10 Questions for Conrad Chow

Posted on June 20, 2012 by barczablog
foursome

(left to right) Conrad Chow with composers Kevin Lau, Ron Royer and Bruce Broughton.

Whether performing at the Mozarteum in Salzburg, Disney Hall in Los Angeles, Carnegie Hall in New York, or Qingdao Grand Auditorium in China, Canadian violinist Conrad Chow has won over audiences with his interpretations of music from different centuries, continents, and styles. A laureate at the International Stepping Stone Competition in Quebec, Conrad Chow leads a rich performing career as a soloist and chamber musician. He is also a devoted teacher. Despite his young age (Dr. Chow is 30), he is currently on the faculty of the Royal Conservatory’s Young Artists Performance Academy in Toronto, Canada, and Visiting Professor of Violin at the University of Jinan College of Music in Shandong, China. He performs on a 1933 Gaetano Pollastri violin.

Canadian violinist Conrad Chow launches his debut CD, PREMIERES with a special performance at Toronto’s Gallery 345 on Thursday, June 28. The recording, on Cambria Master Recordings (Cambria CD-1204; distributed by Naxos) features premiere recordings of music by Bruce Broughton (an award- winning film composer from the USA),  Ronald Royer and Kevin Lau, teaming Conrad Chow with SINFONIA TORONTO conducted by Ronald Royer. PREMIERES also includes a bonus track, featuring Conrad Chow and Bruce Broughton in a transcription of Chopin’s Nocturne in C# Minor for violin & piano.  Chow’s June 28th appearance is with Canadian pianist Angela Park.

Chow added the following personal note addressed to me at the end which I thought it would be appropriate to share:

 “Premieres represents two years of work, and also two years of enjoyment to me. I hope you get to experience and hear it for yourself!”

I haven’t yet heard the CD but in the meantime, I ask Conrad Chow ten questions: five about himself and five about his new CD PREMIERES.

1) Which of your parents do you resemble (what’s your nationality / ethnic background)?

Conrad Chow with his 1933 Gaetano Pollastri violin.

I’d say I’m a pretty balanced mix between both my mother and father. Recently, I’ve noticed people saying how much I sound like my father though! My parents were both born in Hong Kong, and came to Vancouver in their teenage years. My ancestral home is in Shandong China (the province that contains the city of Qingdao, of Tsingtao beer fame, and is also known as the city of the violin).

2) what is the BEST thing / worst thing about being a violinist?

The best thing about being a violinist is not having to buy an extra plane ticket for a cello or wheel around a bass while shouldering a stool. The worst thing is feeling envious of the piccolo player as she stuffs her instrument into her shirt pocket.

Seriously though, the best thing about being a violinist is getting to bare your soul on an instrument that is at once almost as human as the voice, but can also produce timbres and colours that are unique to the instrument. From the deep and emotionally sensitive, we can do a 180 and immediately burst into insane licks and agile fireworks. When it all flows, you feel like you can slow down time, and I imagine acrobats, dancers, and racecar drivers must all feel something similar.

3) who do you like to listen to?  

I’ve always loved Gil Shaham’s sound. I met him once when I was a teenager at the Aspen Music Festival, and I remember that his personality was as engaging and welcoming as his sound.

For non-classical music, I like MC Jin – a freestyle rapper who is as quick and clever with his improvised lyrics as his rhythm and delivery are biting and dynamic when he engages in rap battles. Performance is all about feeling the audience and working with them to create a specific atmosphere – Jin is a master at this art.

4) what ability or skill do you wish you had, that you don’t have?

I wish I could play volleyball, basketball, and chop vegetables without worrying about my “precious fingers”. One day…one day!!

5) when you’re just relaxing (and not working) what is your favourite thing to do?

I like to meet with friends.

~~~~~

Five more concerning Conrad Chow’s new CD PREMIERES.

1) How did the compositions on the CD PREMIERES challenge you?

Since all the pieces on the CD are actually premieres, I really had to trust my instincts and communicate with the composers to see how I could best interpret their ideas. There was no ‘act to follow’, so to speak, so that was a challenge and blessing at the same time.

Also, with the depth and breadth that Broughton, Royer and Lau brought to the project in their compositions, I worked very hard to convincingly convey that variety in an interesting way. Even just stylistically, there were elements evoking the Baroque, Classical, Romantic, Gypsy, and 20th Century idioms throughout the CD. The second movement of the Broughton Triptych was actually inspired by Prokofiev, and I found myself going back to the 2nd movement of the G minor Violin Concerto to compare and contrast.

Likewise with the Royer Rhapsody and Ravel’s Tzigane, and Lau’s Joy with Barber’s Violin Concerto, or even the slow movement of Bruch’s Concerto.

2) What do you love about compositions such as those by Bruce Broughton and Ronald Royer (such as those featured on the CD)?

They are instantly accessible, but also multifaceted. Chess is all about being easy to play, but difficult to master. Similarly with their music, I find that audiences always enjoy their first experience, but repeat listening is where a lot of the deeper enjoyment and understanding can be found. Things like polyrythmic meters, octatonic scales, hidden themes, kind of rush by on a first sit-through, but after hearing the pieces a few times, these are the interesting aspects of the works that keep them fresh. Meanwhile, I like to know that when I’m performing these pieces, people don’t feel that they are too esoteric or opaque, and yet, there’s plenty of “steak” for me to bring out, along with the sizzle.

3) was there a favourite among these pieces?

The Broughton Triptych is the real centre-point of the CD – I think that it is a considerable achievement in composition and deserves to be played and heard throughout the world. For me, it was the most technically challenging, but it was so satisfying to put it all together. With Ron Royer conducting the live world premiere of the piece with the Scarborough Philharmonic in April of 2011, we knew that this would be an amazing focal point for the project.

The Royer Capriccio and Sarabande are also special for me, because I actually performed them almost 10 years ago, but never had the opportunity to record them properly until now. They are always fun to play, and I especially enjoy the interplay between the ensemble, solo violin, and harpsichord.

The Lau Joy, is…a joy to play. It’s so filled with verve and passion, and only brings out good memories for me. I actually met Kevin just a month before premiering that work in 2008, and we’ve become close friends and colleagues since then. It seems to be a favourite amongst hopeless romantics and dreamers of the world (and I often count myself in that category!)

4) how do you relate to these virtuoso violin pieces as a modern man?

Violin and virtuosity represent timeless concepts, whether they come from the 17th century, or the 21st. People like to see humanity, emotion, drama, and connection. They’re also tantalized by bravado, energy, seductiveness, and mastery of difficult challenges. The violin is a particularly potent tool to evoke all of these fundamental, primal concepts, and it’s our challenge to bring those to light in a way that is fresh, and will keep audiences engaged. I love being a (virtuoso) violinist!!

5) is there a violinist out there whose approach you particularly admire, or who has influenced you?

My two heroes whom I’ve never met are Itzhak Perlman and Yo Yo Ma. They have a populist approach to making music – everybody should be included – and their message is always positive and inspiring. That’s what we should all be here for… 

My personal heroes are the teachers who have formed my skills and opinions about music-making. From my first teacher, Janet Wilchfort, to my teacher at the Canadian Royal Conservatory, who taught me during my formative teenage years, Alec Hou, to my university professors Miriam Fried, Pamela Frank, Ani Kavafian, and Philip Setzer, and finally to my post-collegiate mentors Philippe Djokic and Eduard Schmieder; all are consummate artists, and continue to be immense inspirations to me.

PREMIERES will be available in record stores June 26th.  You can see more of Conrad Chow here on youtube, or visit Conrad Chow’s website .

CDDEBUT ALBUM RELEASE PARTY

“PREMIERES”

Conrad Chow, violin & Angela Park, piano

Thursday, June 28, 2012 at 7:30PM

Gallery 345: 345 Sorauren Avenue, Toronto

Tickets: $30 regular; $25 Students/Seniors/Arts Workers

Reservations can be made by calling 416 822.9781 or via email info@gallery345.com

Posted in Interviews | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Father’s Day

Posted on June 18, 2012 by barczablog

Sunday June 17th was the day I watched Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (let’s call it ELIC) for a second time.  I’d seen it Friday night, and reviewed it.  I remarked that for me its chief subject was not 9/11, but the issue of manhood as viewed through the lens of fathers and sons traumatized by loss.

By a curious coincidence Sunday was Father’s Day.  Second time through –knowing the arc of the plot and its eventual destination—I was more fully ready for the mythic dimensions of this film.  Friday’s review reflected my ambivalence.  I loved parts, disliked some aspects, and wasn’t sure about it overall.  Today I am much more certain, particularly the way this film fits into a recent pattern of dogmatic critics.  I don’t care if I come across as Polyanna, in my dislike for negativity.

And pardon me if I am repeating myself, in mentioning these recent instances of daring or original productions rejected by some, yet embraced by others:

  • Lepage’s Ring Cycle at the Metropolitan Opera over the past couple of years: dissed thoroughly in the press & social media.
  • The Canadian Opera Company’s Semele, a production that could be accused of disrespecting the original work
  • Stewart Goodyear’s Beethoven Marathon.  No critical response I saw denied that his playing was wonderful.  Yet this achievement was little more than a blip on the radar when it could have been a paradigm-shifting moment comparable to Glenn Gould’s recording of the Goldberg Variations.

Oh well.  My enjoyment and/or confidence in the excellence of those projects wasn’t dampened by sourpuss critics.

In my review of a few days ago I mentioned a page listing the 9 Most Scathing Critical Responses to Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close.  In the spirit of Father’s Day I will respond to those nine commentaries.

9. “Despite its overweening literary pretensions, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is about as artistically profound as those framed 3-D photos of the Twin Towers emblazoned with ‘Never Forget’ that are still for sale in Times Square a decade after 9/11. […] It’s Oscar-mongering of the most blunt and reprehensible sort.”  Lou Lumenick, NY Post

I understand how New Yorkers may need to own these events for a long time (how could they not?), resenting any attempt to tell this story in terms that don’t correspond to their version.  As a foreigner my perspective will seem skewed.  I also understand how film critics think they understand a film because they’re in this tunnel of celluloid, in a groove of watching a few movies every week and writing pithy reviews, deconstructing each pathetic attempt to scale the heights of excellence.  But seeing too many movies can inure one to excellence, or blunt one’s ability to appreciate what’s actually there, due to a kind of cynicism that sets in, forgetting that artists are people and that many in the audience don’t have the same cynicism.  That Lumenick compares this to “framed 3-D photos of the Twin Towers emblazoned with ‘Never Forget’” says more about Lumenick than about the film.  Actually, ELIC works very hard at coming at the topic indirectly, perhaps the most oblique treatment one could imagine.

8. “Poor little Oskar! Such an adorable, pint-sized heap of neuroses. What better mouthpiece for an author, or a filmmaker, to use as a way of exploring the personal cost of a great communal tragedy. Do you get the idea that Oskar must emerge from his own teeny-tiny personal prison and, yes, embrace the world? Never has the tragedy of 9/11 been made so shrinky-dinked.” — Stephanie Zacharek, Movieline

But who said ELIC ever purported to be the last word about 9/11?  As I said earlier, I think this film is about manhood (speaking of shrinky dinks), about fatherhood, about war.  The characters suggest a sad series of parallels, an ongoing chain of bad karma:
[SPOILER ALERT]

  • Boy who has lost his father (played by Tom Hanks)
  • Father (Hanks) who himself had no father (grandfather was traumatized victim in the previous war)
  • Grandfather (Max von Sydow) who is mute after the horrors of living through the Dresden bombing (both parents killed right in front of him)

But the characters are universal, rather than individualized in that karma.  They’re not saying anything about the USA or New York; rather it’s about war, period.

7. “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close isn’t about Sept. 11. It’s about the impulse to drain that day of its specificity and turn it into yet another wellspring of generic emotions: sadness, loneliness, happiness. This is how kitsch works. It exploits familiar images, be they puppies or babies — or, as in the case of this movie, the twin towers — and tries to make us feel good, even virtuous, simply about feeling. And, yes, you may cry, but when tears are milked as they are here, the truer response should be rage.” — Manohla Dargis, NY Times

They’re right about one thing: that it’s not about Sept 11.  This movie does not try to make anyone feel virtuous (and to suggest this after seeing this movie suggests a heart as cold as ice).  The film is full of thorny and painful images.  I came away from it the first time troubled and conflicted.

Notice that #7 is almost a perfect contradiction of #6

6. “Oskar is a nasty piece of work. On that dreadful day, Oskar comes home early from school. He hears his father’s voice messages. He hides them from his mother, Linda (Sandra Bullock). He denies her listening to Tom tell her he loves her. Oskar is selfish. He sneaks out and buys an identical answering machine, records the identical outgoing message, and keeps the old one for himself. He counts his lies. Oskar has ‘head-up-his-ass’ platitudes and has read too much Jean-Paul Sartre.” — Victoria Alexander, Film Festival Today

Yes indeed, this largely corresponds to what I felt first time through on Friday. Oskar is very creepy.  That’s exactly the opposite of what you read in #7 (about kitsch).  But again, they show that clearly the film is not really about Sept 11: not about that brooding need America still has to articulate its nameless rage and sorrow.  When Oskar starts smashing things –and it happens more than once—he’s such an unattractive image, he can’t possibly be the epitome of American angst.  Oh no.  Instead make it be a buff ex-marine who’s able to shoot people or kill them with his karate reflexes.

Note to America: not everyone is good enough to be a Marine.  There are some real geeks out there.  Oskar speaks to the geek in me, I promise you, and I am not even American.

5. “Almost half a century after Dallas, I still have trouble watching film of President Kennedy’s assassination. Yet Stephen Daldry’s screen version of the Jonathan Safran Foer novel, adapted by Eric Roth, proves hard to handle for other reasons. The production’s penchant for contrivance is insufferable —- not a single spontaneous moment from start to finish -— and the boy is so precocious you want to strangle him.” — Joe Morgenstern, Wall Street Journal

Very true.  This isn’t a realistic film. It’s at least partly a symbolist film, with its multi-generational tale of fatherless boys.  It’s challenging because one often doesn’t know which year one is watching.

Damn but isn’t that exactly how trauma works: that we always feel it in the here and now.

4. “Mixing the horror of 9/11 with a cutesy story about a boy’s unlikely quest just comes off as crass. Throwing a tragic old man on top — to no apparent purpose, really — cheapens things further. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is the kind of movie you want to punch in the nose.” — Tom Long, The Detroit News

Tom, I congratulate you for being honest enough to admit you didn’t understand the symbolism of the old man.  I suppose it never occurs to you that 9/11 is not the first time anyone was ever bombed or victimized.  Believe it or not it’s happened before, often with Americans dropping the bombs.  In Dresden btw there weren’t 3, or 4,000 dead, but 100,000.

3. “[I]t will always be ‘too soon’ for Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close, which processes the immense grief of a city and a family through a conceit so nauseatingly precious that it’s somehow both too literary and too sentimental, cloying yet aestheticized within an inch of its life. It’s 9/11 through the eyes of a caffeinated 9-year-old Harper’s contributor. […] GRADE: F” — Scott Tobias, AV Club

This critique came closest to my feelings on Friday, and is partly the reason for my headline.  I believe the subject is still too raw for Americans: that it’s still too soon.   But at the same time, I find the process of criticism almost evil in its tendency to project motives onto the process of artistic creation (ie when he says that the film “processes the immense grief of a city and a family through a conceit so nauseatingly precious…”etc).  Actually the critic is projecting when he says that.  There were thousands of different experiences, and no one person has any claim on being the epitome of grief. 

2. “Thomas Horn is a terrible actor; I don’t want to call him annoying because that might be the way Oskar is written, but dammit, I wanted to throttle the twerp pretty much for the whole movie. […] This film is so spectacularly bad that the bar for pretentious, deep-thoughts movies has been lowered roughly the length of my middle finger.” — Capone, Ain’t it Cool News

This one? Suggests very strongly that the film hit a nerve.  Cheese whiz crisis, Capone, have you never seen a character in a film you wanted to throttle?  I saw Untouchables last week btw, and yes, in that case his name is Capone (played by a certain Robert de Niro…?).  You watch him and probably don’t like him nor his henchmen.   That Horn made you hate him suggests he did a great job. 

“Thus endeth the lesson,” …to coin a phrase.

1. “This is a film so thoroughly rotten to its smarmy and diseased little core that tearing into it here hardly seems an adequate method of dealing with it — going after the negative with battery acid and a sledgehammer might be closer to what it deserves. […] This is a film that takes one of the most terrible tragedies in our history and reduces it to a level of kitsch that makes a painting of the burning World Trade Center done on black velvet with a sad clown on the side bearing witness seem dignified by comparison.” — Peter Sobczynski, eFilmCritic

Going anywhere near the subject seems to touch some very raw nerves.  I suppose for some people, the topic requires a moratorium, perhaps for another decade or so.  As we saw with Viet Nam, there are many ways to approach aspects of the subject.  But no single film is really capable of telling the story of Viet Nam.  And to go anywhere near the subject in the wrong way (or how someone still suffering might call the wrong way) seems like exploitation of the worst sort.

[And here I am responding to all nine]

The horror of this film, (backdrop for a tale of a family in pain) is the horror of the event, if not of all war.  Oskar is the primal embodiment of America on 9/11.  On the morning of that day, you were a spoiled, self-absorbed child, unaware that some envious bastards were about to give you a sucker punch.  How could anyone be heroic in the face of such evil?  The soft and deranged vulnerability of this child, disturbing as it is to see, is one possible mirror, but doesn’t purport to be the best or the most accurate reflection of that insane event.

Posted in Personal ruminations & essays | Leave a comment

10 Questions for Adam Klein

Posted on June 17, 2012 by barczablog
Billy Idol Tamino

Adam Klein as Tamino in a 1990s production, with a bit of a nod to Billy Idol.

Adam Klein is a man of many guises.  He’s a tenor, singing in many different styles. He’s a composer.  A teacher.  An instrument maker.

No wonder Klein seemed to be a natural as Loge in Das Rheingold at the Metropolitan Opera earlier in 2012, the singer who seemed most ready to exploit the challenges of Robert Lepage’s carnivalesque production, singing sideways on a wall (with the help of wires) as if he were Spiderman.  Klein first sang there in 1971, the first boy that the Met entrusted with the role of Yniold in Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande.  He’s sung lighter roles such as Tamino in The Magic Flute, yet also has sung Tristan in Seattle in 2010.

Klein is a classically trained composer with a few operas under his belt, who also teaches composition.  Speaking of opera, Klein teaches voice, and also shows you pronunciation if you need to sing in several foreign languages. He’ll show you how to build several instruments, and then once you’ve built them, show you how to play them as well.

Up next: Klein is Rodolfo the poet in Puccini’s La bohème,  June 29th and July 1st  with Nickel City Opera, just across the lake from us in North Tonawonda NY.

I ask Klein ten questions: five about himself and five about his upcoming appearance with Nickel City Opera.

1) Which of your parents do you resemble (what’s your nationality / ethnic background)? 

Chevalier

Adam Klein as Chevalier de la Force in Poulenc’s Dialogues des carmélites

I have my mother’s hair and ears, my father’s eyebrows, nose and mouth, and an exact combination of each’s eyes. Being male, the rest of my body more resembles my dad’s.

On my mom’s side I have mixed German-Australian/British (her mom) and 100% Swedish-American (her dad — Stellan Windrow, the first Tarzan of films, drafted into WWI during shooting but they used shots of him in the trees in the final cut which only has Elmo Lincoln’s name on it); from my dad I get mixed German American-British American-Native American (his dad) and 100% Irish-American (his mom).

2) what is the BEST thing / worst thing about being an opera singer?

Best: when opera works, there’s nothing like it, except perhaps Mahler’s 8th Symphony — but that’s almost an opera. The goal of the founders of modern opera, back in CE 1600, was a simultaneous presentation of music and drama, and if each component is at its best, nothing — not film

Worst: the absolute lack of financial stability.

3) who do you listen to or watch?

I’m going to answer this as if it meant: whom do I like to listen to or watch, or whom do I learn from when I listen to or watch them, since I really have no choice but to watch and listen to everyone I’m on stage with, or anyone who’s doing a role I need to learn and don’t have time to work on in the proper way, namely, just memorize it from the score without reference to any recordings or performances, since only then will the role have a chance of being my own and not a composite of what I’ve already witnessed. This caveat is far from complete but also already too long.

Before I give any names, I should say that on my off time I don’t really listen to opera, or watch it, so some of these names will seem mysterious unless one knows what they do. So I guess I’d better give short descriptions.

Watch:

  • Mamady Keita, jembefola and leader of the African drumming troupe Sewa Kan . I would watch other drummers but I have no films of them. I do watch them live, though.
  • The entire cast of Firefly (TV show)/Serenity (movie); same for
  • Iron Man I & II (particularly Mickey Rourke),
  • Men In Black I & II,
  • Spinal Tap

    Guest, McKean & Shearer, in their prime

    Galaxy Quest, and all the Christopher Guest/Michael McKean movies, starting with Spinal Tap; most of the cast and many of the guest stars in the first eight seasons of Stargate.

There are some others but that will do.

In opera: Vladimir Ognovenko. Andrei Popov. Vladimir Galouzine. My wife Tami Swartz.

Listen: my brother singer/guitarist Moondi Klein in whatever band he’s in, currently Jimmy Gaudreau & Moondi Klein. Other musicians/groups: Ani diFranco. Hamell on Trial. Voo Voo. EastWest Rockers. Huun-Huur-Tu. Yat-Kha. They Might Be Giants. Talking Heads. Bob Marley. On A Dead Machine.

In opera: Birgit Nilsson. Ramon Vinay.Walter Cassel. Pamela Armstrong. Mark Delavan. Greer Grimsley. Brenda Harris.

These are the names that pop off my head without thinking too hard about it. There are probably many others, but unlike a search engine I can’t access all my memories anytime I like.

4) what ability or skill do you wish you had, that you don’t have?

The ability to persuade people to stop doing such stupid things to the planet. The dexterity needed to be really good at piano, guitar, violin, horn or many other instruments. Infinite patience: mine has limits, and they’re shrinking.

5) When you’re just relaxing (and not working) what is your favorite thing to do?

Geek out watching a rerun of some of our favorite sci-fi movies or shows – or read through a script of one out loud – after having prepared a priceless and unique gourmet meal of organic ingredients, accompanied with excellent local New Jersey wine (when we’re in NYC or NJ: Twenty Valley wine when we’re in the Buffalo-Toronto area) -Amalthea, Valenzano or Sylvin wines (Calamus or Featherstone in the Twenty).

Rupert's bro

Not quite Rupert but still resplendent

Or wake up in the screened-in porch at our NJ swamp house in spring and summer and listen to the wood thrush we have named Rupert the Resplendent, along with the frogs, or later in the season, katydids and tree crickets.

~~~~

Five more concerning Klein’s appearance as Rodolfo in La Bohème with Nickel City Opera.

1) How does playing the role of Rodolfo challenge you?

I refuse to take the Big Aria down a half step like Luciano and so many others did and still do.    [Say it ain’t so Jussi! this one is taken down a semi-tone]

I don’t see the point of doing Rodolfo if you can’t sing the C — not because it’s written that way because it’s not in the score — but because Puccini wrote it in A flat, not G (at least, that’s what the SCORE has, but the key changes between that aria, Mimi’s aria, the little conversation after it, and the duet that ends the act, make me suspect that some of these keys are not original — they’re just a half step or whole step off from where I expect them to be); and because the duet before it sounds so dull when taken down a half step; and because like the Duke’s big aria you can’t sing it without the interpolated high note and show your face the next day. I say all this because, though the C is not hard for me to sing, when I’m singing a lot of this stuff, I’ve had ten year at the Met doing low and character parts with nothing above B flat, except for The Nose which has two pages with 16 high C’s and nothing else — but I covered Gordon Gietz in that and didn’t peform it, so doing the high C in public after not having sung the role for six years is a bit scary.

Other challenges: I’ve been lucky, with a very few  exceptions, to have had great casts and good directors and conductors every time I’ve done Rodolfo elsewhere, so there’s no longer the challenge of doing it the first time, or doing it with another cast, conductor or director. We haven’t started rehearsals yet, so there’s a possible challenge, knowing the piece as well as I do, of doing it differently from how I’m used to playing it — one gets set in one’s ways after doing enough repeats of a part, one decides what works in a part and what doesn’t, and one’s patience with breaking in new people or working with a “radical new concept” — actually, trying to make the concept work — can wear quite thin, so keeping an open mind is always a good goal.

For the piece itself, what makes Bohème special to me, in a way that the other Puccini operas don’t, though it’s present in most of them to a degree, is the irony pervading the whole plot, and other aspects of oppositeness: trying to keep a light spirit while one is freezing to death, Mimì struggling with every ounce of strength left to her to make sure she tells Rodolfo what she needs to say, and so many other examples — I always hope the production in question is able to get that point across to the audience, because for me that’s what it’s about, not just the singing or the antics. It’s the theatrical core, and as Rodolfo I try to bring it out as much as I can regardless of who else is out there or how it’s being directed. With a less acting, more singing cast, that can be quite a challenge. I’ll know more after the first day of rehearsal.

2) What do you love about Puccini’s operas?

Composer’s POV: That in an age where “serious” composers faulted him — and some Ivory Tower bigwigs do still — for being sentimental or writing music that was passé, as if Schoenberg’s Blind Alley was the way to the Promised Land and anyone who thought differently was an idiot, Puccini stuck to writing music that the people listening could understand with not one second of classical music schooling, because his music is the language of emotions.

Singer’s POV: That he wrote such deliciously singable lines, and so many of them, and made the high notes mean something — integrated them fully into the drama of every moment. Not every opera composer does that.

Actor’s POV: That he carried on Verdi’s torch of writing serious music theater — though I do regret that he never traveled the US to see that there is no desert in Louisiana, at least not in its current dimensions.

Director’s POV: That he used plots that were simple, or at least easily distillable into archetypal gestures to which he wedded ageless archetypal music that sounds as if it’s been there since the dawn of time, that makes it hard to conceive of such words without hearing his music with them. (Listen to Leoncavallo’s Boheme as a test of that.) But also that he made sure his archetypes were present in real people, not as, ooh I don’t know, singers with big plastic chestplates on.

3) Do you have a favorite moment in La Bohème?

The moment which makes me cry, which is Marcello’s line in Act II: “Gioventù mia, tu non sei morta”.

4) How do you relate to Rodolfo and Puccini’s opera about bohemian life as a modern man?

Not much has changed for disinherited/runaway artistic twentysomethings in any big city, so it’s not a stretch. I didn’t have Rodolfo’s life, though, at least not at that age, but I knew people who did – one soprano I knew, about 21, was living  — squatting — in a condemned building in Lower Manhattan, when she wasn’t sleeping in her car. She had nothing but enmity for her dad — odd, and yet on reflection not odd, that in the opera no mention is made of any of these kids’ parents, as opposed to Germont in Traviata.

Also, I have my own leanings toward counterculture – for just one example, I knew a man and woman who refused to be married by any state-sanctioned official, since the state didn’t recognize the right of every loving couple, regardless of gender, to marry. So they got married on a mountaintop with their families present. I had more respect for that act of defiance of the State than for most other actions I’ve learned about by anyone.

Another example I can’t resist citing: please, Canada, keep growing the hempseed I eat every morning in my cereal, since the US doesn’t allow domestic production of the plant we get canvas, oil paint and the most concentrated plant protein on earth from, just because it can also make you high. The original Levi’s jeans were made of hemp fiber. But since those in power keep carrying this Double Standard (to wit: alcohol makes you drunk, impairs your motor skills and is addictive, but is legal; cigarette smoke gives you cancer and is addictive, yet it’s legal; Mary Jane gets you high with little or no motor skill impairment and is not addictive, yet it’s illegal), I’m forced to identify with a Counterculture because I disagree with them. But that’s the funny thing about being Other: from one’s own perspective it’s everyone else who’s not behaving right. I am my own personal Establishment. Anyway, Bohème is timeless because the issues it presents are universal topics of humanity.

What does it mean to live your life? Do you take the path laid out by your parents and become, say, a dentist, nice safe job, wife, kids, dog, retirement — or do you make your own path and live your life in the moment, as the Bohemians did? This is a romantic notion even now, and whether or not the audience is conscious that this is what Marcello and company are doing, they see it happen and they can see themselves in their shoes. I doubt this will ever change until the present civilization collapses, and then — maybe — relating to these characters might become more difficult.

5) Is there anyone out there whom you particularly admire, and who has influenced you?

Besides my parents, you mean? No really, they’re special people, Bohemians in their own way – my mom, 90, is an oil painter; my dad, just turned 81, a classical pianist (also plays pretty good jazz). He is Muggle-born, I like to say [you may insert a Harry Potter explanation here for your readers if you deem it prudent: the metaphor is, people in Art are Wizards; people without Art, Muggles]: his family did not appreciate his towering musical talent. She was from Wizarding stock (her dad Stellan was in the theater world all his life, and she was in films as a kid and on Broadway in her “tweens” (a Hobbit term), among many other pursuits. They met and subsequently managed to become and stay part of many erudite artistic circles, so really they made their own path in this life.

But there are many, many people “out there” who have influenced me, some long dead, though Art has a way of smearing that boundary. Verdi, an Atheist among Catholics, yet revered by them; Stephen Jay Gould who carried the torch of reason for decades against the Zealous Right’s attacks on science in schools, and who sang hymns in choirs in Boston. Among the living: Joss Whedon, who gave us the universe of Firefly, which Fox failed to kill. Paul Gross and Christopher Guest and their respective teams of thespians who continually bring us offbeat, independent gems of theater, proving that neither Hollywood nor Vancouver owns the business. Jane Goodall, still trying to get humans to stop eating their cousins to extinction. And as a blanket praise for all whose names my mind is blanking on this evening: anyone who stands up for reason, integrity and doing the right thing and who cannot be bought. Sadly, few and far between – but more than many realize.

La Boheme~~~~~~~~~~

La Boheme
June 29th & July 1st
Nickel City Opera
North Tonawanda NY

To purchase tickets and
for further information
click here.

another Boheme

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Somewhat soon and partially successful

Posted on June 16, 2012 by barczablog

For those of you accustomed to reading my accolades for singers, artists & pianists it may seem that you’ve stumbled into the wrong page, with a headline like this.

Oh my God, he actually says negative things? yes

Isn’t that against his credo ? actually… yes… keep reading because this isn’t as negative as it looks

Okay, enough self-mockery.

I watched Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close tonight, a film i craved for a number of reasons.  Having lost my father at a young age, i was intrigued watching a film about a boy who lost his father.  For me, at least, this theme will never lose its interest, a theme that is likely secondary to film-makers mostly concerned with a portrayal of 9/11 and its impact upon a family.

And so I was totally conflicted.  I found myself struggling throughout, liking aspects of it, and yet revolted in other respects.  Perhaps that sounds bad.

I thought I’d go to my pal google to see whether anyone else felt this way, and POOF the first thing i found left me feeling much better, namely a page titled The 9 Most Scathing Critical Responses to Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close on movieline.com.

Rather than mutter about the things it did wrong, i want to at least give thanks for the things it did right:

  • Max von Sydow gives a wonderful performance
  • Sandra Bullock gives a fairly good performance in a thankless sort of role: a mother and wife, expected to cry meaningfully after losing her husband in 9/11, as her son becomes even nuttier than before
  • Thomas Horn? a bravura performance of a very unlikely character, one who clearly got under the skin of the complainers on movieline.com: except that his craziness is entirely believable.
  • Speaking as a Torontonian –that is, someone traumatized by 9/11, but also, a distant observer who doesn’t claim to understand what this felt like to New Yorkers–i thought the film has merit as an exploration of some really complex feelings.

Coming away from this film “conflicted” –as i put it earlier–is understandable.  I wonder if it’s still too soon to be attempting this sort of film.   All i know is that the complexity of the material deserves something  so complex that it isn’t easily understood or seen.  I want to give the film another look.

I am having some serious thoughts about critics & criticism, frustrated and maybe even a bit angry.  Critics seem ready to hurl abuse when they don’t understand something, a tendency i find reprehensible in the extreme; if one doesn’t understand something surely one should keep quiet, at least until one has figured it out (although in the case of this film, unlike the other critiques i’ve seen lately, the film’s detractors probably feel confident they understand this film through and through).  I feel grateful for this film, and feel that thanksgiving should be our central sacrement:

  • gratitude for the blessings we have in this rich & beautiful country of ours
  • gratitude for brilliant & eloquent artists
  • gratitude that someone might listen to what we have to say

In other words i am mightily tired of critics who spend more words cutting down than building up, more energy spent on dissecting than on synthesizing and helping explain.  A critic can perform a hugely useful role when encountering something new, if s/he would only use their words to help people understand.  But i find that critics in Toronto lately seem to be tangled up in their own credentials, so intent on proving their competence that they jump on anything that diverges from their narrowest definitions of their form.

I’ve had a series of similar experiences over the past few weeks, watching  adventurous artists attempt something new, but encountering more negativity from critics than from the audience.  No, the audiences in fact are ready for newness, whereas the critics are defending the ramparts of the status quo, an empty citadel long deserted by all but the most literal-minded. (again that’s more relevant to my experiences with music & opera than this film, but it still seems to be the overall pattern, of critics who are too ready to knock things down).

It’s late as i write this, so I mustn’t let my fatigue stop me.  The film i saw wasn’t perfect, but also much better than you’d expect from reading those nine scathing responses.  I shall see it again at some point, hoping to reconcile all those swirling feelings & contrary emotions.

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Wonderful Windermere

Posted on June 15, 2012 by barczablog
Windermere

Windermere String Quartet (photo: cloud4studios)

Given what I’ve said in previous reviews concerning historically informed performance (HIP), you won’t be surprised to find me eagerly eating up a recent release from Windermere String Quartet (Laura Jones -cello, who was so prominent recently in Essential Opera’s  Alcina, Anthony Rapoport –viola, Rona Goldensher-violin and Elizabeth Loewen Andrews-violin).   I find myself pondering the title “The Golden Age of the String Quartet”, a CD including Mozart’s K465, Haydn’s op 33 #2, and Beethoven’s op 18 #4.

I was never particularly blown away by these pieces when played with modern instruments.  I didn’t actively dislike them, but I came to the “golden age” of string quartet with modest expectations.

But these pieces are completely different when played by modern instruments: with the edge smoothed out.  A HIP approach to these quartets makes so much more sense.

If we’ve been listening to quartets on modern instruments, chances are the more recent works will sound better on the modern instruments, while the older pieces sound somewhat bare, missing some essential drama.  I swear, long before I ever heard a HIP performance, I was already wondering about Beethoven’s early string quartets Op 18.  I had the Amadeus quartets set on DG, a nice enough set of recordings, except that the way they played those quartets made them seem like immature Beethoven.  After what people like Bruno Weil & Stewart Goodyear have shown me recently, that simply won’t do.  One must read all compositions with integrity and never with condescension.

The Windermere recordings? From the first track (the Mozart K465 quartet), something is definitely different.  There’s more mystery in the quiet introduction, due to the personality of each player.  There’s more drama in the Allegro, a plaintive and pliant theme that pulls obstreperously at your heart strings like a very strong child.  In this kind of performance the “child” is still innocent, but Windermere don’t infantilize, nor do they subdue the wildness of this child.  There’s no calculated appeal to your heart.  It’s a natural beauty that is at times counter-intuitive, precisely because we’ve had a particular notion of classical music rammed down our throats for much of the 20th century, that Mozart of Haydn should be safe and understated.  Rejecting such assumptions isn’t anything new –given that it’s entirely consistent with other HIP recordings going back 30 years or more—but even so I find myself re-thinking what I thought I knew about chamber music.

The proportions are fundamentally altered, not because the instruments are so different so much as due to an entirely different aural shape.  I am perplexed because in spite of myself, I did not expect this.  For example when I hear Tafelmusik accompanying singers the orchestra tends to be gentler, less likely to drown out a singing voice.

But individually? These instruments are quirky, sometimes unruly sounding.  Indeed,  the reason modern instruments have been the dominant choice is because they’re so reliable.  In these delicate pieces I am suddenly seeing these composers in an entirely different way.  While the melodies unfold in directions that I used to think of as predictable and tranquil, they acquire an additional performative dimension.  Each instrument, each player has the eccentricity of an opera singer.  Part of this comes from their entirely normal practice of avoiding vibrato.  In a small group this overturns the usual expectation, making these pieces sound not just brand new to my ear, but much deeper than I ever understood.

There’s a bounce to the Mozart Menuetto that doesn’t just suggest dance, but actual conflict.  There are so many sounds available –some smooth, some more jagged, some singing, some quietly plaintive—that even a simple tune such as this acquires new depths.

The highlight of the recording for me is the brief scherzo in the Haydn quartet.  Subtitled “The Joke” we’re presented with a bouncy section in triple time resembling belly laughs, contrasted by a trio of glissandi phrases as silly as a feline serenade.  But then again I may have an over-active imagination.

As I said earlier, I am considering a second meaning to the CD’s title “The Golden Age of the String Quartet”.  If these pieces –rather than later works such as Beethoven’s mature quartets, let alone those by later composers—are not just a warm fuzzy memory but actually the pinnacle for the string quartet (that is, the time when composers brought the medium to its peak), one needs to reflect on how they sound on modern instruments.  For me, modern instruments –whose agility and tuning may be superior, and whose tone tends to be subtler—are well chosen for late-romantic compositions such as Brahms’ wonderful violin sonatas, or Debussy’s Quartet.  But in this period that Windermere identify as the “golden age” perhaps they make a case for being the genuine champions of these compositions, and re-orienting our notion of what constitutes the ideal for a quartet.

I’ll be watching to see where they perform, hoping to find out what additional benefit one gets from hearing them live and in person.

WINDERMERE SRING QUARTET  on period instruments
The Golden Age of String Quartets
Windermerestringquartet.com  or info@windermerestringquartet.com

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Influential Einstein

Posted on June 10, 2012 by barczablog

Einstein on the Beach has finally come to Toronto, an opera whose importance and influence is out of all proportion to the actual number who saw it.  Einstein’s a perfect example of that crazy 20th century phenomenon, where the idea of the thing is more important than the thing itself.  There have been many books & articles, lectures, and even films about the work.

And now I have finally seen it tonight in a production authorized by Robert Wilson & Philip Glass, conducted by Michael Riesman with choreography by Lucinda Childs, at the Sony Centre in Toronto.

While in some respects it’s very much of its time (full of 1970s references such as “David Cassidy”, “I feel the Earth move”, and “male chauvinist pig”) its themes transcend its era.   Glass reinvented himself after Einstein, writing  the other two “portrait” operas (Satyagraha and Akhnaten) in an accessible style that has made Glass relatively mainstream, whereas Einstein on the Beach is unknown but for the audio recordings that created a cult following for this opera.  Listening to the work tonight I remembered the old avant garde Glass.

Wilson echoes Lang

Wilson echoes Lang. Photo: Charles Erickson 1992

Robert Wilson too has become relatively mainstream in the opera world as a director.  I can’t help noticing an echo of Wilson in Robert Lepage’s designs (the compartments of the space-ship scene replicated in Lepage‘s Damnation de Faust, even as Wilson himself paid homage in that scene to Lang’s Metropolis).  It’s curious that bodies and parts of the set shift in slow-motion several times during Einstein, considering that I encountered a similar slow motion movement vocabulary from Melati Suryodarmo this afternoon at Stewart Goodyear’s Beethoven marathon.

Einstein is the ultimate open work, daring us to make the meaning.  For much of the work, the text is functional without any discursive meaning; we get choruses singing syllables of sol-fa (such as doh-re-mi), or sequences of numbers.  At other  times the text is a banal conversational chatter, repeated over and over; the obsessive repetition argues for the importance of the words even as the discursive content teases us with passages full of banality.

While superficially it’s an opera that is very elusive in meaning, it employs several recognizable conventions from opera.

  • Dance functions as a kind of diversion –in the old sense of “divertissement”—to rescue the audience, who are taxed by a work exceeding four hours in length, and often challenging our ability to decode
  • Instrumental music serves a function we’ve seen before in the orchestral interludes of music drama, taking us into the realm of the unconscious or the inarticulate.  And although much of the music is in those patterns of repeated notes that tend to induce a meditative state and imply stasis, at least one –the spaceship—seems to suggest an almost Wagnerian build-up to a climax.
  • The non-verbal figure of Einstein playing the violin seems to use music to escape the horrors of life

I can’t help noticing –listening to the television in the background as i write this—that Einstein is roughly the same age as Saturday Night Live.  But where one has been an open book and part of the mainstream, the other remains mostly a mystery, only known through theatre history books, and now this production that’s traveling around North America.  I hope that Glass & Wilson will authorize a DVD of this production so that the work can be better known.

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Beginning the Marathon

Posted on June 9, 2012 by barczablog

I attended the first section of Stewart Goodyear’s “Beethoven Marathon” today at Koerner Hall. I am still trying to wrap my head around this experience, which was in some respects more of a happening than a concert. We were given a big TV screen displaying an enlarged view of the keys from overhead; I was reminded a bit of the Jumbotron at a sporting event, only this time we were watching pianism, not pitching.

Melati Suryodarmo

Movement artist Melati Suryodarmo: (shown in a very different sort of movement piece than this one)

The concert also featured a performance from Melati Suryodarmo, commissioned for the occasion to create a complementary composition of subtle movement. I don’t claim to understand the idiom, and admit that I was sceptical at first (wondering if this was an indication that someone didn’t believe Goodyear’s performance was sufficient on its own). The movement was very subtle, reminding me a little of the glacially subtle vocabulary of butoh, a wonderful meditation rather than a distraction. The longer Goodyear played, the more I was hypnotized by these gradual movements. It was as if the broad concert hall/theatre imagery –of pianist and audience, active and passive—were represented on the stage, Suryodarmo’s expressions and movements signifying a kind of concentrated version of our responses. I wonder if I will ever see anything like this again: which I found completely beautiful & lovely to experience.

When the doors opened I was the first one admitted to the downstairs level. As I walked into the empty hall, I stared at the gleaming Steinway on the bare stage, feeling an irrational desire to go up there and play it. But no, the irrational impulse is actually the one that’s been drilled into me and the rest of the us western concert-goers, the one that says “keep silent”, “do not touch” and more fundamentally “repress your joyful impulse to cheer and dance”.  And so we (me and others who likely feel the same way) all resist the pull of that sleek animal seductively inviting one to stroke or strike. That only one person gets that privilege-yes privilege-is part of the magic, as if they were the chosen champion of our race, fighting on our behalf.

Saturn V

“Fly me to the moon…”

I am reminded of the early morning photos (and HELLO it’s 9:40 am: not the usual time for a concert) of the Saturn V rocket gleaming on its launchpad, awaiting the lonely voyagers’ arrival, when they will honour us with their risky undertaking. I could understand it as a coming-out party, as Goodyear laid his claim as one of the great Beethoven interpreters on the planet. Yet as of 2 pm when we’d completed the first four hours and thirteen sonatas (#1 through #11, plus #19 & 20), with more than half of the music and arguably the hardest sonatas ahead, I wondered if this was simply a four hour warm-up. Unfortunately I could only attend this part, having too many commitments this weekend.

Speaking of the Saturn V, I wonder if it’s also a launch party, considering that a new recording was available in the lobby: Goodyear’s complete cycle of all 32 Beethoven Piano Sonatas. I might add that the one sour note for me was that the friendly chap was selling them for a very reasonable price but couldn’t give me a receipt. Am I supposed to buy a set of CDs without a paper receipt in case one is defective? And so I somehow resisted the impulse to make the purchase (sigh).

I am reminded of something I heard recently from Bruno Weil, also concerning Beethoven: “One should approach the “Eroica” pretending you do not know the Fourth through Ninth Symphonies yet.” In other words one should come to each sonata or symphony without the benefit of hindsight nor making any judgment upon the composition. Neither Goodyear nor his audience showed any signs of treating even a single movement as anything but canonical composition. From the opening pair of easy sonatas, namely 19 & 20, that afforded Goodyear a chance to ease into the larger performance, every note was played with respect, often faster than I’ve ever heard it, and achingly expressive. There were some highlights, likely a reflection of Goodyear’s preferences, whereby he brought a higher level of intensity to his playing.

Sonata #3 in C Major was for me an early highlight. I remember this one from a Peanuts cartoon where Schroeder somehow plays it (or at least some excerpts) on his toy piano (NOT a Steinway) 

I think Charles Schultz helped me discover this sonata, although I have no idea what motivated Goodyear, whose reading of this sonata was for me the highlight of this concert. All four movements were in some respect extraordinary. The first was rock steady in its meter, precise, and always incisive in its attacks. The second? Goodyear seemed to channel Leonard Bernstein in his romantic approach to tempi & expressive phrasing. Where some pianists who bring fiery readings don’t have a passionate answer in the slow movements that can properly balance that fire, Goodyear comes across as a very mature artist, one who lives his Beethoven from the inside out (a feeling supported by the eloquent program notes Goodyear himself has written). Often in slow movements such as this one, Goodyear’s head drifted back, his eyes on something other than the instrument, as if he were becoming Ray Charles, because he didn’t need to look at the keys. The scherzo sounded like vaudeville complete with its own laugh track: the quick descending octaves sounding like an audience laughing it up. I’ve never noticed this about the piece before, possibly because I’ve never heard anyone play it this quickly. Even at that astonishing speed Goodyear was crisp and clean throughout.

The final rondo of Op 2 #3 was again, faster than I’ve yet heard it, mostly played with gossamer softness, except for the big climaxes. On the screen my mind boggled watching the smooth movement of the right hand floating up and down the keyboard.

So…. Let’s say that they were all pretty amazing, some more amazing than others. I believe the difference is likely an indication of Goodyear’s energy levels, not his abilities, given that he was marshaling his bodily energy for this 32 sonata ordeal. The metaphor they gave us in the programming –“marathon”—makes the physical side of the challenge clear. There’s also a mental side. Consider that for example, an actor who is onstage for an entire 3 hour play must learn all those words & movements. Each sonata movement is like its own self-contained drama, some bigger, some smaller. Goodyear had the entire performance in his head, without a score or a  prompter. It’s a physical and mental ordeal unlike any I have seen.

And considering that I only saw one part of it, I still haven’t seen it… I wish I had.

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The New Everest

Posted on June 8, 2012 by barczablog

In a fascinating article in the New York Times, Anthony Tommasini observed that virtuosi are “becoming a dime a dozen”.   Surely there’s some truth to this.  Tommasini made the analogy to the four minute mile, once thought to be an impossible barrier, yet now surpassed by almost seventeen seconds.

And so it goes with the nearly unplayable compositions of yore.  Music schools are producing brilliant graduates who are mastering the most daunting compositions in ever increasing numbers.  Our understanding of the word “virtuosity” begins to fail when standards that were once all but impossible now are surpassed regularly.

What happens to your sense of value when those once impossible compositions have become surmountable?  Terry Gilliam seems to have anticipated this, in a fabulous moment in The Adventures of Baron Munchausen.  We encounter the god Vulcan at home with his wife Venus.  Vulcan squeezes carbon into a diamond for Venus (his wife).  She strokes his temple saying in an exaggerated voice “that’s so sweet”: then hands it to her lady in waiting, saying in a bored voice “another diamond”. And they throw this fabulous creation onto a heap of similar brilliant creations.  The fabulous that is repeated can become banal.  Perhaps we’re in the same situation as Venus.  Cheap CDs abound.  Good music is ubiquitous, on TV, radio, especially the internet.  One could easily forget how difficult it is to play the Rachmaninoff 3rd piano concerto, when one doesn’t have to ever see the musician struggling with the notes.

Goodyear CD

Goodyear CD

I say all this as a preamble to an appreciation for an ambitious artist in our midst.  As you will have read before in this blog, Stewart Goodyear is undertaking something extraordinary, namely to play all 32 Beethoven sonatas in one day.  It’s probably been done before, but that doesn’t take anything away from Goodyear’s ambitions.  In a world where some like Tommasini wonder whether we’ve run out of mountains to climb, Goodyear seems to have found us a new Everest, and in the process has stirred up some genuine interest & controversy.

There’s an element of the circus feat, the death-defying performance.  And that’s fine, in my books.  Goodyear will surely survive in every sense.  More importantly, the audience will be taken to a different place.  It may be transgressive to present Beethoven without the usual reverence; but I believe Goodyear comes to Beethoven with a missionary zeal.

Perhaps we should be asking ourselves whether we’re up to this Beethoven Marathon of his, whether we’re bringing the right mental attitude.

I confess I won’t hear all of it, as it’s simply too much for me physically to sit there for so long.  But I wish Goodyear well, and am looking forward to the experience, which I believe will be enlightening.everest

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Parkdale Peter Pan

Posted on June 3, 2012 by barczablog
Barrie

JM Barrie

Small is beautiful, especially if you embrace theatricality.  In a world of CGI, big budget special effects and body doubles, everything is possible on a grand scale.  If the willing suspension of disbelief that Coleridge described is an innate human ability, it shouldn’t matter that people are out of the habit of using their imaginations because films spoon-feed us careful imitations of the real world.

Pardon me if I sometimes worry that people may be losing the ability to see without their eyes.  Just as a luddite fears technology, I am fearful of realism in film & theatre, worried that the ability to dream can atrophy from neglect.  I have a tonic for anyone sharing my fears.

Get thee to Parkdale Peter Pan, a new adaptation of JM Barrie’s timeless classic.  While the title implies a local slant to the tale –Parkdale being a district in Toronto—I heard nothing in the adaptation to tie PPP to the Greater Toronto Area other than the talent pool: who are predominantly Torontonian.  Directed by Aleksandar Lukac, it’s the latest in a series of works channelling a madcap commedia dell’arte hybrid in such works as Christmas at the Ivanovs and Ivan vs Ivan.  The improvisatory element makes for volcanic energy and a genuine edginess guaranteeing that each night is unique.

PPP is a curious project, fronted by Talk is Free Theatre.  It’s certainly apt insofar as TIFT bring Barrie (JM Barrie that is) to Barrie (the town on Lake Simcoe) at the Mady Centre, in the centre of town.  But it’s not exactly the Peter Pan you saw in Disney or in the broadway musical.  PPP is a sophisticated version, a collective creation of the director and the three performers re-inventing the text each night.  While I think children are safe seeing it, many of its biggest laughs will go over their heads.

From what I heard the pretence for this undertaking is quite touching.  Sandra Purchase, a longtime TIFT supporter and friend passed away just over a year ago.  Purchase’s favourite play was apparently Peter Pan, making this project a kind of celebration of her memory.  Saturday’s matinee performance included a gathering of some of Purchase’s friends & family in her honour.

When I think of Peter Pan (any version) a few things come to mind:

  • The applause for Tinkerbell
  • Boys who don’t or won’t grow up
  • Adolescence and glimmers of incipient sexuality
  • Glimpses of material for psycho-analysis
Dodsley and Rodic

Dodsley and Rodic in earlier madcap incarnations

I think Lukac & company –David Dodsley, Colin Doyle, and Milosh Rodic—do Purchase and Barrie proud.  If you believe in theatrical magic, you don’t need the elaborate training wheels of gigantic sets & projections to see fairies or crocodiles or children who can fly.  Dodsley, Doyle & Rodic bring complementary gifts to the project, at times resembling the most innocent incarnation of the Peter Pan we’ve come to know, at other times suggesting a post-modern deconstruction of all aspects of the story.  The flexibility of the approach allows you to have it all in the same economical package.

Talk is Free Theatre’s Parkdale Peter Pan runs until June 16th at Barrie’s Mady Centre for the Performing Arts.

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Contes pour enfants pas sages

Posted on May 30, 2012 by barczablog
Christopher Butterfield composer

Composer Christopher Butterfield (photo: Ken Straiton)

Christopher Butterfield’s Contes pour enfants pas sages premiered in Toronto recently adapting Jacques Prévert’s 1947 collection of stories of the same name.  It’s a cycle adapted as musical theatre in a collaboration between Continuum Music, Choir 21 led by David Fallis, and a few distinguished soloists.  In places it resembles a song cycle, although the forces are way too elaborate for the usual understanding of that form.  But then again Butterfield wrote in a very pragmatic mix of styles, never surrendering to the latent humour of the texts.  The score, like the performers, is completely dead-pan; like a good straight-man, it refuses to mug or wink at its audience, never pandering after laughs.  And so I stifled most of mine, seeking to respect the ambiguities of the text.

I may be under the spell of the French language –a tradition reminding me of those six composers sans pathos like Milhaud, Poulenc, and Honegger –but the dominant impression was Butterfield’s deft avoidance of  sentimentality.  The music’s surface shimmered inscrutably, challenging one to pay attention to the subtleties of the text & the performances.  Butterfield’s adaptation was decidedly sophisticated, and while invoking the child in all of us, not really for children: at least not young ones.   A casual parent wandering in might have wanted to cover their babes’ eyes, yet I think on the whole that Butterfield’s  & Prevert’s hearts are in the right places, in that curiously misanthropic place of a Jonathan Swift or a Saint Exupery, siding with animals while embarrassed at the behaviour of our fellow humans.  These are fashioned as cautionary tales, mostly too silly to be genuinely scary, and as I mentioned, avoiding excessive pathos.  Animals and humans meet, speak to one another in the whimsical space of children’s literature, and as often as not die or kill one another.

Butterfield walks in the footsteps of giants.  My first impression may seem narrow-minded, but I thought of smaller-scale works such as Ravel’s Mother Goose or Debussy’s Children’s Corner Suite, thinking that the large-scale forces assembled could overwhelm the children’s stories. But it’s a new century. Butterfield isn’t cowed by influence nor what’s come before, only seeking to follow his own voice, occasionally tonal, sometimes in other mixes of tonalities that eluded my easy grasp (or descriptive classification).  Even in this small space at 918 Bathurst, the sounds and the presence of all the performers was understated, I suspect largely due to David Fallis’ steadying presence at the helm of Choir 21.  In truth there seemed to be a wonderfully collaborative spirit at work, as several different artists conducted at different times, and so I don’t really know where to give credit for the subtlety & balance, except perhaps with Butterfield himself.

And speaking of giant footsteps, Butterfield’s program note has some remarkable echoes.  Having spoken of his preference for setting nonsense poetry or experimental writing to music, he went on to say …

“I feel the same way about setting a foreign language.  I will never completely understand French cadence, let alone nuance, but perhaps my lack of fluency allows me to create an unlikely set of associations, in which the music will never exactly illustrate the text, and so allow for a more open experience”

Surely this respectful approach to the text frees the listener to make their own sense of the performances.  I’m reminded of composers such as Satie & Glass, who in various ways accompany text with cool surfaces, leaving the interpretation to the audience: which isn’t to say that Butterfield is a minimalist.  That “open experience” he spoke of is something less determined than the more Wagnerian approach we sometimes find in late romantic music, reminding me of the “open” of Eco’s The Open Work.  I’m much happier with Butterfield’s coolness, an openness conducive to deep irony & ambiguity, and a very inclusive and accessible approach.

Butterfield was ably abetted by such talented performers as cellist Paul Widner—achingly beautiful last week in his cello continuo role, from the Four Seasons Centre  orchestra pit in Semele—in a very different kind of repertoire tonight.  Another Butterfield, namely Christopher’s brother Benjamin sparkled in several of the songs, wonderfully tuneful and especially authoritative in keeping a blank expression on his usually smiley face (which I saw grinning before the show as we chuckled at the spell-check inspired signage outside, advertising “Contest pour…”  rather than “Contes pour…” in the work’s title).    The talented performers of Continuum Contemporary Music (Anne Thompson, Max Christie, Carol Lynn Fujino, Paurent Philippe, Ryan Scott as well as Widner) jumped into the fray several times, not just as instrumentalists, but in various dramatic roles that added additional layers to Butterfield’s whimsical texture.

I’d like to hear it again.

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