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Jonas Kaufmann is at the top of his game and enjoying his success — but he won't let anybody push him too fast or too far. What is it like to be everybody's favorite tenor?
Monday, 24 October 2011
Sunday, 23 October 2011
Meandering the narrow streets of Dorset
After the storm of Sunday, our first Monday promised better weather. But we didn't have a plan, unless 'exploring' is a plan!
We agreed we needed to find a beach. I suggested, for no good reason, that we go to Eype, a village not far from Bridport. I have to confess to not really understanding the English village system. In my pre-London days I had been known to venture into the countryside, and one autumn I spent some time auditing the tiny parish councils of Hart District - based in an office on a business park outside Reading. I'm not even sure of the differences between hamlet, village, town. And I was surprised by the narrowness and windy nature of the roads, although rather liked the drive through a tunnel of overhanging boughs heavy with leaves. It was a spectacularly steep climb up to the seafront, not helped by taking a wrong turn into a dead end that just led to people's front gates!
But, finally, we found the beach! And we walked on it! For a bit, anyway. The Bridport area is at the Western End of Chesil beach, where tidal forces sort the stones into big rocks in the East and tiny pebbles in the West, making walking quite treacherous!
We decided instead to head for Lyme Regis, but, inexplicably, diverted ourselves into the settlement of Morecambelake; perhaps we were attracted by what seemed to be a market in a field. We walked around and realised that it was almost exclusively junk. Some horrible cheap-looking clothes, stalls selling dishcloths and clothes pegs, a burger van, and incongruously, a stallholder who'd travelled down from Cheshire to sell jams, honeys and so on. We bought some from there, which, in retrospect made little sense in Dorset! Although perfectly tasty!
We soon set off again via the backstreets, somehow by-passing Whitchurch Canonicorum, which we never visited but should have done on account of it having the most amazing name! Also, its the only church in Britain except Westminster Abbey to have survived the Reformation with its relics intact. Also Georgi Markov is buried there. He was assassinated by a poisoned umbrella tip on Waterloo Bridge.
We drove instead to Wootton Fitzpaine, which seems to consist largely of a manor house and a church. I regret not taking some photos, but the road took us to what seemed to be the front garden of the manor house, which made me nervous about taking pictures! So we drove on through another desirable village Catherston Leweston, and into Lyme Regis.
Lyme Regis is very different from the villages we had been driving through. Obviously it's a relatively sizable town and seaside resort. Obviously tries hard not to look like every other medium-small town in England, with the obligatory Tesco and Boots sitting cheek by jowl with teashops, coffee shops and bakeries. The end result being a town that looks like every other town that's full of tea shops and cupcake purveyors. It's chock full of cars, every hour in each direction the Axminster to Weymouth bus squeezes its way through the narrow streets, round the sharp corners and under the ancient bridge over the road.
I admit I am not a frequent user of car-parks, but I was mildly surprised that the pay-and-display meter took cards. Obviously this is a good idea, especially at the price they were charging, but the woman trying to pay at the same time as me neither had the cash nor wanted to pay by card! The thing, if you want to park your car in a tourist town, you have to pay!
We had arrived late for lunch, and rather than explore the entire town to find a place that offered the best menu for the most amazing price, we decided to go to somewhere which had a decent mention in the Rough Guide, was close at hand and looked okay - The Pilot Boat. Looking round the internet, it seems to have mixed reviews. I certainly wouldn't class it as secret surprising fine dining, but it lived up, more or less, to our expectations. I had a good quality fisherman's pie, although as I tweeted at the time, it was disappointingly served with a typical dated English side salad. Mediocre ingredients to begin with, and not dressed. It's like the leaves are put on in order to tick a box of providing colour, but with no thought as to whether the customer would want to eat it. Why spoil a tasty, value-for-money dish? Jimmy enjoyed his pork belly braised in cider
We strolled along the seafront in sudden glorious afternoon sun, walking to the harbour and along the Cobb, before walking back through the park that rises above the seafront. It struck me as a pleasant enough town, sufficient seaside resort places - ice-cream huts, fish-and-chips, bars, amusement arcades - without being either overwhelming or a draw in themselves. I imagine it gets pretty busy at weekends and in the school summer holidays.
Leaving Lyme Regis caused us some problems. It should have been so simple, but we took a wrong turn and ended up, oh horror of horrors, crossing the Devon border. We turned around with no further incident, though we had to back into Lyme to finally head towards Bridport, I made little jokes about being driven back across the border by furious Devoners.
We finished the evening in Burton Bradstock, a little village outside Bridport, perhaps most famous for being where Billy Bragg lives - although he was on tour in the USA when we visited - and the Hive Beach cafe, which was closed. We sat in the afternoon sunshine in the garden of the Three Horseshoes, drinking some beautiful 'Dorset Gold'. We also got directions to the beach, which lies down a turning we had entirely missed! And for forty minutes or so we had a delightful walk on an almost deserted beach, glorying in the later afternoon sunshine, such a contrast from the previous day's dull, wet, windy storm!
More photos in my Dorset photo album
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
The Manor Arms Streatham
Sunday was a beautiful & sunny day and relatively mild. Ideally, we would have gone for a walk or a cycle ride, but quite apart from my low energy/stamina levels, Jimmy has manged to injure his toe (well, according to the doctor, it's either injured, or gout, or arthritis). So we had a choice of staying in (and ordering takeaway) or going out to eat somewhere.
We were reluctant to go to a pub for Sunday lunch. We did used to think we had bad luck that, so often, a meal out was all-but-ruined by out of control children neglected by their uninterested parents, or, worse a certain type of SmugMarrieds who feel obliged to TALK VERY LOUDLY to show what marvellous parents they think they are. Insecure, much! But one of the beauties of Twitter is discovering that this is a scourge that is sweeping the nation. Twitter also provides information on local places to eat. We decided to risk The Manor Arms.
It's been open a good few months now since refurbishment. Under previous management we have attended family christening, wedding & funeral, but it was a very different place then. We must have looked like the wide-eyed yokels from the up-the-hill when we saw how big the place is, and absolutely packed. It was like we got the last available table - and there was plenty of turnover whilst we were there.
They seem to have found a successful formula. Eminently affordable, and a small menu, they must serve several hundreds on a Sunday. My criticism of the menu was that there were two vegetarian choices, both of them pasta-based, which was a weakness in planning.
Jimmy opted for mushroom soup & olive tapenade, followed by Free Range Pot Roast beef. He didn't have a pud and I let him tuck him rather than wait for me to photograph. He thoroughly enjoyed both courses and was particularly impressed by the roast potatoes, which can be so badly done in pub Sunday roasts.
I started with Mixed Beets, soft quails eggs & Walnut salad, which isn't normally the sort of thing I'd go for, I have mixed feelings about beetroots. I can never properly predict whether I'll like them or not! But obviously, they add so much colour. Very nice, very fresh ingredients, prepared and presented with a light unfussy touch.
We weren't in the best place, positioned between the fireplace and the Ladies loos, so my view of the pub was limited, and my sight-line was constantly interrupted by the trail of women and girls heading off to there. Also, in a niche behind my left ear was a speaker, probably inaudible to everyone else, pumping out grating prog rock. On the next table was a three generational family, the youngest being only a few weeks old. They were fine actually, although only Grandma seemed to know how to hold a baby with wind. I got a bit antsy when Dad went and stood behind me - in my space - swaying in and out of my peripheral vision. I suspect he only did that while Jimmy went to the bar.
They moved off, and the table was taken by a party of two young couples. Until the waitress told them it wasn't their table. They insisted they had booked for 2.30, and although they were late, the restaurant was running late, too. The waitress pointed out that another party had been waiting longer, this was their table. With an enormous sense of wounded Entitlement the Mouthy Woman demanded to know who had decided. The waitress stated firmly "My boss". Mouthy Entitled Woman protested they didn't want to sit at two tables for two, trying to intimidate the waitress. I'll forgive a restaurant a lot if they don't stand for Inflated Senses of Entitlement. Not that there was much to forgive, really.
Main course arrived. I had Grilled Sea Bream, Charlotte Potatoes, buttered Leeks & Shellfish Bisque. A good combination of flavours. Excellently cooked, good ingredients. Froth is obviously a big thing at The Manor Arms, for Jimmy also had froth with his soup.
I should know better but I'm a sucker for puddings. Again, in an effort to break out of predictability, I opted for bread and butter pudding with caramel ice cream. I suppose, after the first two courses, I had high expectations, which t didn't live up to. It was 'fine' but I don't think it was anything special. And I can't decide which photo I prefer.
Although, actually, food on white plates doesn't look that great against the white background of the blog...she realises after 9 3/4 years of blogging...! So I've also added them to my Food and Drink photo album, which has a grey background!
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Dorset, the early days
(Photo from West Bay Hotel website)
Ideally I should have written my holiday blogposts each day. But we didn't have internet in the holiday let, or anywhere near it. And there'd be no point in publishing a holiday blogpost without holiday photos, which all take time to edit. The way I do it, anyway!
I always think it's weird, when I go on holiday, or away for work, or anywhere really. You might spend days, weeks or months planning the time away, but as the time gets closer, all that matters is the journey. Packing seems almost secondary, and by the time you draw away from home, all that matters is the journey. And the journey seems *epic* whilst it happens. I don't travel very often by car, and I don't like driving, so it's both an adventure and a relaxation to be sit cruising down the motorway. Until the motorway runs out not far from the location of our previous holiday (Milford on Sea).
But when all is said and done, once you've arrived, and unloaded the car, there's not a great deal to say, not even about the glorious coastal view that suddenly comes into view as you ride the crest of a hill on the A35. We spent a lot of the holiday on the A35. I never tired of the view. Except on the day when fog reduced visibility to just a few yards. Fog. In June. I know.
We had a wander round the town and soon found ourself in a pub. As soon as we walked in, some bloke in a sleeveless quilted anorak scrutinised me closely and said 'hello' in a confrontational manner. When we were settled in the beer garden, he came to interrogate us, expressed his hostility that we were obviously visiting in order to locate a property to buy and move into. Apparently that's the only reason Londoners visit. He also informed us that no one goes out at night in Bridport and there's nowhere to eat, other than one restaurant in West Bay.
But we managed to find a nice cafe to sit outside with a pot of tea and a clotted cream & jam scone each. And later that evening we had a perfectly pleasant meal at The Royal Oak, I ate moules marinieres;and Cornish sole in a pink peppercorn butter, with vegetables & new potatoes. And some wine, which I didn't note at the time. It was very tasty and at the time I thought we would try hard to better it. I'm sorry I didn't photograph the food, indeed, I was startled at how little of the food I did photograph! I can't be too harsh about a pub-restaurant that had on the wall a picture of Billy Bragg as well as ones of PJ Harvey, Martin Clunes and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. But the unfortunate thing was that there were about five or six parties of two or three people, mostly older than me on the periphery of the room around a table containing a multi-generational extended family of a dozen or more people. They weren't obnoxious or extraordinarily loud, but it's impossible for a group that size not to dominate the room. It's a shame the restaurateur didn't use the room-style alcoves more imaginatively.
The following day featured spectacularly bad weather. For example, the tennis final at Queen's club was postponed. And we met up with a friend in West Bay, the seaside part of Bridport. It was an energising experience being blown down the pier and quite physical or even sensual being soaked to the skin...maybe! I tweeted 'it was way too stormy even to contemplate getting my camera out!' We ate in the West Bay hotel. I had red mullet & sea bream with oriental spice in a light creamy balti sauce, vegetables and new potatoes; and white chocolate & strawberry cheesecake, washed down with some eminently quaffable local Palmers ale.
The next day the sun came out and I took some photos. But that's another blogpost!
Monday, 17 October 2011
Blitz
Bored and listless on Saturday evening I proposed we watched a film. The free-at-source channels, terrestrial and satellite, offered very little we hadn't seen and could both watch together, so I chose Blitz. I probably wouldn't have chosen it to watch by myself but the premise seemed reasonable. a cop on the trail of a serial killer.
A starry cast including my perennial favourite David Morrissey, the enigmatic Paddy Considine, Zawe Ashton (Vod from Fresh Meat) and even Mark Rylance.
It wasn't a bad film, but it just wasn't very good. David Morrissey and Mark Rylance were entirely wasted in peripheral roles, so I can only assume they turned up as a favour to a friend. Paddy Considene and Zawe Ashton put in decent but not great performances. The official star was Jason Statham, of whom I have frequently heard mention but am not sure I have ever seen in a film. It seems that he generally plays bad guys and I think that sums up part of the problem with the film. I'm entirely cognisant of the concept of the 'rogue cop', a thug, but they tend to have some self-awareness, a realisation that they are not conformist, and quite often a sense of purpose. I didn't really understand how he'd ever found the braincells to pass his Sergeant's exam, and I could find no sympathy with the character.
A greater problem was the story. I think there was a decent plot somewhere, but just as I didn't sympathise with the main cop character, I also found the killer Aiden Gillen to be two-dimensional. Sure, we found out that he hated the police, but there was no insight into his psychology. Many people are anti-police and may even be violent towards them, but there was no explanation as to why he should carefully plot a series of assassinations of the police officers who had previously arrested him.
It was so predictable, which I admit is not necessarily a bad thing. I don't like it when films or TV dramas have a twist for the sake of having one, but when there were no real character exposition, no insight into policing techniques, no eye-catching cinematography, a mundane plot doesn't attract.
And, at 90 minutes, it was too long. It would have worked better as an hour long (or 48 minutes on ITV) TV drama. It seems to have been based on a series of novels, and, as far as i can be bothered to research (not very much!), this wasn't the first. Perhaps I would have understood it more if I had read or seen the earlier ones, understood what motivated the Statham character. It filled the time in between two sessions of doing very little on a lazy afternoon.
Sunday, 16 October 2011
Sunday, 09 October 2011
The Elixir of Love
I don't normally agree with the Anglicisation of opera titles, but when they're sung in English, as at English National Opera, it makes perfect sense.
I went to see this production when it was originally performed and thought it delightful. This would have been February 2010 but stupidly I didn't blog it.
When I saw it was being revived I didn't put it on the list of 'must sees'. However, when Intermezzo advertised a cheap ticket offer from MoneySavingExpert, I realised it would be a nice afternoon out for Jimmy and me. I paid £20 each for our Dress Circle Tickets; I would normally have paid close to (if not more than) £40 for one uncomfortable Upper Circle seat, so feel that ENO haven't lost income from me. Especially not when we also bought coffee (better than Royal Opera House but still disappointing) and ice cream in the interval, whereas, normally, on my own, I wouldn't buy either.
But I am concerned about ENO's finances. They're obviously struggling to sell seats. If people trying to balance shrinking budgets are anything like me, £40 for an indifferent seat for a good but unstarry cast in a routine revival of a lovely but frequently performed opera is one of those things to be jettisoned.
There is nothing not to like about L'Elisir d'amore. It's a lovely work, with some wonderful tunes, and rich orchestration. We were blessed with some wonderful fellow audience members. Sometimes with comedies, you find people guffawing in a very attention-seeking and boorish way, but the only laughter I heard was genuine. At one stage, one party had a collective fit of giggles. It seemed a bit strong for the light comedy, but perhaps they were a little sozzled, and, anyway, it was genuine and infectious. The chap in front kept kissing his girlfriend, but she eventually staged a tactical retreat. It wasn't snogging, more like him staking his territorial ownership and displaying some emotional insecurity and also a lack of understanding of the music and drama. But she staged a tactical retreat and, anyway, he was barely scraping a 0.5 on the 1-10 scale of annoying.
It is staged on the American Mid-West in the 1950s. I thought the colours were wonderfully reminiscent of the 50s, but Jimmy, who remembers the 50s, says they were later - but I wonder - fashion may dictate something to be the 50s, but that may not have hit poor areas of South London until the 60s. We agreed the lighting was exceptional.
The set was a movable box, depicting Adina's Diner. For different scenes it alternated between right angles, sometimes showing the inside of the diner, sometimes the front view, with a rickety sofa in front, and a couple of petrol pumps, and a drive on part for a splendid 1950s YankTank of a car.
The libretto was freely translated and there were some moments of genius, for example, the singing at Adina's pre-wedding party was in the style of Elvis, yet true to Donizetti's music and idiom. Dr Dulcamara had a fabulous patter-like song, freely translated, and when he listed the numerous ailments that the Elisir was supposed to cure, I recognised a good few, and am certain most other people did, too.
When I went to Il Trittico, I was irritated at how dated the works were. Yet Elixir, some 90 years older, seems timeless, and relevant today. 180 years later we are still too eager to believe the cure-all qualities of an untested potion, too easily duped by smarmy snake-oil salesmen, and perhaps, even more importantly, often don't know who we love until we're about to lose them.
Perhaps this prevents it being too fluffy a story, but in any case, a work with such great numbers deserves to be considered amongst the great operas.
I thought it was a good performance, because there were no flaws so huge as to mar it. I felt a little disappointed at the conducting - Rory MacDonald. At times it was too slow, which made the singers flatten their pitches slightly. More critically, there didn't seem to be any sense of the arc of the music, no getting beneath Donizetti's skin, no real grandeur (which can sound pompous if overdone) and no real lightness in the lyricism.
Dramatically, William Robert Allenby stole the show, in a part he inherited from Andrew Shore. As Adina, I thought Sarah Tynan, from Walthamstow, sounded lovely and moved well, but lacked star quality and I wonder where her career will go once she's no longer a lyric. I didn't find her coloratura sufficient for the various runs required. But she sounded lovely nevertheless. Benedict Nelson was interesting. I read that he is only 27 and is currently an ENO Young Artist. I thought he was technically excellent as Belcore and assumed him to be older and more experienced, so perhaps my misgivings are misplaced. In essence I found him dull but pretty and serviceable.
Ben Johnson is also an ENO Young Artist and is obviously an immense talent. I have previously heard him in small roles in Handel's Samson and Verdi's Otello (one half of the Ant & Dec of young English tenors). I hadn't been overly-impressed by those performances, but this was different. He was good, at times he was very good. At times he seemed underpowered against the orchestra, and his interpretation of Nemorino was fairly two-dimensional. But truly, it owuld be unfair to fault him. His Una furtiva lagrima was impressive, and I felt that the lacklustre 'Tralalala' Act 1 Finale was largely due to the slow pace set by the conductor.
Overall, I'm glad I went and I was very pleased that Jimmy had enjoyed it, but I suspect I would have enjoyed it less if I had paid more for indifferent seats higher up.
ENO has a Flickr set of photos from 2010 (different cast)
Friday, 07 October 2011
Tuesday, 27 September 2011
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Sunday, 18 September 2011
Two dead babies and a will
I attended Il Trittico at the Royal Opera House on Tuesday 14 September and came away with distinctly mixed feelings. I definitely enjoyed myself, and I have generally high praise for the performers in the three operas I saw.
One of the operas I have seen before, the other two were unfamiliar to me. I can't say I have a burning desire to see any of them again; though may do, depending on the casting. It reinforced my feeling that though there are several Puccini operas I like immensely, there are also several I could happily do without. I don't know of any other composer about which I have simultaneously divergent feelings!
We started with Il tabarro; when it was finished I reflected on how dated it seemed. I don't know whether the blame lies with the composer or solely with the librettist, but trying to reflect the mores of their age, they seemed gratingly almost offensively out of step with today. There was a whole story there that was hinted at, and was more interesting than the one that was told. A married couple had suffered the death of their baby; this may be the reason they had grown apart and she was having an affair, or flirting, or something, with another bloke. So hubby killed the other bloke. End of story. But only after a sizable portion of the opera had been taken up with irrelevant trivia from peripheral characters.
The music didn't particularly grab me, except that I did hear some lovely passages in the lower strings echoing the gentle swaying of the waves in the Seine. I don't know the work, but none of the performances struck me as noteworthy either in their excellence or inadequacy.
After the interval came Suor Angelica, which annoyed me intensely despite the fact that even I could tell that the music was searingly beautiful. The opera revolved around a story so poignant and painful it deserved to be told in its own right. Instead it was only hinted at, as a 'backstory' to justify the most mawkish maudlin tosh that could possibly be seen on an operatic stage.
Suor Angelica was high-born, the niece of a Princess, and because she fell pregnant and gave birth to a son who was forcibly removed from her after she had had the chance to kiss him just once, she was forced into a convent in order to save the 'good name' of her 'family'. She spent 7 years pining for her son, hoping just for a word on his welfare, until her Aunt the Princess turns up to get her to sign over her inheritance, and to mention in passing that the child died two years previously.
So we had three eighths of the opera taken up with a light-hearted almost but tediously not funny sketch of how these rather trivial women forced into a convent must do penance for school-girlish tiny pranks. And we had three eighths taken up by Suor Angelica very distressed undergoing a mental breakdown whilst spouting a pile of nonsense she's obviously been brainwashed into thinking is a normal psychological reaction to the most unimaginable grief. Then she committed suicide and immediately realised that this was a sinful thing to do. End of opera.
There is a story to tell about the unspeakable brutality of these aristocratic families who punished women for - probably - being raped and there is a story to tell about the seven years she ached and yearned for the son. But we didn't get this. Instead we got an all-female institution seen through the eyes of men who didn't seem to have much clue about how women behave, all-female institution or not, and a characterisation/narrative that would have put a Victorian shock-novel to shame.
Ermolina Jaho sang beautifully and was superb in an opera-long mad scene. Anna Larsson was outstanding in the small but pivotal role of the Princess - I see she is listed as a contralto, a voice-type I rarely hear but love so much.
But I'm afraid to say I remained unmoved because I felt too aware of how my emotions were being manipulated, which I feel is too cynical and too false. I thought the staging and scenery of this to be the best of the three, the most evocative of a time and place.
So, that left us with the third opera in the Triptych, Gianni Schicchi, the only one of the three I've seen previously, the only comedy, and the one with the two set-piece arias that are worthwhile in their own right. I may be wrong but I don't think that 'comedy' necessarily means 'laugh a minute'. Surely, it has more meaning as the opposite of tragedy. There were a couple of men sitting near me who got very annoying very quickly at their insistence on laughing at every line that contained the mildest of light-heartedness and every line that they knew, knowingly, was a set-up for a later denouement. I assume they had drunk a little more than they could reasonably handle, and I do want to stress I don't think excess laughing in a 'comedy' to be an eject-able offence, just that I thought their attention-seeking 'aren't we clever' ostentatious display of 'we know this opera' to be tiresome and boring.
I have seen Bryn Terfel in the eponymous role and I will just say Lucio Gallo is no Bryn Terfel. The young tenor, in this case Francesco Demuro, has little to sing but one show-stopping aria. He sounded pleasant and tuneful, as one would expect from a pretty and bland Italian tenor. Until the final declamatory 'Gianni Schicchi' when he screeched in the most ugly screaming way. The other, most famous, aria is O mio babbino caro, which was sung by Anna Devin a late replacement - later than the deadline for the cast sheet. I am reluctant to criticise a 'Young Artist' and certainly I couldn't fault her on the technique/delivery of the aria. But unfortunately, I really don't like her voice, which seems to have a pronounced bleat. Maybe she's just waiting to mature into a dramatic sop; maybe that wouldn't be an issue in those roles that need some heft.
But I came away thinking that lesser 'comic' operas only need seeing once; I would have been equally satisfied, musically, by hearing the two set-piece arias performed in concert by singers more pleasing to my ears.
I also thought it would be more enjoyable if the Royal Opera did a triptych of significant Acts from Verdi operas;-)
A footnote, because I didn't want this to dominate the blogpost. I was sitting on the third row of the Stalls Circle, in a seat costing a tad more than I would normally pay. Behind me were the standing places, usually filled by people who are there to hear and see the music, and not out for a 'night out' a 'social occasion'. Unfortunately, the opening few minutes of Il tabarro were ruined for me by the talking of the couple behind me. It was a familiar situation, immature little boy in his 20s takes girlfriend who barely knows him to a spot of culture so he can explain to her what's happening, show off how clever he is, and make sure she knows her place as his inferior. Well, sorry, I'm way too long in the tooth to be impressed by that, and also follow the rule - if no one else around you is talking, ask yourself if it's appropriate for you to do so.
Having endured this for several minutes I turned round and told him to 'Shut up'. Arrogant little cock told me to calm down. I was not prepared to engage in conversation with such a tosser, but if I had done I would explained I had paid three times more for my one ticket than he had for two and I had paid to hear the singers not him. I didn't have the chance, anyway, because he left his standing place to walk over to the usher. He engaged the usher in conversation, and returned to his standing place. For the remainder of the evening he not only did not utter one word, but he barely moved and hardly breathed. Arsehole had, presumably, instructed the usher to get me thrown out but had had to retreat with his tail between his legs when it was explained that I was right and he was wrong. I take no pleasure or triumphant crowing from this victory, because it angers me that people can be such tossers that it needs to be explained to them that when their behaviour is so divergent from anyone else's it doesn't take a great deal of intelligence to realise they're in the wrong.
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Twitter applications
I can't remember when I first realised that Twitter is far better experienced using applications than directly using the website. But since then, I have used Tweetdeck on my PC, and have very few criticisms.
The major one, and I think it applies to all apps, is that limits to the Twitter API means that unless you follow very few people who rarely update, not all tweets download, so inevitably you miss a few. I feel that this is not the end of the world. If it's important enough generally, it will be repeated, or further alluded to, or Retweeted. If it's aimed at me, I pick it up anyway in @ messages.
When I got a Blackberry I installed what was then Ubertwitter and became Ubersocial for Blackberry. I immediately found it wonderful. Like Tweetdeck, it missed a few, and it originally didn't have the means to filter out keywords or phrases. That was then introduced as a feature and I considered the ability to filter out certain subjects by otherwise interesting people an important part of my Twitter enjoyment. I won't embarrass anyone by revealing what I filter out. However, for example, when I tweet about the re-runs of 1976 Top of the Pops I try to append #totp so that all those people who have no interest in the minutiae of the worst era of post-War 20th Century pop music can happily ignore me.
I switched to an Android phone and searched for an appropriate app. Several people recommended Seismic, but it seemed to be no better than Tweetdeck for Android, a poor relation of the desktop version. I tried Ubersocial's Android app - Twidroid which was the best of the lot, except for one key factor. And that factor to me was so annoying as to outweigh all the other attractive features.
I don't have the means to sit and watch my Timeline all day long. It would make me a pretty sad person if I did, although I suppose if I was home-working or housebound, it would be no big deal to check every half an hour or hour during waking hours. But when I'm at work, or out-and-about, I shouldn't, or can't be bothered to, check. So I have a long backlog of tweets. I like to sit in front of mediocre TV in the evening to unwind and conserve my energy for the next working day. Scrolling through backlogged Tweets is an agreeable thing to combine with half-watching TV.
But with Twidroyd, every time I clicked a Tweet, to follow the link or view the embedded photo, and then clicked back, it would take me to the top of the screen, to the most recently posted, requiring a scrollback to where I previously was. Such a time waste, and hard on the carpal tunnel, I had to abandon it with regret. Also, the keyword feature didn't seem to work. Maybe that was me, I didn't hang around long enough to find out.
I drafted up this blogpost over a month ago, and, before publishing I decided to hunt one more time. In doing so I found Tweetcaster. I asked for opinions, and was greeted with some positive comments, and a warning that it's quite clunky.
And a month later, I can confirm that all those are true. It is clunky, often freezing, albeit momentarily, and about once a day I have to turn my phone off. There are a couple of other irritating factors, such as the fact that it changes all shortened links to Twitter's own link shortener, adding to an already convoluted process to open a web page or photo...which then turns out to be a cat photo! It also makes it impossible to filter out tweets from eg 4sq.com, which could be very annoying.
There are peculiarities with retweets. For example, if Ann retweets Mary, and I want to further RT, it doesn't let me acknowledge Ann. But if I want to reply, I can only reply to Ann, whereas it might be of more relevance to reply to Mary. And I can't summon up Mary's profile despite me just finding out she's interesting, and I might want to follow her.
I think I would prefer Tweetcaster if it ironed out the glitches I have mentioned, but even with those, I have found it to be the best for Android, and better in some respects than Ubersocial for Blackberry.
Saturday, 10 September 2011
Tuesday, 06 September 2011
Monday, 05 September 2011
A Doge in Vienna
Plácido Domingo: Ein Doge mit viel Autorität
Points out, not unreasonably, that he doesn't sound like a tenor. But it likes the performance.
Zweite Saison Welser-Möst/Meyer beginnt
Domingo, der heuer seinen 70. Geburtstag feierte, überzeugte in der nicht wenig anstrengenden Titelpartie mit noch immer unglaublich frischer Stimme, einer einfach perfekten Phrasierung, und das alles zu Gunsten einer überragenden Interpretation, die nicht bloß musikalisch, sondern auch schauspielerisch berührt und fesselt.
Altersloses Psychogramm eines Alternden
Alle Ohren und Augen waren freilich auf den Star aus Madrid gerichtet, dessen Macht über seine Stimme ist schlicht ein Wunder, ebenso wie seine Bühnenpräsenz: Domingo schuf ein altersloses Psychogramm dieses Alternden - und erschien dann nach Ende der Aufführung geradezu jugendlich: Glück und Ruhm wollten beim Schlussapplaus denn auch gar kein Ende nehmen.
Furioses Duell zweier Operngiganten
The performance being reviewed took place on 6 3 September and was relayed onto a giant screen outside; another performance takes place on Tuesday 9 6 September.
Sunday, 04 September 2011
River Life
Time and again I am drawn back to the River Thames. So many different ways to see it, at different times of year. I could write paragraphs of clichés about 'a great river...ever-changing yet remains the same...life-blood of a city...heartbeat of a nation'
Historically, towns - that became cities - were built by rivers (if not by the sea). It's only very recently that it's become easier to travel by water than by land. In ancient times maritime communities had excellent communications with other maritime communities.
And the Thames is the nearest river of any significance to where I live.
On one stifling hot day in April, we spent some time on the river. We started at a pub near Vauxhall, in the St. George Wharf. I can see the attraction of it, a very large place close to the river,and maybe we just got unlucky with the bar staff who didn't seem to have a clue about the product she was selling and laughed at us for asking to buy - for money - the beverages of our choice which her employer stocked to be sold, for money.
So after one drink we left the pub and went to look at the river. It's changed since then; amongst other things, they've built a pier, due to open imminently.
The tide was low and what looked like a crane on a barge was moored, seemingly left high-and-dry.
For April, the weather was stunningly gorgeous, although in the morning it was still hazy enough to shed a photogenic light on Battersea Power Station.
I also discovered that each of the arches of Vauxhall Bridge is decorated with a relief of a human figure.
We then went into Central London. It was horrendous, all the tourists converging on Westminster Bridge, many of them acting like utter morons, not even capable of crossing roads and making you wonder whether they should be allowed out unsupervised.
We waited for seeming ages for a boat. There was a problem with it being an exceptionally low tide and boats were delayed,and they were going as far as Kew, not to Hampton Court. But eventually it left, and we had a pleasant cruise in the sunshine, and I took lots of photos, some of them just to tell a story.
I like the Thames as a working river - the refuelling barges the fire rescue station in front of the headquarters of the International Maritime Organisation
and, as I fondly believe, oil rigs, which will eventually make us all rich!
Then there are the derelict-pending-redevelopment Power Stations at Battersea and Lots Road in Hammersmith
There are modern developments on both banks - Norman Foster's Albion Wharf and Chelsea Harbour
We ended up in a pub in Kew called the Botanist on the Green, which turned out to be a disappointment. I started with a deep-fried cheese affair which tasted better than it looked but I followed with fish and chips. The presentation made you think they cared enough about being poncey to care about the food
but this was the second attempt after I'd sent the first one back for being smothered with salt to the exclusion of all other taste. Even after complaining it still had salt, visible for the sharp-eyed
I can only assume they powered on the salt to disguise the taste of food about to go off. Jimmy said I would have found his fish and seafood dish too salty, too.
When we were joined in the garden by a South-West London family from hell, we knew it was time to leave. You know the sort. Bloke sits there bellowing into his phone how he'd been playing tennis all day and been away in Moscow for several days buying vodka.Heleft and returned half an hour later carrying a new-born baby held with his arms out in front of him so that everyone could note and admire his virility. Behind him followed the wife, clearly exhausted, struggling with buggy, bags, football etc, followed by two very bored Infant School kids, who were ignored by the boastful shouting father and the exhausted mother, so they noisily kicked their football round the beer garden which was laid out for eating, not a kids' playground. I expect he had brought them to the pub as a grand gesture to save the wife from cooking. Not that I feel sorry for her. She married him, possibly just for his earning power, and she's stuck with him for several years and three children.
It was nice to be out on the river, but once again found London pubs lacking the attention to detail which would make them good, and worth recommending,or returning to.
More photos from this day,and earlier trips out round London are in my London photo album. I also have an album of Food and Drink photos.
Monday, 08 August 2011
Saturday, 06 August 2011
Monday, 01 August 2011
Sunday, 31 July 2011
Plácido Domingo and Angela Gheorghiu at the O2 Arena
It was a privilege and a pleasure to be at this concert last night. A privilege I paid quite a lot of money for, well twice quite a lot because I also got a ticket for Jimmy. Thankfully he really enjoyed it!
I approached the concert with high expectations. I am a great fan of Plácido Domingo, as I think you know. I knew instinctively that performing with Angela Gheorghiu was much more significant than him performing with one of the many talented protégées he normally has accompany him. With the greatest respect to someone like Virginia Tola, for example, I don't think there would have been many people there for her. Angela is different. I had quite forgotten quite how much I like her. I didn't manage to get tickets for her recent Tosca; she cancelled Adriana Lecouvreur the night I attended; I cancelled her Traviata after my encounter with the 'Sir John Tomlinson pothole' on Floral St. So it's actually two years since I have heard her, in Tosca.
I have tweeted quite a bit about the concert, which has (some) spontaneity, but makes it more difficult to write a narrative post. I don't, however, feel any attraction to tweeting while the concert is actually happening. Sorry, can't touch type on a touchscreen.
It was a bit of a surprise to realise that the concert had exceeded my expectations - considering how high they were.
I had guessed possibly 2/3 of the programme beforehand but that did not diminish my pleasure. I was anxious about the venue and anxious about my own high expectations - 'audience fright' I call it.
The opening number was Berlioz's Hungarian March, a pleasant enough piece, but serving no artistic purpose in this concert. I don't think I've ever been to a 'numbers' concert that hasn't started with some orchestral piece, to settle the audience, before the headline act.
Plácido walked onto stage without the slightest ostentation or attention seeking - then the audience noticed and greeted him rapturously. His first piece was O Souverain by Massenet. At the time I thought it beautiful, but in light of the rest of the evening it was not Plácido at his vocal best...warming up, relatively speaking! I was distracted by some interference or feedback of a whistling nature and hoped fervently that this wouldn't mar the whole evening. I didn't notice it again so it must have been snagged.
The format followed the familiar course he has used in numerous concerts with various female attendants - although I place Angela above being a 'female attendant'! She was on next to sing Song to the Moon by Dvorak, which was utterly delightful. I remembered why I like her voice so much: it sounds no natural and unforced. She claims that her voice was perfectly formed by the time she went to Conservatoire at 18. It still combines a youthful purity with a mature steeliness. I know the aria passably well - I'm not score-perfect nor had a score in front of me - and I found her rendition to be beautiful. I was gritting my teeth waiting for a typical soprano squawk or screech, but it didn't come, and I remembered that Angela doesn't. And didn't, all night.
I have proceeded through this blogpost writing a paragraph on every number that was performed, but I have deleted most of what was written. I was torn between 'I thoroughly enjoyed this/it has a nice tune' - which conveys nothing, and nit-picking at details in the margin, which is a sure way to destroy the magic of a thoroughly enjoyable evening, and entirely misses the point.
This wasn't an intimate recital at Wigmore Hall or even part of the Barbican's Great Performers' series. It was showbiz for the sake of entertainment, and a large audience left very happy, buzzing, using words like 'amazing' at the end of a wonderful evening. Sure, some subtleties may have been lost; sure, that performance of that particular aria may not stand comparison with another arbitrarily chosen performance, but so what? Two superbly good performers at the top of their profession, in fine form reaching out to the audience, singing gloriously, taking adrenaline from the audience and making people happy.
When Plácido sang Wintersturme I was transported to another world. Gia nella notte densa was moving, and it was good to hear Plácido sing it with someone who is as good as the various Desdemonas I have on CD and DVD. It surprised me that there was a relative absence of stage chemistry between them, which was also apparent after the interval when they sang Favella il doge...Figlia, a tal nome. This was musically the highlight for me, making me wonder what it would be like to see them together in these roles on stage. This was when it was most apparent he was holding back so as not to drown her out - she has a beautiful and often penetrating voice, but she isn't loud. (I prefer beautiful to loud). I was also struck at how much he acts with his face, or even just his eyes. And it is a duet I have come to love dearly.I asked the people sitting either side of me whether we could rewind and play it again.
The penultimate piece before the interval was the overture to Don Pasquale. A lovely piece but an odd choice. I'm not sure anyone would know it if they hadn't seen the opera. I've seen it several times, and can't say I know the overture, though it pre-empts Com'è gentil, possibly my favourite tenor-aria-that-Plácido-hasn't-recorded, and lots of grand, lush orchestration which makes me love Donizetti.
After the Simon Boccanegra, we moved onto Musical Theatre. Angela sang I Could Have Danced All Night. A brave choice, in London. Musically and vocally she was stupendous, but her pronunciation was...well, my friend invoked Prof. Higgins and his pronunciation lessons. Plácido sang The Impossible Dream from Man of La Mancha, one of the few numbers I didn't predict might be on the programme. That was an unexpected and delightful bonus!
The orchestra played the overture from Candide, which has featured previously at a Plácido concert, and also a similar style Bryn Terfel concert I went to a few years back. It's a pleasant enough piece but I don't feel I ever need to hear it again.
I was so pleased they sung Tonight from West Side Story, a big favourite of mine; when Plácido sung Sleep well and when you dream Dream of me Tonight I took that as an order!
Angela sung La Seceris by Tiberiu Brediceanu, a singularly forgettable tune that was never really going anywhere. But she sang it with such drama and passion I could forgive her for inflicting this on us, and making me remember how uncomfortable my seat was.
The inevitable zarzuela included Plácido singing Sorozabal's Amor, vida di mi vida, and then the orchestra played the Intermedio from La boda de Luis Alonso, which we didn't know, but really liked. The concert 'proper' as advertised in the programme, finished with Me llamabas, Rafaeliyo from Penella's El gato Montés, which is actually opera, which I always forget, thinking it's zarzuela. Plácido played the role of a torero with a flourish and panache.
Sustained applause marked the end of the pieces that were listed in the concert programme (£10, it cost). I do hope nobody was daft enough to leave at that point, because the concert was only 2/3 over. I read there were 7 encores, but I can only remember Plácido singing No puede ser, Besame mucho and Granada; Angela singing O mio babbino caro and another Romanian song, The Tree, which she dedicated to her husband Roberto Alagna, who was highly visible in the audience - he stood next to Jimmy twice, for quite a long time. They finished with Lippen Schweigen - Plácido told us to sing, because they were going home. He strolled off the stage with one of the cellists (who was obliged to abandon her cello) - she looked terrified! My friend reported she saw Marta scurrying to the door that led backstage. Angela grabbed the leader of the orchestra and escorted him off, then several more of the orchestra decided to waltz off arm in arm!
Update: The 7th, forgotten, encore piece was Angela singing Lacuona's Siboney. Enjoyable musically, but the boogying with her back to the audience doesn't need repeating
Plácido's 3 encore pieces were the icing on the cake for me. I love him singing the heavy, dramatic emotional opera roles, but I also loves it when he relaxes and sing the more popular stuff (I know No puede ser is from zarzuela but he treats it as a party piece). I don't even know why I like Besame mucho, because, listen to the orchestra, it's a cheesy disco song played by a symphony orchestra. But I love the way he sings it, alternatively purring and belting.
I shouldn't be surprised by how much I enjoy a performance by Plácido and yet every time he manages both to surprise and amaze me. I always the frisson of gazing on him and thinking - here is someone I hero worship and there he is, just a few feet from me; this man is such a legend and yet, here I am, listening to and watching him perform.
Earlier in the week I had watched two interviews - online with ITV London Tonight and on TV with BBC Breakfast. Even though I last saw him only a month ago I was actually quite shocked by how old he looked. And yet, on stage, it didn't even cross my mind, until well into the second half when I remembered that he is 70, but that seemed immaterial, just a number, considering how lithe and energetic he was on stage. Yes, dark shadows around the eyes, and crumpled looking, but yes, I have seen myself in the mirror, so I should say no more! He seems to have a lost a bit of weight, so while he is still cuddly looking, he looks a lot leaner and trimmer. (Although I am comparing with when he was wearing the most unflattering suit in Il Postino)
I shouldn't even remark on the fact that his voice sounds so amazing for his age, because it does, but that is beside the point. I didn't hear him live when he was, say, in his forties, but if he had given a performance like that at 40, I am sure people would have been raving at what a wonderful singer he is with that rich caressing voice.
I can't capture the magic of the evening in words, and already the detailed memories are fading away. I wish it had been filmed (other than just for projecting on the arena screens).
More photos in my Performance album, which loads in reverse order
Besame mucho (includes audience sing along...) At 1:07 is the point where Plácido gazed directly into my eyes!
Granada
O mio babbino caro
Saturday, 30 July 2011
The O2 Arena
Before I blog on the substance of last night's concert, a few observations on the venue, the O2 in Greenwich.
I had never previously been for a gig, although I did go in 2000 when it was the Millennium Dome. Like most people who actually went, I really enjoyed the Dome, unlike those sat being all sniffy without actually experiencing it. But I really didn't know what to expect.
It benefits from being outside of Central London. Like every venue - Wembley, Earl's Court, Croydon - outside Zone 1 it has the potential problem that after the event, 'everyone' wants to leave the same way, whereas in Central London everyone immediately disperses outside the theatre, joining the masses coming from other theatres, pubs and restaurants, but staggered. But we got the first tube train that came. And it was less hassle than trying to leave the Royal Opera House via Covent Garden station, especially if another theatre kicks out at the same time.
I would not have got a seat except that a nice chap offered me his. He, like many other people, got off at Canary Wharf, for the DLR, as I had expected, so a seat wouldn't have been a problem. Anyway, the journey from Central London is fast and short. We changed at London Bridge, the journey taking less than the hour I'd usually allow to get into town.
It definitely benefits from cars being discouraged. There are parking spaces for people with Disabled badges, and a taxi rank, but the general absence of cars is a pleasure that should be more widely encouraged. There is a canopied walkway from the Tube station to the venue.
When you walk into the place, the first thing that strikes you is the vastness of the space. We wandered Entertainment Avenue looking for loos until it dawned on us there would be some beyond security/ticket check. Entertainment Avenue is packed with chain restaurants and bars, all busy. Obviously used by lots of local people as well as people attending the entertainment. Nothing special; on the other hand, if you were coming straight from work and wanted to eat, you could.
The venue was subject to the usual stupid rules I have encountered elsewhere - tops to be taken off water bottles (I put my bottle-top into Jimmy's pocket). This is to stop them being used as missiles - which worried me, as it hadn't been advertised that Katherine Jenkins would be making a special guest appearance (don't worry, she didn't). I had carefully wrapped my camera in a scarf as advised by a friend, but the security guard barely wafted his hand in my bag. Another friend suggested it depends on how paranoid the artist is - she'd practically had a cavity search for Prince.
I'm sorry but I am one of those people whose first priority on getting somewhere is to find a loo and use it. Years of appalling experiences at places that take your money and don't bother providing adequate facilities have taught me that. My heart sunk at what seemed like a long queue for the Ladies, but fortunately it was a fast moving queue (I went to different loos at the interval and joined with a handful of women to prove that loo queues move quickly when you go both sides, and even more quickly when you gingerly push the doors that appear not to be locked...to conspirational laughter all round!).
My major criticism is that the venue doesn't appear to be particularly accessible. We rode an escalator to the first floor, but in the actual arena you then have to descend lots of stairs to reach the floor. I can't imagine they don't have wheelchair access, and, in truth, it's no worse than most old theatres, but there are numerous people who have mobility problems short of actually needing a wheelchair, including the elderly man walking slowly in front of me.
The chairs are bloody uncomfortable. They do have some padding but it's so thin it might as well be a wooden bench. I think you have to be well into the performance to endure that (I was!) because I have been to boring performances in more comfortable venues where I have been in severe pain.
A major disadvantage of the 'floor' is that it is flat with no pitch (did someone mention...oh never mind). That's fine in the fourth row but I could imagine it being a pain further back. Again no different from any other multi-purpose arena - the O2 will become 'North Greenwich Arena' and host basketball and gymnastics for the Olympics. I don't think they want a sloping floor!
I thought the acoustics were excellent. Of course, I was not expecting an opera house, where one expects the singers to be heard in the rafters without amplification. The arena is four times the size of the two main London opera houses, and a third bigger than the Royal Albert Hall. Guess what, they were amplified. I simply can't guess and won't speculate on how it sounded up in the gods, but from where I was, and not needing to rely on the sound system, it sounded great after some initial whistling/feedback.
The arena wasn't full. A couple of blocks with no stage view were deliberately left empty. I would imagine that that is standard for stage performances, although they would be used for floor shows (like basketball and gymnastics). And there were various empty seats dotted around, but the auditorium was much fuller than the capacity of the Albert Hall, and cool, roomy and much more comfortable.
Although I wouldn't describe it as The Best Venue Ever, considering its size and its purpose I think it's extremely good. I wouldn't hesitate to go to another event there, as long as the artist and price justified each other.
Saturday, 09 July 2011
Friday, 01 July 2011
Il Postino in Paris
I really enjoyed Il Postino, music and libretto by Daniel Catan (who, incidentally, died subsequently to me buying my ticket). I was buzzing with satisfaction afterwards, in addition to the excitement I felt about being at another excellent performance from Plácido.
I thought it was musically pleasing, with a storyline that, although not gripping, was absorbing enough. A beautiful set and intelligent production, and good performances. I would like to see it again, although I am not sure I would travel at enormous expense.
I did tweet at some length, both at the time and the afternoon that followed, so I see little point in reinventing my early thoughts, so here they are, with just stylistic editing:
Wow. This opera is *much* better than I ever really expected. It's beautiful, intimate, touching, visually delightful. It has its flaws, inevitably, but they shouldn't detract from its overall gorgeousness.
And Placido? He's Placido! Lovely & lovable, vocally rich. Exceeding my expectations. Again... *sigh*
Act 3 was a poignant contrast to the previous two acts; judging by the sniffing round me, I wasn't alone in crying. Overall, an immensely enjoyable & accessible work, and definitely worthwhile. Brilliant production, some good use of video/audio recording without the audio/video becoming gimmicks for their own sake. And probably the best table football scene in the entire operatic canon; the music was superbly orchestrated. The characters were rounded & believable though not especially complex.
Flaws - like most modern operas it was mostly sung in the idiom of speech. At times, orchestration too big for vocal line (compared with eg Verdi) or vocal line not written to ride orchestra (compared with eg Wagner or Puccini).
Ultimately, the intimacy & domesticity I so loved proved unable to portray any great universal observations. The use of fascism/communism as mood-music/background left many questions unanswered, perhaps uncomfortably so.
At the time the opera is set Neruda was 48, so Placido is way too old to play the part (but no more so than Siegmund or Oreste).
I found the love scenes to be intimate & mature rather than passionate, & arguably all the more erotic for that
Of course, Placido's voice is not what it was, but it's rare to hear a singer with such secure line & lack of wobble/breathiness. The part, written for him, eminently suited his range - not too high, and lower than you'd normally expect for a tenor. And many times I heard that inimitable purr his voice has, unblemished by time, & I had to catch my breath
Charles Castronovo Daniel Montenegro* was superb vocally & dramatically as the postman; Cristina Gallardo-Domas so-so as Mrs Neruda. She seemed a bit strained at times, but didn't squawk. Not entirely convincing dramatically, but did nothing to offend.
Amanda Squiteri was excellent as Beatrice Russo, the postman's love interest. The supporting roles were all sung as fine as one can judge in an unfamiliar work.
Placido gave a characteristic performance. Mesmerising & charismatic. Very different from other roles I've seen him in.
I was most intrigued by the intimacy of the story. In my experience of operas and/or productions, even when they are played out mainly in the domestic arena, as this was, there's a tendency to go for the grand. And I think this was touching partly because of its ordinariness.
For example, the now notorious undressing scene - this was tasteful and so natural. Obviously, I need to point out that my reaction may be influenced by how I feel about Plácido, perhaps if it was played out by someone I was indifferent to, I might have felt differently.
But to me, it was a very sweet evocation of the feelings that exist between a couple who are comfortable together. And I think that's unusual in itself - so many operas are concerned with the first lustful bursts of early passion. This was reinforced by a couple of scenes set in the couple's living room.
In one scene, there was a clever device where the wife (actually, future wife) put on the record player, and played a recording of Plácido singing. She started to sing along with it, and then so did he, which was quite amazing. I think the song was a tango (although I have to confess to being a bit ignorant about subtleties in different sub-genres of music).
As I said, it was a quite different role to what I have previously seen Plácido play. Not just the domesticity and the restrained eroticism. Obviously, I've seen him play 'old' characters before, and, as I say, in actual fact Neruda was only 48 when this was set. But although he didn't exactly portray a 70-year-old grandfather, he seemed different from, say, the ageing Boccanegra. I can't honestly say that I found his portrayal to be sexy, but his voice is just so gorgeous...! It must be said that I didn't feel as though the costume suited him at all, shapeless Fifties' suit, and a 'delightful' Arran cardigan not at all slimming and somewhat ageing.
A shame, because Cristina's costumes were seriously gorgeous and Amanda's were nice. The phrase 'Madmen inspired' went through my head, but of course, they would surely have been based upon the fashions of the time, a slightly earlier era.
Visually it was delightful throughout. A fairly simple set, with beautiful blue tiles, and a platform that moved back and forth, removing the need for scene changes to interrupt the pattern of the opera. The background to the story included an election campaign and action was punctuated from time to time with scenes from the election campaign, quasi-fascistic flags and marching bands, which however one feels intellectually certainly add spectacle to an opera. One of the final scenes was of a Communist rally at which Mario the Postman was killed.
Soem of the action was set in the garden of Neruda's villa, which I believed to be high on a cliff overlooking the sea, although this wasn't explicit in the scenery. In the final act, a video was projected to portray the sea as Mario the postman went out to record the sounds of a fishing community. I have seen better use of video - Birtwhistle's Minotaur for example - but it was effective. They used video sparingly elsewhere, too, mainly to portray events far away - Neruda delivering a speech, and a letter from his secretary in Chile.
I enjoyed the comedy in the piece. I was surprised actually, because it's sung in Spanish, a language I barely understand, and the subtitles were in French, which I do read, but not at any level of complexity, and I found myself laughing at the often verbal humour, as well as the physical. Conversely, I didn't feel anyone around me was laughing because they felt they ought to, to impress their neighbours at how clever they are (I so hate it when that happens!)
There was one scene where I was very glad that Jimmy wasn't with me. In the garden, Plácido as Neruda is chopping vegetables - or attempting to chop vegetables - in the manner of somebody who clearly doesn't chop vegetables very often, or hs never been taught how to hold a knife. Much as I love the man, my opinion of his attractiveness fell (but only slightly!). I would never had heard the end of this from Jimmy, who generally accuses me of being a slow veg chopper, though acknowledges I do know what I'm doing
I think ultimately, it probably isn't a great work. the music is pleasant throughout and often luscious. I would agree with the critics who carped that there is nothing innovative in the score, but, actually, I think that that's a good thing. I don't generally like atonal music, and don't think that, in 2011, it particularly counts as innovative. It's not remarkably melodic, difficult to describe really, and I certainly don't think that it's a work to be listened to on audio-only, especially if you don't have pictures in your mind. But my friend reminded me that it was recorded by LA Opera for delayed transmission on Big Screens, and that that recording will be shown on Sky Arts in the UK. Google also tells me there are plans for DVD release.
Operacake who didn't like it, carries the promotional videos from the three producing companies, which together give a good idea of the visual impact and a fair representation of the music - although I do feel that the music sounds better played through than extracted in disembodied chunks.
Synopsis and libretto from LA Opera website
The conductor was Jean-Yves Ossonce
* thanks to Miriam for the correction!
Wednesday, 29 June 2011
Thursday, 09 June 2011
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