And let us once again assail your ears…

Mozart’s way of reaching his listeners is to make use of faultless technical equipment. His is so smooth and natural a technique as to be very easily overlooked. In fact we are not intended to be made aware of it or to admire it for its own sake: it is merely the means to an end, and in the case of one so supremely gifted a perfectly convenient and untroublesome means, even where it involves appalling difficulties. No parade is ever made of skill or learning.

– Eric Blom: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

For the last two weeks I have suffered from (well, delighted in) a weirdly-fabricated earworm, concocted of joyful A major passages of Mozart randomly concatenated together. Thankfully (well, a little…), this has now faded – to be replaced by a more ordered (although more heavy-hearted) rendition of his music in G minor (with occasional interjections of G major and E‑flat major) – proof, if indeed such were needed, that, even as a seventeen-year-old, the young composer was producing some of the most memorable and perfectly-crafted melodies ever written. (That I find these repeated tunes palliative, rather than intrusive and irksome, is also a tribute to his genius.)

Unfortunately, in the process of sliding down the scale, I have also lost the sparkling, delicate phrasing of Peter Donohoe, and his “fluidity; apparent spontaneity; and yet great thought…”. There is impeccable compensation to be had, though, in the Orchestra of the Swan’s command of this music; their inhabitation of each note, each dynamic, each beautifully-rendered arc… – helped, of course, by David Curtis’ gentle authority, discernment, and innate sagacity (not to mention a revelatory solo performance of astounding radiance and intensity).

¶

Anyone who has seen Amadeus will instantly recognize the syncopated opening Allegro con brio of Mozart’s Symphony No.25 (which, as well as this concert, also launched the film). In its contrast of subjects it is the very embodiment of ‘Sturm und Drang’; and to say it is unsettling – especially with its eerie interpolations (particularly after the repeat of the opening, but before the return of the first subject) – would be to mightily underplay its effect. (That it brought to mind the kingly ghost of Hamlet’s father – see below – I hope gives a flavour of the underlying menace.) As always, Mozart’s orchestration is a wonder (as are Curtis’ repeats – sometimes gaining in confidence; others, retreating with timidity…). For instance, there is a condensed conversation between the first and second violins at one point – before they unite in what, last night, felt like cries of Lear-like desperation – which, even in its briefness, seemed to encapsulate the very essence of the composer’s agitation. And, yet again, the oboes and horns were sensational in communicating this tension and angst.

The succeeding Andante, with its muted violins, offers no relief; and just piles on what I can only describe as ‘strangeness’. Now you realize why the two bassoonists – the plangent Philip Brookes and Maria Mealey – were perched at the back of the stage! They have been held in reserve to superimpose another layer of plaintiveness (in the way only this blessed and beautiful instrument can): with such mournful fortepiano sighs that you wonder how one so young could possibly have experienced such all-encompassing grief… – and then so ably communicated it. Without wallowing in such melancholy, Curtis took his time – and there was a crystalline pause, just before the second subject materialized, in which time stopped. (The man may bleed Shostakovich, but he breathes Mozart….) A smattering of triplets in the second violins added to this unease; and there was an extremely abridged, almost Tchaikovskian climax (again, see below), before the sadness resumed.

Ah, you say, looking at the programme: but there’s a Menuetto to follow – a little bit of light relief, there, surely? No. In this deeply-moving performance, the tension just kept on building: with ever more divergences of dynamic and texture. The central, keenly-orchestrated, wind-only Trio thus became funeral music of the most affecting kind (with a profundity I more associate with, say, Beethoven’s Drei Equali…). And even that section’s concluding ‘chortles’ (with stunning dynamic contrasts – of course!) sounded more like the cackles of a madman (or even the sarcastic demons in Elgar’s The Dream of Gerontius) than anything exultant.

The bassoons then (sadly) fade away for the final Allegro. This, to me, felt like a gathering storm. But it never really breaks. The syncopation of the first movement returns in the strings; and the turmoil, the tension, the unrest, never resolves. This is beauty – especially in the string writing and playing – of the most disquieting, challenging kind… – and yet the vibrant, limpid tenor of the orchestra soothed my soul.

¶

However, the Mozart was a walk in the park on a warm summer’s day, compared to what followed (including “A funeral parade for a five-star general around Red Square,” according to Curtis)! If I had previously imagined the spectre of Old Hamlet, now he would solidify, pale and wan, before my eyes. (“’Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.”)

What art thou that usurp’st this time of night,

Together with that fair and warlike form

In which the majesty of buried Denmark

Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak!

I have a sneaky feeling that Curtis is furtively attempting to perform an extended cycle of the complete works of Shostakovich – not in any particular order; and not within any specified time-limit… – especially as last night’s second spook emerged during the great composer’s awesome Hamlet suite, op.32a. Unlike his later, intensely serious, film‑score, op.116, this is a haunting more akin to Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice…

Shostakovich, like many Russians, had an obsession with the character of Hamlet. In 1932, early in his career, he wrote incidental music for a notorious stage production which treated the play as a farcical comedy. Then, just over 30 years later, he was persuaded to write the music for a film of Hamlet directed by Grigori Kozintsev, again with satirical overtones. In effect, it made a covert attack on the Soviet system.

– Edward Greenfield: Shostakovich: Hamlet – Film Score: Russian PO/Yablonsky

¶

If it wasn’t for next week’s Immortal Shakespeare concert at Holy Trinity – featuring the first performance of the most beautiful cantata of the same name by Dobrinka Tabakova, the Orchestra of the Swan’s Resident Composer – I would have described this work’s performance as the apogee of the orchestra’s Shakespeare 400 season (commemorating the poor man’s death): such is its startling boldness and power.

It is a dilly: with its parodies of light music, its parodies of serious music, its parodies of even the Dies Irae chant, Shostakovich’s score sounds like nothing so much as Offenbach done up to date in Soviet Russia. By the time he composed the incidental music for Akimov’s Hamlet in 1932, Shostakovich was an old hand at turning out ironic farces: from his satirical opera The Nose (1928) through his music for the burlesque ballet The Age of Gold and his travesty of a music hall revue Conditionally Killed, Shostakovich knew just how to balance irony and sarcasm with popular music so as to make the most appealing possible mixture. That this mixture did not appeal to the Communist Party says more about its lack of humor then it does about Shostakovich’s music.

– James Leonard: Hamlet, incidental music, Op.32 (unrelated to film score)

In the hands of Curtis, this was gripping, electrifying stuff: with incredibly dramatic playing from all quarters of the orchestra. No-one escapes the intense work-out this music requires – and all delivered impeccable dynamics, humour, poignancy, and precision. (I am struggling not to list every single member of the orchestra by name, here: but there were so many excellent solos, duets – and a cheekily-repeated, yet merited, lyrical string quartet section – that I do not want to leave anyone out.)

There were also shocks aplenty – particularly from the brass and multi-tasking percussionists – as well as snippets that simply ended.

There’s probably no need to concentrate, or elucidate, too much on the structure of Tchaikovsky’s rightly-famous Violin Concerto, which completed the concert – after a well-earned interval – except to say that is hard to believe…

…that in Tchaikovsky’s day the famous violinist Leopold Auer, for whom the work was written, pronounced certain passages unplayable, and even Adolph Brodksy, who gave the first performance with the Vienna Philharmonic, declared that the solo part taxed his technical skill to the utmost.

– Julian Herbage: Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

…especially watching Tamsin Waley-Cohen’s magnificent and insightful portrayal. As the publicity for the concert stated, “this [fiery] work is the perfect vehicle to display Tamsin’s extraordinary technical skill”; and this was a joyous demonstration of that rare combination of dexterity and sensibility.

¶

If I had to sum up the performance in two words – one for the soloist, one for the orchestra – they would be ‘ferocity’ and ‘balance’. However, regular readers of my reviews will know that I never let myself be troubled by such ponderous limits – so let me explain.

Waley-Cohen brings both ferocious intelligence and emotion to the stage. The first movement, in particular, was one of great contrast: with both incredible power and gauze-like delicacy on display. In the Andante, she then demonstrated a lyrical sensibility second to none. Her communication with – and obvious admiration of – the orchestra came into its own, though, in the final Allegro vivacissimo. Her rapport with Curtis was also quite staggering.

Her maturity is never in doubt – hence my choice of that second word. She is never afraid to play quietly: knowing that the orchestra’s large numbers are no indication of its transcendent accompanying subtlety. She is also willing to become an integral part of their limpid texture – an equal member – when necessary; and the joy she displayed – inbetween all that praiseworthy fireworks and tracery – when observing them at work, I believe demonstrates both generosity and a keen appreciation of their skills.

Thus a work I had never really admired before now spoke volumes: its flow insinuating itself deep within me. This was a great, very special, utterly exceptional performance. And the rapturous reception said so much more than any of my words ever can.

Even then, though, the evening was not over: a short, soulful, introverted encore helped us – eventually – start drifting back to earth from the heavens we had inhabited. We could begin to breathe once more….

¶

Yet again – as always with Curtis and the Orchestra of the Swan – this was a shrewdly-programmed concert: one with tragedy at its core. But, somehow, its overall effect was gloriously uplifting: probably because music of this quality is keenly felt and rare. We are therefore so lucky to have such inestimable talent within such easy reach.

Tempered seven times in morning dew…

Rufus Hound (Sancho Panza); David Threlfall (Don Quixote) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

No play can be seen entirely in isolation. Even if you have never been to the theatre before, you bring with you a whole fardel of expectations; maybe admiration for one of the actors; possibly the lure of a review or two; or even knowledge of the plot. Thus, what you see on stage can easily reflect your own interests and circumstances; or contain within it faded images and rippled memories dredged from deep within you.

Thus it was with James Fenton’s rollicking adaptation of The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote, at the Swan, last night. I knew I was in for a great deal of merriment – although the performance was captioned, I still find it helps to read the script in advance (and this one is blindingly clever, and hits every funny bone in your body – many, many times…) – but what I hadn’t expected was quite so much pathos. And – although I admit I may have been the only one in the audience who saw such things… – it was the sharply-etched parallels with King Lear that so moved me.

David Threlfall (Don Quixote) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Admittedly, David Threlfall is the consummate actor – utterly at home in the warm wood of the Swan (beautifully lit by Johanna Town) – and, can, simply, with that famous probing stare (now surrounded by the most wondrous facial hair I think I have ever witnessed), bring the house down. But he also has the ability – simply with a subtle slowing of pace, a lowering of voice, a slumping of shoulders – to penetrate those darker places you may not wish revealed. I will not give away the ending – not even the play’s text presaged its devastation… – but it is easily as affecting as that of Lear.

Yet this was not the only parallel. At one point, he begins to divest himself of all his clothes…

Now, you haven’t yet seen me mad. So, before you go, I’d like you to see me – well, I insist that you see me – cavorting naked…

…and, yes, it provokes mirth of the deepest kind; but, as “the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance” huddles in his shirt and “spider’s web” stockings, rocking gently against the far brick wall, there is also pity. His madness is as self-aware as Lear’s: and, therefore, his moments of lucidity as painful as a lance to the soul. That he is so loved by his extended, dysfunctional family, only heaps on the resonances.

Ruth Everett (Duchess); Rosa Robson (Puppeteer) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Fenton’s writing, although mainly in prose, demonstrates his wonderful facility as a poet. There is some beautiful wordplay – and some tremendous songs: covering all the colours of the emotional rainbow (and some of the gathering storm-clouds, to boot) – and some ingenious use of language. That it made me want to dig out the source novel – a work which I abhorred as a teenager: despite being instructed repeatedly that this was one of the greatest works of fiction of all time – is testament to its powers. It is astutely structured into two acts, and thirty-two scenes; and the sixteen songs (set to suitably Spanish-flavoured music by Grant Olding) flow through them as naturally as “this white path disappearing among the hills”.

Essentially, it is an entertaining, comic run-through of Don Quixote’s greatest hits (directed by Angus Jackson – he of the breathtaking Oppenheimer – with ‘comedy director’ Cal McCrystal). The books; the chivalry; the windmills; the sheep; the rusty armour; the poor ‘steed’ Rosinante… – and, of course, poor sidekick Sancho Panza: Rufus Hound, with a fat-suit… and impeccable timing! There are also puppets (by Toby Olié) – from horses, through children, a kestrel, to a lion – but, again, these are so tightly integrated (and quite stunning) that they only add to the overall effect. Oh, and the scenery? Simply breathtaking in its apparent unpretentiousness. (Designer Robert Innes Hopkins should be given some sort of medal.)

Needless to say, the company – apart from the two leads, identical to that of the phenomenon that is Doctor Faustus – are consistently impressive: although, here again, there are similarities and correspondences to be had (principally achieved through canny casting). It would be unfair to highlight any particular performance, therefore – except to congratulate Bathsheba Piepe, who stood-in as Don Quixote’s Niece, as well as playing Altisidora. (Understudies always amaze me – and their transparency and versatility at the RSC is a minor miracle.)

Rufus Hound (Sancho Panza) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Of course I laughed! Don’t get me wrong: I chuckled; I guffawed; I sniggered; and, at one point – after a shocked, shared gasp – joined in with a collective shriek of startled glee! It’s just that it’s not quite the easy theatre it appears to be on the surface – and is therefore so much better than I could have imagined. The three hours went by all-too speedily (always a good measure); but the fact that I left with glistening cheeks, I think, speaks volumes. On until 21 May 2016, I will be hunting out another ticket as soon as I can!

Nicholas Lumley (Devil) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Contending with the fretful elements…

Michael Pennington (King Lear) – photo courtesy of Royal & Derngate

I will have such revenges on you both

That all the world shall – I will do such things –

What they are yet I know not, but they shall be

The terrors of the earth! You think I’ll weep:

I have full cause of weeping, but this heart

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,

Or ere I’ll weep. O Fool, I shall go mad!

I believe that, last night, I witnessed the greatest Shakespearean performance of my long life… – and not just from the actor in the principal rôle (that was simply a major miracle…). We had arrived at the Royal & Derngate, in Northampton, knowing that Michael Pennington would be the supreme King Lear. What I think we were surprised by was the corresponding calibre of the company that surrounded him – some of whom were only recent graduates. We shouldn’t have been, though; we really shouldn’t…

I was immediately knocked out by Michael’s sensitivity with Shakespeare’s language…. It was clear that he was able to create complex and vivid relationships onstage….

     Michael was incredibly open and generous. He was the dream collaborator: hard-working, curious, unsentimental. He was interested in what everyone in the room had to say. And yet he also had instincts which were unwavering. He was immediately able to portray a powerful man losing his grip on power, on his mind, and on his sense of self.

– Arin Arbus (director), in Jonathan Croall: Performing King Lear

I don’t want to go into too much detail: as this was only a preview. However, this was such an extraordinary ‘event’, that I still believe it needs commenting on for prosperity – an act which, as well, I hope, will help fill some of those astonishing empty seats that we also witnessed. (You would have thought, from the cheers and applause at the end that the Royal Theatre had been packed to its beautiful rafters. But everyone there knew that this – for me, Shakespeare’s greatest play – had received an insightful, emotionally-devastating, utterly perfect rendition – perhaps its greatest performance.)

Michael Pennington (King Lear), centre; with company – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

I will come to the individual actors – all of whom were equally astounding: just in different ways… – in a moment: but the overall power of the performance came, I think, not only from Pennington’s renowned inclusivity, but the cohesiveness of the all-inclusive vision (partially, due, I think, to his recent experience of playing Lear in New York – see below – but also Max Webster’s intelligent direction). But as well as the usual sweeping story arcs and subplots, emphases and themes were more fully developed than I have seen before; and tiny moments given cunning significance.

There is one scene (Act 3, Scene 6) – “A chamber in a farmhouse adjoining the castle” – which will stay with me for a very, very long time (as will the whole night): where Kent, Gloucester, Edgar and the Fool – “Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?” – all seem to be talking at cross-purposes. Everyone is, essentially, mad; pretending to be mad; professing madness; scared of going mad; or attempting to see through Lear’s own madness (if it is such…). This was given full, chaotic, rein – and reminded me how ‘experimental’, when compared to the majority of his plays, Shakespeare really can be. Not only do we get characters driving on the story with expositional soliloquys; but there was an almost Beckett-like intensity, here. Is this the template for Endgame – 350 years ahead of its time…?

Michael Pennington (King Lear) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Not wishing to single out any individual other than Pennington – who did not act, as such: he simply was Lear, navigating his way through the intense ravages of senility – of perhaps even Alzheimer’s: with its moments of grief; anger; lucidity; regret; forgetfulness; of rage against his very condition; seeming “to age thirty years” – I shall address the company in alphabetical order. Simply put, each one brought something new, something strong, to their part: the sum of which was phenomenal (to say the least).

Michael Pennington (King Lear); Sally Scott (Regan); Shane Attwooll (Cornwall) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Shane Attwooll was a Duke of Cornwall who grew from hen-pecked husband to vicious, erotically-charged interrogator: plucking out Gloucester’s eyes with relish and believable malice. “Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now?” He seemed to visibly grow in stature and menace; and the fact we had no sympathy at his demise is a reflection of his innate power.

Catherine Bailey was simply the most vile Goneril – but with such great depth. (This is A Good Thing. I have often found the “unnatural hags” one-dimensional – both on the page and the stage.) She gave Lear as good as she got; and was a commanding presence in every scene she appeared in. Poor Albany – whatever did he do to deserve this?

Beth Cooke was not the weak Cordelia we sometimes see, either. A fighter from the off – and therefore the emotional core of the play – you truly felt she was in charge of her own destiny. She was both powerful and piteous (even pitiable); and her love for her father continually shone in those tear-stained eyes.

Pip Donaghy (Gloucester); Beth Cooke (Cordelia); Reginald Edwards (Burgundy); Caleb Frederick (France) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Pip Donaghy was an authoritative Earl of Gloucester – less spineless than he is sometimes seen; but still overly trusting of his bastard son. In some way, he holds a mirror up to Lear… – yet, where Lear is always surrounded by those who love him (even if they are not sure why), Gloucester is alone. His extended moment, thus deserted, under “the shadow of this tree”, surrounded by war, was beautiful and soul-rending. Donaghy is an actor who can make a shopping-list seem profound. He has real gravitas – and seems unafraid to use it.

Reginald Edwards as the Duke of Burgundy and Curan (as well as many other parts: this is a small, and tightly-knit company) also brought impassioned significance to his few lines. I wish there had been more opportunity for him to demonstrate the poetry he is obviously so capable of.

Tom McGovern (Kent); Joshua Elliott (Fool); Michael Pennington (King Lear): in rehearsal – photo courtesy of Royal & Derngate

Joshua Elliott was simply astounding as the Fool. A beautiful falsetto singing voice, to go with his conscious concertina; and a resounding, contrasting spoken baritone sonority. Here was a demonstrable maturity and wisdom far, far beyond his young years. Every single line and action was captivating; infused with his love of Lear – his willingness to risk a whipping for coming too close to the mark almost tangible. I so hate the fact that the Fool simply vanishes: but (even after seeing the great Kathryn Hunter scurry through the equally great Greg Hicks’ long legs with utterly astounding aplomb) never more so than here. That he was the equal of Pennington speaks volumes….

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

Gavin Fowler (Edgar); Daniel O’Keefe (Oswald) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Gavin Fowler as Edgar was also remarkable: demonstrating an intense, almost beauteous versatility. His feigned insanity was virtuosic; as was his protection of his father. His beautiful rendition of those heart-breaking, famous final lines was powerful, yet gentle – enough to guarantee a full ten seconds of silence before the eruption of approbation.

The weight of this sad time we must obey,

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say:

The oldest hath borne most; we that are young

Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

Caleb Frederick as the King of France and the Doctor (as well as a wonderful trumpet-playing herald) – another recent drama graduate – was yet another great discovery. His acting was authoritative, sober and powerfully affecting; and central to the sensibility of the whole production.

Adrian Irvine (Albany); Catherine Bailey (Goneril) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Adrian Irvine, as the Duke of Albany, flourished as the play progressed. In some ways, an unforgiving part – he begins as meek (if not entirely weak); but eventually proves his strength and honesty. Here was a keen and human portrayal, with real weight.

Another startling wise-beyond-his-years characterization was Scott Karim as Edmund (the illegitimate psychopath) – both in his ineffable coolness (both senses), as well as the bottomless darkness his presence always brought to the stage. Here was a master manipulator – of just about every other player… – and savager of souls. The very definition of a bastard – and magnificently so.

Scott Karim (Edmund); Catherine Bailey (Goneril) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

I really liked Tom McGovern as the affable, loyal Earl of Kent (with those glasses, I wondered if his first name was Clark?) – and madcap alter ego (Mc)Caius: although one of my companions was not utterly convinced. I believe he has little or no power to affect change: and is only motivated by his duty and bravery – and thusly the part was played. Here was a performance – for me – of great calmness and loyalty.

My life I never held but as a pawn

To wage against thine enemies, ne’er fear’d to lose it,

Thy safety being motive.

Daniel O’Keefe as Oswald played it as haughtily and reservedly as I think is possible – although his best moment was his astonishment at his mistress’ clumsy attempt to seduce him. You felt there was a heart in there, somewhere – just that he wasn’t quite sure how to use it. His loyalty was his downfall, and his dying regret all-too palpable.

Sally Scott was a charming, yet nasty piece of work, as Regan: a perfect companion to Goneril. One moment jealously protective of her newborn child; the next, kicking its basket with vehemence and just pure nastiness. Another powerful performance – again demonstrating that the two elder sisters are crucial characters… – eventually getting as bad as she gives; as she so rightfully deserves.

Michael Pennington (King Lear), right; with company – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

The simple, yet evocative and dark, discomfiting design was by Adrian Linford; and I thought the period setting worked extremely well. The lighting – by Natasha Chivers – and sound by Matthew Bugg (along with composition and movement) – were truly integral to this: demonstrating the massive depth of talent in regional theatre. (Oh, that storm scene! I too shivered upon that heath; shrank from the theatre-shaking thunder and blinding lightning; leaning into the mighty force of nature, as it stung my eyes, my body, my soul. I almost cowered behind my seat, too, in fright and sorrow….)

Credit should also be paid to Christian Durham, associate director; Joyce Nettles, a casting director of great insight and courage (especially of her own convictions); and Julia Locascio, assistant director. A great many thanks also go to the Ambassador Theatre Group for making this miracle possible; and to Philip Franks for originating the production and assembling the creative team.

I shall, of course, be trying to get a ticket for its visit to Malvern, at the end of June!

Michael Pennington (King Lear); Beth Cooke (Cordelia) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Once more, this week, I have been fortunate to witness something for which I have unfortunately run out of words in describing…. However, if you wish to read about Pennington’s perspicacity, his sensitivity, his discernment with regards to performing the works of Sweet William – as well as his experiences of doing so – never mind his exceptional, exceptionally-modest talent… – then I would recommend you pore over his own words – including the soon-to-be-published King Lear in Brooklyn. These state clearly what I am struggling to articulate….

All I can say, as I did at the very beginning of this report, was that this was a landmark portrayal; an actor at the very pinnacle of his (and everyone-else’s) very great game. That his genius encompassed all those around him; that his howls as he dragged Cordelia’s slumped body onto the stage haunted my dreams (and will for many a night); that his eyes twinkled, then dimmed, and twinkled once more, before finally fading to naught; that he made us not only see – but feel, taste – that mouse and toasted cheese, those parted curtains; that the roof of the Royal, for one moment, floated heavenwards as we called him back to the stage; that he was, for three hours, Lear – not an actor in increasingly-threadbare clothing – …all these things are sadly not enough to even begin to describe what we saw; experienced; heard; were immersed in….

O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!

Keep me in temper, I would not be mad!

As thoughts and dreams and sighs, Wishes and tears…

Admittedly, my taste in music is broad (and, I would like to think, deep) – but, even so, occasionally (and only occasionally), I chance upon a concert so perfectly-programmed that I wonder if my thoughts have somehow leaked out into the stratosphere to be captured by some propitious musical genie (with snazzy multi-coloured socks, perhaps…). And then I remember that not only are the works themselves immaculate, and impeccably-aligned, but the performers are also from my happiest, most aspirational dreams. (It’s as if someone’s gifted me my own personal orchestra!)

So it was that I entered Malvern’s Forum Theatre, yesterday evening – and still in daylight… – with the most gormless grin plastered on my face. No, not Brahms, Elgar, or even Vaughan Williams; but, yes, congratulations to those of you who yelled out “Shostakovich”! In this case, his First Piano Concerto – and wait, it gets better… – performed by Peter Donohoe (above)! And bookended by my favourite Mozart symphony (No.29, K201) and piano concerto (No.12, K414) – both in the “golden, warm, and sunny” key of A major… 

This key includes declarations of innocent love, satisfaction with one’s state of affairs; hope of seeing one’s beloved again when parting; youthful cheerfulness and trust in God.

– Christian Schubart (translated by Rita Steblin): Ideen zu einer Aesthetik der Tonkunst

…and I think all these properties could be said to be present – not only in the golden, warm, and sunny Orchestra of the Swan – but especially in the symphony, which opened the evening. (The concerto, I feel, is more meditative – an aspect that was beautifully illuminated by Donohoe: who appears to have such a gracious affinity with Mozart that the music always sounds fresh, yet considered, in his hands… – but more of that later!) Additionally, to my ears, in both works it sounds as if the young Wolfgang has found his wings – and is making sure that everyone knows he can fly!

Eric Blom, in Ralph Hill’s The Symphony, describes Symphony No.29 as “this slender but extremely appealing work of 1774” – but adds that it “takes the foremost place in one’s affections [because] the youthful musician took fire from his inspiration and wrote for his own satisfaction”.

It may be an early work for Mozart (he was eighteen): but its ingenious string writing, with its gossamer strokes, foreshadows the serenades of the late nineteenth century. Such accomplished orchestration is often superimposed – throughout the work – with characteristic (on some occasions, extremely) sustained notes in the oboes and horns (demonstrating the Orchestra of the Swan’s wind section’s magnificent collective lung capacity). But it is that glorious leaping, ascending first subject of the Allegro moderato that grabs your attention – sung so radiantly by OOTS’ skilful strings… – as well as the sudden, electrifying changes of dynamic and mood (especially in the first repeat) which follow. And, for once, the floating oboes (Victoria Brawn – page-turner par excellence… – and Louise Braithwaite) and insistent horns were perfectly balanced and transparent. (It can be so easy to overwhelm them with too many strings… – but never here.) Bliss!

Blom says of the following Andante that “Its peaceful atmosphere is that of a sunlit garden and its finely balanced shape suggests that the garden is one with trimmed hedges and symmetrical vistas.” The muted strings, here – with the, at first, timorous descant-like counter-melody in the first violins; and the building layers of oboe and horn – wandered through the greenery with plangent, sometimes whispered, delicacy; the second subject just as beautiful and affecting as the main theme of the Tchaikovsky that followed after the interval. Not one blade of grass was flexed or folded. David Curtis, conducting, needless to say – with occasional balletic sweeping gestures, subtle body language, and a marvellous range of encouraging facial expressions… – let the music breathe: with profound moments of gentle rubato. We bathed in the orchestra’s warmth; and all was well… – well, until the wind’s salute in the spine-tingling Coda. Not a rude awakening as such: but a fanfare to signal the following Minuetto was on its way.

Blom describes this as…

An extraordinarily vigorous and original movement. The octave unisons for the oboes and horns… at the end of each of the two parts of the main section are a daring innovation, and the immediate mocking imitation of it by the strings at the opening of the second part is irresistibly humorous.

Look out, Shostakovich, you have competition!

As the pleasing programme note – by Christopher Morley – implies, this is hardly music to dance to, with its “less than courtly energy of Beethoven scherzos”; and yet there are hints of a Tchaikovskian waltz in the Trio. More originality – this time tinged with fun (and the smiles of a happy band)!

The final Allegro con spirito is well-known for its status as a “conductor’s nightmare, with its [oft-repeated] rushing upward unison scale beginning off the beat… this sky-rocket…”. However, Curtis had apparently not even glanced inside the programme’s pages: the violins were always perfectly, brightly, joyously synchronized! What stood out for me, instead, was the superb horn playing from Francesca Moore-Bridger and Craig Macdonald.

With its octave jump, the rising initial theme, here, takes us back to the first movement – one of the many signs of Mozart’s burgeoning maturity – which, as Blom states, “is used imitatively with great skill in the working out”. He then adds an aside to his description of “the very pretty second subject” that follows – which, I believe, sums up the whole symphony (if not the complete works…):

The word ‘pretty’, by the way, though it happens to be the right one here, should not be taken to confirm the far too widespread view that Mozart is the ‘dainty’ composer, not only of the popular fancy, but even of the imagination of many musicians, especially of the nineteenth century, who ought to have known better and seen deeper. He could achieve prettiness incomparably well simply because he could express anything whatever that came within the range of the technical resources and the aesthetic conceptions of his time.

…and I simply could not have put it better (although Donohoe certainly did, in the too-short pre-concert talk…). Read a Mozart score (including this one), and his genius leaps from the page – the effects he achieves with “only the normal small Salzburg orchestra of two oboes, two horns, and strings” are remarkable. His music may sound ‘pretty’ – but underneath the tranquil waters of the Avon, that swan is pedalling with all its might: a picture of effortless, exuberant perfection. And in its undoubted element.

Both the Shostakovich and Mozart concertos (the latter ending the concert) are known for including quotations from other composers (and, of course, in Shostakovich’s case, himself…). I think they also share a dark inner voice – already hinted at in the symphony’s inner movements. Whereas, there, it was the strings who butted in; here, in Shostakovich’s First Piano Concerto, it is nearly always the trumpet – given emphatic, argumentative articulation by Hugh Davies (stupendously producing some of the greatest, almost jazz-club-like playing: akin, for me, to the legend that is Miles Davis…) – which supplies the interjections.

Years after he wrote the work, Shostakovich recalled that he had initially planned to write a concerto for trumpet and orchestra and then added the piano to make it a double concerto. As he continued writing, it became a piano concerto with a solo trumpet.

– Wikipedia: Piano Concerto No.1 (Shostakovich)

That sums the work up quite pithily – but does not go far enough in hinting at the mayhem that Shostakovich’s mastery somehow knits into a cohesive whole (and a jolly entertaining one, at that – if your idea of entertainment is as masochistic as mine… – although it must be fiendishly hard work for both soloist(s) and orchestra). For one thing: I am not convinced that the trumpeter has the same perspective as the pianist. Anyway…

The first movement, Allegro moderato, immediately wakes you from your Mozartian reveries: pulling you away swiftly and cruelly from those sunlit uplands; with Donohoe issuing a startling challenge of runs and a creepy, creeping, resonant bass motif (above). This develops into what I can only describe as ‘typical Shostakovich’ – a pointed Allegro vivace, with infrequent trumpet commentary. Although the strings, with Curtis’ precision guidance, try their hardest to calm things down, as the pace slows (marginally) to Allegretto – and just as it looks as if everyone is going to play nicely together, at the transformation to Allegro – Donohoe careers off expertly with yet more of that trademark, jagged sarcasm.

The strings will not be defeated: and try again, with an episode of deep introversion, low, low down. But that skulking bass figure, and its accompanying open theme, return; and…

…well, we’re suddenly thrown into the deep end of a transcendent, piercing beauty that, again, could only be by Shostakovich: almost a slow-motion mazurka – here, revealing Curtis’ increasingly deep immersion in such movements: expressed ethereally in the upper strings. Eventually, Donohoe joins in – reticently, almost, as if scared to intrude… – but the crystalline melody he conjures up just adds to the tension: especially when underwritten by a hint of “that skulking bass figure”, again, momentarily; before a simple tune and accompaniment. You know it can’t last for long…

…but, somehow, it does; and further evolves into supreme, Rachmaninoff-style gorgeousness. Of course, this is when the façade comes tumbling down! The man just can’t resist! And off we go again, Più mosso, with an intense, short burst of a cadenza, underlined with some heavy martial bass chords from Donohoe. The strings reciprocate… – and we are drawn back into the haunting world of the Fifth Symphony: “the brass-less Largo, which ‘is the work’s emotional core’ – ‘one of the most despairing pieces of music ever written, a memorial for Mother Russia and all those sent to the labour camps’.” Even the solo trumpet now sings muted and mournfully – sensational, plangent playing from Davies: well-deserving of Donohoe’s approbation and gratitude at the end… – before holding hands with the piano for a moment; which then leads us on, as the strings return for a heartbreaking descent into hell, whilst Donohoe soars almost imperceptibly heavenwards.

¶

The Moderato third movement is really just a short skip and a step from being the introduction to the final Allegro con brio. As if to acknowledge where he left us – sobbing into our handkerchiefs – Shostakovich breaks us in gently with some twinkling work for Donohoe (and that remarkable, ineffable, deftness of touch). But the strings seem to want to pull the music back to that soul-shaking slow movement. And yet, you just know that the proprietary spikiness will return, eventually…

… and so Davies interjects yet again: with Donohoe trying to overwhelm any other instrument in hearing with massive torrents that build to what I can only describe as an almighty bunfight between the two soloists.

I’m not sure you could say that order is then restored, as such. It never is. It’s not a compromise, either; nor a handshake – more a licking of wounds – and yet, the piano reneges on whatever Machiavellian bargain was made, and again asserts its supremacy.

But Davies’ gleaming trumpet has a trick hidden up its valves – and all Donohoe can do is punctuate its swagger with one annoyed fortississimo chord: slamming the door and storming out. So cocky, now, is the trumpet, that it even sings a repeated burst of “I’m H‑A‑P‑P‑Y” (seriously); and the strings join in with the fun, before – of course! – Donohoe tries to barge back in. Unperturbed by this rudeness, everyone else just keeps going, before the trumpet finally gives in, widely opens the door, and in flies Donohoe, tails trailing, with the most manic, gathering, swinging storm of a cadenza. Gosh, that man can play! (Which may well be the understatement of the century.)

The trumpet’s return is impudence personified. Both soloists want to have the last word. And they do. And we cheer and stamp, and applaud: knowing that intense magic was worked – but not quite knowing how. (I’m beginning to think Curtis must have some Soviet blood in him.) Stupendous, on all counts! (And not a surprise – considering the immensely-skilled, interrogative punishment it received – that the piano needed a quick retune, afterwards.)

[Reading this back, I find that I am struggling to do both the work and the performance justice. Just take it from me that it was formidably astounding… – or, perhaps, astonishingly overwhelming… – and then mix those thoughts in with the rest of my underachieving prose….]

¶

I don’t know about anyone-else: but I also required a retune after that. And maybe, then, to follow, a nice gentle massage…?

Call me a mushy romantic – “Tysoe: you’re a mushy romantic!” – and I shall be happy to agree. The Tchaikovsky Andante Cantabile that followed (an arrangement of the slow movement of his first string quartet – usually for cello and strings – and music now recommended for funerals, would you believe…?!) is just an outpouring of the purest beauty – and therefore ‘gets’ me every time. It speaks – nay, it sings – to me….

Some may consider it ‘sentimental’ – but, to me, it feels like a distillation of regret; albeit with a teensy smidgen of hope. It was the perfect antidote to the Shostakovich; and definitely massaged my soul.

All I need say is that Curtis and the OOTS strings played this simpler, warmer adaptation (not quite the one above…) – paced perfectly, with some agonizingly pure poignancy – as if their lives depended on it. (The solo from David Le Page, as always, was considered and touching: utterly representative of the rest of the orchestra.) This was controlled catharsis of the most ravishing kind. I felt truly cleansed….

The closing Mozart concerto never quite lets go of this more maudlin feeling – despite being in that “golden, warm, and sunny” key of A major… – not even, I feel, “in the genial rondo finale marked Allegretto”.

There is some wonderful orchestral writing before the piano is finally invited to join in. Donohoe seemed to be enjoying the rest, though: observing Curtis and the orchestra with a keen eye and matching smile – perhaps, wondering, like me, with only oboes and horns added to the core strings, how they were making such rich music! But his entry (above) was fabulous: as if he had just heard these wondrous themes for the first time; absorbed them; and was extemporizing on them. No-one plays Mozart like Donohoe: there is such fluidity; apparent spontaneity; and yet great thought (you know that every single note has been scrutinised and weighed-up with his well-developed wisdom and expertise). He honours the music with so much grace; so much meaning; that it is as if he has clothed himself deep within it.

He wears it lightly, though; and never grandstands. He is a truly collaborative performer (despite his justified quarrelsomeness in the Shostakovich) – especially with Curtis “at the front, waving his arms around” – and he and the orchestra’s members are genuine equals. Thus, even the first-movement cadenza was simply a demonstration of his wonderment at Mozart’s brilliance. No fireworks, as such – just clear illumination of genius.

His playing in the Andante – entering with one of Mozart’s most beautiful piano themes – was thoughtfully subdued. It flowed slowly, affectingly, out of his fingers… – although I thought I detected just a hint of menacing Shostakovich in the short cadenza… – all the way to that transcendent ending. (Do not doubt that this is Romanticism of the highest order – up there with both Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.)

Even the final movement’s cadenza was ruminative – allowing Curtis to pause the orchestra, take deep breaths… before a final flourish from Donohoe; and a compact climb to the pinnacle of… – actually, I really don’t have the words for such… beauty. (Just let’s say that I could probably listen to Donohoe play Chopsticks on an endless loop – preferably accompanied with his and Curtis’s commentary – and still find it compelling.)

And then, just when I thought this was an evening that could not be improved upon, the gentle, generous soul that is Donohoe – who had thanked everyone on the stage several times, as is his wont, with modest graciousness… – spoke a few quiet words to the audience; entranced us, transported us, with an encore (Shostakovich – of course… – his Prelude and Fugue No.7 in A major (the great man tells me…)) that seemed to encapsulate all that had gone before….

¶

And so it was that I departed Malvern’s Forum Theatre, yesterday evening – in darkness… – with the most gormless grin (still) plastered on my face; but with tears yet drying on my cheeks. My heart was full… – thanks to some of the most wonderful music and musicians. What else could one desire…?

Postscript

Well, if, after all that – and my failure to praise it duly… – you’re looking for even more of OOTS’ patented, emotive yumminess: then, on Friday, go grab a copy of the CD, below…! (And, be warned: Donohoe and the orchestra also have a recording of Shostakovich’s Second Piano Concerto out, hopefully later in the year; matched with yesterday’s recording of the First…! Watch this space!)

On Naxos’s new album of the English composer’s work, the Stratford-upon-Avon-based Orchestra of the Swan, under their music director David Curtis, perform arrangements of some of Ireland’s finest inspirations.

     The Downland Suite, arranged from its brass-band original by the composer himself, is in the best English pastoral tradition.

     The passionate Cello Sonata, written in the Twenties, when Ireland was in the throes of an affair with a much younger man, has been transcribed for cello and strings by [OOTS cellist] Matthew Forbes, and is brilliantly dispatched by cellist Raphael Wallfisch.

     If you didn’t know, you could think it was originally composed as a cello concerto.

     A really good introduction to Ireland’s art.

– David Mellor: Daily Mail (26 March 2016)

More information here and here.

Through a glass, darkly; but then face to face…

Oliver Ryan and Sandy Grierson – photo by Paul Stuart/design by RSC Visual Communications

Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught

My frail mortality to know itself,

And by those fearful objects to prepare

This body, like to them, to what I must;

For death remembered should be like a mirror,

Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

– Shakespeare: Pericles

The cover of the RSC’s programme for Doctor Faustus (above) shows the two principal actors, Oliver Ryan and Sandy Grierson – either of whom may play the eponymous rôle on the night (or day), depending on the whim of a struck match… – gazing at each other, as in a neglected mirror.

Not only does this image define how we should see the two characters of Faustus and Mephistophilis – which we may not otherwise realize until their tragic, heart-piercing dénouement… – but it defines the “strange philosophy” (which is neither, in Marlowe’s own words, “odious” nor “obscure”) behind Maria Aberg’s intelligent, entertaining, questioning, and thrilling direction. On a fourth viewing – finally having made tangible my dream (which might, or not, have involved bartering my soul…) of seeing Sandy Grierson play “Faustus, of Wittenberg, Doctor” (an instructor of Hamlet, perhaps…?) – this is so patent, that, with your own nose pressed against the glass, it may actually also be beyond sight.

Good Camillo,

Your chang’d complexions are to me a mirror

Which shows me mine chang’d too; for I must be

A party in this alteration, finding

Myself thus alter’d with’t.

– Shakespeare: The Winter’s Tale

Oliver Ryan and Sandy Grierson – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

But these ‘twins’ are no faithful facsimiles. This particular looking-glass is skewed by the actors’ individual interpretations; their own fundamental “dispositions”. They may, in many ways, share one soul: but it has been riven, unevenly, unhappily, in two… – possibly when “God threw [Lucifer] from the face of heaven”. Soon, though, these resultant “Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, And are for ever damned with Lucifer” will be reunited.

Faustus Where are you damned?

Mephistophilis In hell.

Faustus How comes it then that thou art out of hell?

Mephistophilis Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it…

…a fact which we must not forget; a fact which we are never allowed to forget – “tormented with ten thousand hells, In being deprived of everlasting bliss”.

In his fascinating programme note, Conjurors & Collaborators, assistant director Josh Roche writes that…

It’s a bizarre privilege to see two actors’ interpretation of the same character develop in synchronicity. It’s been fascinating to see how clearly each actor has influenced the other, as their ideas were allowed to cross-pollinate. Now that the production is fully completed, I can say one thing with certainty: whoever is playing the Doctor tonight, you can be sure there would be no Faustus without Mephistophilis.

Sandy Grierson (Faustus) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

There are, of course, similarities in their inhabitations of these transposed portrayals. But there are a larger number of disparities – which are subtly amplified by the reactions of the other members of the cast (all of whom give compelling and authoritative performances). The most obvious divergence is the shorter running time (by a good ten minutes) – and yet nothing is lost in that acceleration of pace. Grierson, initially, is a more jovial Faustus; and he addresses the audience directly on many occasions – especially when imploring time to stand still, at the eleventh hour:

O Faustus,

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,

And then thou must be damned perpetually.

Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,

That time may cease, and midnight never come!

Fair nature’s eye, rise, rise again, and make

Perpetual day; or let this hour be but

A year, a month, a week, a natural day,

That Faustus may repent and save his soul!

O lente, lente currite noctis equi!

The stars move still; time runs; the clock will strike;

The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.

We are those “spheres”. It is we who are urged to “rise, rise again” – and I therefore half expected those in the stalls, stage right, to get to their feet: such was the strength of his petition….

And when his climactic pas de deux with “That heavenly Helen which I saw of late” deteriorates into a curdled solo; dissolves to naught; when her “sweet embracings” slacken their hold… – as Ryan gently, beautifully, mesmerizingly in awe and reverence, declaims his fervent astonishment at “the face that launched a thousand ships And burnt the topless towers of Ilium…” – when “Sweet Helen” (the awe-inspiring, affecting Jade Croot), and her long, longing, tender, innocent kiss fails to render Faustus immortal, as he so implores… – then, with his last summoned, regretful gasps of spasmodic, balletic, kinetic energy, he fights to erase the damnable magic he has used; to erase its marks upon the stage; to erase himself…

If we say that we have no sin,

We deceive ourselves, and there is no truth in us.

Why then belike we must sin,

And so consequently die.

Ay, we must die an everlasting death.

What doctrine call you this, Che serà, serà,

What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu!

…but – “the date is expired: the time will come, and he will fetch me…” – he cannot succeed. What will be, shall be.

Oliver Ryan (Mephistophilis) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

In return for this harrowing, perfectly-crafted crescendo and diminuendo, we get the most malevolent, mischievous Mephistophilis from Ryan. (He would make a superb, yet ever so – even more so – twisted, Robin Goodfellow!)

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

– Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Whereas Grierson plays this part with relaxed, laconic, almost amiable menace, Ryan is edgy, frenetic and manic: almost never still; grinning increasingly as Faustus’ power grows (or, in reality, his willingness to practice it with increasingly odious results). He encourages; he provokes; he manipulates. This is Jaques’ depraved doppelgänger: delighting in the misfortune of others, and happy to ignite diabolic mayhem at Faustus’ merest whim.

[Ryan’s happy smile, as he left the stage for the final time – after well-deserved thunderous cheers and applause – was the first time I had not felt threatened by the appearance of those gleaming white fangs as they passed by so close, making his exits and his entrances. Suddenly, as he regained his “proper shape and likeness”, his teeth were inexplicably restored to their human form, and now shone with warm-heartedness; his hectic impishness now full of joy – all devilment leached away instantly – a performer revelling in his unquenchable talent and mastery; unwinding, and yet elated, from the fantastic performance in which he had played such a crucial part.]

Oliver Ryan (Mephistophilis), centre; with company – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Incidentally: I had complained, at my second viewing…

…how the music (“a mixture of the seductive and repulsive”) sometimes overwhelmed the speech. Maybe it is my hearing aids’ inability to balance these sounds correctly; but… I do wonder (again) what reasons a director can possibly give for making the actors compete in this way. It certainly does not aid comprehension…!

However, a week or so ago, I had those hearing ‘instruments’ retuned: giving me a greater ability to equalize the ‘live’ level with that available through the Swan’s induction loop. Not only was the parity of the spoken word and ‘background’ music thus restored – mainly because the sound piped wirelessly to my ears is mixed by the engineers responsible for the whole production (designed by Claire Windsor) – but I was utterly immersed in that sinister soundscape: which is definitely “integral to the production”; and which now felt incredibly personal, privileged… almost private.

[Usually, at the Swan, I rely purely on the theatre’s tremendous brick-lined acoustic. Also, you are never very far from the stage: so dialogue is much more easily heard than in many venues. However, knowing the shrewd placement of the directional microphones – pointing downwards towards the actors (from the front of the Gallery): and therefore away from the musicians, who sit in the Upper Gallery, above the old proscenium arch – and with the loop passing under every single seat – I thought such an experiment worth exploring – “even when you are beginning to reach the stage of being able to recite the text along with the cast”!]

O, might I see hell and return again, how happy were I then!

This reanimated resonance therefore added to the sensation of experiencing the play anew – aided greatly by sitting at the end of the downstage‑left vomitorium (or ‘vom’, as designated by the company; and labelled as such by the stage-crew) – which presented a major change of perspective (I had always been stage-right, before); as well as a direct line of sight to the action.

Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind withal

And to show thee what magic can perform.

Watching one of the demon ‘scholars’ leap several feet into the air – and making one hell of a thump on the sprung, wooden floor, immediately in front of me, when landing – reinforced just how much energy every single member of the cast gives to the production: nearly all playing several, very physical, rôles; and therefore involving fiendishly quick costume changes. This is not a show for the faint-hearted – either in the audience (e.g. the couple who walked out, quite conspicuously, from their central position, as soon as the Seven Deadly Sins appeared… – perhaps Daily Mail readers…), or in the ensemble. They really do give their all. Huge lashings of praise are therefore due to each and every one!

Sandy Grierson (Faustus) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Returning to Grierson and Ryan, I could not choose one performance… – I would not… – over the other. Here are two actors so well-matched (ahem); so comfortable in their concatenation; so very capable… – and it therefore feels an honour to have seen them glory in each other’s light; to bounce off each other’s towering abilities.

As I said in my first review: this “is the very definition of theatre; it is utterly remarkable…” – and I can think of no drama that has so completely meshed with my emotions; which has had such an intense impact on me that I am delighted that I will be seeing it – four down; three to go…! – seven (yes, seven) times over its long season. (Once more, with captions…!)

And my appointments have in them a need

Greater than shows itself at the first view

To you that know them not.

– Shakespeare: All’s Well That Ends Well