Ionarts-at-Large: "Julian Rachlin & Friends" in Dubrovnik" 2

Warning: Satire!

“THE MUSIC CRITIC” by Aleksey Igudesman is a concept that depends and thrives on scathing reviews and pieces of criticism through the ages—articles never afraid of vicious hyperbole, definitive derision, personal attacks, and utter irreverence. Naturally that inspired me not so much to write an actual review about this performance-concert, but to try—hard as I can—my hand at the ‘ludicrously nasty’ myself. Let’s see if I can even begin to match the poisonousness from quills past. Here we go:

"The Music Critic" was the much vaunted, looked-forward-to, and fawned-about highlight of the 10^th Julian Rachlin and Friends Festival in Dubrovnik. Tellingly the reason for the anticipation and buzz had little to do with music; John Malkovich was to read (but primarily: be) there. His presence alone turned reasonable adults into giddy groupies and whether, what, or how he performed was a marginal point at best.

The concept by Aleksey Igudesman, a young man who strikes us as eager to combine his modest musical and reasonable comedic talent into a sort of latter-day Victor Borge, had the famed actor read scathing reviews of famous compositions from roughly the time they were first heard. The opening shot was Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata, played by Julian Rachlin—who, the more he plays the viola, sounds ever more like a violist... albeit only when playing the violin—with contemporary reviews from Paris, London, Leipzig poking at the maestro's seriousness. That the performance sounded as if it intended to inspire reviews for future sequels of "The Music Critic" was a delicious, undoubtedly entertaining, irony.

Could Rachlin be spared blame by considering his accompanist (surely more a 'Friend' of the organizer than the composer)? Who is this Nikabaro Nat who struggled so endearingly, with such aching sincerity just to hit the right notes, that he seemed to forget that music is more than the digital act of depressing a key by half an inch or so. Judging by the piano parts in Beethoven and Brahms, the best course of action for this young man would be to go back to secretarial school and take an extra large bottle of whiteout.

Or what help is it to laugh heartily at the ‘ignorance’ of Brahms-bashers when the corresponding performance by cellist Andris von Bodrio was such a treacly trickle of emaciated wrong notes? Is it possible to tune one’s instrument to a major syrupy key? At least having a whole lot fewer buttons to press per minute notably inspired Mr. Nat’s performance—most enjoyable in the pianissimo passages which made it mercifully difficult to hear him at all.

And of course not even the most daring (which sadly doesn’t equal ‘successful’) performance of Prokofiev’s op.115 Sonata (a difficult work even in the hands of a good violinist) or Julian Rachlin’s affected laughter at overly excited chatroom ‘criticism’ that the writers dug up on him could completely mask the fact that these ad hominems (the anti semitism excepted) were rather on in substance.

Of course all that does not make Julian Rachlin a bad musician. The very fact that he hosts a festival where he invites performers every one of which keenly heightens our awareness of his mediocrity shows us a great musician beneath the modest violinist. Perhaps the audience-response of the ladies’ sitting around me was telling: On the left, one of them unblinkingly filed her nails during the Prokofiev; Ravel inspired her to take off her Velcro fastened sandals. To my right, another checked her iPhone in the Debussy. Yet another lady fanned herself incessantly with a loudly clicking, cheap plastic fan. And in front of me, one insisted on her partner unpacking a sandwich from a crinkly hard plastic bag. Enchantment at work... not.

In the pizzicato movement of the Ravel String Quartet the players made the most ridiculous facial expressions and contortions along with the music, which was particularly silly with second violinist Marelia Jurik-Taiz, whose face looks unfortunate enough in ‘neutral’, but when in action gets contorted to the shape of a particularly unfortunate bird specimen that hit the window of a fast approaching truck. Imagine Nadia Salerno Sonnenberg’s ugly step-sister and you’re half way there. Almost as horrid as these outrageous ad hominems against critics of the past, anyway.

The criticism of Schuman read by Malkovich was then extended by the players in an apt demonstration of how his music is deficient to the extend that it really does need a competent performance to transport any of its beauty. One wonderful violist—oh, the irony—does not an enjoyable Piano Quartet make. Though, to be fair, this was also the work that most showed that Mr. Nat practiced at least one of the works on his plate. Had he typed the Schumann script on a Remington, it would at least have contained all the right letters and the vast majority of them in the correct order, to boot.

And the star of the performance? John Malkovich is a piece of work alright. His delivery was haphazardly between scripted and impromptu, as if he himself could not decide whether to go for casual, personalized delivery or a reading. Badly aged and visibly tempted by the hollow shtick that, if only you’re famous enough, seems to substitute for substance, he appeared in a ruffled (!) orange pattern shirt hanging loosely over his jeans to conceal the growing gut. He proved that what would normally be considered affected idiocy by any no-name actor is suddenly lifted to the plane of wildly amusing, daring genius. His slovenly appearance similarly underscored that trend of simply not giving a shit being the new ‘casual cool’.

When it came to reading a review about himself, a particularly ridiculous, overly excited hatched job from a theater director-cum-critic in Istanbul, he suddenly woke up and performed, as if suddenly roused from his trademark lethargy. Unfortunately that review is so bad that it simply didn’t merit the attention, the lengths to which Malkovich went to further ridicule the ridiculous. Hyperbole upon hyperbole is like adding cream upon custard pies… it delights those of simple taste but must be an insult to the discriminating palate. Who could have ever expected such lack of sophistication from an actor appearing in cineastic masterpieces like “Transformers 3” and “Jonah Hex”?

If this should sound too negative, it ought to be mentioned that the night wasn’t without a laugh or two escaping from otherwise painfully clenched teeth. But the pervading sense of observing a jerk-circle telling each other, via ‘ridiculous’ criticism, how wonderful, how talented, how beautifu they are, was never threatened even by brief, incidental spurts of talent.

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