Greetings meine Damen und Herren, mesdames et monsieurs, ladies and gentlemen…

I cordially invite you all to explore the latest addition to the NY Feuilleton family, a forum for sense and non-sense of a more academic nature SCHOLARSHIT .

Being the “less-than-systematic musings, ramblings, theorizings, and moralizings of a leading self-described artist/scholar/dilettante” it will be updated regularly with intellectual writings about culture, philosophy, film and music.

For the inaugural post, I’ve chosen , a rather polemical piece about the relation between erotica and pornography that’s meant more to titilate and provoke than to convince.

Please check out Scholarshit and our other sister sites: the literary journal “To the Vexed, Voracious and Voluptuous”; and the photo gallery “Theater of Desire” .

Happy reading!

The Feuilletonist

A.J. Goldmann

It is difficult – but not impossible – to create a sense of intimacy at the Metropolitan Opera, the largest opera house on earth. This difficulty makes performing works that are of a chamber-like nature challenging. Some directors and set designers have worked out their own solution to the problems posed by such a vast stage-area.

One of the best is Mark Lamos’ 1997 production of Berg’s Wozzeck (with sets by Robert Israel), a minimal and abstract staging that has creates the intimacy that the introverted drama and psychologically suggestive score demand. Another approach is represented by Otto Schenk’s production of Bergs’s Lulu that utilizes the full and vast dimensions of the stage to marvelous effect: so it succeeds in turning Lulu – an opera riddled with violence, perversity and excess – into nothing less than an epic.

John Copley’s stiff and stilted 1988 production of Handel’s most popular opera Guilio Cesare, now in performance at the Metropolitan Opera, is a benchmark of how not to present chamber opera. Unlike Lamos’ Wozzeck, it does not aim to preserve the intimacy of the work: unlike Schenk’s Lulu, it’s gargantuan set is too poorly deployed (and employed) to successfully re-imagine the work as epic. This is all the more a pity, since the Met has assembled a dazzling Anglo-American cast.

There was much musical beautify and vocal virtuosity in this landscape of mummification. Opera seria, the genre of Handel’s operas, is a string of virtuoso arias connected by recitatives that advance the plot. Though the arias themselves are static outpourings of individual emotion, they constitute the dramatic backbone of the opera. In other words, these completely interior moments are the fulcrum of the opera, similar to Shakespeare’s monologues. One of the effects of this is that contingencies of plot are downplayed, individual psychologies are heightened, and the emphasis is placed on the heroic and noble sentiments of larger-than-life figures. In other words, opera seria really isn’t about plot at all.

Handel spreads his exquisite vocal writing to all of the principle cast members, but to none more so that Cleopatra. In her eight solo arias and love duet, Cleopatra expresses a wide range of emotions – love, fear, and turmoil – matched by dynamic and demanding music.

Swenson, who recently underwent treatment for breast cancer, did sweet justice to her demanding and complex role. At 47 years old, her voice has lost little of its youthful timbre and agility. One highlight was her act 2 aria “V’adoro pupille,” which Swenson fashioned into a bittersweet plaint that fused the dramatic and lyric sides of her voice. And she seemed every bit the Prima Donna while navigating the coloratura runs of “Da Tempeste.”

Swenson has been singing at the Met for over 15 years, in a diverse repertoire. Cleopatra is her second role this season after Marguerite in Faust. But her future at the Met seems uncertain. Earlier this month, Swenson told the New York Times that she felt Peter Gelb (the Met’s new managing director) had it out for her.

Recently, four of her performances as Violetta in next season’s Traviata were given to Renée Fleming, a soprano with far more star power than Swenson. Swenson told the Times that she suspected that her age (47) and body-type were of greater concern to Gelb than her vocal abilities. More than anything, this Cesare was a strongly argued case for not giving Ms. Swenson the boot.

The American countertenor David Daniels is the first man ever to sing the demanding title role at the Met. He looked highly uncomfortable in his lavish robes and armor. Thankfully, however, these constraining garbs did not affect his vocal performance.

He sang forcefully, robustly, his sizable frame often quivering along with his voice during lengthy virtuosic runs. His sustained trills were impressive during the feiry “Al lampo dell’armi” even if ornamentation was kept to a minimum. Another highlight was the glorious act 1 aria “Va, tacito,” where Caesar’s cunning and shrewdness is figured musically by a pulsing French horn accompaniment.

The other principles were equally impressive, especially the feisty Sextus of Alice Coote and the plaintive Cornelia of Patricia Bardon (making an impressive Met debut).Though individually formidable, they brought an almost Straussian richness of emotion and tenderness to their melancholy duet “Son nata a lagrimar” with which the first act concludes.

In the pit, Harry Bicket, a British early music expert, led a spirited and smooth account of the famous score (and even played harpsichord for the continuo). His measured and lively approach made him a much better friend to Handel than Copley, whose mummified production detracted from, but could not altogether destroy, the evening’s many musical riches.

Early Bergman
Eclipse Series 1 from the Criterion Collection
SRP: $69.95

A.J. Goldmann

In an age of dwindling retrospective cinemas and cinematheques, the Criterion Collection serves a vital purpose for the cinéphile, bringing out an eclectic array of classical and modern films in beautifully restored and packaged DVD sets. Though other art-house labels such as Kino, New Yorker Films and Facets are major player in the arthouse DVD market, Criterion has no rival as the crème-de-la-crème of DVD manufacturers. It’s not that the mainstream companies are incapable of producing similarly lavish and handsome packages (Warner has brought out some of their finest in deluxe editions), but no one company is so consistent with the quality of their releases. Now, Criterion has inaugurated a new DVD line called Eclipse, which showcases lesser-known works by major directors, unadorned by the special features that have become Criterion’s hallmark. For their first set, they’ve elected five early Bergman films.

When Eclipse was announced several months ago on the Criterion blog, one of the most enticing promises was that each disc would cost between $10 and $15 (a huge savings from Criterion’s usual $30-40 price tag). Early Bergman sells for $70. Unfortunately for those who don’t want to be so immersed in these early melodramas by a young auteur struggling to define his style, the discs are not available individually. Criterion has tracked down fine prints of the films, but has taken no pains to restore them.

The earliest addition to the set is 1944’s Torment, directed by Alf Sjöberg (best known for his 1951 version of “Miss Julie”), to which Bergman contributed an original screenplay, based loosely on his own hellish schoolboy experiences. This first dip into movies also provided Bergman an unlikely directing debut: he unexpectedly shot the film’s final scenes himself, after being requested to alter the bleak ending he had originally written.

Bergman’s proper directorial debut, Crisis (1946) is also the most overtly melodramatic tearjerker in the collection. This story of a country girl who is dragged away from her foster-mother by an extravagant aunt (who turns out to be the woman who birthed her), suffers from stilted narration and overly theatrical dialogue. As often in Bergman, characters soliloquize about life rather eloquently. At this stage in his career, though, Bergman hasn’t yet found a way to successfully integrate such raw psychological content into a narrative film.

1948’s Port of Call was Bergman’s first collaboration with cinematographer Gunner Fischer. Fischer would remain Bergman’s cinematographer throughout the 1950s and go on to photograph Wild Srawberries and The Seventh Seal. He brings a gritty, Rossillini-eque sensibility to this dark and sexually frank love story.

Bergman often writes his own material and so it is somewhat ironic that the most striking work in the box set is the only film here that Bergman didn’t author. Perhaps at this early stage in his career, he benefited from the remove that directing somebody else’s screenplay allowed him. Of the films included in the set, it is the least theatrical. Bergman employs distancing techniques, such as multiple (sometimes confusing) narratives told in flashback, to present this story of a disintegrating marriage. The opening sequence is remarkable for its stillness, and points the way to his later forays into quiet desperation, (see The Silence and Cries and Whispers).

The final film in the collection To Joy (1949) stars Stig Olin (the irascible and charming star of Crisis) as a mediocre violinist who is unable to accept the fact that he is simply second-rate. It features an incredibly mobile and fluid camera (courtesy, again, of Fischer) and is remarkable for how Bergman uses music – a crucial element in many of his later films.

One of the greatest pleasures about Criterion is their unpredictability. Criterion resists dogmatic canonizing tendencies, and names like Bergman and Fellini cohabit the list with Wes Anderson and Michael Bay. This eclectic mix of the elite, the cultish and the blockbuster is one of the collection’s biggest joys. It would be a shame if Eclipse means that fewer lesser-known films won’t be getting the “Criterion Treatment.”

As production at Criterion increases – the collection now includes nearly 400 titles – they’re are forever finding supplemental features with which to spice up their releases (often in two and three-disc sets). While Eclipse is something of an experiment at present (it will be interesting to learn what Criterion has in mind for their future releases), one thing is certain: it is a good argument for sometimes letting the film speak for itself.

BY A.J. GOLDMANN

Carnegie Hall
Louis Lortie
Saturday March 24, 2007 at 8PM

Things looked different at Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. For starters, the evening’s performer, the Canadian pianist Louis Lortie, wore an old-fashioned tux and tails (something not seen in a soloist these days outside of Pollini and Brendel). Second, he eschewed Carnegie’s Steinway and brought with him a Faziou, a French make with a sensitive bell-like timbre. It kept him in good stead throughout the evening, even if the instrument’s crispness proved a little excessive at times.

On paper, the program looked something like a grab bag, with well-known works by Liszt and Chopin interspersed with two pieces by the contemporary English composer Thomas Adès. But Lortie approached each work with a care and tenderness that made the disparate works seem like they belonged on the same program. In the six carefully chosen works, one was able to discern a symphonic musical arch.

The evening opened with a showstopper: Liszt’s transcription of Wagner’s overture to Tannhäuser. Lortie let himself be swept up in Liszt’s tempestuous scales and other orchestral flourishes. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Lortie is unafraid to make mistakes for the sake of accumulated and cumulative effect. Heavy pedaling towards the end allowed the notes to bleed together in order to underscore the turmoil and drama of the music. Still, in this exceptionally dreamy account, Lortie didn’t try to make the piano sound like an orchestra, but merely wowed his audience by showing them anew the instrument’s endlessly rich and versatile possibilities.

Adès’ Darkness Visible, a 7-minute-long homage to John Milton and the contemporary composer John Dowland, followed. The work makes effective use of silence and the hollow patter of high notes like falling rain. Lortie made it sound like a jarring and sinister tone poem that ended in a fragment.

Liszt’s Valse d’Obermann, an ode to the Swiss Landscape and a fictional itinerant philosopher, received an expansive yet intimate reading from Lortie. At first, he made the piano sound very distant, as if the music were nothing but the memory of a melody. He moved into different registers of dreaminess and distraction before plunging into the drawn-out melodies and flitting arpeggios of a work that pays unusual attention to the extremities of the keyboard.

Another Adès piece, Traced Overhead , started out the program’s second half with tentative melodies that sounded crisp and cool. Lortie’s approach was somewhat estranging and the work sounded metallic despite his expressive gestures. Like Darkness Visible, this three-part work ends on a note of irresolution that was characteristic of the entire work and unexpectedly carried Lortie directly and seamlessly into the Chopin.

Lortie played the Nocturne in B Major and Sonata in B Major together, without a pause. He seemed to place incredible value in each note and played with an overall sense of care and woner. While Lortie did not seem to have a distinctive sense of the Chopin pieces, it was hard not to lose oneself in his fluid and totally committed playing.

Lortie returned to Liszt and brought the evening full circle with an encore performance of the characteristically lush transcription of Wagner’s Recitative and Romance from Tannhäuser.

BY A.J. GOLDMANN

Die Aegytische Helena
Metropolitan Opera

Remaining performances: April 4, April 7

There is always a danger whenever a Prima Donna gets her way and convinces an opera house to mount a revival just for her. There are usually very good reasons that a particular work has remained outside of the repertoire for so long. Take Strauss’ Die Aegyptische Helena, last seen at the Met in 1928. One of the composer’s mid-career collaborations with Hugo von Hofmannstal, it falls squarely between the mythical tendencies of Elektra and Ariadne auf Naxos, and the fantastical elements of Die Frau ohne Schatten – three of Strauss and Hofmannstal’s most successful collaborations.

In Helena ,however, the mythical and magical elements somehow don’t seem to go together: the myth is challenged and defamiliarized: the magic is murky and suspect. Set in the immediate aftermath of the Trojan Wars, the opera imagines Menelaus learning that a false Helen was abducted by Paris while the  true one was whisked away to safety in Egypt with the sorceress Aithra. However, the frustratingly opaque libretto is the apotheosis of Hoffmanstal’s high-blown symbolism and making sense of anything beyond the plot’s general contours is a challenge.  

Most importantly the score is fairly pedestrian. Though not without its moments of beauty and discovery, the music often sounds like Strauss on autopilot, churning out a prosaic version of his signature style. Some of this comes from Strauss working in a pre-Wagnerian idiom that lacks the breathless momentum of his better-known works. If no one else could have written this opera, there really isn’t a compelling reason that Strauss should have bothered. Here too, Strauss continues his love affair with the soprano voice and the opera contains some dazzling passages (and dizzying high notes) for the two female leads, notably in the challenging Act II starter “Zweite Brautnacht.”  But even in this showstopper aria, Strauss doesn’t have anything to add to what he said already in Salome and Elektra (and will later say in Arabella).   

On Tuesday night’s performance, Peter Gelb appeared to announce that Ms. Voigt was ill but would sing anyway. When Voigt appeared, she filled the voice with her effortlessly big voice, predominantly sweet but with husky tones. Still was – perhaps due to infirmary – a little shrill in her upper register. But on the whole she admirably possessed the range and ability to effortlessly sustain warbling tones. But while this is a moderately flashy role, it isn’t obvious, at least to me, what so attracts Voigt to it other than the opportunity to put her stamp on a long-neglected opera by a major composer. Still, Voigt is to be lauded for her courage for promoting wider exposure of this work.

Damrau gave a sharp and commanding performance as the sorceress Aithra, which is arguably a meatier role that Helena. The German soprano was last seen as Rosina in the Met’s giddy new production of Il Barbiere di Siviglia, a role that couldn’t be further in spirit and tone from Aithra. The dramatic versatility of Damrau’s voice was much in evidence: her voice could cut through like a cool blade or dazzle with warm coloratura.      

Woe to any tenor who must struggle to make himself heard alongside two powerful divas. This was, in fact, precisely the dire situation that the German tenor Torsten Kerl found himself in. He was making his debut as Menelas and his lyrical and often-impassioned voice couldn’t fill the gargantuan house. He pushed himself throughout the evening, though, and occasionally asserted himself, as in his affecting final duet with Voigt.  

To update this unfamiliar, 80-year-old work, the Met has enlisted David Fielding, whose starkly allegorical take is a refreshing alternative to the mildewing productions. It was somewhere between a Wilson and Wernicke production, with heightened gestures and some 1950s sci-fi touches. It did have its less successful elements, though, including a chorus of bearded elves with sunglasses and Pulp Fiction-style Desert horsemen. Fielding’s strategy seems to be to distract the audience from potential befuddlement with a succession of beautiful and inventive images. Perhaps this Helena would be best enjoyed by fixing one’s concentration on the mise en scène and Fabio Luisi’s energetic and wild account of the lushly orchestrated score and turning off your Met Titles.