Monday, May 7, 2018

CANDIDE, ou l'Optimisme à l'Américain

The Washington National Opera on Saturday presented the last piece of its 2017-2018 season: Leonard Bernstein's Candide, an unmistakably American music work based on a French satirical novella. This year marks Leonard Bernstein's centennial and all major U.S. theaters are performing his works. Not only that - a major filmmaker has announced plans to make a biopic about the composer's life, aptly titled The American.
Pangloss teaches Candide, Maximilian, Cunigonde and Paquette that the world is perfect
So why would this 20th-century American composer choose an 18th-century picaresque novella, with no less than 30 chapters, each set in a different part of the world, and a plot often described as erratic, as the basis for his operetta? Voltaire's satire is ridiculing von Leibniz's philosophy of optimism in the face of major world disasters: wars, earthquakes, social injustices, exploitation, poverty and others. In the 1950s, Bernstein could have found plenty of justification to ridicule the glories of American optimism. It was the era of nuclear arms race, Cold War, McCarthyism, organized crime and rampant racism. But it is not clear that he referred to any of that.

After testing several versions, Bernstein settled for a libretto firmly grounded on Voltaire's work, which he set to his own distinctly American brand of music. His Candide too is neither French nor German, but the epitome of a young optimistic American, who believes that the world is his to conquer and that, as his teachers say, "the sky is the limit." Cunegonde is equally naive in her expectation to land a husband who can provide a life of bliss and luxury. Like Voltaire's, Bernstein's Candide is kicked out of his master's house in Vestphalia for daring to aspire to his noble daughter Cunegonde.  Thus begins Candide's roaming around the world, a voyage beset with misfortunes, betrayal and disappointments. His optimism, as taught by his tutor Pangloss, persists as he receives or delivers blows one after another. Cunegonde is a survivor too. After losing her home in a war and surviving serial rape by the conquering soldiers, she uses her youth and good looks to secure a comfortable lifestyle.

Emily Pogorelc and Alek Shrader as WNO's Cunegonde and Candide
The action moves briskly through a series of musical episodes connected by short narratives. Major characters die and come back to life, including Pangloss, Cunegonde and her brother Maximilian. New people appear and disappear every step of the way. So much so that some performers can easily take on two roles. Actor Wynn Harmon doubles as Pangloss and Voltaire, the narrator, not impressive as either. Bass-baritone Matthew Scollin excells as both James the Anabaptist and Martin the pessimist.

For those who have not read Voltaire or heard the musical before, Bernstein's Candide is not always easy to follow. The WNO provides surtitles for the song lyrics, but not for the narrative where they could be more useful to help orient the clueless. Somewhere halfway through the performance, you are only vaguely aware of what's going on, or are completely lost. It is the power of the score, starting from the energetic overture, which made Bernstein bounce every time he conducted it, through the catchy tunes of songs such as "The Best of All Possible Worlds", that holds a spectator's attention through to the concluding chorus of "Make Our Garden Grow." 

Conductor Nicole Paiement, dressed surprisingly in a biker jacket, skinny jeans and ankle boots, led the WNO orchestra with sustained energy. Alek Shrader's Candide was gentle, benevolent, convincingly naive and beautifully sung. Emily Pogorelc sparkled as Cunegonde. Their marriage duet "O, Happy We" stands out as a conspicuous departure from Voltaire and a perfect example of American optimism: Candide wants to live on a farm and raise kids, Cunegonde wants lavish and jet-settish lifestyle, but both still expect to have a perfectly happy marriage. Washington's darling Denyce Graves was a good choice for the role of the long-suffering but feisty Old Lady, Cunegonde's protector.  She has lost one buttock to cannibals so sitting and riding is painful, but she does not let a minor obstacle like that stand in the way when the time comes to escape.

Sometimes directors opt to set Candide in modern times or in some imaginary fantastical world. A long-ago production at Washington's Arena Stage used puppets and doll houses, model ships and other playthings popping out onto the the stage like jack-in-the-box. Artistic director Francesca Zambello chose a stylized period setting with costumes that sometimes amounted to nothing but underwear, or dresses missing large chunks of fabric in strategic places. But the El Dorado scene was unmistakably Broadway-ish with its glitter and plumes. The performance was fast moving and effervescent as one would expect from a good American musical. 

But even in the best of productions, and Zambello's comes close enough to it, Candide sooner or later becomes tiresome. Awards and glowing reviews notwithstanding, the frenetic exchange of scenes is hard to absorb and the work lacks the passion to hold the audience in thrall as Bernstein's West Side Story does. 

Whether it is opera, operetta, musical or zarzuela, a music theater piece requires a clear and concise storyline, with characters affecting or completely changing one another's lives. Candide and Cunegonde are affected by life's misfortunes, but not by each other. They retire to a little farm after being disillusioned by life's vagaries. The conclusion comes too abruptly to give them time to transition from silly to wise. Is this how Bernstein saw average Americans? Or was the restless and overactive genius offering practical advice to ordinary people with overly rosy expectations for their future? Voltaire's satire may have been the wrong medium to convey this message to a broad-spectrum audience.
Candide and his companion Cacambo in El Dorado, which looks like a Broadway musical
Works such as Stravinsky's Rake's Progress, Glass's Appomatox and, yes, Bernstein's Candide, that lack passionate characters, will never have the lasting popular appeal of tragic Romeo-and-Juliette-type stories, or music comedies such as Oklahoma and My Fair Lady, or dramatic works like Porgy and Bess - despite the quality of music they offer.  

It is surprising, therefore, that the WNO would offer just a few performances of West Side Story in Concert, which were sold out despite poor publicity  (I learned quite by chance and after the fact that they had been given) as opposed to a lavish staging of Candide, which had difficulty filling the opera house on its first night Saturday, despite the availability of heavily discounted seats. 

"Any questions?"  Yes, many.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

The Emperor's New Clothes

American kids are less familiar with Andersen's classic The Emperor's New Clothes than their European counterparts. They spend more time watching educational video cartoons that teach colors, numbers, letters and other things deemed useful, such as the ultimate potty humor  (The Unflushables, available in ebook, hardcover and audio). But kids are kids everywhere and American kids are no different than the kids in Anderson's story - they can be brutally frank.

Today, I got an assignment of the kind I hate the most: to cover the latest U.S. shooting of interest, and I say "of interest" because there are too many to cover all, so we choose only those that attract attention with their weirdness or degree of awfulness. 

In this case, the shooter was mentally ill (aren't they all?) and he ran out of his vehicle naked from waist down to fire at presumably sane people. A background search shows that he has claimed to have been stalked by celebrity Taylor Swift and that last year he tried to approach the White House with four firearms on him. 

The only redeeming aspect of the story, the one that was worth writing about, was the bravery of a young man who in a crucial moment decided that if he was going to die, he would die fighting. The man was hailed as a hero because he had disarmed the killer and prevented more bloodshed. He declined the accolades, saying he had reacted instinctively to save his own life and not the lives of others. The honesty of the young black man, named James Shaw jr., is refreshing to say the least.

I have not checked the statistics lately, but in my estimate, based on the news reports that I was not allowed to miss, most of the mass shooters in this country are young white men. The Las Vegas shooter was not young, but he made up for it by killing a bigger number of people than his younger counterparts.

Reactions to the shootings have been entirely predictable (pro-gun vs. anti-gun, the sanctity of the 2nd amendment, etc.) until the Valentine Day shooting at Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. For the first time we have heard Americans, mostly young Americans, question if the right to own a firearm is more important than the right to live. That question was almost unthinkable in the past.

In Anderson's fairy tale, the courtiers fawn over a foolish king, "admiring" his invisible clothes, because to admit they can't see them would make them appear uninformed and unworthy of the king's company. Our courtiers fawn over the 2nd amendment even when privately question its effects on today's society. 

Kids in Anderson's tale ridicule the naked king, making the adults finally acknowledge the obvious. Our kids today are shouting out what is clear for all to see: we are being massacred so that people who like powerful gadgets can obtain them, be they too young or insane. American youngsters may have to shout a lot louder before the most powerful of our courtiers acknowledge the truth.

Meanwhile, Friday's report from Florida: One student was wounded at Forest High School in Ocala, Florida, the Marion County Sheriff’s Office said. The incident occurred shortly before students were to walk out as part of a national protest against gun violence. A resource officer, Deputy Jimmy Long, heard a loud bang at 8:39 a.m. and rushed to the scene........ One student was wounded ..... 19-year-old suspect was apprehended.

The news is neither weird nor horrible enough to earn anything more than local media attention.


P.S. Worth noting: 

The National Rifle Association has announced that weapons will not be allowed when Vice President Mike Pence delivers keynote address at the NRA-Institute for Legislative Action's leadership forum in Dallas on Friday. The NRA says the ban was ordered by the U.S. Secret Service.

Matt Deitsch, a student at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School who helped organize the "March for Our Lives" protest, wrote on Twitter.

"Wait wait wait wait wait wait you're telling me to make the VP safe there aren't any weapons around but when it comes to children they want guns everywhere? Can someone explain this to me? Because it sounds like the NRA wants to protect people who help them sell guns, not kids."

Monday, February 5, 2018

Reading Matters, Even If It's Only One Book

A lovely photo of a boy reading a hefty tome in a bookstore in Afghanistan grabbed my attention recently on social media, and without thinking I typed my comment: "He is reading the Koran." Someone promptly responded saying that my remark was hateful, and that it did not matter what the book was as long as the boy was reading. I can see why someone could consider the comment mean, but it was not meant to be. The picture of the Aghan boy reminded me of a visit to the Darul Quran Madrasa Azmatia in Kolkata, India, more than 15 years ago.

About 150 boys were attending classes at the madrasa attached to Kolkata's largest mosque. When I saw the students during the break they seemed reticent and looked at me as I imagine they would look at a Martian. But within minutes their natural curiosity and friendliness won over, and some of them were even ready to make silly poses for the camera.  

The imam told me through an interpreter that poor families from all over India sent their boys to the madrasa. Their tuition, board and lodging was paid by the charity. The school was more than 100 years old and the number of students was growing.

"Two reasons," Imam Qari Fazlur said, "one is the population growth and the other: people are bending toward religion. People like to see that their children learn the Koran and the Koranic teachings and the practices followed by the Prophet Mohammed."

But there were other reasons, I learned. India's constitution guarantees children's education in their mother tongue, but speakers of minority languages, such as Urdu and Bengali, often complain that the official language Hindi, spoken by the Hindu majority, is enforced in schools throughout the country. So when possible, speakers of other languages send their children to private schools.  But the vast majority of Muslims in India are poor and instead of sending their children to any school, they are sending them to work. Some families who cannot feed their offspring feel lucky if at least one child is accepted at a madrasa where it will get a clean bed, food, clothes and education free of charge. 

The education at a madrasa consists largely of learning to read and recite the Koran.  By the time they finish school, most boys know the holy book by heart.  There is nothing wrong with that.  The problem is that they learn little else and once out of the madrasa, these young men are not prepared for gainful employment, and the cycle of poverty continues.  

More than 120 million people aged 15 to 24 in the world cannot read or write. Close to a half of them live in only nine countries: India, Pakistan, Nigeria, Ethiopia, Bangladesh, Democratic Republic of Congo, Tanzania, Egypt and Burkina Faso. Poor education is linked to poverty in these countries, regardless of religion.

So, as my angry commenter remarked, it is important to read, or to be precise: to be able to read. With a literacy rate of 28 percent, Afghanistan is the second most illiterate country in the world after South Sudan. Therefore, the picture of the barefoot Afghan boy in a library, engrossed in a book, is heartening. What is disheartening is learning - as I have at a Library of Congress event - that bookstores are disappearing from the neighboring Pakistan. The only "reading" available to ordinary citizens are tape-recorded sermons by local imams, sold outside the mosques. One can only hope that Afghanistan has many bookstores like the one in the charming photo with a young reader.

Wednesday, January 31, 2018

Waiting for Godot...Pardon Me: Spring

Watching the incoming fashion trends is one of my favorite winter pastimes. Whether they are pretty, elegant or just ridiculous, new creations are fun and inspiring. They tantalize, they inspire, they hint at promises of spring just around the corner.... even if the apparel is designed for the next fall.

But what a confusing message this year! Moving forward or turning back? Just look at the sample below - I distinctly remember seeing that same outfit in the 60s, or thereabout.

What's new here?

 Downright depressing:

And when the design doesn't attract, depending on a celebrity (or their offspring) to draw attention:

I reach out to my all-time favorite Dries van Noten for something really magnificent, and I can't believe my eyes.  His latest reminds me of the merchandise at Trieste's Ponte Rosso we used to flock to from the communist Yugoslavia.  Dries, how could you?


I think I've seen more original creations in H & M last time I shopped there.  So now I turn to reliable catalogues, such as Boden, and I find a pair of scalloped shorts, such as I wore at least 30 years ago in South Africa, and a maxi dress I got in the 70s in Rome:

Last resort - Swedish designers:    Meh!

The spring does not look promising this year.  One remaining hope: the groundhog.  

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Carmen for the #MeToo Era

Sunday's Golden Globes awards ceremony was all about fighting against men's abuse of women. And it's not only America endeavoring to raise awareness about the widespread social problem. The Opera of Florence, Italy, on Sunday premiered a new production of Carmen in which the eponymous heroine does not get killed. Instead, she kills Don Don José with a gun that she wrests from him. Producers say they wanted to draw attention to modern-day mistreatment of women.

Some of my European friends were put off by the Golden Globes speeches and said they were all about hating men. One said when Oprah delivered her much celebrated oration, she looked like she wanted to grab a man from the audience and devour him. Privately, many people had a problem with the Hollywood event, but now we hear publicly from Catherine Deneuve  and a hundred other women that preventing men from going after women is an attack on men's freedom of expression.

Deneuve and others, mostly women in the entertainment business, said in a letter published by Le Monde Tuesday that “Rape is a crime, but persistent or clumsy flirting is not a crime, nor is gallantry a chauvinist aggression." They described #MeToo feminism as “a hatred of men and of sexuality,” and said that some men have already suffered professionally "while the only thing they did wrong was touching a knee, trying to steal a kiss, or speaking about ‘intimate’ things at a work dinner, or sending messages with sexual connotations to a woman whose feelings were not mutual." Of course, there was an immediate backlash. 

Oprah Winfrey At the Golden Globe Award Ceremony
As someone who grew up in Europe but has lived long in the United States, I can understand both sides. Used to the ubiquitous, but harmless flirting with men in Europe, I found the social atmosphere in the United States to be so sterile at first that I often wondered how Americans married and produced children. In Europe and even in Africa I would receive compliments, flowers, chocolates and admiring looks from men. But in Washington, any compliments for my hair, clothing or figure come from women. I have never been sexually harassed at work. I even found myself envious once at dinner when two women, unattractive in my opinion, discussed unwanted attention from their male colleagues in the past. Not being able to contain myself, I finally exclaimed: "Wow, this has never happened to me - I must be very undesirable!"

After a while, I learned to appreciate the independence coming from not having to thank for gifts that did nothing but boost my false sense of "femininity." But over time, little things have built up into a bigger picture that could not be ignored: men would not offer me a seat on the train when I was pregnant, but women would. At work, it was men who kept me down and women who gave me a boost up. I have been insulted, attacked and belittled by men in the United States more than I ever have been in any other country. In the street, a driver once shouted after me "you c..." because I crossed a road when my light was green, but he moved forward and almost hit me.

Back in Europe when a woman approached a group of men, their eyes sparked and some sort of bantering ensued. They seemed to genuinely enjoy female company. In the States, I find the male conversation is more likely to come to a dead stop when a woman comes along, with men raising their eyes as if asking: "OK, how can we help you?" (so you can go away and we can continue). I often used to think American men really hate women. They certainly seem uncomfortable around them unless they smile very broadly, which I never do. Then I thought, OK they are just confused, and shy people often seem unfriendly.  

But reading the accounts of women who dealt with Weinstein and other men in power, I cannot but wonder what if not hatred could make a man treat a woman in such offensive manner as has been described.  It is one thing to try to seduce a woman with nice words, flowers and champaign, it's another to show her your ugly body and ask for services you would normally ask from a paid prostitute. The ugliness is not only in the sexual context. Just look at all the things Trump has said about Hillary.  I cannot imagine a politician anywhere in the world using such vulgar language about a woman. When a Polish representative in the EU said that women were inferior to men, he was quickly removed. 

People respond to hateful acts with hatred.  By her own account, Oprah was sexually abused as a child by a series of relatives.  If during her Golden Globe speech she looked like she wanted to devour a man, she had an excellent reason. Though I don't think she hates men in general.

Women worldwide have been treated hatefully by men. Deneuve and many others may not have experienced the worst of it. They have learned how to deal with unwanted attention from men and even use it to their advantage.  They have learned how to avoid getting into a situation where they could be raped (no one-to-one meetings in a hotel room).  They have got used to flirting, and many enjoy being pursued by men regardless of whether they find them attractive or not. In this push-and-pull game, both men and women have to be skilled in reading the signals telling them when to stop and when to go on. For those who despise such games, the alternative is a series of awkward or businesslike questions like: "May I kiss you? Are you ready to have sex?"  To which my answer (and I suspect Deneuve's too) would always be "not if you have to ask."

Unfortunately, Weinstein and the likes do not engage in harmless flirting games nor do they ask awkward questions. Neither do men who rape children in their family, or bosses who harass their female employees. They treat women like disposable objects, existing to serve, and with a big smile.  If they resist, they get beaten or maligned, or get their heads chopped off.  So movements like #MeToo and themed events like this year's Golden Globe ceremony, exaggerated as they may be, are useful and necessary tools in drawing attention to a social ill and the need to fight it.

New production of Carmen at the Teatro del Maggio Musicale Fiorentino  
Turning Carmen into a killer and Don José into an abusive man distracts from that purpose. Carmen is a troubled and complex person, who uses men for her purposes such as they may be at a given time.  Maybe she was an orphan, maybe she was raped as a child, maybe she was too much on the move to form a lasting attachment - whatever the reason, Carmen is not capable of genuine affection. She is a femme fatal, but also fatalistic.  In the "Card Trio" in Act 3, she foretells her death.  In the final act she embraces it.  When warned, she does not try to avoid a confrontation with Don José. She dares him to kill her or let her go. And when he refuses both, she riles him further by pulling his ring off her finger and throwing it at him.  Carmen is far from being an abused woman as portrayed at the Teatro del Maggio Musicale Fiorentino and is much closer to what a hateful man on Facebook called a "bitch."  

An abusive man getting killed by the victim of his violence is an excellent topic for a new opera. So were Nixon in China and Dead Man Walking in their time.  The Opera of Florence would have done better to commission an entirely new work from a contemporary composer than intervene in a time-honored classic.
And in case you missed it, here is a NYT article with another European view:

Monday, November 13, 2017

WNO's Alcina Is All About Gorgeous Singing

For those who love beautiful singing and acrobatic coloratura, the Washington National Opera's performance of Handel's Alcina is a feast. With few exceptions the singers' voices were carefully picked to suit their respective roles to perfection, with Angela Meade given the choice of a Handel heroine she felt would best showcase her heretofore rarely heard capabilities. The singing was so wonderful this past Saturday, that you could just close your eyes and let the music take you to Alcina's enchanted island. Judging by the enthusiastic applause after each aria, the audience appreciated the effort.

But there is more to opera than lovely voices and spectacular singing. This production of Alcina was too anemic for my taste. While I am sure that conductor Jane Glover, making her WNO debut, led the ensemble in a true Handelian style, watching her languid movements from my side made me wish it had been Antony Walker instead of her. I kept imagining what energy he might have infused into the performance.

The setting of WNO's Alcina is reminiscent of an underwater cave
The setting was a dark stage with a big circular opening backstage, that could have represented an exit from an underwater cave. The action took place center-stage on a well lit round platform. And there were white square seats on each side where members of the chorus would sometimes sit. Other than the lighting, not much changed throughout the two-and-hald-hour long show. Very little happened in terms of action, except for the singers's arrivals and departures and an occasional ballet number. The direction seemed to go along with the sedate pace of conducting. The stage livened up considerably with the appearances of soprano Ying Fang whose Morgana was not only charming, but also incredibly charismatic. She also made mezzo-soprano Daniela Mack and tenor Rexford Tester more interesting when they interacted with her.
Soprano Yin Fang gives a charming portrayal of Alcina's sister Morgana
Angela Meade did not have that effect. I've seen her live on stage and on big screen in cinemas and found her to be an excellent singer, but one whose voice I could never remember or recognize without seeing her. Given preference, I would rather hear her in a concert performance. What Meade lacks in looks to be convincing in the role of a seductive enchantress, could be compensated by persuasive interpretation. But to this ear she added nothing to convey "the alluring power of illusion," which seemed to be the goal of director Anne Bogart.

Alcina is a character taken from Ariosto's Orlando furioso. She attracts and traps various men who stumble upon her island and when she gets tired of them turns them into streams, beast, trees and rocks. Her current lover is Ruggiero, otherwise engaged to Bradamante. Alcina's General Oronte warns the captive that the sorceress will soon tire of him too and will want to get rid of him. Bradamante, disguised as a man, comes to the island to rescue her man. She is accompanied by Melisso, Ruggerio's former tutor. There is also a chorus representing Alcina's victims, and the WNO production seems to have dispensed with the character of Oberto, a boy soprano who is searching for his father.

Costume designer James Schuette has made some inexplicable choices. The chorus can take on various roles in modern productions of Alcina and members are dressed accordingly. In this one, men and women were dressed in mismatched black clothes: women in mostly evening gowns and men in uniforms, underwear and in one case a satin robe, perhaps suggesting that the magic spells hit them all at a different time of the day. Alcina's magenta satin gown is complemented with the same color embroidered overcoat, but Morgana is dressed in a pink tulle dress that could have been borrowed from a Balanchine ballet. An extra flounce is added at the waist perhaps to make her slim figure fuller. For most of the performance Ruggiero and Bradamante wear camouflage uniforms that could have been taken from a performance of Cosi fan tutte from a few years ago. Before Alcina's spell is removed, Ruggiero stumbles around in a tobacco-colored satin pajamas and an unattractive dressing gown.

Angela Meade displays her vocal powers in Alcina
Most of the signers are women, including mezzo Elizabeth DeShong who portrays Ruggiero. They outperform the tenor and the baritone portraying Melisso and Oronte.

Stories set in enchanted locations such as The Tempest, Armida or Alcina give producers infinite possibility of creating original magic worlds, as we have seen for example in Met's pastiche The Enchanted Island. Often, they are transferred to modern times. Dresden's Alcina a few years ago was a glamorous femme fatal who takes pleasure in seducing and destroying men. In the Semperoper's production, Bradamante was Ruggiero's wife and mother of his two children. She came to Alcina's place accompanied with Melisso as her lawyer, who helped persuade the errant husband to return to his family. 

The WNO's production seeks to invoke the mesmerizing qualities of our contemporary culture, awash with electronic gadgets with their promises of instant gratification. But if it imparted any message of wisdom, it did not come out clear. This production achieved all the effect of a good concert opera performance.  Alcina perished and the chorus came to life - truly came to life - after Glover finally poured some energy into her conducting. Alas, the moment was too brief.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

Time of Confusion

Several years ago, I read a book I wanted to keep for future reference, but as is often happens after praising it so much I had to lend it to someone and never got it back. The book was The Vertigo Years: Europe 1900-1914, by Philipp Blom. I bought it because a chapter titled Wagner's Crime grabbed my attention and in my typical fashion I did not realize until later that Richard Wagner had long been dead in 1900. Nevertheless, the book was fascinating and I wish I still had it. Maybe it would help clarify my current thoughts and give me a hint on how best to proceed in this century. 

The Vertigo Years is about fast changes - scientific, technological, political and societal - that left many people confused in the early years of the 20th century. In the West, machines increasingly replaced manpower, motorcars replaced horse-drawn carriages, and movies became a popular form of entertainment while the Bolshevik Revolution was brewing in the East. Life became faster and more complex causing  a lot of stress. More and more patients were diagnosed with a nervous disorder called neurasthenia. With the advent of women's movements, communism, technological developments and other threats to the established order in Europe, many men felt insecure and so they put on uniforms, grew moustaches and engaged in duels and similar "manly" pursuits. The author (as far as I can remember) said much of the confusion stemmed from the conflicting approaches to the new century. Half of the western population believed that a new century must usher a new era, and the other half (or three-qarter?) wanted to cling to the old and familiar.

The Gaumont Palace in Paris was the largest movie theater in Europe in the early 20th century
It seems to me that the world has arrived at a similar point in the early decades of this century. Aren't recent political developments worldwide, not to mention at home, a clear indication that half of the world is not sure it wants to get ahead, and prefers to take a step back. Just look at the Polish events this weekend: the marchers, apparently quite young, want a return to white, Catholic and conservative Poland. One can only hope that it is the kind of step back that gives impetus to a big jump forward.
There are other comparisons between the early 20th and the early 21st centuries.
Silently the family, at least in the United States, stopped consisting of a man, a woman and several kids. Traditionalists watch in horror the crumbling of the established boundaries as same-sex marriages become legal, gender issues include transgender issues, populations become diverse. The more changes are pushed in from one side, the more resistance builds up on the other. You can see semi-nude bodies in public places along with those covered from head to toe. Digital technology is developing at such a vertiginous speed that while you still struggle to learn the ropes on iPhone 6, the new cell-phones are light years ahead. It has come to the point when even a libertarian and "futurist" like me cannot digest it all. I stubbornly refuse to use Siri because it may give me more headache. Of course, it is questionable that Siri would understand my accent.

A hundred years ago, women in England demonstrated for the right to vote. A century later, women in several countries donned pink hats to demonstrate against all kinds of injustices. They were not stoned or jailed , but the recent Weinstein hoopla revealed how much women have been discouraged from seeking justice even in the 21st century, and not only by men but by their whole societies. A woman in Croatia, I learn, has tried to report her husband's sexual abuse of their daughter only to be told by the police that they can't intervene in family disputes. When the daughter got pregnant a couple of times and the case could not be covered up any longer, the husband was jailed, but the woman was ostracized by her community for "not having done enough", for "not having left the man immediately" and all kinds of other "wrongs." People were angry at the uncomfortable situation in their midst and the victim was easier to blame than the perpetrator. 

The wife of French President Emmanuel Macron has had to cope with a wave of misogyny for being 24 years older than the husband
Neurasthenia is no longer officially listed as a disease in the United States (as it is in some other countries), but there are all kinds of other nervous and autoimmune disorders with similar symptoms and blamed on similar causes.

The Vertigo Years is divided into 15 chapters, one for each year leading to World War One. But instead of giving us a boring history lesson for the year, Blom picked an important event in each year that was new and significant not only for the era but for the future too.

The last chapter titled Murder Most Foul, was about 1914, the year of the start of the Great War. So it can only be about the assassination of the Austrian archduke in Sarajevo, right? Well .....not actually. It is about the sensational murder committed by the wife of a French politician. Henriette Caillaux shot to death the editor of Le Figaro who was critical of her husband. If she had not done it, her husband would have been forced to challenge him to a duel that would end his political career. She was acquitted after her lawyer persuaded the jury that the wealthy socialite had not premeditated the murder, but committed a crime of passion, caused by her "uncontrollable female passions." Never mind that Henriette sat for an hour in Le Figaro offices waiting for the editor to come in. Female passions take much longer to cool down.

The second murder most foul that year sparked the biggest war in the history of the time.  Let's hope our "vertigo years" don't bring another more destructive one.

P.S. Just in case you wondered: Wagner's Crime, as indicated earlier, was not a chapter about one of my favorite composers, but a story about a provincial Austrian teacher who unexpectedly and inexplicably murdered his wife and children after having a pleasant meal at a local inn and chatting amiably with neighbors all the way home. It was the first court case ever in which insanity was accepted as reason for acquittal and Wagner spent the rest of his life in an asylum. Today, insanity seems to be a new normal so such acquittals may be harder to win, and there aren't enough asylums to keep all the afflicted in.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

How to Survive Selling and Buying Real Estate in DC with Online Puzzles

The moment you think of selling your house, it stops being a home.  It's much like deciding to put up a child for adoption. You have to steel yourself against emotion. I am not sure which is more painful because I've never given up a child, but I have sold a home before and the process was excruciating.

I loved my house but I always knew I would have to sell it eventually.  It's a four-level Victorian with I don't know how many stairs. While the stairs served as an exercise machine for many years - with time they were becoming more and more of a nuisance.  Then a roof leaked during a long rainy weekend when every roofer was out of town, and a clogged pipe caused flooding in the basement. Finally - it was a decisive moment - a strong wind woke me up one night and I realized it was blowing right over my head, inside my bedroom. A plastic window latch cracked under years of sun exposure and had finally given in to the force of mother nature.  All of that added to the stairs made me long for a flat. Here they call it apartment (or condo if you own it),  but the British word was more precise for what I had in mind.

No longer mine
Come spring, the time was ripe to contact that charming young agent I had preliminarily consulted last year, who knew the real estate market on Capitol Hill, and who had just returned from a vacation in Croatia. He seemed a more suitable choice than the agent who had helped my buy the house, who was a real bully.

At the appointed time the charmer arrived with a huge smile, greeting me like a long-lost nephew, and went over the sales process so smoothly and casually that details did not register. After all, what do details matter among family members.  So I did not quite internalize that I would actually be working with my "nephew's" stepfather -in-law, a nice older man, straight from a 1950s Hollywood movie.  That settled, one of the most painful periods in my life began. 

First the staging-and-photo crew came in and shoved all my personal stuff into closets, drawers and hidden corners, under beds and behind sofas.  The house stopped being mine before it even went on the market. I could dress for work in those clothes I could find, not the ones I wanted to wear. There was no hope of finding a small item such as a nail file or a postage stamp if I needed it.  Two medium-size rugs were so well hidden that they could not be found until the moving day.

Once the house was on the market, living in it was akin to dwelling in a railways station.  An army of people went through. I was only able to spend the night in it, have a quick shower, clean up and disappear till the evening. After about two weeks of this my whole system began to rebel.  First I pulled out a few rugs, then a trash can. On a couple of occasions I even dared to leave some toiletries on the vanity. It helped, but I still felt like I was in someone else's house.

Meanwhile, my charming agent completely disappeared from the scene and I was left to deal full-time with his stepfather-in-law, a Fred Astaire lookalike.  I felt like a groom who mail-ordered a bride resembling Marylin Monroe and got Greta Garbo instead.  Not unlike my previous agent, this Fred Astaire was only available to me when it was convenient for him. He showed me properties I might be interested in buying - aka flats - at the time which suited him, and he answered my mail when it suited him.  When I ventured on exploratory expeditions on my own (you can always call a seller's agent to show you a property) he would gently scold me, claiming it was not in my best interest.  Really?  I have always found that I can see and learn more about a property when I go on my own than when an agent holds my hand.  But in this business a client is his agent's hostage.

What it means is that you don't get to see a place more than once or twice before deciding whether to buy it or not. During the first visit you get blinded by the "staging", a carefully developed skill in the real estate business to present a property at its best, hide all the flaws and give you little idea of how it really is to live in it.  You are a little more discerning during a second visit, if you are lucky to get one.  But you still don't learn how warm or cold the place is during various seasons,  or whether your would-be neighbor is Maurice Ronet or Marica Hrdalo. The places that are deemed "hot" (newly renovated, in a good location and of decent size) will not wait for you to learn all you need to know.  So if you are selling your home and need a new one at the same time in D.C., you have too little time for research and you can't be picky.

My choice was especially narrow because I dislike the cookie-cutter open plan dwellings dominating the Washington area market today. You open the entry door and you find yourself in a kitchen with the ubiquitous bar and stools.  (I guess you stick your umbrella in the sink and your jacket in the refrigerator.  Shoes in the oven?)  Right next to the bar is a dining table, making you wonder why you would want to eat off a kitchen counter when a table with more comfortable chairs is right there.  And who wants to sit on a sofa and look at a sink, or a microwave oven?  Apparently everyone in Washington.

Everyone in Washington wants this

Well, maybe not everyone because my house was finally sold to a nice suburban couple who thought open-plan houses were like a bowling alley - you throw a ball and it goes right through to the other end. But the three-week wait for that couple to come along was an agony of uncertainty. Every day seemed an eternity plagued by the questions: Was I too late putting the house on the market? Are the selling prices taking a nosedive? And when the house sells, will I find an adequate place to buy in time to move into it when I have to leave the house. As days went buy, the questions accumulated and the stress soared to pathological levels. Especially when I learned that many buyers came back several times to see if they can convert my ground floor into an open kitchen with bar stools, and the sofa facing a microwave oven. Invariably, they concluded it was not possible to knock out enough walls because of the central staircase. Sleepless nights began to make me feel dizzy and my concentration at work dipped dangerously low.

I used to resent that a number of people in my office have enough time to play computer games during work, but now it turned out to be a blessing. One day, when my nerves were especially frayed, I noticed a colleague putting together a jigsaw puzzle online. I had long considered boxed puzzles and knitting as most boring kinds of pastime, something for children and old ladies - until I learned they were both soothing for nerves. So the online puzzle my colleague was passing the time with suddenly had an appeal. Once I tried it, I got hooked. For the first time in my life I began to understand my son's fascination with computer games, although his involve guns and shooting. What a wonderful feeling of gratification when you find two pieces of puzzle that fit and they snap in place! They remain silent and detached if they don't fit and, so you can't make a mistake. That loud snap makes the adrenalin kick the same way a slot machine in Las Vegas does when you hit the jackpot. And what great joy it is to hear the little bells tinkle when the puzzle is completed successfully!

Solving a jigsaw puzzle does not require exceptional intelligence, but it does require concentration - just enough to take your mind off the anxiety caused by the loss of a home base.  For best effect, the puzzle must have the right number of pieces. Too few are not enough to serve the purpose  (of soothing the nerves).  Too many add to the anxiety, instead of relieving it.  I had the best results with puzzles made up of 150 to 200 pieces, depending on the available time. Putting them together became an instant obsession, but one that helped me get through the worst of the house sale and condo purchase. The temporary habit might have developed into a full-fledged OCD if the move hadn't created a more pressing occupation of settling into a new home.

Speaking of that - the ink had not yet dried on the settlement documents, when my Fred Astaire's smile dwindled to a frown.  He wished me a cold good-bye and walked out of my life forever.  His boss, my "long-lost nephew" who had hooked me for two lucrative  deals  (his company earned commissions on both the sale of my old home and the purchase of the new one), had been out of the picture for a while.  The last I had heard from him was an email  scolding me for disclosing to the buyers some of the history of my house. I had expected at the end of the deal a communication of a sort, acknowledging that our business was a pleasure - or at least concluded - but not a peep from him. The charming agent and his family had moved on and it appears I was not a favorite aunt.

Monday, May 8, 2017

WNO: A Butterfly for Our Times

What do you look for when you revisit such a frequently performed work as Madama Butterfly?  I prefer to see new or rarely shown works, but will also go to a piece I almost know by heart if a new production or a new singer promises to be interesting.  I went to the Washington National Opera's new staging of Madama Butterfly because I was curious to hear tenor Brian Jagde for the first time and wanted another impression of Ermonela Jaho, who was a poignant Suor Angelica a few years ago. In the end, what I took home Saturday night - to digest and store in memory for further contemplation - was the spellbinding blend of light, color and design of the WNO's fresh offering of the Puccini classic.

The media photos of women in polka-dot kimonos against a bright orange or magenta background betray little of the magic they produce when combined with all other stage effects. In the picture below, the characters may look like a group of hausfrauen in schlafrocks, parodying a Japanese party at a parlor game, but on the stage these costumes are integral parts of pictures that bring to mind the art of Alma Thomas.  

The kimono-clad women floated up and down a ramp, that symbolized a hill with Cio Cio San's house on top, in a perfect geometrical order with ringed parasols hovering over their heads like different-color halos. With matching-hued ribbons streaming behind, and brightly lit stage, they were a sight to behold. The dazzling flow of visions, ranging from cheerful to dark and dramatic, became a moving art exhibition, enhanced by drama and sound. Occasionally, video projections, although abstract, suggested the passage of time or the power of the emotion.

Japanese artist Jun Kaneko (who lives in Omaha, Nebraska) has produced this marvel in close collaboration with lighting designer Gary Marder, choreographer Adam Noble and many others involved in the project. The result is sensational.  Kaneko says in his production notes that Madama Butterfly has been "one of the most difficult challenges and one of the most exciting creative experiences" in his life.  He passed the test with flying colors, literally.

The performers cooperated with his artistic vision and worked well as an ensemble. Ermonela Jaho's passionate portrayal of the unfortunate girl-turned-woman garnered enthusiastic response from the audience.  Jagde's physical and vocal size added to her projection of vulnerability. In looks and voices they were well matched and convincing: Jagde as a robust American sailor and Jaho as a dainty Japanese doll.  Although a little rough around the edges, Jagde softened in the right places of the powerful Act I duet. And his rendition of Addio, fiorito asil was sensitive and appealing. I will be looking forward to this tenor's next endeavor.

In this production, Pinkerton does not rush on the stage in the final act to sob over Cio Cio San's dead body, but rather calls her name from behind the curtain.  Good idea!  That scene can otherwise be as embarrassing to watch as, I am sure, it must be to perform. 

Kristen Choi is an experienced Suzuki and it was obvious on Saturday. For those of us who had not heard of her before, she was a pleasant surprise. I am glad her Suzuki was able to express love and concern for her mistress without being syrupy. Choi is another singer I'd like to hear again. So is Michael Adams who gave us such a charming Yamadori that one wondered why Butterfly did not get over the braggart who had left her in dire straits, and moved on with the rich guy. 

Troy Cook's Sharpless was somewhat disappointing as was Ian McEuen's Goro. Although secondary roles, these can stand out in the hands of masterful performers. 

The orchestra under Philippe Auguin's direction excelled again on Saturday.  He is becoming one of my favorite conductors.

The highly stylized WNO's production of an operatic staple is an example of how Madama Butterfly, perhaps my least favorite opera, can be moved from the traditionally kitschy milieu into a powerful and unforgettable work of art.  Chapeau to WNO's artistic director Francesca Zambello for the strong finale of a season that also gave us Jake Heggie's Dead Man Walking.  Perhaps not as memorable as the previous one, but who can beat a line-up with Wagner's Ring in it, and such a magnificent one at that.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

WNO's Dead Man Walking

On Saturday evening I witnessed an execution by lethal injection. OK, it wasn't a real execution, but an operatic one, terrifying nonetheless. A nervous but defiant "convict" stood center stage in a pair of underpants with a clearly visible diaper stuffed inside. His fear was palpable, his desperation permeated the theater as they dressed him in a white shirt and pants and strapped him to a gurney.  A nurse injected deadly substance into his arm. The audience stopped breathing.  Then his heartbeat, ticked off by a monitoring machine, began to slow down until it became a steady sound signaling death.   

The performance was Jake Heggie's Dead Man Walking, offered for the first time by the Washington National Opera. I am somewhat familiar with the work through a recording of the 2000 San Francisco production, but it did not prepare me for the impact this opera can have in a staged performance. Staggering!

Contemporary operas can be quite an ordeal to sit through. Composers are pressured to offer some new and groundbreaking concept, which usually means hard-to-like music, black-and-white scenography, and absolute absence of tradition. Melody is anathema. I came to Dead Man Walking almost directly from a performance of La Ciudad de las Mentiras (City of Lies) an opera by Elena Mendoza at Teatro Real in Madrid, which bore all these characteristics.

Stage set for La Ciudad de las Mentiras, Teatro Real, Madrid
Mendoza used four stories by Juan Carlos Onetti to explore theatrical and perhaps some musical possibilities, but her sopranos, tenors and baritones never sang. They recited lines from the stories so intertwined that only those familiar with Onetti's work could hope to understand what's going on. The English language surtitles kept the uninitiated out of a complete fog, and a written introduction gave some clarification, but I had to agree with a friend who argued that a work of art that needs so much explanation is not a good work of art. If Mendoza's singers did not sing, neither did the musicians played much music. At one point a man appeared on the stage with an accordion only to tap his hand on it a couple of times. An actor portraying a bartender scratched a metal tray with a knife, a piano player hit the keyboard a couple of times and the orchestra produced some "atmospheric" sound, sort of like a distant wind howling. Overall, it was an interesting, innovative stage production, but it was not an opera.

Dead Man Walking definitely is. Heggie did not veer off the traditional operatic structure, or as some would say formula, proving that what worked for Verdi and Puccini works for today's composers as well. The build-up, the drama, the climax - it was all there and it worked. It opens with a young couple frolicking by the lake to the sound of popular music, but disaster is already in the air. And it strikes swiftly. From then on the action moves energetically forward so the first act breezes through without any longueurs. Sister Helen's entry into the death row, with a chorus of men yelling profanities at her is a most powerful scene, musically and theatrically.

The second act starts with the title character, prisoner Joseph de Rocher, exercising in his cell to pass the time or to keep his muscles from trembling.  A great opening!  After that the energy drops and there are scenes, such as Sister Helen's conversation with Sister Rose, and her encounter with the convict's mother that one could do without. Tension returns to the stage full force with re-entry into Joseph's prison cell. He knows the hour of death is approaching and his desperation rises to a fever pitch.  Still defiant, but more dependent on Sister Helen's support, he finally feels compelled to confess his guilt. 

The death scene is one of the most powerful pieces of theater I've seen in recent years. I wish the opera ended right there. The final repeat of a religious song that served as a leitmotif throughout the opera was forgettable and unnecessary. In spite of minor quibbles (occasional clichés of sorrow and sentimentality) chapeau to Heggie and his librettist Terrence McNally for impressive work.

Kate Lindsey and Michael Mayes in WNO's Daed Man Walkong, photo Scott Suchman
In terms of production, this was one of the operas in which a simple, mostly black stage for once worked very well. The black scrim was lifted often enough to break the monotony and create a sense of movement. I usually don't pay much attention to lighting, but this time I thought it played a significant role in creating the right mood at the right time, whether it was camaraderie, anger, children's lightheartedness or dark depths of a tortured soul. Francesca Zambello, riding the wave of her recent success with Wagner's Ring, proved once again that she is an operatic force to be reckoned with.

Heggie's music is unapologetically beautiful throughout this opera, something that the audience loves and music critics condemn. 
It is the only modern opera I know in which the recitatives sound as good as the "arias" and blend seamlessly together. Dead Man Walking is unmistakingly American in the theme, language, and music expression. At times it sounds more like a musical than opera. But other than that, it was a classical opera in almost every sense. 

The singing and acting on Saturday were excellent throughout. In terms of voices, I would wish a stronger mezzo for the role of Sister Helen than the otherwise brilliant Kate Lindsey. Also, I am not sure if it was a good idea to cast Susan Graham next to her in a minor role. Graham reminded those familiar with the San Francisco recording of her outstanding interpretation of Sister Helen, and she overpowered Lindsey when they appeared together. Lindsey's Sister Helen was a gentle nun, different from the real life person the character was based on.  But such people can wield a power of their own quiet kind and so Lindsey's interpretation worked well, especially juxtaposed with Joseph's belligerence.

Dead Man Walking is one of the most frequently performed American operas at home and abroad, for a good reason. It is one of those works that makes you want to see it again in the same or a different production. Unlike Ciudad de las Mentiras, for example. It's an opera that you can just listen to without seeing it on stage, like La Forza del Destino or Porgy and Bess. If it does not break any new grounds, perhaps it proves that there is no need to keep fixing something that ain't broke. It's a pity WNO offered only four performances of what is arguably its most impressive production of the season, but I feel lucky that I caught the last one.