Toronto Symphony 2018-2019 # 5: Romantic Opulence and Worldly Pleasures

It's just two years since the Toronto Symphony staged a performance of Carl Orff's spectacular cantata, Carmina Burana, and partnered it with a violin concerto by a twentieth-century composer.

Last time around, the Concerto # 2 by Szymanowski was the partnering work; this week it was the sole violin concerto by Korngold, played by renowned Canadian violinist James Ehnes.  The concert was conducted by Maestro Donald Runnicles, a regular guest on the podium of Roy Thomson Hall.

Carmina Burana called on the combined forces of the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir, the Toronto Youth Choir (in their TSO debut), and the Toronto Children's Chorus, with vocal soloists who all were also making their TSO debuts:  Nicole Haslett (soprano), Sunnyboy Dladla (tenor), and Norman Garrett (baritone).

Considering that these two works were composed within a decade of each other, the contrast between them is startling to say the least.

Korngold's Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 35, was composed in 1945, by which time he had been living in the United States for a number of years and had become established as a renowned film composer.  The concerto's three  movements all draw on themes from his film scores -- and it shows.  It was also extremely old-fashioned for its time.  Composed decades after the shock effects of such works as The Rite of Spring, the music sounds like it would be in place half a century earlier, or more.  It's unabashedly Romantic in sound, harmonically staid and easy on the ear, and filled with lush, sweeping melodies for the soloist and the massed strings.

And it hangs fire, for all of the first two movements, the fragmentary nature of the film themes failing to build into any substantial melodic or rhythmic statement that the ear can grasp and retain.  The finale at last brings a clear tune, a bouncy folk-dance kind of melody, which lasts for 2 short 4-bar phrases and then is repeated and varied ad infinitum (and elaborated by the soloist -- oh, my, is it elaborated!).  Can you tell that this work doesn't really do anything for me?

The essential need here is for a violinist who can play the whole of the first two sugary movements with a very sweet tone, and then cut loose in the increasingly acrobatic finale without losing that essential character of his playing.  Soloist James Ehnes maintained that balance with sensitive support from the accompanying orchestra and conductor.  The long sweeping lines in the first two movements were beautifully phrased.  In the showstopper finale, Ehnes tossed off the energetic acrobatics (demanded of the composer by Jascha Heifetz) almost nonchalantly, keeping consistent clarity in even the busiest passagework.  The enthusiastic applause he received was entirely merited.

Carmina Burana was a showstopper success on its first appearance in the 1930s, and was widely performed and recorded in the next 2 decades.  It has retained a firm place in the repertoire ever since.  The work has enjoyed a surge in popularity in recent years due to the frequent use of the majestic opening/closing chorus, O Fortuna, in video games, sporting events, television, and films.

In my review of the last TSO performance, two years ago, I wrote a detailed commentary about what makes this work "go."  You can read it here:  Not-So-Sancta Simplicitas.

Maestro Runnicles led a tautly-conceived performance, with brisk tempi predominating.  If some of the faster sections rolled along more rapidly than one usually hears, there was contrast in the much slower-than-usual speed of some of the slow sections.  The numerous tempo changes, both sudden and gradual, all remained firmly integrated -- a shining example being the smooth acceleration in each of the five verses of Tempus est iocundum.  He also respected the composer's call for all the movements within each of the cantata's five sections to be played attacca, even to the point of having the opening notes of Fortune plango vulnera "appearing" as the echoes from O Fortuna's final chord died away.

Runnicles also called for an interesting change in the seating plan.  Other performances I've attended have placed the two pianos alongside the percussion section -- which I think is entirely appropriate since their role in the work is rhythmic.  Runnicles had the two pianos placed face-to-face in front of the podium.  The curious result was that the pianos were often far less audible -- whether because of the position, or because the maestro had them hold down their volume.

The combined forces of the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir and the Toronto Youth Choir acquitted themselves magnificently throughout the cantata, from the majestic opening cry of O Fortuna to the rapid-fire yet still completely clear diction of In taberna quando sumus or Veni, veni, venias.  The steadiness of the tone was noteworthy and the choral blend across the full dynamic range was an unfailing delight.

The Toronto Children's Chorus, too, sang their more limited role in the work with precision and purity, and with earthy gusto -- particularly in Tempus est iocundum.

Nicole Haslett sang with pure, clear tone in her sections, augmented by a true sense of playfulness throughout her role -- as, for instance, in the lightly-bouncing staccato of the phrase Stetit puella.  Her voice soared to the heights in Dulcissime, nailing the high notes cleanly and clearly.

Sunnyboy Dladla used his high range to sing the roasted swan's song in a full voice, not the far more usual falsetto.  And it was a definite full voice, with no hint of crossing a break even at the highest note in the third phrase of each stanza.  Impressive achievement.

Norman Garrett sang at first with a dark, almost bass-like tone and a curious, "covered" sound in his first solo, Dies, nox, et omnia.  The sound opened up more when he hit the peaks in Estuans interius, and his full-throated delivery of Ego sum abbas was exciting indeed.

It's worth noting that none of the soloists attempted anything in the nature of dramatizing their parts.  Some performers do, and why not?  After all, Orff's intention was that this be a staged work presenting actions or dance that correlated phrase by phrase with the music.

There's a received opinion in some quarters of the musical world that Carmina Burana is too "simple" to be taken seriously, and doesn't merit all the attention it gets.  I think that can be safely dismissed as "sour grapes."  This spectacular performance definitely found all manner of subtleties in Orff's work.  And yet, it was in no wise the same as the one 2 years ago, or the one I heard last month in Kitchener and failed to review (my bad).

The capacity audience in Roy Thomson Hall (on a Sunday afternoon, no less!) clearly agreed with me that this performance was spectacular.  The cheering and applause were  sustained and enthusiastic.

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A footnote: as the soloists were standing at the stage centre for the last round of bows, Maestro Runnicles walked back through the orchestra to embrace a player at the last desk of the second violins -- and that's when I noticed that a certain violinist, by name James Ehnes, had come back onto the stage and sat in with the orchestra throughout the second half of the concert.  I don't think I've ever seen a soloist do that before!

National Ballet 2018-2019 # 7: The Sparkling, Luxurious Merry Widow

Like the original operetta of Franz Léhar on which it is based, Ronald Hynd's ballet of The Merry Widow requires great skill and care in being mounted on stage -- yet the final product, like a good cream puff or soufflé, must appear light, airy, effortless, and a delight to the senses.

The National Ballet has returned this scintillating entertainment to the repertoire as a parting gift to Principal Dancer Xiao Nan Yu, retiring after 22 years with the company.  The company has done this in the past for several especially beloved dancers, allowing them to choose the ballet that will give them their preferred final bow of their careers.

Although I didn't see Nan dancing this week, I once more thoroughly enjoyed every aspect of this light-hearted, amusing, and spectacular show.

The fun begins with Léhar's lively, tuneful music.  Every minute of the original operetta is a treat for me.  While I miss the singing, I can't deny that John Lanchbery's skillful arrangement and adaptation of the score for the ballet works like a charm.  

I am in awe at how carefully and lovingly he has extended the development of this melody, nipped and tucked that section, lifted eight bars from one number and inserted them with a total rhythmic change into another, and re-orchestrated to give a fuller, broader palette of luxurious sound throughout.  

Then there's Ronald Hynd's choreography.  Rooted firmly in classical dance, this ballet still has to go its own way in various important scenes.  The most obvious one is the Balkan kolo of Act 2, an extended sequence involving both slow and fast dancing, where the choreography offers much more than just a nod to the traditional dance of that region of the world.  The energetic can-can of Act 3 doesn't come much closer to the classical tradition.  But then, consider something as simple as the swirling waltzes in the first act.  Here, the dancing has to conform to the ballroom waltz -- the music and the setting alike demand nothing less.

In the more balletic sequences, Hynd demands some very fast footwork from his dancers, and the many pas de deux numbers are packed full of some of the most unusual lifts I've ever seen.  

Desmond Heeley's luxurious sets and costumes take us right back into the belle époque of Paris at the turn of the last century, the time period when the operetta was originally staged.  The ballroom setting of Act 1 features a sweeping staircase, and a huge pillar well out into the stage, supporting the trompe l'oeil vaulted ceiling.  The arched surround or frame around the proscenium is a riot of swirling, curving lines and traceries.

The garden scene for Act 2 is pure moonlit loveliness, but with a decidedly oriental flavour -- the all-important pavilion looks more Chinese than Balkan.  No harm in this, as that kind of idealized oriental décor remained popular in Europe for many generations, even earning a specific name for itself: "chinoiserie.".

Act 3 takes the audience into the scarlet-and-gold opulence of Chez Maxim, with a semi-circular hall of mirrors surrounding the back of the stage and providing a gorgeous reflecting effect in the final moments of the ballet.  Incidentally, that hall of mirrors was a real weak link in the old days when the ballet was staged at the Hummingbird (now Sony) Centre.  There seemed to be no way to stop the mirrors from quivering and vibrating, and the resulting reflections of light bounced all over the auditorium.  In the current venue at the Four Seasons Centre, the mirrors are now rock-steady.

The rainbow of colours in the costumes mimics the brilliant colours of the settings.  There are military uniforms in a startling array of shades for the men, and (in the final act) tailcoats and polished-to-a-gleam black shoes.  The women don frothy gowns with multiple layers of petticoats, but with an unusual design feature to enable the dancing -- the long trains sweep the floor in the back, but the fronts have higher-cut hems with two overlapping panels meeting in the centre in an inverted "V" shape.  This allows all the necessary room for leg extensions.

In Act 2, the men and women alike wear puffed-sleeve white blouses covered with red-and-gold jackets or vests, with matching red caps for the women and white turbans for the men.  Footwear for both genders consists of tall red boots with definite hard heels.

There is, then, no shortage of colour for the eyes to feast upon.

I have to start this review of the actual performance in a rather unusual place -- with the sterling work of the corps de ballet.  This ballet has sizable sections in all 3 acts devoted to the work of the corps.  In Act 1, the dancers have to waltz at high speed around the stage -- and that includes multiple couples circling through the not-very-wide space behind that onstage pillar.  If the swirling waltzes of Act 1 are otherwise rather conventional, the kolo of Act 2 and the can-can sequence in Maxim's in Act 3 are anything but.

The kolo requires the dancers to extend their legs, ruler-straight, with their feet sticking out at a 90-degree angle from the leg -- the utter antithesis of the "line" so beloved of the classical dance manuals.  Not only do the feet have to lock into that unusual position, but the dancers frequently have to strike the floor -- or even take steps -- on the heels, rather than on the ball or toe of the foot.  The rhythmic tattoo of those boot heels striking the floor is part of the texture of this dance number, and the heel-first posture adds extra interest for the audience.

The choreography of Act 3 goes a different route, with much emphasis on straight-legged high kicks -- and not just from the team of six can-can dancers!  The visual image of the couples kicking their feet above their heads -- knees straight, skirts and coat tails flying -- is one of my enduring memories of this show.  But the can-can itself is a showpiece for the sextet of women dancing it, legs kicking and twirling at the knee, and frothy skirts treated as playthings in their busy hands.  The climactic sequence has six men hoist the six women onto their shoulders in a shoulder-to-shoulder, outward-facing circle, and then the circle slowly rotates, with six pairs of legs busily kicking up and down.  It always draws a sharp burst of applause.

Next, the character artists.  This ballet is particularly rich in character roles, those dramatic figures who may have to do some dancing, but are mostly there to move the story along and to provide colour.  Since the last National Ballet staging of this piece was eight years ago, almost all of the character parts -- and the solo dancers for that matter -- were taken by dancers making their role debuts.  Sadly, the programme in most cases does not distinguish who does what at which shows in these roles, and it's not easy to recognize faces under the heavy loads of makeup, the proliferation of mustaches, and the numerous hats.

At any rate, the elderly Baron Zeta raised laughs with his awkward attempts to dance on a bad knee -- I can empathize.  Njegus, his secretary, brought broad comedy into the garden scene.  The Maitre d' Chez Maxim was suitably pompous and affected.  And if the Enraged Client didn't quite match the inimitable nose-in-the-air snottiness for which Victoria Bertram was renowned in this part, she definitely stamped the role with her own brand of nouveau-riche arrogance.

The two undersecretaries, Kromov and Pritisch (danced by Ben Rudisin and Brendan Saye) handled the tricky footwork of their dance in Act 1 with great flair, while giving the roles the necessary two-peas-in-a-pod appearance.

In the Act 2 kolo, Larkin Miller gave a fire-eating performance as the Leading Pontevedrian Dancer, flinging himself into the air and about the stage with great panache.

And finally, we come to the heart of the ballet: the two romantic couples.  It's the presence of these two couples in the story that gave choreographer Ronald Hynd so many opportunities to create pas de deux, and he took it eagerly.  The resulting roles are rich indeed, and finely differentiated -- no risk of sameness here.

The duets for the passionate young couple of Camille and Valencienne are the more ardent, the more adventurous, and contain far more of Hynd's signature unusual lifts.  The older and (perhaps?) wiser couple of Hanna and Danilo have a more classical vibe, but also -- as befits their tricky relationship -- more of a courtship feeling, a sense of being a mating ritual where the young lovers express greater longing for fulfillment.

As Camille de Rosillon, Jack Bertinshaw layered in a definite rakish air which I can't recall seeing in this character before.  His dancing clearly brought in that kind of flair, and his execution of the numerous and complex lifts seemed almost nonchalant -- some dancers would strive in vain for that kind of apparent ease.

As Valencienne, Miyoko Koyasu brought playfulness and flirtation in plenty -- both necessary in this role.  Her character moments, especially at the climax of the garden scene, were great fun.  Most of all, she, too, made those numerous lifts look both easy and lovely.  I've always felt in previous performances that Valencienne looked a bit too much like a sack of potatoes being heaved and thrown about in the air, but Koyasu finally convinced me that Hynd's lifts can be both graceful and natural in appearance.

Harrison James presented a strong performance as Count Danilo -- comically awkward in his opening drunk scene, powerfully dominating in his solo in the garden scene, and evincing a great mixture of desire and hesitancy in his duets with Hanna.  His memory duet with the young Hanna brought his most expressive dancing of the evening.

Heather Ogden was the one dancer among the four leads who had danced her role before.  Her Widow sparkled throughout with a playful sense of fun and mischief.   That twinkle in the eye not only brought added fun to her dancing in the Balkan garden scene, but also added flair to the ballroom in the embassy.  I didn't get so much sense of her love for Danilo -- many of their moments together made it look like she was just toying or flirting with him for her own amusement.  That is, until the final scene, when she suddenly found herself alone in Chez Maxim, the lights down, as the Maitre D' went to fetch her cloak.  Then came a total transformation at the moment when she felt Danilo's hands on her shoulders -- and from that moment to the final curtain the romantic ardour was strong and unmistakable.  I could wish she had found more of it sooner.

Ronald Hynd's ultimate coup de theatre is the culminating solemn, sombre pas de cinq.  It comes at the moment when Hanna and Valencienne rush in to stop Danilo from challenging Camille to a duel.  The Baron sees his wife protecting another man, and realizes that he has been cuckolded.  The ensuing dance, in very slow time, shows Hanna and Danilo moving together, while Valencienne turns to her husband again and again to console him, only for her to be drawn back to Camille's arms once more.  The Baron circles slowly with Camille around her, and finally stands aside as they dance, with a look of unutterable sadness on his face.  He steps out, proffers his arm, and Valencienne joins him to leave with him.  Then, at the last minute, in a gesture of acceptance and even forgiveness, he turns again, beckons Camille to join him -- and as the three of them leave together, without fail, my eyes fill with tears.

Scenic spectacle, gorgeous music, flashy choreography, sparkling comedy, heartfelt characterization -- The Merry Widow has it all.  I know I'm not the only long-time fan of the National Ballet who welcomed the skillful, energetic restaging of this vastly entertaining classic.


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Xiao Nan Yu:  A Tribute

Anyone who's not a devoted ballet fan or dance specialist might not fully appreciate the significance of the number "22" in the story of Xiao Nan Yu's career.

Dancers, and especially classical ballet dancers, measure their careers in "dog years."  When a classical dancer continues to perform beyond age 30, the average age limit has already been passed.  Inevitably, the body's flexibility is lessened with time, and the all-too-frequent injuries, great and small, take their own toll.

The mere fact that Nan has kept dancing for 22 years with this company is startling enough.  Even more remarkable is that she has been able to choose her own retirement time when she was ready, and not when her body forced her into the decision.  She's creating her final bout of ballet magic in The Merry Widow, even as I write these words, very much on her own terms.

I know that she has danced many magnificent performances over the years.  The odd thing is that, due to the quirks of casting policy, not many of those performances have coincided with my subscription shows, the Saturday matinees.  

I can recall a couple.  One was her memorable outing as the Swan Queen and Black Swan in James Kudelka's Swan Lake.  Another was a gripping Tatiana in John Cranko's Onegin.

But for me, there is one role and one role only that defines my memory of this remarkable dance artist: the role of Paulina in Christopher Wheeldon's The Winter's Tale.  I've seen three different dancers perform this role with the National Ballet, and one more in the DVD of the premiere Royal Ballet production.  They were all good -- but, to put it as simply as possible, Nan is Paulina.

Here's what I wrote about the last live performance of The Winter's Tale which I saw (in November of 2017):

"Xiao Nan Yu, as Paulina, flung caution to the winds, her face frozen into a scream of pain as she pounded her fists against Leontes' back over and over, finally overmastering him and driving him down into a heap on the floor. She then brought a dignified yet very real human sorrow into her mourning solo (and pas de deux with Leontes)….  

"The team of Hannah Fischer, Piotr Stanczyk, Xiao Nan Yu, and those around them had no need to fear comparison with any other cast I've seen in the show, the original cast from London (on whom the roles were created) not excepted."

Xiao Nan Yu may come to mind when watching Onegin or Swan Lake.  But I know, as surely as I live, that I will never, ever view The Winter's Tale again without remembering her evocative, powerful, emotionally wrenching dancing in the role of Paulina.  

Well done, Nan -- a true and shining star in the National Ballet.  We will miss you.

Stratford Festival 2019 # 4: The Green-Eyed Monster

This year's production of Othello, on the Festival Theatre's stage, is the first Stratford outing in a number of years for this play, one of the more rarely staged of Shakespeare's tragedies.  It's a play which I've missed repeatedly, for various reasons; this marks my first time seeing it performed at Stratford.

The peculiar intensity of Othello can be put down to its claustrophobic atmosphere.  The story functions a bit like one of those "escape rooms" that have become so popular in recent years, except that there is no way out.  None of the central characters escapes from the maze unscathed, and four of them wind up dead.

Shakespeare unflinchingly assigns the blame for the whole catastrophic horror show to Iago.  There's no moral equivocation here, no hint that the society as a whole may have been at fault, no "but maybe this or that other character contributed...."  Not from the author.  Professional analysts of drama, or of the human psyche, absolutely love these kinds of debating points.  But they are more germane to any discussion of the ways in which this play is still frighteningly relevant than they are to the play itself.

Shakespearean audiences would have understood loud and clear, right from Iago's first soliloquy, that he is a sinner of the highest order.  They'd immediately recognize his consuming hatred of "the Moor" as Wrath, one of the Seven Deadly Sins.  Envy is another, and Iago sports that characteristic clearly and proudly too.  As if all that were not enough to condemn him, he perjures himself -- and that was clearly understood to be a guaranteed one-way ticket to the eternal fires of hell.  It's his very pride in his deeply-rooted evil nature that stamps him as utterly and unrepentantly damned.

It's easy for a modern audience to forget such old theological concepts when considering the play, but Shakespeare's audience would have had no trouble recognizing which way the playwright's moral compass was pointing.

For today's society, the overt racism of Roderigo, Brabantio, and Iago is a troubling mirror we see held before us.  So is the credulity of multiple characters hoodwinked by Iago's potent mixture of untruth, half-truth, and assurances of fealty, loyalty, and love.  That credulity, too, we see mirrored every day on the internet, among people of all political stripes.  Even more certainly, the harsh patriarchal treatment of the women in the play disturbs our sensibilities and rouses our indignation.

This production, directed by Nigel Shawn Williams, is filled from the first scene to the last with fiery energy.  At 3 hours, it's a long show, but there was certainly no slackening of interest or engagement from this onlooker.

To highlight the contemporary nature of the themes, and the timeless validity of the characters, designer Denyse Karn has cast the play in modern dress, on a bare stage with only the most minimal use of physical set pieces.  The conventional symmetrical configuration of the Festival Theatre stage is replaced with an asymmetrical broad staircase rising to the stage right side, a smaller ramp to the stage left exit, and an irregularly zig-zagging back wall which serves as a projection screen (the projections are also designed by Karn).  As soon as the play begins, it becomes apparent that the wall is in fact a scrim -- a feature which lends a very useful possibility of long entrances and offstage spaces into what is actually a small acting space.

In the very first scene, Brabantio is portrayed by Randy Hughson as one of those sputtering, ineffectual old men so common in the commedia dell'arte tradition.  It's not a funny character, but this approach definitely sets Brabantio up to be let down by the senate of Venice and the Duchess.

Michelle Giroux makes a very good thing indeed out of the Duchess (originally the Duke), giving a suave and worldly air to this ruler, and showing her as the kind of calmly assured authority figure who never has to mention her authority in order for it to be respected -- in effect, a natural leader.

Even someone who wasn't familiar with the play would recognize the foppish Roderigo of Farhang Ghajar immediately as a dupe and a patsy.

E. B. Smith gave a strong performance in the small but important role of Montano.

Juan Chioran easily assumed the mantle of Lodovico in his authoritative handling of the final scene.

Johnathan Sousa gave a portrayal of Cassio that captured multiple aspects of the man.  It would be easy to make Cassio into simply a goody-two-shoes, but there was more than this in Sousa's take on the character.

As Bianca, Shruti Kothari moved with great energy and a sultry veneer of sexiness, but lacked a little in vocal power, or diction, or both.  Her words didn't carry ideally to the upper rows of the theatre.

The Emilia of Laura Condlin encompassed military coldness (this staging brought her to Cyprus as a fellow soldier, not just as a camp follower), earnest helpfulness, and deep compassion and love.  Her final scene, in which she blows the whistle on her husband, showed her rising to a pitch of true rage, an Avenging Fury to the life.

All of these characters were effective in their different roles, no question.  But Othello, far more the other Shakespeare plays I've seen this week, depends utterly on the strength of the three main characters.

First, Desdemona.  Amelia Sargisson moulded her into far more than just a sweet young thing with a pretty face and dreams of heroism.  This Desdemona had a strong backbone, and a voice of her own, and wasn't afraid to stand with the one and use the other.  She set the tone right at the beginning with her almost combative assertion of her will as she faced her father.  Throughout the play, she had great presence and drew the eye whenever she was on stage.  This Desdemona was every bit a match for the strong-willed personality of Othello.

That strength and presence sustained her even through her tragic mood in the Willow scene -- which is why it was so heart-rending to see it all desert her in her final moments.  Well her strength might fail her, when faced with the unaccountable murderous rage of her husband.  But recognizing that rationally did nothing to lessen the sting as I watched her crumble in the face of his onslaught.  A memorable and rewarding interpretation of a difficult role.

Michael Blake as Othello: powerful of voice and physical presence, full of life and energy in the earlier parts of the play.  Blake accomplished a finely paced transition from full confidence in Desdemona and himself to his utter loss of both.  Masterful acting indeed, as he executed a slow-motion dance of death with his own tragic fate, moving nearer to his jealousy, then back a step or two, then a little closer, and back a bit less.  I was especially impressed by the way his grief towered to the skies in the final moments of his life -- without in the least impairing the clarity of his diction.  This was a performance in which, truly, every word counted.

I wish I could say the same about Gordon S. Miller's Iago.  The richest parts of his performance came right in the place where many actors get into difficulties -- the soliloquies.  In these extended odes to hate, every phrase of every sentence was turned and polished in just the right degree to make the maximum impact.  And the impact was immense: every inch of his evil intentions came rocketing out at us with the force of gunshots.  It was in some of his dialogue scenes with other characters that problems arose.  For a time, it seemed that we were back in the bad old days of the 1970s to 1990s, when far too many Shakespeare performances were all about spitting the words out and getting to the finish line in record time.  Whole swatches of Iago disappeared in a blur.  I'm sure that Miller was pronouncing all the words, but he was doing it at the speed of a Gilbert and Sullivan patter song on overdrive, and those words weren't getting through to us.

On the opposite pole, there were several moments when he was delivering stage asides and they were so quiet as to be inaudible.  Pity -- because there was so much strength in his performance, including his expressive face, body language, the speed with which he changed his vocal tones almost as if he were switching masks, the genuine power of his bigger moments, and above all in those amazing soliloquies.  I know it's a long play, but I would gladly have sat for an extra five or ten minutes past eleven o'clock to be able to hear more of Iago's words.

Despite the trouble spots I've mentioned, make no mistake that this Othello was a powerful, incisive, and utterly gripping performance of great tragic intensity.

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Small Personal Footnote:  Stratford Festival's website includes, inside its Members area, a checklist of the entire Shakespearean canon which can be used to track how many of the Bard's plays you've seen staged at Stratford.

With this performance of Othello, I've checked off the last tragedy on the list.  Now, just seven plays remain to go.  They are:  

Henry VI Parts 1, 2, and 3 

Richard II 

The Two Gentlemen of Verona 

The Comedy of Errors 

The Two Noble Kinsmen  

I don't think my chances are that good.  The Two Noble Kinsmen has, I believe, been staged at Stratford only once in the years since it was "officially" admitted to the Shakespearean canon.  And I don't know if the three-part marathon history of Henry VI has ever been done completely here.  More recently, Henry VI has been staged in a condensed version, collapsing the three lengthy plays into two even shorter parts.

Also, as a historian, I must admit with shame that I don't really know a damn thing about Henry VI except that he came somewhere in between Henry V and Henry VII -- them I know.

In spite of the rarity of all these plays, I will still maintain hope.  Fingers crossed!

Stratford Festival 2019 # 3: The Change of Heart

With this week's premiere of Mother's Daughter, Kate Hennig's trilogy of plays about the powerful women of the Tudor period in English history reaches a knockout conclusion.

It's truly said that history is written by the winners.  In the brutal, dog-eat-dog struggle to succeed to the legacy of Henry VIII, the winner was Elizabeth -- and it was in her reign and under her lengthy stewardship of the realm that the conventional historic view of her older half-sister Mary was created and embroidered.  But was she really the winner of this real-life game of thrones?

In the immortal words of Sellar and Yeatman (in their comedy classic 1066 and All That), Mary was a Bad Queen and Elizabeth was a Good Queen.  Mary thus was consigned to the storage closet as Bloody Mary, while Elizabeth was elevated to the deluxe penthouse as Gloriana, the Virgin Queen.

If nothing else, Mother's Daughter powerfully corrects that notion, substituting a new trope of Mary as the Caring, Thoughtful Queen and Elizabeth as the Heartless, Scheming Queen.  Is this any more accurate?  In some respects certainly -- in others, perhaps not quite so much.

But, as I've often observed in these pages, the notion of a "historic" play or novel is powerfully skewed away from historic accuracy by the need to compress, condense, even conflate events, times, and characters for the sake of dramatic or literary values.  

Like its two predecessors in this series, Kate Hennig's script tends to draw the teeth of historicity by its very nature, putting the characters into modern clothes, placing modern words in their mouths (apart from one or two direct quotations of historic documents), calling the characters by their private or family names rather than their formal public names, and focusing far more on the private and inward lives of the characters rather than on their more public moments.  So what we get are portrayals of strong-minded people struggling with complex, dangerous situations.  At that level, Mother's Daughter draws some reactions that all of us can relate to at some level.

The big # 1 of them all is the whole question of how we interact with our parents, and how those interactions walk with us throughout our lives, even in later years when our parents have passed on.

The heartbeat of the play resides in the ongoing series of confrontations between Mary and her dead mother, Catalina (Katharine of Aragon), who appears all in ghostly white with pale makeup.  But her voice is very much the voice of a living woman, and it becomes clear that she travels with Mary exactly as all parents travel with their children -- very much alive in the inner chambers of mind and memory.  Not incidentally, Catalina is also the only character in the play who appears in Tudor period dress.

But if these confrontations are at the heart of the script, they are also its biggest weakness.  Contrast this script with Hamlet, where the ghost of Hamlet's father appears only briefly at the beginning, and Hamlet is then left to tussle with the implications of what the ghost has told him.  The basic problem is that Catalina does not, cannot, change at all -- since she is dead.  So the same basic confrontation gets replayed over and over.  Despite Hennig's best efforts to vary the texture and content of these scenes, the locked-in nature of Catalina means that Hennig is hamstrung by her own dramatic conception.  Or, to return to the analogy, these scenes finally become as tedious as Hamlet would be if he kept bumping into his father's ghost at every third scene of the entire play.

It's unfortunate, because Hennig is an astute and acute observer of human nature, and the way Mary argues with her mother reflects the way many of us rebel against those parental voices deep inside our own psyches.

It's unfortunate for the actors, too, because Shannon Taylor (Mary) and Irene Poole (Catalina) can and do tear the audience into quivering shreds at their best moments -- but they have difficulty finding ways to vary scenes that almost sound like repeat marks in a musical score.

Director Alan Dilworth has led the company in a straightforward presentation of the play, not obscured by fancy directorial whimwhams.  His most telling strategy is the one of placing the contending characters on either side of Mary, or in front of her and behind her, or -- in one especially powerful moment -- marking out all four compass points around her.  The placement is possible because of the Studio Theatre's 3/4 arena configuration, but it also creates great visual tension to complement the dramatic tension of those scenes.

Designer Lorenzo Savoini's visual presentation of the piece is intriguing.  The edge of the Studio Theatre's arena stage, and the edges of the three rear stage openings, are outlined with strips of light which can flash red, yellow, white, or (one presumes) other colours.  Otherwise, floor and backdrop are plain black.  A large, solid wooden table and a throne-like chair hold the centre stage.  High up and off-centre to the left on the black backdrop is a small cross.  You don't see it at first, until the lights inside come on to cast a cold white glow on the backdrop against which the cross stands out in black silhouette.  This happens when Catalina first appears and white lighting around the doors is matched by a cold white area light wash across the stage.  And the cross comes to life.  The symbolism is unmistakable.

Irene Poole presents an iron-hard, ice-cold, implacable will and determination.  As the play progresses, she shows her hand more and more.  Her voice takes on an aura of mystical power when she speaks about the one true faith (for her, Roman Catholic), and identifies herself as its personification and Mary as its saviour.  Poole uses sparingly the possibilities inherent in unlocking her spine, her upright, regal carriage, in favour of a more human closeness.

Shannon Taylor gives a phenomenal performance as Mary, all parts of her allied in partnership to show us the woman pulled every which way by conflicting external events and internal currents of raw emotion.  Strong personal will and determination are clearly the forces that keep this woman on her feet and moving forward through all the contrary pulls and stresses.  Her riveting assumption of this deeply complex character alone would make this play worth seeing.

Taylor works hard throughout the entire play to find Mary's own voice and to assert Mary's own will as sovereign.  Amid all the conflicting voices and demands, the currents and cross-currents, Taylor's Mary gains in power and clarity with each scene.

Particularly gripping moments include the scene where she asserts that she, not the Council (of men), will set policy, and the scene where she suddenly experiences an about-face, a total change of heart, and not only condemns Jane (Lady Jane Grey, her cousin) to death but also orders that Bess (Elizabeth, her younger half-sister) be confined in the Tower of London.

Until that final reversal, Mary's policy (borne out by history) is one of moderation in all things, and Taylor throughout the play gives this rather anodyne policy a face and a voice, and makes it both believable and wise.

Beryl Bain presents Mary's confidant, Bassett, as a short-fused woman with an authoritarian view of the monarch's role.  She is the one who consistently urges Mary towards the forceful course.

Bassett's diametric opposite is the other confidant, Susan, the voice of caution, of withdrawal, the seeker of safer shelter.  Maria Vacratsis gives this character a strength and a voice which makes her the perfect counterweight to Bassett.  Between them, these two actors clearly represent the yin and yang of every one of Mary's key decision points.

Between the left and the right of Bassett and Susan stands the stern councillor, Simon, played with vocal force and strong presence by Gordon Patrick White.  His standard catchphrase always refers to "the Council" in the third person (eg., "It is the will of the Council that...").  In a sense, Catalina and Simon are the polar opposites in front of and behind Mary: both iron-willed, both implacable, and both seeking to dominate Mary and make her do their will.

Among them, these four characters clearly represent the multiple opposing forces yanking England's first reigning Queen this way and that, side to side, fore and aft.  It's significant of the "out of public view" nature of the script that all four make free with the privilege of overriding the Queen and cutting her off in debate, a liberty that would be unforgivable in public.  It says much for the character of Mary that she allows them to do so for some time before asserting her authority to make them await her words.

Outside of this quartet of forceful voices stand two of the three rival contenders to the throne: Bess, played by Jessica B. Hill, and Jane, portrayed by Andrea Rankin.  Hill does a magnificent job of capturing the cunning, devious, political snake-in-the-grass.  What she says is far less believable and far less important than what she leaves unsaid, and her favourite technique of answering a question other than the one Mary asks her is noteworthy.  It's this very evasiveness and cunning, the play seems to say, that will make her the second resounding success among the Tudor monarchs.  But Hill equally captures the reality that blood does tell, and that a part of Bess truly regrets contending with her half-sister for power.

Jessica B. Hill makes a startling impact as the quite different spirit or memory of Anne Boleyn.  In the scenes where she appears, Anne and Catalina become the opposing forces striving for Mary's soul.  Because both Catalina and Mary always considered her so, Anne appears as a slovenly slattern, a woman who is all sensuality and nothing of reason, duty, or responsibility.  Is this fair to Anne?  In strict historic truth, of course not -- but in this play she appears only as Mary thinks of her.

Andrea Rankin's portrayal of Lady Jane Grey is fascinating in a different way.  Like Rebecca Nurse in Arthur Miller's The Crucible, Jane "is one foot in heaven already; naught may hurt her more."  Rankin plays this appealing character as a gentle woman of great faith, a mixture of naivete and worldly wisdom, of childlike simplicity and superhuman compassion.  It's a contrast, both refreshing and dramatically relieving, to the cold heartlessness of so much else in this play.

The third major contender for the throne, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, appears only by reference, and it instantly becomes clear that mutual hatred and distrust of her are one common thread binding Mary and Bess together.

The other common thread, the blood tie, is clearly elucidated in the final scene, a kind of epilogue, in which the two dead queens stand on the balcony, overlooking an imaginary view of Westminster Abbey, and commenting on the fate that led to both of them being buried in the same tomb, with Elizabeth's casket on top of Mary's, while an even grander monument nearby marks the resting place of Mary Stuart.  Their ironic comments make clear what some in the audience will already know: that Mary Queen of Scots was the ultimate winner, since both Tudor Queens died childless.  It was Mary's son, James VI of Scotland, who became James I of England upon Elizabeth's eventual death.

So, in a final, touching tableau, Mary Tudor and Elizabeth Tudor join hands and stand, linked again at last by the blood tie, as the lights fade.

With Mother's Daughter, Kate Hennig has again demonstrated her mettle as a dramatist to be reckoned with.  Her work demonstrates a strong creative discipline which enables her to say a great deal with a very few well-chosen words.  This play is every bit as formidable as The Last Wife which opened the cycle in 2015.  Seeing this production made me regret very deeply that I missed the intervening entry, The Virgin Trial, staged at Stratford in 2017.

Stratford Festival 2019 # 2: An Intimate Historical Pageant

Among the rarer birds in the Shakespearean canon we find the last of the Bard's long line of history plays, Henry VIII.  Many scholars and theatre people dismiss it out of hand, due to its inconsistencies of tone (it was co-authored by the veteran playwright with the young and verbose John Fletcher).  Some may, perhaps, regard it as ill-omened because it was during an early performance of this play that embers from a cannon set the Globe Theatre alight and burned it to the ground.  It's no wonder that the play has only achieved 3 previous productions in the Stratford Festival's 7 decades.

But then, we find the following in director Martha Henry's notes for the programme:

"As the text was trimmed to reveal the story, it began to shine like a buried jewel."

The trimming process eliminated a sizable number of lesser characters, conflating some together and simply ditching the scenes involving others. 

The production which Henry has helmed for the Festival's 2019 season has indeed polished this problem child into a sparkling theatrical jewel.  While the play sparkles, it also develops an air of unaccustomed intimacy, a feeling that we are eavesdropping on the private moments of real people, in the intimate space of the Studio Theatre. 

At the same time, the production -- especially its visual elements -- makes more than a nod towards the famous Festival Theatre stage on which this play was first performed here.  The Studio Theatre's flat-floor stage begins with that shape, and here it is augmented with a small upstage balcony above a handsome and regally-stylized engraving of Henry's coat of arms.  Two simple square pedestals matching the warm earth tones of the stage floor flank the stage and provide seating spots.

Francesca Callow's designs for the costumes continue the theme of the stage itself, of nodding to the Festival Theatre's tradition for mounting productions which appear luxurious but in fact are entirely portable, with set pieces and props whisked on and off stage as needed.  In this space, these pieces necessarily need to be limited in size and number, but such items as Henry's throne (on its wheeled platform) create the right kind of impact within severe limitations.

The costumes make more than a nod to the period, with sweeping dresses for the ladies and swirling black-and-gold cloaks, robes, and coats for the men -- but there are also elements of modernity in the clothes which remind us that the play (as originally staged) was near to contemporary time for its audience.  A key point is the avoidance of huge, swirling Tudor skirts with floor-sweeping sleeves; there wouldn't be room for them, in such a small performing space.  So what we get here is a visual evocation of historic costume rather than the thing itself.

If all this aura of Tudor pageantry is one essential aspect of the play (certain scenes cry out for this treatment), it is equally essential that the play be stocked with strong performances.  While the entire story focuses around Henry, there are long periods of time when he is off stage.  This is not a star's play, but it requires acting of high calibre from many actors to make it "go."  This company is among the strongest casts I've seen onstage in Stratford in many years.

Jonathan Goad gave a vital, alert, engaging performance as Henry.  This is not the older, heavier Holbein Henry.  Goad vividly captured the diverse and gifted nature of the man.  Also avoided is the impression of Henry as a foul-tempered tyrant whose moments of good fellowship and friendly disposition are a mere put-on attitude.  Script and actor together worked to show us a charismatic, kingly man who does harbour genuine emotional attachments to his friends, and above all to his queen, Katharine.

The three key characters surrounding Henry were all portrayed by actors of great power, both vocal and physical.

Tim Campbell gave the Duke of Buckingham a strong presence in the early scenes.  After he was condemned to death, his lengthy speech before his execution became the first great dramatic highlight of the evening -- beautifully shaped and phrased, steeped in an aura of regret for his loss along with an unspoken sense that Henry will come to regret this day.

Rod Beattie at first was all sanctimonious unction as Cardinal Wolsey, but the unction soon gets mingled with equal and greater measures of worldly sophistication.  His welcome speeches in the great ballroom scene in his palace were infused with naughtiness in the form of winks, both physical and verbal.  Every moment of his portrayal was tinged with immense pride in his own glory.

But, as everyone knows, pride goeth before a fall.  Wolsey does indeed fall from favour, and from power, and dies in a cold monastery where he has taken sanctuary before he could be conveyed to the Tower of London for execution.  In his final scene comes a great pair of speeches, usually referred to by the opening line of the second: "Farewell to all my greatness."  It's all too easy to overplay this scene as one of the Great Moments of English Dramatic Literature.  Beattie took the opposite course, keeping the speech on a more conversational level -- almost as if he were chatting with one person over a cup of tea.  The regret, the recognition, all those facets of the experience were there -- but they were touched into the picture in subtle shades, not painted in glaring primary colours.  It made the scene far more moving and human than any amount of dramatic oratory could ever do.

Power was the keynote of Irene Poole's assumption of Queen Katherine.  Although she started out in a more conventional consort mode, this Katherine came strongly to life in the great trial scene.  Poole dared to play the climactic passages of this scene standing centre stage, and facing the back wall where Henry sat with the two cardinals.  This meant that three-quarters of the audience could not see her face at all.  This is something only a powerful actor with a clear, powerful voice and true stage charisma could dare to try -- but Irene Poole all those qualities in full measure.  A riveting moment indeed.

As always in Shakespeare's histories, the bevy of noble lords attending on the king can come to seem like players on a sports team, all in the same uniform, and all exhibiting similar behaviour.  But this show deployed a strong cast of veteran and relative newcomer actors alike, with rewarding results.   As the Duke of Norfolk, Scott Wentworth demonstrated exactly the sublety and insight which enabled Norfolk to end up as the great survivor of Henry's impending religious bloodbath.  Stephen Russell gave a signature performance and a truly multi-sided personality to the Lord Chamberlain.  Qasim Khan struck me as a bit over-the-top as Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, but not to the detriment of the play.

Kevin Kruchkywich contributed a good Bishop of Lincoln, and then went on to create a clear portrait in just a few scenes of Thomas Cromwell, who would become the engineer of Henry's policies in later years.  And Brad Hodder depicted great strength and assurance as Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, the spearhead of Henry's creation of the Church of England.  His presentation of the lengthy, fulsome prophecy of Elizabeth's glory at the final christening scene trod neatly the fine line between not enough and far too much.

This play has even fewer opportunities for women than some of the other histories.  Alexandra Lainfiesta used her few short scenes to create a multi-sided view of Anne Boleyn, capturing not only the beauty of the young girl but something of her determination and her easily-kindled lust for power.
Martha Henry's pacing of the entire show was exemplary, allowing plenty of breathing room for the emotionally telling moments, and keeping the more ceremonial scenes moving briskly forward.

This Henry VIII sets high standards for breathing life into Shakespeare's history plays.  The company, strong even by Stratford's high standards, raise this play to a far higher level than most scholars would believe possible.

Henry VIII is a real winner!

Stratford Festival 2019 # 1: The Merry Ladies of Misrule

No question in my mind: The Merry Wives of Windsor is Shakespeare's most contemporary play.

I'm being very specific here in my choice of word -- it's "contemporary," not "timeless."  This is the exact reason why this year's Stratford production could pick the play up bodily out of the Elizabethan world and drop it down into a 1950s Ontario small town with no real violence done to the play or to any of the characters.

This is so for two reasons.  First of all, Shakespeare was writing about his contemporaries, and members of his own social class.  With only a few exceptions, the characters in this play all live in and belong in the town where it takes place.  They are all middle class, some content with their lot, some upwardly mobile, some who don't really try too hard.  Unlike most of the Bard's plays, the characters are not rooted in some faraway mythical land, or some distant time in the more-or-less historic past -- and they certainly are not all noble, royal, or ecclesiastical.

Second, this is a play where the women call all the shots, and where young love triumphs over social convention.  The merry trio of Mistresses Ford, Page, and Quickly make ingenious mincemeat out of the men who try to control them or dominate them.  And young Anne Page, while not openly defiant, as effectively makes mincemeat out of her parents by cleverly eluding the men they've chosen for her, and marrying the man she has chosen for herself.

Now, all of this may have been planted as a kind of concealed compliment to Elizabeth I, especially if 'tis true -- as has been related -- that she herself had asked for another Falstaff play.  Does it matter?  Whatever the reasons, the end result has, for me, a strikingly modern air to it.

I think this is why I was not in the least disturbed when archaic usages like "Mistress Page" or "Master Ford" were discarded in this production in favour of the contemporary "Mr." or "Mrs.," when "three hundred pounds" became "thirty thousand dollars," or when other obscure Elizabethan words were replaced with more intelligible modern counterparts.  This surgery on the script was done with a caring and light touch, and applied only where clarity truly mattered.

Visually, this production created modern magic on the Festival Theatre's thrust stage.  The square floor covering the original stage was itself covered with brilliant green artificial turf.  The house at the rear was a classic suburban house of the late 1940s-early 1950s -- red brick below, imitation half-timbering and balcony above, gabled roof, and a slightly arched front door with a stone surround and a narrow leaded-glass window in the middle of the door.  Houses like this can still be seen by the dozen -- by the thousands, really -- in cities and towns all over North America.

The real magic began when the house's two side wings were pulled off and pivoted around, while the lower-floor wall vanished to allow other set pieces to come through.  In this way, the street scene outside Page's home readily turned into the Garter Inn, the meadow where the duel scene is fought, and others.  The biggest transformation came with the final scene at Herne's Oak, where the upper part of the house vanished behind cobwebby Halloween draperies.

The costumes, too, made me feel right at home -- back in the era when women wore dresses, heels, and makeup everywhere and hats whenever out of the house.  No question in my mind: designer Julie Fox totally nailed the look of my childhood world, complete to the period laundry basket with its quilted coloured finish.  I felt instantly at home.

As to the performance, the Festival's Artistic Director, Antoni Cimolino, has helmed a staging which glories in the rowdy, bawdy humour of the language while also honouring the humanity and -- in the end -- humility of most of the characters.  Most importantly, he has reined in much of the physical and vocal excess which can so quickly make the play become unfunny (but not all -- see below).

Insofar as The Merry Wives of Windsor has a star character, that character is the wannabe womanizer, Sir John Falstaff.  Although a far more two-dimensional character here than the brawling, wenching braggart of the Henry plays, this Falstaff still poses intriguing physical challenges for the actor who -- almost invariably -- has to wear a sizable "fat suit" under his voluminous costume.

Geraint Wyn Davies proved to be more comfortable with that physicality than several Falstaffs I've seen in the past.  Vocally, too, his performance was clearer and surer than some other roles in which I've seen him, relying more on clarity of diction and well-thought phrasing than on sheer volume.  As a result, some of Falstaff's most treasurable lines reached the audience with absolute clarity and earned the laughter they deserve -- including my own personal favourite, "Heaven defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese."

The real touchstone of Davies' assumption of the character came at the point when the various fairies and goblins revealed their identity as Windsor townsfolk, and he said, "I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass."  Rueful recognition steeped in a kind of chastened wonderment coloured his voice at this moment.

The other real star of the production is the tripartite confederacy of Mistress Page, Mistress Ford, and Mistress Quickly -- here played respectively by Brigit Wilson, Sophia Walker, and Lucy Peacock.  And what a trio they made!  For this play to work, these three roles require, no, demand, a strong mercurial streak of mischief in the portrayals of these three central women.  All three captured that essential mischievous glint in the eye, and with it the energy which makes their plotting and scheming so hilarious.

Fine moments abounded in all three roles.  Peacock proved once again her adroit manipulation of endless strings of words in her lengthy and totally fictitious description of all the men who have vainly courted Mistress Ford.  Walker married seductiveness, energy, and fear in perfect proportion in her second bedroom scene with Falstaff.  Wilson gave a subtle air of mystery to her recital of the tale of Herne the Hunter, aided by an appropriately creepy shift in the lighting plot.

For the first time ever, I actually felt sorry for Master Ford, the man who fears the unfaithfulness of his wife.  Too often, this character is portrayed as a walking cartoon of childish petulance.  Graham Abbey gave Ford a surprisingly humane and likable aspect, not least because he built the character's anguish slowly, by degrees, through the "cuckold" soliloquy.  As Ford's fear and madness alike grow on him, Abbey reached the peak of his rage at just the right moment -- and in just the right amount.  Until this show, I'd almost given up hope of ever seeing a believable and likable Master Ford.

Michael Blake did fine work in creating a supremely self-assured Master Page, his great satisfaction with himself totally explaining why he did not fear the fate that obsesses Ford.  Impressive, given that Page often becomes a rather two-dimensional adjunct to the main action in Ford's house.

Shruti Kothari treated the small role of Anne Page to a straightforward interpretation.  But she had one surprisingly effective acid moment in an otherwise sweet personality -- when she said, to the audience, "This is my father's choice. / Oh, what a world of vile ill-favor'd faults / looks handsome in thirty thousand dollars a year!"

Equally straightforward were two other small roles:  Fenton, the suitor who wins Anne's hand (Mike Shara) and Rugby, the nervous servant of Doctor Caius (Johnathon Sousa).

The trio of Falstaff's followers presented uncommonly differentiated characters.  If David Collins (Bardolph) and Randy Hughson (Pistol) resembled the rogues of previous stagings, Farhang Ghajar took Nym in a wildly different direction as a typical Fifties "greaser."  Incidentally, Hughson was the one actor I sometimes had trouble hearing -- an unusual situation with him.

Michael Spencer-Davis made much of the role of Justice Shallow, not restricting himself simply to being a man with a grievance.

Jamie Mac's take on Slender was appropriately shaped as a book-learned social klutz.

A prize comic gem of the evening was Josue Laboucane's uncommonly energetic and entertaining portrayal of Peter Simple.

For nailing the physicality to perfection, you couldn't beat the antics of servants John and Robert, trying to hoist the laundry basket with Falstaff in it.  John Kirkpatrick and Daniel Krmpotic gave two of the funniest comic cameos I've seen in many a year.

As a study in comedic restraint versus comic overkill, a textbook comparison can be seen by looking at the two great caricatures of foreigners in the play:  Sir Hugh Evans, the Welsh parson, and Doctor Caius, the French surgeon.

Ben Carlson gave Parson Evans a nicely balanced portrayal, making the most of the numerous comical errors in his grammar and construction, but not overdoing the Welsh accent.  Carlson's usual sterling diction and delivery aided this part immensely.

Gordon S. Miller, on the other hand, gave the most overblown performance of Doctor Caius that I have ever seen -- and I've seen quite a few.  Like Parson Evans, this is a character which lends itself readily to excess, but the excess here became overplus and quickly moved from there to not-very-funny.  This was partly a matter of far overdoing the accent, and partly a matter of turning almost every beat into an exaggerated pose.  This was one serious lapse in an otherwise excellent production.

The other was the recourse to outdoor toilet humour with not one, but two, scenes revolving around multiple physical pratfalls involving meadow muffins (animal feces, for those not familiar with the slang term).  Once was funny (toilet humour almost always is).  Twice was less so.  By the third pratfall, it was getting tiresome.  Did the same sight gag really need to be dragged out again in a later scene?

One other aspect of the show deserves positive mention: the team of townspeople, mostly children, whose foreground games and activities helped to bridge the gap between scenes while the wings of the house were being turned and set pieces whisked on and off behind them.

The Merry Wives of Windsor is a classic comedy in the sense that it invites us to laugh at the foibles and pratfalls of the people on stage while also nudging us to recognize elements of ourselves in them.  Antoni Cimolino's staging of the play at Stratford serves both of those ends equally well.  I laughed throughout the show, and at the end I left with a smile on my face at my own inward reflections.

Toronto Symphony 2018-2019 # 4: Romantic Masterpieces

Last night's Toronto Symphony Orchestra concert, led by guest conductor Karl-Heinz Steffens, appeared at first glance like a trip down memory lane.

It was with something of a sensation of travelling backwards to my youth (appropriate on my birthday) that I looked over a programme that could quite easily have been presented by the orchestra in, say, 1968 or so: three solid contributions from three of the principal voices of nineteenth-century German Romanticism: Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Brahms.

It's a measure of changes in musical tastes that these composers, who held an honoured place in the pantheon of musical greats when I was young, now occupy a much more crowded field where works from many other voices are also performed and heard with more regularity than before.  Not least among those are Felix Mendelssohn's sister, Fanny, and Clara Schumann, wife of Robert and lifelong friend of Brahms.

Memory lane wasn't confined to the choice of repertoire, either, as the pattern of Overture-Concerto-Symphony defined many (most?) of the concerts I attended in the early years of my music-lover's career.  It says much for the shifting tides of musical taste that I can't remember when I last heard a concert in this conventional pattern, nor the last time I heard the Brahms Symphony No. 4 -- and I had never heard a live performance of Schumann's Manfred Overture.

Some may disagree, but I think that each of the works performed last night is indeed a masterwork, albeit each is focused in a different kind of music-making.

Some of Robert Schumann's most accomplished orchestral music came in the form of dramatic overtures.  Expressing drama through the orchestra seemed to come to him more naturally than the intellectual minutiae of symphonic form.  His overture to Manfred is quite possibly the finest of them all.  Intended as a curtain raiser to a staged production of Byron's dramatic poem, it ended by becoming a magnificent tonal portrait of Byron's brooding, conscience-ridden hero.

Steffens caught the air of haste and urgency attending the three staccato chords which open the piece.  It's a tricky moment to pull off, because the chords (which are played with no other music around them to give context) are actually placed ahead of the beat.  It's the necessity to get in fractionally ahead of the beat that creates that urgency, but it also raises the spectre of a misfired or inadequately unified chording.

The slow introduction was ideally sombre, and the subsequent allegro main tempo laden with fear and anxiety, thanks to the syncopated violin figures, clearly articulated here.  The difficult accelerando to get from slow to fast was a bit lacking in unity.

As the overture progressed, the numerous counter-melodies in the winds were all highlighted without being overplayed.  The great peroration (where the rhythmic trick of the opening chords is finally revealed) built up to a great head of steam.  In the long diminuendo after that climax, the brand-new chordal theme in the winds was on the verge of being swamped by the horns, but remained audible.  The final cadence was slowed down and quieted down until the final notes remained barely discernible.  A fine performance of a challenging work.

Canadian pianist Jan Lisiecki then joined the orchestra for Mendelssohn's Piano Concerto No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 25.  Personal taste may dictate each listener's reaction to this work, but there's no denying how conclusively and totally Mendelssohn reinvented the concerto form.  In place of the modified sonata form with double exposition of the classical Mozart and Beethoven concertos, this work begins with a quick, violent uprush in the orchestra leading straight into the first theme, presented by the piano with all the virtuoso fireworks anyone could ask.  The concerto begins as it means to go on, innovating in other ways by linking the movements together -- but most of all by emphasizing the elaborate, showy piano part and reducing the orchestra to more of an accompaniment than an equal partner.

In terms of musical substance, this concerto's first and last movements are basically huge mounds of whipped-cream virtuosity.  The poetic second movement is a bird of a very different feather.  But there's really only one way to play a piece like this: hell for leather, pedal to the metal, put your head down and go for it -- BUT never forget that you're playing Mendelssohn and not Liszt.  An airy lightness of touch and restraint in the use of the sustain pedal are essential.

Needless to say, I just described Jan Lisiecki's performance of the solo part in the fast outer movements.  In the central slow movement, a "song without words" indeed, his playing was as gravely beautiful and lovingly shaped as anyone could want.  Steffens effectively led the orchestra in supporting the principal partner of the work, with lovely subtleties from strings and winds in the slow movement in particular.

After the concerto, Lisiecki responded to the enthusiastic applause and cheers with an encore, one of the piano pieces which Mendelssohn actually entitled Songs Without Words.  Here he played with a high degree of poetry and restraint alike, adding a delightful coda to the concerto's dynamism.

After the intermission, then, to the Symphony No. 4 in E Minor, Op. 98, by Johannes Brahms.  Of the four Brahms symphonies, I suspect # 1 is most popular today because of its Beethovenian tragedy-to-triumph dramatic arc -- and especially because of the clear tribute to Beethoven in the main theme of the finale.  Many people have long found # 4 more problematic because it ends in a mood as tragic as its opening -- a tragedy of classical power and inevitability, cloaked in some of the richest orchestral writing Brahms ever achieved.  But it's still a dark and sombre ending to a work which has more than its share of dark colours.

There's a danger, here, that the darker sounds can become overwhelming -- in particular, the very prominent horn parts.  In the first movement, that's precisely what happened.  It's a hoary old musicians' joke that a conductor should never look at the horns, trumpets, or trombones because it encourages them.  Steffens must have been looking at the horns during rehearsals, because much of the horn playing throughout the first movement was at blastissimo volume levels.  Yes, the horn parts are glorious, and yes, the chording was both rich and secure.  But there are also some truly lovely wind counterpoints throughout the movement which often got swamped.  The odd result was that the first movement sounded in places like a concerto grosso for four horns and strings.

The other curious detail was that the horns "pulled in their horns" (sorry, I had to do it) for the remainder of the symphony, finding more of the poetry and less of the power in their music.

On an interpretive level, Steffens achieved great results by taking the first movement at a slower basic tempo than many, allowing the first great theme to sound relaxed, then finding the right energy for the dotted rhythms of the second subject, and allowing ample room for the organic growth of the music to build into a massive peroration at the end.

The slow movement brought much more poetic playing from the horns, and the most precise yet delicate pizzicati from the strings.  The rising lines of the winds at the coda were truly moving.

A robust performance of the scherzo (one of only two orchestral scherzos Brahms ever wrote) was marked by very successful shifts into and out of the slower tempo of the brief quiet episode in the middle.

And so to the finale, the most unique symphonic movement of its day, a full-throttle chaconne plainly inspired by Bach.  Here again, a slower, more relaxed tempo paid dividends in allowing each of the brief variations to register at full weight.  That tempo also allowed the gorgeous flute solo at the heart of the movement to develop a larger measure of tragic pathos than many interpreters permit.  The pathos in turn allowed the furious return of the opening bars to hammer down with even greater force.

The problematic feature at that furious return was the sudden gear shift to a notably faster tempo.  I agree that a faster speed is needed to get the work to the finish line, but a more gradual build-up over several variations from that recapitulation would work better.  No complaints about the majestic final coda, which rightly brought the most powerful playing of the evening.

National Ballet 2018-2019 # 6: Short But Intense

This week's programme at the National Ballet is devoted to the works of the American choreographer, William Forsythe.  The title of the programme, Physical Thinking, aptly summarizes the art of this dance maker, whose works not only challenge the physicality of the dancers but equally challenge the audience to greater involvement in the dynamics of the performance.  In this sense, Forsythe stands light-years away from the classical tradition in which the entire company strikes and holds an elegant pose while watching one or two dancers show off their virtuoso skills.

This programme was one of the shortest ballet programmes I've ever attended at the National, lasting for barely 90 minutes including the intermission.  Despite its brevity, this show definitely lived up to my expectations for mind-stretching, unexpected dance.

One of the three works, The Second Detail, was created on a commission from the National Ballet back in 1990, and has been revived several times since, the last occasion being in 2014.  The other two works on this programme, The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude and Approximate Sonata 2016, were company premieres, originally created on other companies, but being performed here by the National Ballet for the first time.

As is to be expected, with an artist of Forsythe's fertile and experimental imagination, no two of these works resembled each other in any way, other than the odd passing detail.

Actually, though, my day began a lot sooner than the pre-show Ballet Talk at 1:15 pm.  The National Ballet annually holds a "Class on Stage" day, open to the public.  The daily class is a sacrosanct ritual of classical (and many modern) dance companies.  Part stretch and warm-up, part skills drill, part focusing and immersion ritual, it's the root of the rigid discipline that governs all aspects of classical ballet performance.  Normally it's held in a studio at the beginning of each working day, but on this day the class is held on the stage of the Four Seasons Centre at 10:30 am, and audience members can buy tickets to come and watch.  So I did.

The Class on Stage was narrated by Associate Artistic Director Christopher Stowell, who spent much of the 75 minutes answering questions from the audience between the instructions given to the dancers by class teacher Rex Harrington.  However, there's not much one can say about the institution of company class that hasn't been said a million times before -- so I'll simply state that it was, as always, an intriguing learning experience for me, and with that pass on to the actual performance in the afternoon.

The pre-show Ballet Talk, delivered by Ballet Master Lindsay Fischer, included an audience participation segment.  In this, the seated audience were invited to learn, bit by bit, a sequence of arm movements which were a simplified version of choreography in The Second Detail.  At the intermission, the audience participation was expanded into a circle dance in the lobby (purely voluntary, but great fun either to try or to watch) in which audience members working with company members learned some simplified leg and body movements to go along with the previously learned arm moves.  It added a whole new dimension of involvement when we then got to see the pros on stage doing the full-on version of what we had tentatively explored for ourselves!

In my mind, William Forsythe has always been associated with modernism, so I was startled -- to say the least -- when the curtain rose for The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude on the energetic finale of Schubert's Great C Major Symphony, danced by a small ensemble of three women in classical-style flat tutus and two men in tights and leotards.  Further, the choreography at first gave the impression of being in a fairly strict  classical vocabulary.  That was, of course, until one realized that nearly every phrase of the music accompanied at least one movement that subverted classical discipline.  The "line", so beloved of the classical style, kept getting bent out of shape for a moment here or there, by a bent leg, an oddly-positioned arm, a curving back -- you get the idea.

Anyone familiar with Schubert's music can readily picture the immense energy this piece summoned from the dancers, who spent a fair portion of the 12 minutes flying hither and thither at frenetic speed.  I was amused to note that in a few spots the dancers had to do rapid foot movements which followed the endless chains of four-note ostinati in the violins.  By the end, it was obvious that the title referred to the thrill of dancing, or watching someone dance, with such boldness, vigour, precision, and not a little tongue in cheek.

Approximate Sonata 2016 couldn't have given a greater contrast.   Here the choreography largely left the classical poise and line in the dust.  The dance is divided into 5 "sonatas", each one a pas de deux with 1 and 5 danced by the same pair, while 2, 3, and 4 were each taken by a different couple.  I put the word "sonata" into quotation marks here, because the electronic score by Thom Willems took tedium to new depths in my experience.  Mostly, it consisted of quiet, heartbeat-like rhythmic sounds which continued apparently ad infinitum, while fragmentary musical notes of one timbre or another appeared, grew, dwindled, and vanished again in no apparent relationship to the beats.  I can only guess at the challenge for the dancers of trying to count rhythmic periods in a score where nothing ever seems to change.

The biggest problem for me in this work was the off-putting quality of the music.  If, as Fischer had said pre-show, part of Forsythe's intention was to break down the fourth wall and engage the audience more directly, then this piece was a monumental flop.  Like any heavy-duty application of monotony in performance, it had the effect of pushing me farther away rather than drawing me in.  It was far too easy to check out of the performance altogether, and for me that's what ended up happening.

No such problems with The Second Detail.  I've always felt that this work really should be called The 4,387th Detail, because there is such an enormous diversity and quantity of activity on the stage throughout the ballet's 25-minute span.  Dancers come and go from a row of chairs across the back wall, getting up or sitting down at random.  Other dancers emerge from the wings, shooting across the stage in complex combinations, or just as casually turn and walk off.  Groups form, do their thing, and disperse again.  Some of the dance is very classical in style, while others parts feature a much more angular modernity.

Counting like crazy must be the rule here too, because there can be so many different things happening at one moment.  Merely keeping up with the multiple flows of action is a challenge for the onlooker.

This time, the electronic score by Thom Willems has much more musical substance, with prominent rhythmic and melodic features alike.  This characteristic amply supports the diversity of classical and modern styles in the choreography.

If there's any doubt that Forsythe likes to get people's attention by pulling their legs, this ballet sets those doubts to rest.  As the curtain goes up, a white sign with the word "THE" printed on it rests on the floor, front and centre.  At the very end, as the final group of dancers heads upstage towards the chairs, one turns back and casually kicks the sign face down on the floor -- and blackout!

The quality of the dancing, not least the sheer headlong velocity of much of the dancing in the first and last ballets, made this a memorable programme indeed.  The teamwork and energy among the dancers was outstanding from start to finish.

I think, though, that I would pass on any future opportunity to see Approximate Sonata 2016 again.

A Russian Treasury in Music

Magnificent riches from seven great Russian composers are presented for our enjoyment in the newest album from the Cheng²Duo, entitled Russian Legends.

It's hard to imagine a more comprehensive collection covering the Russian repertoire for the cello and piano -- or to imagine one played with more care and thought.  The Duo, consisting of Bryan Cheng (cello) and Silvie Cheng (piano), take us through this diverse and challenging repertoire with equal measures of imagination, insight, tonal beauty, and structural power.

The foundation of this remarkable 2-CD album is formed of three great sonatas for cello and piano by Rachmaninoff, Shostakovich, and Prokofiev.  Surrounding these major masterworks we find a selection of shorter pieces from these composers, as well as from Glazunov, Tchaikovsky, Arensky and Scriabin.

The very first track in the album sets the standard.  We hear a lush, deeply romantic cello-piano version of the love duet Adagio from Prokofiev's last ballet, Cinderella.  Such is the range from intimacy to grandeur of Silvie Cheng's playing and the sweeping arc of the lyrical line under Bryan Cheng's bow that one scarcely misses the full orchestra.  

Immediately afterwards, though, the Duo launches into Prokofiev's Cello Sonata in C Major, Op. 119 -- and we enter a different world.  The Chengs relish the ambiguous tonalities, the fierce pizzicati, the dark, ponderous chords of the Andante grave introduction.  The innate lyricism of the composer's late period emerges in the main Moderato animato section, along with animated passagework, but the dark colour is never far away.

The Moderato scherzo movement brings a performance which captures the sardonic, tongue-in-cheek air of the music entirely -- Prokofiev thumbing his nose at  Zhdanov and the Kremlin bureaucracy (who didn't understand that they were the butt of the joke).  Silvie Cheng's pointing up of sforzandi in this movement is ideal -- just enough, but not overdone.  The same is true of Bryan Cheng's pizzicati and swirling arpeggios.  The soaring cello line in the central section is beautifully played, but not with anything approaching the ardour of the Cinderella Adagio.  That kind of overt romanticism would definitely be out of place here.

The more energetic melodic lines of the final allegro ma non troppo are highlighted and offset by the quiet, monochrome playing from both artists in the slower central section.  Bryan Cheng's feather-light passagework just before the return of the main allegro theme is a delight.  Both piano and cello build up quite a head of steam in the sonorous final peroration.

Shostakovich's Cello Sonata in D Minor, Op. 40 opens in a gentle, reflective vein with Silvie Cheng's piano chording lightened up to a gentle pianissimo which yet remains clean and clear.  The music develops more passion as the first movement proceeds, yet retains a sense of chamber intimacy, of reflection, of a conversation between the instruments.

The second movement scherzo, marked allegro, shoots off like a rocket launching with furious up and down scales from the cello and fierce staccato chords from the piano.  The curious central section pushes the cello up into the high harmonics with comical effect.

The Largo slow movement (a favourite tempo marking of this composer), opens in the quietest of half-tones from the cello, with the piano lightly touching in the deep chords.  The Chengs here make much of the contrast between the sweeping cello line and the peculiar -- not to say indeterminate -- harmonies.  The powerful central climax remains deeply uncertain and unsettling.

The finale opens with a perky, ironic march of a type often heard in Shostakovich's music.  The piano motif starts with a clear triad but the harmony then becomes much more relative -- as does any sense of connection between the keys of the two instruments.  Despite a couple of almost Beethovenian outbursts from the piano (played by Silvie Cheng with considerable élan) the music retains its playful character right to the finish line.

The best-known and the most substantial of the three major works is the Cello Sonata in G Minor, Op. 19 by Rachmaninoff.  The allegro of the first movement is outstanding, the tempo comfortable without rushing, the piano part carefully judged to match the cello in weight, and the legato of the cello's long, singing melody is sheer delight.  The slackening of tempo into the second theme is beautifully executed, while the second theme proper is presented with a well-judged degree of rubato, neither too slight nor too excessive.  Throughout this movement, the balance between the instruments is well-nigh perfect, and the musical partnership is strong and unmistakable -- even in the powerful climactic buildup before the final reiteration of that second theme, and in the final frenetic coda.

The allegro scherzando second movement (a long-time favourite of mine) is simply masterly.  The music opens crisply, with the quietly thrumming bass notes in the piano as clear as the cello's pizzicati -- and not nearly as overplayed as some rival versions.  The movement in general pays more heed to the "scherzando" than many, with an air of playfulness sustained in all the fast passages.  The slower contrasting melody brings more sweeping romantic playing from Bryan Cheng's cello along with clear arpeggios in the piano, another spot where muddiness can sometimes seem the rule.  Silvie Cheng generates an almost shocking contrast at the cascade of arpeggios before the return of the main theme -- her playing here momentarily turns into a cadenza of symphonic concerto proportions, and none the worse for that.  I feel sure Rachmaninoff would have approved.

The third movement andante finds both players capturing the song-without-words character of the piece.  Of all the three sonatas, this is the moment when the cello sounds most like a human voice, soaring above the accompaniment.  But the piano remains songful too, even when the emotional temperature rises in the heart of the movement.

The lengthy finale launches with considerable energy and power.  Rachmaninoff's lyricism is again to the fore in the contrasting second theme.  Towards the end, the tone of reminiscence and sadness in the slower music before the coda is noteworthy.  Overall, I've always found this movement to be discursive and somewhat lacking in musical interest as well as being heavily overwritten for the piano.  The Cheng²Duo certainly make out as good a case for this music as I've ever heard.

Among the shorter pieces on the album, Glazunov's Chant du menestrel, Op. 71, brings a wistful, nostalgic tone from both performers in a brief character piece.  Tchaikovsky's Pezzo capriccioso in B-, Op. 62. is granted an insightful performance which respects the darker colour of the slower sections while relishing the virtuosity of the faster passages.

A delightful rarity comes with the Two Pieces for Cello and Piano, Op. 12, by Anton Arensky.  Salon pieces these may be, but they are given here with much affection.  The Petite Ballade swings gently along in triple time, flowing easily from start to finish.  The Dance Capricieuse is treated to a bouncy performance which allows the cellist full scope for his high-speed acrobatics (especially in the high register) while remaining a dance, and not trying to become anything bigger.

Alexander Scriabin's Romance for Cello and Piano (originally written for horn and piano) is a student work, completed while he studied at the Moscow Conservatory.  A simple, mournful melody is floated gently above a restrained chordal accompaniment.

The album finishes much as it began, with another ripe piece of musical romanticism -- the well-loved Vocalise, Op. 34, No. 14 by Rachmaninoff.  Thanks to the insightful playing of these artists, even this warhorse (the one true "pop classic greatest hits" candidate in the entire collection) emerges sounding newly minted, its evergreen beauty renewed and refreshed.

The entire album runs to slightly more than 2 hours of music.  The recorded sound from Audite, in the Jesus-Christus-Kirche in Berlin (long famed as  a recording venue) is warm, realistic, and clear in a resonant background space.  Detailed programme notes in the package, translated from German originals into English and French, give a comprehensive overview of the evolution of cello playing and teaching in Russia, and place each composition in context of musical and historic contemporary events.

A desert-island album if ever there was one.