership to wince even at the very idea of Britten, assuming that they know him or his work. I remember now a gentleman who introduced him and RRR's then-still-absent book mentioning Mahler's songs as though he had bitten into a lemon. "...should likewise appreciate Mathias's..."

His passion for Janáček's string quartets is so palpable that not having a copy at home must seem half a crime. His championing of Saeverrud (my initial reaction, too, was: Who???) is passionate and sophisticated. A book, in short, that will get much and repeated bedside reading and the occasional study: a charming companion through 20th-century classical music with amiably strong, if not always agreeable, opinions.

Back to Ionarts main page.

6.8.04

Nun Spared — by Jens F. Laurson
Contributed by jfl at 7:57 PM | Link to this article
Thursday evening I was told of a production of Dialogues des Carmélites, Poulenc's most dramatic and successful of his three operas. While I had the dubious pleasure to watch La Bohème on Friday, instead of enjoying Poulenc, I had another chance on Sunday, which I fortunately took. On such short notice, I didn't delve into the opera at home but merely tickled my Poulenc fancy with some of his concerti, songs, and music for solo piano, all of which is fresh and delightful, harmless sometimes, but never banal. The piano, organ, or harpsichord concertos, in particular, are a must-have for any music lover.

Francis Poulenc

When I arrived at Lisner Auditorium with minutes to spare, a bit of a ticket-managing disaster awaited me. Faced with many latecomers who couldn't find their tickets at will-call, the charming and helpful staff ran about like chickens with their heads cut off. (Premonitions of what was to come?) I stood, half-forgotten, half-lost next to the commotion until Opera International’s Producer-Director Muriel Hom literally and kindly took me by my hand and guided me past the imposing doorman to a seat of my liking.

I was hardly seated when the short prelude to The Dialogues began, and I had no chance to worry too much about the opera's presentation in English, rather than its original French. Setting the tone for Poulenc's sweet, melodic, but undeniably modern, sometimes neoclassical music, Edward Roberts conducted his 37-piece band with immediately audible aplomb towards the charm and wit that can be expected from Poulenc's work. The sound of the orchestra that spilled out of the small pit—harp, timpani, percussion, and a few brass elements stuck out or seated outside of it—was pleasant and if not terribly refined, adequate in the best sense.

The revealed set (from the Calgary Opera Association) is sparse and old fashioned-traditional, the costumes "realistic," say, even more old-fashioned and rather quaint. The character of the drama of The Dialogues, based on a real story and retold by Poulenc based on the German novella Die letzte am Schaffott (The Last One on the Scaffold) by Gertrud von le Fort and a film script by George Bernanos, is self-contained and can handle this sort of stage direction like a good play can.

The singing, so much could be said from scene 1 alone, was fairly impressive. Erich Parce's baritone was strong and supple but never forced. The costume he donned as Marquis de la Force befit his archaic air perfectly, and his acting made it work. While good things can be said about Jingma Fan's singing (he was the Marquis's son, Blanche's brother), his acting was not of the same natural and self-assured, mature quality. His movements and postures seemed more contrived, and he did not manage to turn his costume into a natural, rather than silly, part of his character. Yi-Cherng Lin's short appearance in the role of the lackey Thierry, however, made clear just how much worse acting could be, still. Age seems to have most to do with this all-too-rare ability among opera singers, which leads me to believe that acting is not nearly emphasized enough (or well enough) in the training of the new generation of opera singers. Jessica Swink as Blanche, looking good despite her costume (which was just a little too much with pink hat and ribbons), featured a clear and amiably fragile tone that became powerful in higher notes, amid some perhaps unnecessary vibrato.

The prelude to Scene 2 meanwhile shows Poulenc's play with brass and woodwinds in give and take, while puckishly plucked strings and harp play with each other in the background. Then a more somber, back-and-forth waving tone enters as we see the convent with the Prioress, Madame de Croissy (superbly sung by Kyle Engler). The minimal set—chair, a wooden panel of separation (confession booth-like), the two characters of the Prioress and Blanche well lit—started to shed its old- fashioned skin a bit for minimal realism. The costume for Blanche was still old-fashioned but less silly, while a nun's costume has of course a timelessly sleek appeal. Gently ends this scene, over the flute's last tone as the characters move off stage.

The interlude between Scenes 2 and 3 is another charming work with subtle brass over strings, only that this time the responsible section of the orchestra, seemingly assembled for the purpose of this performance, had some audible difficulties with the execution.

That the performance was in English was far less of an obstacle for me than I had thought it might be. One of the reasons is probably my relative ignorance of French, in which I would not have understood much. Instead, the language was an integral part in keeping the audience firmly within the dramatic element of the opera. It also gave the opera an amusing Brittenish flavor with its now less mellifluous, more stilted quality. The choice of language was in the end a valuable tradeoff between the skills of the participants (for many of whom French would have been more of a challenge), the involvement of the audience, and the slight loss of melodic quality with which the original language imbues Poulenc's music. Seeing Mozart's Trollflöjten, courtesy of Ingmar Bergman, is at any rate a more disconcerting experience.

A lovely dialogue between the novices in the convent, Sister Blanche and Sister Constance, dominates Scene 3, dominated by a large bench and table and all the ingredients for a Dutch still life on it. And, of course, those very tastefully clad nuns. The attractive soprano Jane-Anne Tucker (Constance) does not have the strongest, but an appropriate and wonderfully agile voice, just about not too shrill and aptly fidgety. She sang impressively all night, more so even considering that she is an amateur singer (in the best sense), busy with two young children.

Scene 4 could have done without the gothic gate that stood rather unmotivated in the back. The bed, spartan nightstand, and two chairs seemed enough. What followed was Sister Superior (Madame de Crossy) dying stylishly over the course of the next 15 minutes, with the highest artistic merit. To see the audience prematurely robbed of the strong performance of Kyle Engler (an equally fine singer and actress) was a shame. Mother Marie of the Incarnation was more than capable support with her plain face suiting the role visibly very well. Her singing, on the lighter side, was backed up with such fine acting that her performance, too, was pure enjoyment. The cell phone ringing during the conversation between Mother superior (still alive then) and Blanche was an unfortunate distraction.

The story sags a bit during the later parts of Act I, with Mother Superior's vision of a ravaged, abandoned convent being a dramatic interruption. The scene in which she, dead now, is carried off, interrupted by the rings of the unmercifully regular bell from the orchestra pit (and a quickly quenched cell phone), was theatrical and moving; all done behind the semitransparent curtain that opened again for Scene 5. The arch remained in the chapel scene and made more sense behind the semicircle of large candles placed around the Mother Superior's body. Scene 6, in front of the curtain, was moving and witty at once with its contemplations of death by Sister Constance.

Jane-Anne Tucker and Jessica Swink

In Scene 7 the new Mother Superior, Hai-bo Bai, showed that her predecessor had far and away the superior diction. Swallowed syllables and odd intonations made her English near incomprehensible, Sutherland-style, without the trills, though. Her voice certainly was piercing and clean enough to fill her role in most other aspects, though piano parts sometimes slipped into the inaudible under the orchestral accompaniment... to no discernable fault on conductor Robert's part, however. The church window projections on the back curtain and the larger than life faux-naïve Jesus on the cross were again perfectly adequate stage sets.

After the introduction before the curtain, Scene 1 was the same as Scene 2 of Act I was. The Chevalier de la Force, Jingma Fan, now seemed a little restricted and nasal in higher vocal altitudes. The continuing interludes kept reminding me of the sea interludes in Peter Grimes (though far shorter and slighter) or even the knee plays from Einstein on the Beach. The Chaplain of the Convent, Patrick Toomey, was fine but on the wobbly side; the new Mother Superior, Madame Lidoine, remained incomprehensible while Jessica Swink's Sister Blanche got better and better. Paul McIlvaine, 1st Commissioner, was convincing in manner and, despite his role, sympathetic. Mother Marie's voice was still small but strong, and if she lacked bombast she more than made up for it with her ability to portray fragile, stoic strength. The short second act ends with the vow of martyrdom, setting the stage for one of the most hair-raising operatic finales.

Act III opens as the nuns are forced to leave the convent in plain clothes (looking cluttered and so much less appealing than in a Carmelite's uniform). Scene 2, same as Act I, Scene 1, takes place at the library of the Marquis de la Force, alas torn up and savaged. Blanche who had—unbeknownst to me but according to the synopsis—run away after the taking of the vow is asked by Mother Marie to join the convent again. Blanche, experiencing the upheavals of the French Revolution all too vividly (her father had met the device prescribed by Dr. Guillotin in 1789 as the most humane form of capital punishment; she also got slapped by her former servants!), declines.

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Francis Poulenc, Dialogues des Carmélites, Pierre Dervaux, Denise Duval, Régine Crespin

Scene 3 has the nuns in prison after a lovely, wailing oboe melody in the interlude. Blanche is still AWOL while the order is condemned to death for unlawful assemblage. Mother Superior mumbled; Mother Marie, absent, wished to join her sisters in their hour of agony and death. Scene 5 finally is the famous, chilling, and so very effective scene in which, one by one, singing their Salve Regina, the nuns, dressed in white (which is historically correct) are led to the scaffold off stage, with the grating swooosh-clunk of the falling blade decimating the choir one by one. The guillotine rhythmically and greedily claims one singing nun after another, accompanied by the chilling sound effect that had some audience members gasp silently. Sister Constance is the last left, hesitates, sees Blanche, and meets, singing still, her fate. After Constance's song is cut short, Blanche continues up the plank to meet the same fate in unquestioning devotion to her vow of martyrdom.

In his review in the Washington Post, Tim Page was right to claim that this naïve portrayal of religious fanaticism, no matter how nobly inspired, and the religious pervasiveness over the republican and enlightenment ideas that had been a kernel of the revolution can be difficult to take at the same value than, say, before September 11, 2001. That I did not think of this connection while following the opera probably speaks to the performance's success in grabbing my attention. I was, especially after the Puccini horror at Wolf Trap, just delighted by this production, one of the most charming opera performances that I have seen in Washington—and that with a shoestring budget and a troupe that seemed rather randomly thrown together. The applause, partisan perhaps, spotty, generous but short, was more than deserved. This 10-year-old foundation, Opera International, with their now 10th production in Washington pulled a feat off that I would not have believed possible. If they continue in this fashion, especially if they delve into a bit more out of the way repertoire rather than doing the hackneyed "classics" like they did in the past, they will be an attraction to opera neophytes and veterans alike, a distinction very few companies have.

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