Friday, November 23, 2018
Marnie: Opera Live in HD from the Met
Sometimes I wonder if the human race has made any progress at all. Then I encounter a masterpiece of storytelling such as Nico Muhly's opera Marnie, libretto by Nicholas Wright, based on the novel by Winston Graham. The Metropolitan Opera broadcast Marnie to movie theatres around the world live in HD a couple weeks ago, when I saw it in Atlanta. Whatever else is wrong with the world, Marnie shows that we're getting better and better at creating musical theatre.
Marnie's music carries us from scene to scene with constant motion and constant variety of textures and timbres. We often hear the kind of repetitive figure in the orchestra that was the hallmark of music called "Minimalist" in the 1970s and 80s. Muhly worked awhile with pioneer minimalist Philip Glass, and his music follows composer John Adams' path out of the minimalist camp. For Muhly, the pulse establishes a floor; the orchestra dances on it, with sounds that glitter, chatter, stab, or rumble. We also hear Muhly's appreciation for Anglican choral music when he gives the chorus a sonorous a cappella piece "Guilt" early in Act One. Near the end, he quotes the Anglican hymn "Sing, My Soul, the King of Heaven" for an emotional effect. This music, lovely, rich with subtext, constantly involves us in the story.
The librettist and director use all the best modern techniques to draw us into that story. Mundane office talk mixes with gossip about the posh client Mark Ryland, recently a widower, who instantly makes a connection to a meek - but - efficient secretary named Muriel. Moments later, we know that Muriel is a secret identity for Marnie, disgusted by men, who has stolen from earlier employers under other names, whose mother berates her from some dark deed in her past. The rest of the opera opens up the material in that first scene. Transitions from the office to another location or time are accomplished smoothly, instantly by the shifting of lights and panels, each scene specified sometimes by a single piece of furniture. Backlighting conjures flashbacks to the unnamed misdeed of Marnie's childhood. [See photo] Everything and everyone is colored in shades of gray, except for Marnie and a chorus of look - alikes, her other identities, all dressed in primary colors, who amplify her thoughts.
The transitions, the flashbacks, the gray - and - color scheme, the chorus of subconscious selves -- I've seen all of these before, but they all work so well, here.
After Marnie makes one misstep, joining the company where the boss is that wealthy widower Ryland, the collaborators Muhly, Wright, and director Michael Mayer keep the tension building as her risks mount. At a pub with all her co-workers, she fends off the attentions of a man who remembers her as "Martine." The librettist gives her a clever way both to deflect suspicion and to justify her ways to us, as she sings that we're all different people at different times, different to friends, to the head teacher, to our parents. They write a subtext - laden poker game with the boss's odious brother Terry, who presses himself on her for a kiss. Then Ryland confronts her, trapping her into marriage. The build up to his forcing himself on her, sung through, is intensified by the presence of a chorus of leering men in gray suits pressing around her on the bed. Artificial as it was, it seemed real. Breathless at the climax, I wept when act one was over. Not because it was sad; because it was just so well done. Even if the characters were all pretty sordid, it made me feel good about the human race.
Interviewed on screen during intermission of the HD broadcast, the artists involved demonstrated the care and imagination that went into making this piece so strong. Muhly explained how he associates each character with a different instrument that will sometimes echo the sung lines, amplifying the lies that the characters tell -- for all characters in this story are liars. The countertenor Iestyn Davies, playing the character "Terry," observed that he is the cast's lone truth - teller. When he pronounces the naked truth, his instrument, the horn, drops away.
We saw an interview with Soprano Isabel Leonard and the woman who directs costume changes. As "Marnie," Leonard has as little as 40 seconds to change her outfit. We saw backstage footage of the soprano's costume changes, her frantic running to make her entrance for that seamless flowing effect so important to the opera.
Baritone Christopher Maltman, who plays Ryland, admits that his character behaves abominably, but Maltman tries to convey what Ryland claims, that he truly loves Marnie. That shows in a tense scene in the second act, as Ryland and wife Marnie dress for a dinner party. She is icy to him. They're physically close enough to kiss when she helps him tie his bowtie, but she leaves the bathroom to dress. He sings after her words to win her over, his story about startling a deer behind their home, trying to call the deer back. The opera's action has proceeded so fast that this aria, with its metaphorical flavor, stands out for sadness and thoughtfulness. She returns, perhaps softened up by the words. She sings of her horse Forio, "the only thing I ever loved." When Ryland offers to pay to bring Forio to their manor if she'll go to counseling, she agrees.
That sets up another piece of musical story - telling, a fox hunt. We understand from the music, when she stands facing forward, that she is riding the horse. We understand, as she describes the frightened fox, that she identifies with it. And when she sings of the hunting dogs, we see the men in gray climb over each other in a slow - motion ballet that suggests the dogs roiling in their bloodthirsty pursuit. [See photo] The conclusion of that tense scene is not less gripping for being inevitable.
Near the end, there's a clunky bit of psychoanalysis, outdated and facile, but it still leads to another moment that's no less wonderful for being inevitable. Under arrest, Marnie is supported by the brothers Mark and Terry, and psychologically liberated from a false guilt. We knew what the inevitable, fitting, paradoxical, and beautiful last words of our handcuffed protagonist's story would be.
The opera conservatives around us in the movie theatre were audibly moved, chatting about it enthusiastically in the lobby.
And I was weeping again, with gratitude, to see the integration of so much creative thought and plain old hard work.
Thursday, November 22, 2018
Lentennial: Bernstein at 100, Profane and Sacred
The Atlanta Symphony Orchestra has been celebrating the 100th birth anniversary of maestro - composer - celebrity Leonard Bernstein. The local NPR station's arts maven Lois Reitzes calls it the "Lentennial," appreciating Bernstein's legacy in conversations with music educator Scott Stewart. For my own personal celebration, I curated the ASO series for my fellow subscribers Susan and Suzanne and read Jamie Bernstein's Famous Father Girl: A Memoir of Growing Up Bernstein. The big surprise in her book is that her experience of him up close was not so different from mine, long - distance.
In the early 1960s, while Jamie lived with Lenny in a town home across the street from Carnegie Hall, Lenny was also a presence in our family room, both on the black and white television and on the LP of the film West Side Story that I played obsessively. I recognized Leonard Bernstein before I recognized Superman. Lenny was a spectacle, arms waving, hair flying.
When West Side Story first showed on TV, I was 11 years old, and captivated all over again. A few years later, our family saw his Mass directed by Robert Shaw with the ASO, a piece that grew on me over the next few years, with help from musician friends, who delighted in mastering his tricky time signatures. I fell in love with Chichester Psalms the first time I heard it, and it helped me to fall in love with God and the aesthetic of Anglican church music. By the time I graduated high school, Bernstein's music was what I sang at the top of my lungs when I was driving alone and happy, and it was his gnarly dissonances that I pounded on the piano when teenage angst overwhelmed me.
I wrote all this in a letter to him around his 70th birthday, when there had been several unkind re-assessments of him in the press, abetted by a salacious unauthorized biography of him. Flattered, he wrote me a letter, addressing me as "W. S. S.*", the asterisk taking me to a post script that pointed out that I shared initials with West Side Story. He invited me to write lyrics for his next musical -- absolutely my own fantasy since 9th grade -- and set up a phone conversation.
Jamie Bernstein is able to describe what happened next, because Lenny did it so often. Jamie calls it "shrinking" a man over the phone, "asking him personal questions and drawing him out," looking for a fresh young admirer to bed (307). Within seconds on the phone, I knew he was drunk, alone, mouth full ("Crab; delicious"), and he was insinuating sexuality into the conversation: "You teach eighth grade, eh? Their sap must be rising...." He mocked my midwestern family's background ("How do you know so much about music when your family comes from Cincinnati?"), said he could barely understand me with my Southern accent (I have none), and volunteered that "some people say" his friend, my hero, Stephen Sondheim isn't much of a composer. When he'd gone too far, and I was too angry, I fell silent. He said, "You're not comfortable talking about this?" We left the matter of collaboration for some other time -- I wasn't going to quit teaching to stay with him in New York.
Jamie, too, was appalled by her father's behavior, such as calling people "f***face," and sticking his tongue in the mouths of new acquaintances. "I'm pretty sure he thought he was being an adorable rapscallion," she writes (266). Throughout the book, she describes how he got away with speeding, bad behavior, unhealthy behavior, and never felt the consequences. She says he lived within a "magic circle." But it all came home to him in his sad, excruciating last two decades. His much - touted collaboration with Alan Jay Lerner for the musical 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was a "capital F failure" in the Bicentennial year; the death of his wife Felicia Montealegre left him unmoored (264). There had been truth in one of those unkind reassessments, by Leon Botstein, who wrote in 1983 of Bernstein's "haze of decadence and mental drowsiness, a mind exhausted by exposure, excessive fame, and wealth" (omitting, Jamie writes, the scotch and prescription pills) (267).
Like Jamie Bernstein, I cringe at a lot of Bernstein's choices. She and I were repelled by his Kaddish Symphony, with its self-indulgent spoken text, which may have been directed at God, or at Lenny's own father:
...ancient, hallowed,
Lonely, disappointed Father:
Betrayed and rejected Ruler of the Universe,
Angry, wrinkled Old Majesty... (290)
(Jamie suggests that text was a description of Lenny himself, at least as he was in the last decade.) We cringe at some arch and clumsy ideas in 1600; we're embarassed by the way Lenny's opera A Quiet Place exposes private corners of his own life -- pansexuality, filial relations bordering on incest (explicit in the opera), resentments of his own father Sam -- the name of the father in the opera. "And yet, and yet," Jamie writes of 1600, but she could mean any of his compositions, "So much of Daddy's music was beautiful. Wipe - your -eyes beautiful.... But his huge score had been stuffed into a vehicle that could not carry it" (183). She quotes Stephen Sondheim saying," At least when Lenny falls off the ladder, he falls off the highest rung."
Lenny expressed his best self in the passages of his music that, for me, rise above everything else about him. In my teens, I liked best his propulsive passages, present in so many Bernstein scores, where an orchestra exults in a rhythm that Jamie mimics with "Hot dog! Hot dog! Hamburger!" That would be the first Chichester psalm, the glorious "Rosinante" passage of the poem "To Julia Borgos" in Songfest, and the uplifting "Gloria Tibi" in Mass, shortened to "Hamburger! Hot dog!"
But now I love most those places where Bernstein draws a melody of spiritual yearning out of accompaniment that he himself calls "profane." The strings in the Jeremiah rise above the pounding of the orchestra in the second movement, subtitled "Profanation"; in Chichester Psalms, the boy soprano sings in Hebrew "The Lord is my shepherd" over a chorus that shout-sings "the nations rage!" (music intended originally for the Jets and Sharks, Stephen Sondheim tells us in his memoir); for Mass, Lenny makes the beautiful a cappella choral prayer "Almighty Father, Incline Thine Ear" from the melody of his "fetishistic" dance around the altar. I'd include with these an intensely moving piece from Songfest, Bernstein's setting of a fragmentary Walt Whitman letter or poem,"To What You Said," making it a song of repressed love -- "Behold, love choked, correct, polite, always suspicious" -- over a relentless ostinato in the bass. (What a testament to Bernstein's resourcefulness that this music, perfectly fitted to Whitman's restrained, aching lines, was actually salvaged from 1600.)
This little man, so self-centered, so arrogant, so voracious for adulation - was also a generous teacher, whose legacy lives in major musical performers and composers today. There was the gross, profane side; but this lovely music rises above it.
Jamie, too, was appalled by her father's behavior, such as calling people "f***face," and sticking his tongue in the mouths of new acquaintances. "I'm pretty sure he thought he was being an adorable rapscallion," she writes (266). Throughout the book, she describes how he got away with speeding, bad behavior, unhealthy behavior, and never felt the consequences. She says he lived within a "magic circle." But it all came home to him in his sad, excruciating last two decades. His much - touted collaboration with Alan Jay Lerner for the musical 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was a "capital F failure" in the Bicentennial year; the death of his wife Felicia Montealegre left him unmoored (264). There had been truth in one of those unkind reassessments, by Leon Botstein, who wrote in 1983 of Bernstein's "haze of decadence and mental drowsiness, a mind exhausted by exposure, excessive fame, and wealth" (omitting, Jamie writes, the scotch and prescription pills) (267).
Like Jamie Bernstein, I cringe at a lot of Bernstein's choices. She and I were repelled by his Kaddish Symphony, with its self-indulgent spoken text, which may have been directed at God, or at Lenny's own father:
...ancient, hallowed,
Lonely, disappointed Father:
Betrayed and rejected Ruler of the Universe,
Angry, wrinkled Old Majesty... (290)
(Jamie suggests that text was a description of Lenny himself, at least as he was in the last decade.) We cringe at some arch and clumsy ideas in 1600; we're embarassed by the way Lenny's opera A Quiet Place exposes private corners of his own life -- pansexuality, filial relations bordering on incest (explicit in the opera), resentments of his own father Sam -- the name of the father in the opera. "And yet, and yet," Jamie writes of 1600, but she could mean any of his compositions, "So much of Daddy's music was beautiful. Wipe - your -eyes beautiful.... But his huge score had been stuffed into a vehicle that could not carry it" (183). She quotes Stephen Sondheim saying," At least when Lenny falls off the ladder, he falls off the highest rung."
Lenny expressed his best self in the passages of his music that, for me, rise above everything else about him. In my teens, I liked best his propulsive passages, present in so many Bernstein scores, where an orchestra exults in a rhythm that Jamie mimics with "Hot dog! Hot dog! Hamburger!" That would be the first Chichester psalm, the glorious "Rosinante" passage of the poem "To Julia Borgos" in Songfest, and the uplifting "Gloria Tibi" in Mass, shortened to "Hamburger! Hot dog!"
But now I love most those places where Bernstein draws a melody of spiritual yearning out of accompaniment that he himself calls "profane." The strings in the Jeremiah rise above the pounding of the orchestra in the second movement, subtitled "Profanation"; in Chichester Psalms, the boy soprano sings in Hebrew "The Lord is my shepherd" over a chorus that shout-sings "the nations rage!" (music intended originally for the Jets and Sharks, Stephen Sondheim tells us in his memoir); for Mass, Lenny makes the beautiful a cappella choral prayer "Almighty Father, Incline Thine Ear" from the melody of his "fetishistic" dance around the altar. I'd include with these an intensely moving piece from Songfest, Bernstein's setting of a fragmentary Walt Whitman letter or poem,"To What You Said," making it a song of repressed love -- "Behold, love choked, correct, polite, always suspicious" -- over a relentless ostinato in the bass. (What a testament to Bernstein's resourcefulness that this music, perfectly fitted to Whitman's restrained, aching lines, was actually salvaged from 1600.)
This little man, so self-centered, so arrogant, so voracious for adulation - was also a generous teacher, whose legacy lives in major musical performers and composers today. There was the gross, profane side; but this lovely music rises above it.
- Read my piece, "The Weight of Bernstein's Mass."
- I review performances by the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra of Bernstein's first symphony Jeremiah (01/2018), second symphony Age of Anxiety (09/2017), suite from West Side Story (04/2013), and Chichester Psalms (04/2019).
- "Make Our Garden Grow," final chorus of his musical Candide, didn't mean much to me when I saw the show in 9th grade (my first Broadway musical!); but then, hearing it on the radio one Sunday thirty years later, I had to pull my car over because I was weeping. Why? I'm still not sure; but I write in detail about Barbara Cook's treatment of the song in my reflection on her memoir.
The Spielberg remake had me falling in love with West Side Story again (12/2021).
My anecdote about the phone conversation gets a bit more detail in a piece about Stephen Sondheim's Kurt Weill - Ira Gershwin parody, "The Saga of Lenny."
Thanksgiving for my dog Mia
It's Thanksgiving.
Last week, my students read Kobe Bryant's poem giving thanks to his "Dear Basketball." They appreciated his use of personification, his framing the poem with the image of himself at age six, and his use of the "tunnel" as both literal and figurative. I challenged the kids to write a poem to something they love, personified, or to someone they love, not present. They've been addressing sports, Spider-man, candy, grandparents, a friend who moved away.
We had been looking at simple sentences. I tried my hand at addressing Mia in a single simple sentence. The result was pretty good. In a hotel far away from home, while she's at the kennel, I take this moment to think of her:
Last week, my students read Kobe Bryant's poem giving thanks to his "Dear Basketball." They appreciated his use of personification, his framing the poem with the image of himself at age six, and his use of the "tunnel" as both literal and figurative. I challenged the kids to write a poem to something they love, personified, or to someone they love, not present. They've been addressing sports, Spider-man, candy, grandparents, a friend who moved away.
We had been looking at simple sentences. I tried my hand at addressing Mia in a single simple sentence. The result was pretty good. In a hotel far away from home, while she's at the kennel, I take this moment to think of her:
Mia,[I took the photo of Mia moments after her vet had confirmed the worst -- bladder cancer, 1-2 years to live. Since then, the tumor has been removed, mostly, its remainder checked by drugs and chemotherapy. I am thankful that Mia doesn't even know that she's sick.]
Your tail thump – thump – thumping
in that Shelter cage,
deep dark eyes aglow
searching mine,
forelegs set for play,
nostrils quivering,
sleek black – and – white body shivering,
anticipating love,
you caught my attention and my heart.
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