Some Thoughts on the Washington Opera

The Washington Opera has recently announced that it will now be known as the Washington National Opera (see the company's press release from February 25). In light of that decision, we offer the following reviews of two of the company's productions from earlier this season.

Holy Leaden Joke, Batman! The Opening Night of the Washington Opera 2003/04 Season On September 6, 2003, the Washington Opera opened the season with a production of Die Fledermaus (The bat), Johann Strauss, Jr.'s lighthearted operetta that is a perennial favorite for New Year's in Austria and Germany. With its wit and memorable waltz music, it is, along with Der Zigeunerbaron (The gypsy king), the only of his operettas that has stood the test of time. The Washington Opera production, however, did not necessarily affirm this view. This work, which has to rely as much on its wit in the spoken dialogue as it does on the music, can be an utter success amid amiable silliness, or rather a flop. Saturday's efforts came closer to the latter than the former, despite wonderful singing by the principals, June Anderson as a radiating Rosalinde; Wolfgang Brendel as a charming, if overacting Eisenstein; Peter Edelmann as a Dr. Falke in the tradition of the great Walter Berry; the Washington Opera's Jesús Garcia as the funny, over-the-top tenor Alfred; John Del Carlo as prison director Frank; and Hoo-Ryoung Hwang, whose singing clearly outshone her acting as chambermaid Adele. (Mistakenly, Maki Mori was claimed to have sung that role on the Washington Opera Web site and the review in the Washington Post.) The highlight however, was a series of mostly well-chosen and well-performed guest appearances within the operetta's staged banquet. Plácido Domingo performed Spanish favorites of his, including a tango that hardly suited his no-longer lithe body and Franz Lehar's "Dein ist mein ganzes Herz" (Yours is my entire heart) from the opera The Land of Smiles—which is somewhat of a tradition to present within this work. There was also some wonderful ballet dancing by American Ballet Theatre principals Gillian Murphy and Ethan Steiffel of Center Stage fame (a corny but well-danced Hollywood flick about ballet), superb singing by young Argentinian soprano Virginia Tola who sung an excerpt from Berlioz's Roméo et Juliette during the dress rehearsal on Thursday and was glorious in her performance of a zarzuela and a following duet with Maestro Domingo himself. The presence of several ambassadors and the Supreme Court Justices Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Anthony Kennedy, and Stephen Breyer added a little extra glitz to the occasion. If only the evening had ended there, the audience may well have been left with utterly positive impressions. Alas, the third act was to follow, and other than Garcia's charming self-mocking acting, it had little to nothing to offer that could possibly have ameliorated the comical travesty that was Jason Graae as the permanently drunken jailor Frosch (frog). Potentially one of the funniest roles in the world of opera—not requiring any singing—one can get away with much slapstick and old jokes, so long as a caustic wit strikes through. Not so with Jason Graae. His material was of the worst kind: his character mutated to "Frosch, the fairy jailor clown." In a string of tasteless jokes, one more leaden than the other, he tried to elicit laughter that could not have been rooted in much else than kindness on the part of the audience. Though the worst of the bad jokes had fortunately been cut between the dress rehearsal and the premiere (including a sticky, criminally flat intern joke that Thursday's sparse crowd reacted to with disturbed oohs) it was still an embarrassing and hackneyed performance that certainly had not only the German/Austrian contingent of the audience, used to Viennese productions, cringing. One must hope that Austria's first lady, present and presented in the audience, did not understand English well enough to realize how truly bad—Mylanta jokes and all—it was. It left a bad taste in one's mouth that all the fake champagne on stage could not wash down. Considering that much of the improvement from dress rehearsal to premiere was due to the extraordinary performances of the guest stars—few if any of whom will appear in consequent performances—it remains a very unrecommendable evening out. I suggest instead—and for a fraction of the cost—a good recording of Die Fledermaus (Karajan's 1960 mono version, live at the Wiener Staatsoper, on RCA would be nice) to be played in the background and a good bottle of (real) champagne for a nice and far more enjoyable evening at home. Die Fledermaus (recorded by Karajan live, in 1960) Available at Amazon

The Collusion of Incompetence:
Die Walküre at the Washington Opera

(November 8, 2003)

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If a major opera house's schlock is hailed as the pinnacle of operatic achievement in the local newspaper, it is almost bound to be the unbeatable combination of the Washington Opera and its congenial partner in crime, the Washington Post. Since the Washington Post could legitimately be considered the nation's second-best newspaper, some people make the erroneous deduction that this is at the same time a statement about its absolute quality. The Post's journalism—in style always, in substance often—has a way of proving that wrong. If you ask me, especially when it comes to covering art.

The Washington Opera in turn is an often struggling (but on a higher level than many opera houses in this country) and commercialized mid-size troupe, capable of very decent opera but not often fulfilling the expectations it has of itself. To simplify, the singing is usually good or even outstanding, the guest stars impressive, but the rest of the company lags all too much behind. The orchestra has much improved under Heinz Fricke, but it has still far, far to go. And it is too small by half or more. The supporting cast is between OK and god-awful. The choir does its job and never more; the dancers are nothing short of painful to watch. But worst of all (though the dancers really are terrible) is the staging at the Washington Opera, which would fail to spark excitement in my grandmother. Put the qualities of these two much revered D.C. institutions together, and you get the Post's review of Die Walküre at the DAR Constitution Hall.

In his article ("A Breathtaking Ride With 'Die Walkure': Placido Domingo Leads a Divine Cast to Wagnerian Heights," on November 7, 2003), Tim page reviewed this "sensational production," words that claim title and caption next to a picture of Plácido Domingo. Gushing with giddy excitement, Page goes all the way out in the first sentence:

The Washington Opera's new production of Wagner's Die Walkure which received its first performance at DAR Constitution Hall between monsoons Wednesday night, may be the best thing this company has ever done.

I am torn between agreeing (it would say legions about the Washington Opera but nothing about the quality of Die Walküre) and wishing that it could not possibly be true. Foremost I ask myself: Where was Tim Page? Presumably at the premiere, and perhaps the universe adapted different laws for that performance. Perhaps Mr. Page was asked by the company to be kind? (It would not be the first time that the Post has willingly performed as the mainstay for a lackluster production of the opera house.) Most likely we just disagree on what "sensational opera" means and entails, and if in fact this one was as good as it gets in town (without being a sour assessment of the limits in Washington), he may not have had truly outstanding opera to compare it to for a while. (I also wonder why the Post does not spell the opera as it should be, but that's the least important detail.) If this sounds like Die Walküre was a total disaster, I need to clarify: it wasn't the performance per se that was borderline appalling, it was the combination of the trite, well-done, but never exciting, lukewarm opera combined with ridiculous hyperbole in the paper that got me rattled.

Die Walküre was fine. The orchestra played as decently as one can expect it to do. Thin, lacking in force, form, cohesion, and phrasing, but never outright bad or off. The singing (adjusted for the singers saving their best for the premiere) ranged from notable to delightful. The acoustics were, as usual at the DAR hall, a nightmare. The staging was subpar and the costumes a crashing bore to anyone who knows anything about Wagner performances of the last 40 years or so.

But one by one: the Post has first honors go to (surprise!) Plácido Domingo. I'd like to say that Mr. Domingo is a boon to D.C.—he has attracted major talent to the Washington Opera, has made a few slightly daring productions possible (El Cid comes to mind), has a most professional, friendly, and truly humble (for a man of his stature, no small achievement!) demeanor. He is an artist who continues to work on several aspects of his art, still. Like his pronunciation. This, however, does not mean that Domingo continues "to surpass [himself], again and again, as [he] grows older." By stature, fame, and achievement I do think that Domingo may well be the greatest active tenor in opera, but "the mixture of passion and intelligence [...] which he employs [...]" is decidedly not "unrivaled in the opera world today."

But what got a loud "What?" out of me upon first reading the review was this: "Placido Domingo is not only a great singer but a great actor as well [...]" Huh? Plácido Domingo's "acting"—if one can call it that—is painful to watch. It is extraordinarily bad. If he does not sing, it exhausts itself in empty gestures, slow-motion miming. Theatrical plunk and open-ended, purposeless limb extension is all there is. Surely, he's not alone in that in the opera world, but to call him a great actor is almost insultingly off the mark. (For a truly great actor/singer, albeit in a different repertoire, see Bryn Terfel live some time!) Domingo's singing, on a happier note, is still remarkable, if on its way out. The strain that Tim Page heard was audible at the dress rehearsal already. The role of Siegmund is about as far as Domingo's voice can make it on stage. His pronunciation has improved over the years (judging from recordings) but is barely adequate and would hardly garner much approval from a German-speaking audience.

He performed with Anja Kampe, as Sieglinde, who gave her company debut and a very good one at that. I bemoaned her diction though, and the German native she is, it was a shame that I had the utmost trouble understanding her words. Her singing was warm and well-delivered, part of a solid performance if perhaps not "the next Glenn Gould" when it comes to "North-American-debut-made-in-Washington-fame" for Beltway residents to be proud of.

On Alan Held, Mr. Page and I can happily agree. Page's writing that his "acting and singing are lithe and plausible" I can only second. In fact, over the course of four hours, I appreciated and liked Mr. Held more and more. In the end I was convinced to have seen and heard a wonderful bass and a good and very potent(ial) Wotan. A singer with subtlety as part of his repertoire, with great pronunciation and diction (I could understand virtually every word he phrased), Alan Held left me with my most favorable impression of that night.

Next to Held was his wife, or rather, Wotan's wife, Fricka. Fricka is to the Gods in Der Ring what Yoko Ono was to the Beatles. She seems irrational and bitter, vengeful even, but is actually the calm focus point of the world of the gods: the last instance of morality, without which the world order of the gods would only have crumbled earlier. The singer behind this figure was Elena Zaremba. I had never imagined her as a Fricka but have liked her very much ever since seeing her as Carmen in Munich. (She was also the saving grace as a vocally enticing Ulrica in an otherwise rather dreadful 2002 Washington Opera Un Ballo in Maschera.) Her Fricka was downright outstanding. She held back across the board at the dress rehearsal, but part of the impression she left is also her singing Wagner, rather than yelling it. Not exactly sotto voce, but not too far away from it either, she never forces her voice to be bigger than it actually is. Her performance gave the production a value on a psychological level that came despite, rather than because, of the direction.

Linda Watson—uninjured still at that point—was pale. She didn't really sing at the rehearsal, so I reserve my judgment on her vocal ability. But acting, pronunciation, and surefootedness could all be improved upon, it seemed. Kurt Rydl as Hunding neither impressed nor disappointed me. He was well regarded with applause from the sparse crowd though.

The Valkyries were simply dreadful. Vulgar, pointless, affectedly juvenile in pathetic outfits (more of that later), and vocally a mixed bag, I shall refrain from inflicting pain by naming them. Aside, I need reserve my poison for Francesca Zambello, Peter J. Davison, and Anita Yavich, the three culprits guilty of direction, sets, and costumes, respectively. In his description in the Post ("Matrix-Night at the local S&M bar—you've seen it all if you've ever been to the opera in Germany"), Mr. Page is dead on. The conclusion, however, is different from mine. First, not only was the staging miles (rather, decades) away from being even slightly novel, it was an old idea badly rehashed. If you've wondered how three or four stereotypes (about Wagner, Valkyries, Wagner stagings, etc.) superimposed onto each other might look, you would have had your chance to get the satisfactory answer courtesy of Brünnhilde, Waltraute, Gerhilde, Helmwige, Schwertleite, Ortlinde, Siegrune, Grimgerde, and Rossweisse.

But in order to balance the bit of insight in one part of the Post out, Dan Via, "special to The Washington Post," gets his say about it also. "[Anita] Yavich's costumes draw inspiration from modern manifestations of these impulses: industrial structures such as oil derricks, bridges, and scaffolding." Ah-hum. Mme. Yavich is quoted: "I thought it would be a great metaphor for how we try to control everything, but at the same time, nature is completely uncontrollable. . . . If you say yes to a Valkyrie, that means you will die and follow them," Yavich explains. "What do these women have to look like to make these guys want to go? I think they have to look very attractive but, at the same time, look very strong." Admirable thoughts. Just one small detail would be the fact that if the Valkyries pick you up, you are already dead.

R.Wagner, Der Ring des Nibelungen, Karl Böhm / Bayreuth FO (1966–67) Philips

The whole Valkyrie ordeal, where the shortcomings of the production were most obvious, was utterly unenjoyable. To present the ultraconservative Washington audience as modern that which was dusty in the 80s—and then badly done on top of it—was a coup that somehow failed to excite me. And just why did the scenery look so familiar? Ah, yes, of course: it was the Fidelio staging regurgitated in black! Responsible then: Zambello, Davison, and Yavich. (It needs to be said that it worked much better inFidelio, which was a reasonably fine production.) Every element in Fidelio had its copied part in Die Walküre, just a bit darker and more crooked. The industrial stagedrop, the flat extension of the stage with cut-outs—be it Florestan's cell or Brünnhilde's fiery resting place—it was entirely devoid of new ideas.

It would have been just another performance at the Washington Opera, and not a particularly good one, had not Fricka, alias Elena, and Wotan, alias Alan, held it together. Both added something to already rather good singing and rescued otherwise sordid acting. The Post concludes, "Get a ticket immediately" (?!). Is this perhaps necessary encouragement so that the Washington audience would not pass on the last performance at the inept DAR Constitution Hall and instead hold out for the return to the Kennedy center? I'd say: save up for a trip to Munich, Berlin, or (if you have eight years' worth of patience) Bayreuth to see how it's really done. Don't expect much from future Wagner performances in this town. Immediate Karl Böhm antidote recommended.

Last Post on The Passion, I Promise

So, I finally saw Mel Gibson's much maligned film The Passion of the Christ on Monday, which should allow me to put the last piece in the puzzle of the Ionarts commentary on the movie. The movie is uneven and definitely has some flaws, but most of the criticism of the movie, I can now say with informed conviction, has been terribly misguided. First, as to the question of antisemitism, The Passion follows quite literally the narrative of the Gospels in the matter of why Jesus was betrayed: one section of the Temple elite accuses Jesus of blasphemy, not without reason, considering that he did claim to be God's son. The movie shows Jews from all walks of life, Jesus and his followers, common folk, and members of the council of Temple priests, both those who want Jesus condemned and those who try to stop it. To say that it shows all Jews in a negative light, or that it has anything to say about Jews in our own time, is absurd.

Read the other Ionarts posts on The Passion: · Mel Gibson (August 7, 2003), on seeing Mel Gibson at the Knights of Columbus conference, where he showed some clips of the movie · The Passion (December 26, 2003), on the reports of the Pope's private viewing of The Passion · La Passion du Christ: Violence and Art History (February 29, 2004), on understanding the violence in the movie in the context of art history, especially Caravaggio and Grünewald · More Thoughts on the Passion (March 5, 2004), with more on Grünewald's crucifixion scene in the Isenheim Altarpiece · What's the Beef with The Passion?, by Jens Laurson (March 17, 2004), an atheist's view and an excellent review of the wide-ranging commentary on the movie in the media · The Passion Opens in France (March 31, 2004), and for another view on how the movie was received in Europe, see Heather Mathews at Hem|mungen, 'Passion' starts in Germany, March 21

Neither are the Romans shown at all positively. Although Pontius Pilate is depicted in the Gospels as being reluctant to crucify Jesus, historians have shown that the Roman rulers of Jerusalem were hardly lenient or unwilling to punish criminals in the worst way. He is a fascinating character in the Gospels, and many have speculated about his reasons for killing Jesus and the mysterious dream of his wife (Matthew 27:19), from pseudepigrapha in the early Christian centuries to a poem by Charlotte Brontë, Pilate's Wife's Dream, published in 1846. I would tend to agree with the narrator of the latter work:

I do not weep for Pilate—who could prove
Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway
No prayer can soften, no appeal can move;
Who tramples hearts as others trample clay,
Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread,
That might stir up reprisal in the dead.

Pilate comes across in the movie pretty much as he does in the Gospels, but the other Romans are presented far less favorably, from the sadists who carry out the scourging to the drunkards who crown Jesus with thorns, drive him mercilessly to Calgary Calvary [thanks to Seth for catching this typo], and carry out the horrible sentence. I'm surprised that Romans are not up in arms about this slanderous depiction.

Next, the movie has been decried as too violent, a charge which strikes me as ridiculous in terms of where we are at this point with violence in movies. As I tried to show in previous posts on this subject, Christian artists have been focusing on Jesus's violent death for centuries (see posts in the inset at right), showing his suffering in brutal detail and with the most gruesome and graphic means. This is an artistic manifestation of the devotional practice of sharing in that suffering, seen in the prayers known as the Stations of the Cross and praying before altarpieces and other works of art, by which people are able to join their own suffering in life with the suffering of Christ. I do not see that there is any good reason, as some critics have written, that Gibson should not have made a movie only on this part of Jesus's life or that he should have shown the death only in the context of Jesus's ministry and resurrection. Artists have been focusing exclusively on Christ's suffering and death that for centuries.

Jesus of Nazareth (1977) Available at Amazon

If you want to see a cinematic representation of the whole life of Jesus, the best movie on that subject, in my opinion, is still Franco Zeffirelli's 6-hour miniseries Jesus of Nazareth, made for television in 1977, with Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange) given top billing for the screenplay. The scourging, carrying of the cross, and crucifixion are still pretty horrible to watch in that version, too. What happened to Jesus was not a cakewalk. However, because it was for television, the amount of blood and gore is nowhere near what Gibson shows in The Passion, with the result that The Passion is a much more realistic portrayal. (Having just rewatched Zeffirelli's movie to give myself some perspective on Gibson's film, the same section of material, from the agony in the garden to the crucifixion, takes about 90 minutes, which Gibson expands to only a little over two hours, with significant flashbacks to the last supper and other earlier scenes.) In fact, I suspect that Gibson has studied Zeffirelli's movie closely: his Jesus (James Caviezel) has a look similar to Zeffirelli's Robert Powell. The same is true of Gibson's Virgin Mary (Maia Morgenstern), although she cannot possibly hold a candle to Zeffirelli's Olivia Hussey, who will be forever the Virgin Mary in my mind.

The real problems with the movie, which have not been much criticized in the mainstream media, are the extra-Biblical elements, which belie Gibson's claim that he has tried to present the story directly as it is told in the Gospels. The character of the devil adds nothing to the narrative, in my opinion, and is responsible for one of the moments when I actually laughed during the movie. The devil is portrayed, I guess, as male but is played by a woman, Rosalinda Celentano. She is dressed similarly to Mary, Jesus's mother, and at the point in question, carries a baby-like dwarf in mockery of her. This was so ridiculous that it made me laugh, which is surely not the reaction one should have in the worst part of the scourging. During the crucifixion, a crow pecks out the eye of one of the thieves dying with Jesus, apparently as retribution for his mockery of Jesus's suffering. This was such a gratuitously grotesque moment that it also made me laugh, and there was just no reason to include it in the movie. One other moment seemed silly, at the moment of Jesus's passing, Gibson gives us a view from the sky high over Calvary, and we follow a raindrop as it splashes noisily to the ground at the foot of the cross. A friend told me he heard it was supposed to be God's tear. If that is true, then this was more egregious than just simply an unnecessary bit of cinematic trickery, as was the reverse overhead shot of the devil screaming in agony because of the crucifixion. All cinematic retellings of any story, including the Gospels, are likely to involve the personal views and quirks of their directors, screenwriters, producers, actors. These were the parts of the movie, for me, where Mel Gibson got in the way of the story, not his attempt to show what is probably a true enough depiction of the horror of what it meant to be scourged and crucified by the Roman army in Palestine.

Scale This! Pollini Plays Chopin

Études, op. 10 and op. 25 F.Chopin M.Pollini DG (1972)

Maurizio Pollini, Chopin Boxed Set with Études Polonaises Preludes, Études Polonaises Preludes, and Études Polonaises Preludes DG

More than 30 years after this recording was made, I finally discovered Maurizio Pollini's version of the Chopin Études, op. 10 and op. 25 (Deutsche Gramophone, 1972) for myself. Wow! Music intended to improve specific technical skills for players who seemingly don't need it, Chopin's two collections of twelve etudes each go farther beyond a mere practice manual than any etudes up until that point (notably those of Beethoven's pupil Czerny, who also gets a nod from Debussy in his Twelve Études). They are, not the least in Pollini's hands, works that stand on their own.

When the Études, op. 10, came out, they were rightly considered Chopin's first masterpiece and manifested Chopin as one of the true "Große Kleinmeister" (great masters of little things), a phrase that led the immortal Horowitz (speaking about Domenico Scarlatti, I think) to the remark that that was at any rate preferable than a "Kleiner Großmeister."

With the close, dry, and almost sharp DG sound—perhaps not as true to the piano sound as others, like the masterful Ashkenazy recording—furthering the pristine, crystalline sound of Pollini's playing, the result is a blazing entry in the two first Allegro etudes in C major and A minor. Breakneck-speed scales sweep you off your feet and the almost eerie surefingeredness of Pollini makes for incredible music. This is, by all means, an account of the Études that shows technical brilliance, diamondlike in perfection but also edging towards the cool (though never uninvolved) and less emotional end of the interpretive spectrum. Again, Ashkenazy is the best example for the more felt, sensitive way of playing these pieces.

No velvet with Pollini, though. This is Chopin for lovers of Nietzschean scales, mountaintops with cold air. Pollini affords the listener no rest, but with his playing, I would think that few people, even if they ultimately prefer their Chopin a bit cushier, would want to rest at any point. As always, the most enjoyment can be drawn from the recording when listening at high volume (turn it down a little if you just listened to the Ashkenazy, or else you might have to chat with your local police officer, courtesy of your neighbor) through headphones or completely undisturbed, perhaps in the dark, at night—in bed or a comfortable chair, eyes closed. There is, in this work and interpretation, little danger of falling asleep.

Etudes, like op. 25, no. 5, in E minor, are vivace, indeed. Spirited but not quite sprightly, Pollini steps over alleged difficulties with ease and make nonsense of the friendly polemics that Ludwig Rellstab poured out over the Études when they came out: "Those with crooked fingers will have them bent straight by these Études, but whoever has straight ones must stay away from them." The lento etudes, of which there are just two and a half, might be considered to suffer from Pollini's approach, but they too are endowed with an inflection that is at the very least interesting and furthermore refreshing in their steely touch. It never sounds as though a lack of willingness or even ability may be the cause for their presentation, but rather choice. A choice that may not be for everyone, but of the many accounts of the Études, this is one that deserves to be in every library. As I happily found out, it's never too late for that.


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Easter Wishes

This is a brief excerpt of the Troparia for the Lumen Christi, which we sing at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, in a plainchant setting by Leo Nestor, every year at the Easter Vigil as the paschal candle is brought into the darkened church. The texts are translations of 2nd-century writings by Melito of Sardis and Clement of Alexandria.

Born as a son, led like a lamb,
Sacrificed like a sheep, buried as a man,
He rises from the dead as God,
Being by nature both God and man.

He is the judge of all things:
When he judges, he is law; when he teaches, word;
When he saves, grace; when he begets, father;
When he is begotten, son; when he suffers, lamb;
When he is buried, man; when he rises, God.

Come, then, all you races of humankind, whom sin has saturated,
And receive the forgiveness of sin.
For it is I who am your forgiveness; I, the saving pasch;
I, the lamb, sacrificed for you; I, your purification; I, your life;
I, your resurrection; I, your light; I, your salvation; I, your king!
It is I who bring you to the heights of heaven:
It is I who shall raise you up here on earth.
I will show you the eternal father, I will raise you with my right hand.

These remarkable texts lead into the proclamation of the Easter Exultet, the ancient chant that was intoned in the Middle Ages from ornately decorated scrolls. When I hear this music, only then do I know it's Easter.

Best wishes for joy in the Easter season!

Image at right:
The Risen Christ, detail from the Isenheim Altarpiece (c.1515), by Matthias Grünewald

Cultural News Summary

Here are some interesting things read in French papers this week:

Marie-Douce Albert et Éric Biétry-Rivierre report (Quatre projets audacieux pour les Halles [Four audacious projects for Les Halles], April 8) in Le Figaro on the plans in Paris to renovate the neighborhood of Les Halles, both above and below ground. If you click on the Diaporama link, you can see the models proposed by the four teams.

This year is the 300th anniversary of the death of French Baroque composer Marc-Antoine Charpentier. Marie-Aude Roux ("Te Deum" pour Charpentier, April 9) reports in Le Monde on the attempts by French musicologists to revive his music. Many Europeans would recognize the first eight bars of Charpentier's Te deum (H. 146), she says, because it has long been played on Eurovision as the introduction to special sports, political, or cultural events. See also her other article on Charpentier, Une égale maîtrise dans tous les genres (An equal mastery in all genres, April 9, in Le Monde), and the official Charpentier Web site from the French government's Ministry of Culture (see the Ionarts Proposal if you are like me and think we need a Department of Culture here in the United States).

In an article (La Bibliothèque nationale de France sèche ses livres victimes d'une inondation [French national library dries books damaged in flood], April 10) in Le Monde, Charlotte Collonge reported on a flood on April 7 caused by a malfunctioning fire alarm system on the 13th floor of the northwest tower, the "Tower of times," at the new Tolbiac building. Water flowed all the way down the stacks to the ninth floor, causing water damage to more than 1500 books and minor humidity damage to almost another 10,000. That part of the stacks contains mostly 19th- and 20th-century books, works of history, religion, and theology, with some rare pieces. Caroline Wiegandt, assistant general director of the library, is quoted as saying, "There is no irreparable damage to report. None of the reserve works, which are very precious, were affected." A big sigh of relief is in order, considering the sorts of documents the library owns. (The story was also covered by Ange-Dominique Bouzet, Sérieuse inondation à la BNF [Serious flood at the BNF], April 8, in Libération.)

There are two new exhibits on British painter Francis Bacon. The first is reviewed in Le Monde by Harry Bellet (Francis Bacon, la chair de la peinture [Francis Bacon, the flesh of painting], April 10): Francis Bacon und die Bildtradition (Francis Bacon and the painting tradition), at the Fondation Beyeler (in Basel, Switzerland) until June 20, juxtaposes a selection of Bacon's works with paintings by Titian, Velásquez, Rembrandt, Goya, Van Gogh, and Picasso. You can see a lot of the paintings in the show on their Flash site. Bellet's other review (Des papes, des morts et des autoportraits en série [Popes, the dead, and self-portraits in series], April 10, in Le Monde) deals with the second exhibit: Francis Bacon, le sacré et le profane (Francis Bacon, sacred and profane) at the Fondation Dina-Vierny—Musée Maillol in Paris until June 30. No images available for this one. Bellet quotes Michael Peppiatt, curator of this exposition, as saying, with a smile, "Thanks to the Beyeler, which snagged quite a few Bacons, I had to look for paintings that are less shown." The result, he adds, is "stunning because of the number of works, if not completely unknown, at least rarely seen."

Finally, Jean Pierrard writes (Premières taches [First spots], April 11) in Le Point about the new exhibit of some 240 paintings by Joan Miró (Joan Miró 1917-1934: La naissance du monde [The birth of the world]), at the Centre Pompidou until June 20. The Bande-Annonce link will take you to a Flash presentation of a mere 10 of the paintings in the exhibit. Better that than nothing, I guess.

Cubism & Music: Sound Murals at the National Gallery

No. 9, Nature morte espagnole (No. 9, Spanish Still Life), 1915

oil on canvas (detail, modified)

National Gallery of Art, Washington, gift of Katharine Graham

This is a review of the 2492nd concert at the National Gallery of Art, by the Cuarteto de Cuerdas de Bellas Artes, on April 4.

The ambassador didn't show up. Since the new Mexican Ambassador, Carlos de Icaza, has been in town only three weeks, it could well be that he had problems finding the way in time. Daylight saving time saw His Excellency's empty chair in a bright West Garden Court at a concert presented in honor of the exhibitions Courtly Art of the Ancient Maya and The Cubist Paintings of Diego Rivera: Memory, Politics, Place (at the National Gallery until July 25). More than a concert "in honor," it was a "part of" the exhibition. What the ambassador missed was a presentation of three 20th-century string quartets—repertoire off the beaten path—plus the always reasonably delightful Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

J.Haydn, The Six 'Haydn' String Quartets, Salomon String Quartet Hyperion

Speaking of the latter, his String Quartet in D minor, K. 421 (1783), was fluid and lucid, especially from first violinist Balbi Cotter. He and his colleagues—Viktoria Horti (violin), Matthew Schubring (viola), and Adolfo Ramos (cello)—moved Mozart along without pondering or attempting to make a musical statement beyond the sound itself. This also means that this second of Mozart's six "Haydn String Quartets," considered the most tragic of the half-dozen, didn't really come across as very tragic in the first movement (Allegro moderato). The somber second movement (Andante), too, might have been sad, but not tragic in the hands of the Mexican guest performers. Their light and airy tone suited Mozart quite well, even if it was quite different from the full, lush sound that many American string quartets prefer to elicit from Mozart or Haydn.

The whole affair, despite slight uncleanliness here and there, was so popular with the audience that they could not help clapping after each of those movements. That incident, which in Vienna, Austria, for example, would be punishable by death through piercingly cold, disdainful, and snobby looks alone, was—if anything—indicative of the different and fresh make-up of the crowd at the National Gallery that night, which, in turn, was—all clapper-happiness aside—a wonderful thing.

While the connection of the Mozart to the theme of the evening (if there was supposed to be one) continued to elude me, the first of the three 20th-century composers who followed had his moment. Manuel Enríquez (1926–1994) with his String Quartet no. 1 and especially a first movement titled Enérgico just had to be welcomed. And right into it they went. A wake-me-up introduction courtesy of this neoclassical one-time student of William Primrose, whom Stephen Ackert and the cellist of the night, Mr. Schubring (looking like the quintessential 70s intellectual musician), related to the Diego Rivera exhibition in the wonderfully informative program notes. Either, we are told, are "important mediations on self-identity and nationalism."

From his string quartet, however, I would not have guessed Manuel Enríquez to be a committed or distinctly neoclassical composer. His work—in the traditional, classical style of the sonata form—is so in structure, but not overtly so in its music. Two shifting musical plains in the opening gave the impression of extreme resonance and sound-blurring, which I, given the acoustics of the West Garden Court, erroneously attributed to the venue for a moment. Mme. Horti got to show her plentiful skill in this piece, in which all four members seemed significantly more comfortable than in the Mozart.

Two squeaky-shoed and heavy-footed audience members demonstrated their passion for 20th-century classical music by stomping out in the break after the first movement. The Cuarteto de Bellas Artes politely waited out this interruption and continued with the wispy second movement, Tranquilo. Whether the soft pizzicatos made it to the audience all the way in the back is doubtful. If not, the third movement (Festivo) surely did. The Cuarteto played with gusto and for a moment, I thought someone was tapping along with the fast dotted rhythms. I would have taken that as a positive sign of enthusiasm among what seemed a bit apathetic crowd, but I had erred anyway. So I focused on enjoying pizzicato runs among all four instruments instead. A rousing last burst led to notable applause.

With two 20th-century pieces still lurking in the second half of the concert, it was not entirely surprising that a good part of the crowd left. The rest, possibly including the arriving Mr. de Icaza (though I may have confused him with the Mexican Cultural Attaché, Aurelio Asiain, who has all too similar hair, lack thereof, and beard), were left with the very pleasing, waving El cenote sagrado (The Sacred Pool, 1984) by contemporary autodidact composer Hilario Sánchez de Carpio. This one-movement work, the notes told us, was his response to a visit to Chinucultic in Chiapas and thus represents the link to the second part of the exhibition, the East Building's Courtly Art of the Ancient Maya, also running until July 25. Though El cenote sagrado is quite different from the 27-year-older Enríquez piece, both works seemed to employ a musical vernacular familiar to me, without reminding me of any other particular composer's work. At times I thought to hear piano-like reflections from behind me, fitting the music perfectly and fittingly eerie.

The last composer of the night was Miklós Rósza, a native Hungarian who moved to Hollywood via Germany and France. His 1950 String Quartet, op. 22, was on the menu and tasted a little bit like Bartók, without the paprika. Structurally more interesting than the two younger pieces, it does not impress with uniqueness so much as the master-craftsmanship of modern classical music, from a time in which musical styles could hardly have differed more all at once.

Between Hans Pfitzner (Richard Strauss had just died) and Olivier Messiaen (just back from a Nazi POW camp), Igor Stravinsky (happily in America, composing), Aaron Copland, Arnold Schoenberg, Elliot Carter and Michael Tippet's first string quartets, or the sugary post-Romanticism of Ernst von Dohnányi's second piano concerto, Miklós Rósza may not have had the room or time to shine brightly. Knowing nothing about the composer's body of work, I can only say so much: his op. 22 string quartet very much deserves to be heard, especially in as lovely and dedicated a performance as given by the Cuarteto de Cuerdas de Bellas Artes.

A few exotica thrown into the second movement (probably the "Hungarian flavor" of the Scherzo in modo ungarese) and a Lento that is too long for its own good cumulate in the Allegro Feroce, which has notes of Shostakovich, even if it isn't as ferocious as either the name promises or the Russian composer would have had it. The program notes, read afterwards, go some way in explaining why Rósza and his work are unknown to me: he had been, after composing the film scores for epics like Ben-Hur, El Cid, and Quo Vadis, ignored as a serious composer. This delightful concert should have convinced the audience that we have ignored Mr. Rósza unjustly and at our own peril.

Art Commentary by Charles T. Downey Courtly Art of the Ancient Maya (at the National Gallery of Art until July 25) The only real deficiency in the art experiences available in the nation's capital is the absence of a major collection of antiquities and some areas of non-Western art, with the notable exceptions of the Freer and Sackler Galleries of Asian Art, the Museum of African Art, the new National Museum of the American Indian, and the Pre-Columbian collection at the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library. The latter museum has joined with several of the best collections of Mesoamerican art around the world to lend works for this remarkable new exhibit at the National Gallery of Art. I am not allowed to reproduce any images of the works shown in the exhibit, but you can see small images of many of them in this press list. (This exhibit and that dedicated to Diego Rivera are part of the festival ¡Viva Mexico!: Washington, D.C. Celebrates, which includes the concert reviewed here by Jens Laurson.) What is immediately striking when you examine the excellent examples of Mayan figurines, carved panels, throne backs, and other sculpture in this exhibit, all dating from the most advanced period of the ancient Maya civilization from 600 to 800 AD, is how these artists created works of much greater delicacy and realism than the best surviving examples from Europe in the same period. The most famous of these sculptures is shown in the exhibit's first room: the Portrait Head of Pakal, ruler of the city-state of Palenque (in present-day Mexico), a stunningly beautiful representation of Pakal as the youthful maize god, with a headdress of corn leaves (from the Museo Nacional de Antropología—INAH, in Mexico City). The exhibit is worth attending for this piece alone, in my opinion. Related sculptures are also quite beautiful, including the Maize God (from Temple 22 at Copan), the gorgeous jade mask in the likeness of the maize god from Calakmul (an object usually placed over the face of a king's corpse for the afterlife), and the striking Head of an Old Man from Toniná. Art, more than anything else, gives us a glimpse of cultures and people from the past. In this exhibit, you can see examples of the polished stone mosaic mirrors used by Maya rulers; a painted cylinder vessel showing a Maya ruler admiring himself in such a mirror, seemingly held by a dwarf; and a sculpted dwarf holding up such a mirror. You can see depictions of the Maya ballgame, which was a recreation of the game that the maize god fought with the gods of death each harvest season. When he lost, he was decapitated or harvested, and so the stakes of the earthly ballgame were often life or death. There are two figurines showing ballplayers (one and two, both from Jaina Island), showing men with the typical protective around the midsection and in a characteristic one-kneed pose, as well as a ballcourt marker (from Chiapas) that shows a ballplayer in that pose, apparently providing the best leverage to move the large ball of heavy rubber (the use of the hands was forbidden). Early historians of the Maya believed that they were a peaceful culture of sages and mathematicians, but more recently discovered art and other archeological evidence has contradicted that image. While the Maya were not as bloodthirsty as the Aztecs, who carried out a stunning number of human sacrifices, the art on exhibit here shows the bellicose side of the Maya city-states, as in the figurines of warriors (one and two, from Jaina Island); the terrifying blood-centered rituals and religious vision, as in the remarkable matched set of three carved panels, reunited in this exhibit, showing a Maya queen (Lady Xok) perforating her tongue with a barbed rope in a bloodletting ceremony (first panel), burning the paper that has caught the blood to conjure a vision of a terrifying serpent spirit (panel two), and wearing her court regalia (panel three); and their almost fetishistic way of torturing prisoners in their ritualized reenactments of battle victories, as in the recreation of the tomb paintings at Bonampak, made for the Bonampak Documentation Project at Yale, and the figurines of bound prisoners, which have a disturbing sadomasochistic side to them.

Art Commentary by Charles T. Downey: The Cubist Paintings of Diego Rivera: Memory, Politics, Place (until July 25) The other example of Mexican art on exhibit at the National Gallery is a small set of paintings by Diego Rivera. Most readers are probably familiar with Rivera's later work, especially the great murals involving socialist and Mexican folk symbolism. The most famous examples are Marriage of the Artistic Expression of the North and of the South (sometimes called Pan-American Unity) at the City College of San Francisco; the mural he began but was not allowed to finish, Man at the Crossroads, for the RCA Building at Rockefeller Center in New York; the murals for the New Workers School in New York, including Mussolini and Modern Industry; and something that I remember seeing first as a boy growing up in Michigan, the mural called Detroit Industry, or Man and Machine, 27 panels in a garden court at the Detroit Institute of Arts; but there are many others. What came as a surprise to me were Rivera's early experiments with Cubism, during the time he was studying art in the cities of Europe, thanks to a stipend from the Mexican government that he received after graduating from the national school of fine arts. The impetus for this exhibit was the National Gallery's acquisition of one of them, No. 9, Nature morte espagnole (No. 9, Spanish still life, from 1915), bequeathed by Katharine Graham, former owner of the Washington Post. In a single room on the top floor of the East Building, which happens to be at the exit from the Maya exhibit, about 20 of Rivera's other early paintings, many of them in the Cubist style, are on display. You can view images of all of them in this well-produced online version of the exhibit brochure. This time, the NGA has apparently heeded the Ionarts guidelines for exhibit Web sites, by making available this comprehensive set of images of the paintings in the show. Rivera studied in Madrid for two years, copying paintings in the Prado, and then he spent time studying art in Paris, London, and Belgium. After a short trip back to Mexico, he returned to Europe from 1912 to 1921, living most of that time in Paris. The big painting in the exhibit, shown prominently on the wall opposite the entrance, is the Retrato de Adolfo Best Maugard (Portrait of Adolfo Best Maugard, from 1913), loaned by the Museo Nacional de Arte in Mexico City. In style it is similar to the other large painting, En la fuente de Toledo (At the Fountain of Toledo, 1913) from the Museo Dolores Olmedo Patiño in Xochimilco, which is hanging on the wall just before you go into the exhibit. Before painting these works, Rivera had visited the city of Toledo with the subject of the portrait, who wrote later that the paintings of El Greco they had seen in Toledo were an influence on Rivera, which you can see in the colorful dramatic landscapes and the elongated, stylized figures. Other works show Rivera sketching in an analytic Cubist style (Naturaleza muerta española, or Spanish Still Life, 1914, from the Collection Museo Casa Diego Rivera), working in synthetic Cubist collage (Naturaleza muerta con botella, or Still Life with Carafe, 1914, owned by the Government of Veracruz), and borrowing the French props of Picasso's still lifes (Still Life with Balalaika, 1913, from the Bergen Kunstmuseum) and scenes of Paris (the beautiful Tour Eiffel, or Eiffel Tower, 1914, from a private collection in New York). What is more interesting is to see Rivera incorporate more individual elements into this adopted Cubist style, such as bright colors (La mujer del pozo, or The Woman at the Well, 1913, from the Museo Nacional de Arte in Mexico City) and revolutionary emblems (Portrait of Martín Luis Guzmán, 1915, owned by the Fundación Televisa in Mexico City). If you cannot make it to the National Gallery, take a look at this exhibit online.

Video Vault Discoveries

I am currently in the process of preparing a performance for The Fremont Centre Theatre's production of The Tangled Snarl and its sequel, Murder Me Once (Frank Somerano and John Rustan). The production, directed by Jim Reynolds (Abe Carver on Days of our Lives), is a 40s detective noir parody. I play a character named "Spuds" Idaho, if that is any indication of the tone of the piece. As part of my research, I have been hunting down noir classics and documentaries on the subject. I was amazed to find how depleted and wanting Amazon, Netflix, and other resources are on the subject. While, yes, Casablanca, The Big Sleep, and Key Largo are one click away, I had a much more difficult time finding films that were deemed classics by the very documentaries that these search engines had available. (Nothing more frustrating than having a noir "expert" praise "definitive" genre films that aren't in print: where’s a Scorsese restoration when you need it?)

More information on Eddie Brandt's Saturday Matinee: Laura Randall, Which film remake is next? Eddie Brandt knows, in The Christian Science Monitor (December 12, 2003) List of Top Film Noir Films (from Internet Movie Database) Film Noir: Danger & Despair Film Noir: An Introduction Le Festival du Film Policier de Cognac (festival dedicated to the polar, or film noir) Cinetrix reviews The Ladykillers (April 5)

Luckily, I live in Los Angeles, where hidden crypts of archives are tucked away almost as elusively as the titles themselves. The vault I came upon has been an old reliable in years past, named Eddie Brandt's Saturday Matinee. The place is as quaint as its name. A little, easy-to-miss building tucked away in North Hollywood with painted murals adorning its outside walls in the form of Monster Rushmore (with the likes of Frankenstein, Wolfman, and Nosferatu replacing presidential visages) among others. The inside is a dark, musty archive of wall-to-wall tapes of mainstream and obscure titles. (Obscure would be an understatement: many titles you would swear you invented in some prenatal dream, but here they are.) Many of the tapes are so second-hand they are simply copies with handwritten titles of some late-night PBS taping. These people don't seem to sleep, and one can only imagine how many Tivo receivers they have humming all hours of the night.

If you are intrepid enough to find the place (or have the serendipity to land there during the obscure hours they are open: yes, this place shuts down during lunch), plan to stay awhile. It will overwhelm, excite, and then possess you into endless thoughts of "I wonder if they have..." One feels the recurring urge to summon buried memories of lost titles from childhood in bittersweet hopes of "stumping" the hosts. Get over it. Not to worry, though, they have hot coffee and donuts at the ready and not a clock in sight. Vegas has nothing on these guys.

The Best of Film Noir (2000)

L. A. Confidential (1997)

Miller's Crossing (1990)

Getting back on track, I honed my search back to the titles I initially set out for. (In case you are curious, yes, they have Hawk, the Slayer.) The movies in question were Out of the Past and The Glass Key, and I was both pleased and disturbed they had both the original black and white and colorized editions of the former. Out of the Past was described in the documentary (The Best of Film Noir, see link at left) as the definitive noir classic. (Or, as the writer tells it, the one you'd want on a desert island . . . along with a VCR, TV, and power outlet, but that's another story). How this film is not available in any format is simply baffling. Directed by Jacques Tourneur, the film stands the test of time. Not simply as a genre model, or dated cliché, but as engaging a film as any released today. In fact, the 1984 film, Against All Odds was an attempt to modernize but still doesn't hold the same allure. Tourneur's sense of light and shadow, the streamlined direction of his actors (watching Mitchum act within a compelling width of millimeters), and a timeless sense of pace keep the film from falling into its period restraints. Also noteworthy is seeing Kirk Douglas in only his second film role and making every speck of screen time count.

The other film I acquired, The Glass Key, stars Alan Ladd and Veronica Lake. I am ashamed to say I had yet to be acquainted with either of these actors and have been curious for some time since seeing another noir revamp titled L. A. Confidential make so many references to Ms. Lake. While I was simply looking for inspiration from Ladd, the closest physical model to myself in the genre, I suddenly felt the eerie sensation that I had seen this story before. I had. On the first day of rehearsal I had noted to the director and cast of The Tangled Snarl that a good genre update to watch would be the Coen brothers' Miller's Crossing. When one watches The Glass Key, there can be no doubt it is the foundation for Miller's Crossing, as both were derived from Dashiell Hammett's novel The Glass Key.

Let us say the Coens had far better success with their Key update than their recent outing The Ladykillers, which I also took in during this period. While Tom Hanks's performance is a bright spot for the film, it simply cannot save this uninspired remake. (That said, I do prefer to reserve judgement on anything Coen, as many of their films seem to acquire value over repeated viewings. I am already enjoying Intolerable Cruelty more on video after leveling it with mediocrity in the theatre.) Perhaps the Coens are simply running up against their own hype, which they never had to bother with before Fargo and now the cult fave The Big Lebowski. Regardless, The Ladykillers retell will have you rushing home to your Netflix queue in hopes of seeing the original to see what the fuss was about. (If you don't have this resource, get it: it's the Bogie to Tivo's Bacall.) Maybe I'm still burned over the notion you can put a Wayans brother in place of Alec Guinness (even without the "sir"), but in the end one is left thinking how clever Tom Hanks is and nothing else.

Noir seems to be making a comeback as of late. The Egyptian Theatre (American Cinematheque) is playing many of the classics for the next week here in Los Angeles as part of their Noir Series (including The Glass Key). With L. A. Confidential, Memento, and other genre revamps we may be seeing a resurgence in the genre due to Hollywood's sudden turn towards style. Films like Pirates of the Carribean, Far From Heaven, and even the resurrection of the musical seem to indicate audiences' readiness for a move towards a more stylized cinematic experience. Maybe then the archivists will find some of these prints and restore them (the Cinematheque's next series is Movies Not on Video), and guys like me won't have to contribute to the bevy of reviewers who recommend films that aren't available. Unless you can find a Saturday Matinee in your town, and if so, bring them some donuts to put out. They've earned 'em, kid.

Recording for the Shakespeare Theatre

Last month, I was involved in making a set of short recordings that can be heard during the new production of Henry IV, Part 2 at the Shakespeare Theatre here in Washington (playing until May 16). Composer Adam Wernick had written four short pieces with Latin texts for male chorus, which I and three other guys recorded for the production. One Monday night, we met in the Shakespeare Theatre's administrative building, where there is a rehearsal stage and a sound room. This recording was unlike any I had ever done before, since there were only four singers and we each stood at an individual microphone and wore headphones to hear the playback and each other. In fact, for one of the pieces we recorded each part on an individual track, which is a disconcerting experience, and for another we double-tracked each part with singers recording a different part each time, to create the illusion of a larger chorus.

My understanding is that one of the pieces will be played during the funeral of King Henry IV, when the image of a large cross being raised up will be seen (see image at left). Another piece is to be heard during a battle sequence, and the remaining two pieces that we recorded may or may not be used at all. If a reader sees this production, please let me know how the music was heard. A family member is going to see the play but not until May.