Oberon's Grove

PILLOW Plan

Since moving to NYC, it's been a rare thing for me to venture away from home. I went up to Tanglewood in 2000 to hear Makiko sing Dame Quickly under Seiji Ozawa. Wei and I have spent a couple weekends at Richard's in Connecticut and once we went to Philadelphia when Kenny & Sam were living there.  But mainly we stick to the domestic routine.

Inevitably, once I get somewhere else, I find myself wishing I was home in my own bed: I inherited this trait from my mother. My father loved to take trips but my mom was a reluctant fellow traveler. She loved being home and so do I, true Cancerian that I am.  So despite an opera-lover's curiosity to experience performances at the Bayreuth Festspielhaus or La Scala, I have to rely on my imagination. Here in the USA I have traveled very little; three months living with Ann(e) in Houston back in my Jackson Browne phase was the farthest and longest I've been anywhere west of the Mississippi. Standing invitations to visit Kenny in Fort Lauderdale, Paul & Tom in Provincetown or even Mollie in England fall into the realm of wishful thinking. If only we had TREK technology so I could beam to those locations and be back home at bedtime.

But now I'm about to head off on a small adventure: back to Jacob's Pillow. When I lived in Connecticut a visit to the Pillow was a nice day trip. I first went there back in the 1970s when it was very rustic; my friend Andrew and I attended a performance of COPPELIA by the Boston Ballet. His mother packed us a gorgeous lunch and we were  picnicking on the lawn when a friendly dog came scampering up and snatched 1/2 of Andrew's roast beef sandwich. We forgave the dog and his owner since they were both so charming.

After that, visits to the Pillow became our summer routine; Richard and I would drive up three or four times each season. We loved Paul Taylor & Hubbard Street; we saw lots of Tharp and Mark Morris. We saw the beginnings of the David Parsons Company when David split off from Paul Taylor. We saw Merrill Ashley there; we saw Martine van Hamel; we saw Damian Woetzel when he was a mere lad; we saw a fascinating Act II GISELLE pas de deux with the back stage doors fully onto the moonlit night. We saw tap, jazz, experimental evenings. And we saw - most memorably - Graham veteran Peggy Lyman in a magical interpretation of THE INCENSE which remains in my mind as clearly as if it were yesterday.

The new studio building was one of many improvements and upgrades over the years and it's lovely, but for us it was always the old barn-like theatre, the original studio, the tea garden and the outdoor stage with it's spectacular mountain backdrop that simply said 'This is the Pillow!' We loved going up early and having a lunch from the deli we'd picked up en route, then taking a walk along the back roads prior to the performance. We would watch the dancers warming up or just sunning themselves behind the theatre. Then someone rang the big old bell and we would go into the hot, dark boxy auditorium and be transported.

Richard may have had an ulterior motive when he gave me a commerative booklet about Jacob's Pillow for Christmas 2006. I think he was counting on my nostalgic streak, and it worked. We've made a plan to go there on August 4th for a performance by Ballet du Grand Theatre Geneve. I'm especially glad that Wei has decided to come with us. It will have been ten years since my last Pillow experience.

When I met Rhona earlier this year at a City Ballet matinee and Jacob's Pillow came up in our conversation, we both took a momentary pause. Almost a reverential pause. We shared our sense of the Pillow being the truest sacred place for dance in this country: so rich in history, and so enduring. I can't wait to be there again.

Nine Years Ago

Nine years ago today I packed everything I thought I would need into my friend Jay's Neon and said goodbye to my best friend Richard, my Thai guy Tony, my good old cat Boo and my beautiful, huge apartment  in Hartford and set out for Manhattan. This was something I had been planning for years and it had finally (after some unhappy setbacks) become a reality thanks to my friend Paul who had offered me his studio on Perry Street at an incredible price.

I had lived in Hartford for 22 years and worked my way up at the insurance company to a very comfortable salary; I never liked the corporate world but I did love my co-workers. For many of them, I was the first openly gay person they'd ever had to deal with on a daily basis. I remember when I started working there in the 1970s it was quite a controversy; I found out much later that there had even been an effort to get rid of me simply because I was gay. The guy who instigated that idea ended up being one of my best friends. Over the years I think people realized that our common ground was far more broad and meaningful than our differences. For the last 3 or 4 years of my insurance career I was attached to the law office and the photo shows me with the two attorneys and their two assistants at our last Christmas together: Cathy, Virginia, Heidi and the inimitable Ms. Heather. We've kept in touch ever since.

My farewell party was an all-day affair. Everyone brought food and then we had a catered lunch. Rea was my indispensable friend who picked me up every morning at 6:45 AM for the drive to work. The clerical staff were my best buddies of all: Christine, Denise, Rea, Fern & Iris. We had so much fun there which offset to a point the drudgery of the actual work. Sometimes it's hard to believe I spent 22 years doing something I hated but having co-workers like these made it an awful lot easier. I'm planning to see Rea this June.

This is Tony; we had a great time together for about three months before I moved. He was a student at the University of Hartford and he already had an established partner back in Thailand so we both knew our relationship had definite limitations. He spent so much time at my place, usually at the table studying. Those windows looked out on a grove of trees and you sometimes felt you were  living in the forest. After I moved I only saw Tony one more time; he came down for a weekend and we went to the World Trade Center, the only time I was ever there. I never saw the photos of us on the top of the WTC that we took on that glistening day. Later we talked on the phone before he returned to Thailand; my life had changed completely and I knew Lek was waiting for him in Bangkok. I hope they are still together.

This was the place in Hartford where I used to hang out: Elizabeth Park. It was right at the end of my street.  I spent hours there sunbathing with Nelson and my now-long-lost friends John and Steven. Here we are - Nelson, Danny & Kenny - celebrating my birthday the summer before I left. It is a beautiful place with famous Rose Gardens. I remember once getting up in the middle of the night and walking over there to watch a lunar eclipse. Proximity to the park was a benefit then just as being near our park here in Inwood is today. Of course, the park here is on a much larger scale.

Anyway, Jay and I made a quick trip down here and unpacked the car. We had lunch and strolled over by the River where all the gay boys were hanging out. It was a day much like today: comfortable temperatures with a hint of Spring in the air. Jay took off and I started unpacking. That evening I called Ginny in Hartford to check in and while I was talking to her an adorable mouse scurried out to the center of the throw-rug and stood up on his hind-legs welcoming his new tenant.

I was very grateful that my old friends visited me often; here's Kenny and me on the corner of Hudson & Perry, and me with Richard in front of the building where I lived. The studio was so tiny and looked out on a beautiful old courtyard. For two weeks I just wandered around the Village, postponing getting a job. I joined the 4th Ring Society of New York City Ballet and went to the opera, both Met and NYCO. It was so great to have these venues just up the subway line rather than a 3-hour-train-trip-and-hotel-stay excursion once a month. I felt so happy to have finally arrived in My City.  Then on April 14th something happened that transformed my world totally: the luckiest day of my life.

Horrid HELENA

So here's the poster for the Met's production of AGYPTISCHE HELENA, the rarely-given Strauss fantasy opera. Little Debbie is holding a seashell filled with either Listerine or Tidy Bowl, not sure which. Not that it matters, really. For me this was a 'much ado about nothing' evening (3/27). There were two exciting moments: first, Peter Gelb appeared to announce that Voigt was ill (grape-vine: stomach flu) but would sing anyway; then as the second act ambled murkily forward, some poor old bloke attempting to escape up the Orchestra aisle fell; this produced the only real drama of the evening.

Apparently Mr. Gelb prevailed on Debbie to sing despite her illness. Please stop prevailing, Mr. Gelb. Since I heard her miraculous Ariadne in Boston a couple decades ago, Deborah Voigt has seemed to me to be decreasingly sumptuous vocally and increasingly dull with each progressing season. After she knelt at the altar of the Little Black Dress, she lost me completely. The problem is, she sings all the operas I love so inevitably I am at her performances. The momentary thought that we might get a substitute gave me a brief ray of hope, but then Gelb prevailed. Going on after you've been announced as ill guarantees the audience will love you. But then, audiences love Debbie anyway. Clearly I need to drink more Kool-Aid.

In the event it didn't matter how she or anyone else onstage sounded. The opera is a big old bore. The orchestra floods the theatre with waves of colorful, throbbing Strauss sound. The singers belt out strenuous phrases in the upper reaches of their registers. Annoying green elves in sunglasses and Phyllis Diller wigs cavort. Poor Jill Grove appears as a black blob in Act I (think Nijinsky/Kobold) and then turns all white in Act II while in the meantime having no real outlet for her plushy contralto. Wendy Bryn Harmer looked daffy as a maid, but the voice is real - I wish she'd been singing Helena. As the evening crawled on I found myself wondering how two Strauss operas (ARIADNE and ELEKTRA) could be in my Top Five when he writes trashy stuff like this. I found myself craving PERICHOLE.

So, you are asking: why did you stay? Well, the ARIA comes at the start of the second act. There would be no point in leaving before the ARIA. And actually that was Deb's best moment of the evening. And after that there was always David Chan to watch.

I suppose the real problem is not the music so much as the libretto, which is pretty silly. And you thought TROVATORE didn't make any sense. But even silly librettos can be rewarding if in the end you feel something about the people in the story. Here there was nothing: no humanity and no heart. No emotional context that makes other fantasy operas (FRAU & FLUTE) so meaningful.

The sets (David Fielding) look better in photographs and sketches than onstage. Garish lighting does nothing to enhance. The chorus interventions - white-suited men in sunglasses with lightbulbs in their briefs - oops, briefcases - would have been amusing had they not been so tedious. 

So we finally get to the end. Deb gets her obligatory 'show must go on' ovation.  Someone shredded paper to give Diana Damrau a snowstorm, hilariously screaming 'Bravo' - did he think Damrau was a counter-tenor in drag? She did sing well, but so what?

Speaking of snowstorms/confetti-throws, the critics sometimes mention these as an indication of the public's acclaim: as if hordes of little old ladies from Riverdale  spontaneously tore up their programmes and hankies to salute some  exhausted diva or strapping baritone. Actually they are always the work of one or two devoted fans and are invariably planned in advance. I know, because I was a founding member of the Beverly Sills Snowstorm Crew.

I could mention something about sopranos with ugly feet but, as Sutherland says in DANCER FROM THE DANCE: "Enough meanness for one day".

   

TRANSAMERICA

This is another film we should have seen long ago. We used to go to the movies all the time when we lived in the Village but there's really no cinema up here in the Far North. So now, having Netflix and the big TV, we are catching up.

TRANSAMERICA is a small masterpiece; it deals quietly and calmly with trans-gender issues as well as prostitution, drugs, child abuse and other controversial topics without passing judgment or taking a religious/political stance.

The idea of sex change (and even of transvestism) is pretty foreign to me; I think of myself as extremely open-minded but I've never understood the attraction of cross-dressing let alone doing something permanent to your body which alters the most basic component. Back in the early 90s when I was trying organized religion again (for the last time), there was a wonderful woman in my church who began life as a man and after years of struggling made the change in her 40s. One evening she told her story to our group: knowing since childhood she was trapped in the wrong body; her tormented youth dealing with the cruelty of her peers; rejected by her family; finally finding the courage to have the surgery; her subsequent state of peace and her dedication to helping others on the same journey.

In TRANSAMERICA we find Bree (formerly known as Stanley) at a point two weeks prior to her surgery. She receives a phone call out of the blue from a kid in NYC claiming to be Stanley's son, born 17 years before as the result of Stanley's one-and-only one-night-stand in college. The boy, Toby, is in jail.  When Bree's therapist Margaret refuses to sign the papers for Bree's surgery until Bree deals with this unforeseen aspect of her life, Bree travels to New York. She presents herself as a  representative of the 'Church of the Potential Father' and bails Toby out. He is a pretty, punky boy with a devious charm, entangled in drugs and prostitution. Saying he wants to go to Los Angeles to find his father and work in the porn industry, Toby coaxes Bree into a cross-country road trip in an old station wagon.

Hilarious, touching and sometimes upsetting situations arise as they meet fellow travelers on the road, including a stop  to reconcile Toby with his step-father which proves a major disaster. Midway thru the trip Toby discovers Bree's 'secret' but they get past that and trek on, ending up in Arizona at the home of Bree's parents. There, several revelations are made.

Felicity Huffman is truly uncanny as Bree; this a performance that has to be seen to be believed - no amount of description or praise could even begin to do justice to her embodiment of the role. It is a courageous and sublimely human portrayal: funny, brave, tragic and uplifting all at once. Kevin Zegers is adorably ambiguous and somewhat androgynous as Toby; he seems to have been plucked off an East Village street corner. Elizabeth Pena (Margaret, the therapist) is exceptional and Graham Greene (as a kindly Native American, Calvin) makes you want the little by-way story of his attraction to Bree turned into a sequel. Fionnula Flanagan gives a glorious example of how to steal a movie with her touch-of-the-Irish performance as Bree's mother: indignant, bossy, shallow, and kind-hearted by turns, Flanagan turns her scenes into major events. Carrie Preston as Bree's sister, Sydney, is utterly natural and delivers her one-liners with subtle aplomb. She reminds me of girls I used to work with at Tower.

We enjoyed the movie so much that we watched it again the next day.

   

DONNA DEL LAGO at NYC Opera

Thursday March 22, 2007 - The New York City Opera's production of Rossini's LA DONNA DEL LAGO ('The Lady of the Lake') played to many empty seats on Thursday. Maybe when word gets out about some very exciting vocalism on offer there will be a surge in ticket sales.

Grey brick walls and a couple of boulders - and later a tree trunk - formed the stage picture. Elena's cottage refuge was out-of-doors and filled with straight-backed chairs. Snow fell from time to time, reminding me of City Ballet's Snowflakes and how they hate getting the yucky stuff on their lips - an added peril for a singer. The men wore kilts, the women homespun. In the final scene, at Stirling Castle, the courtiers appeared in tuxedos and 'Vienna Waltz' creamy gowns. George Manahan conducted dutifully and the chorus did well.

The fantastical plot, set amid the wars of James V's Scotland and filtered thru Sir Walter Scott's romantic  vision, involves three men (Rodrigo, Malcolm and Uberto) suitors all for the hand of Elena, daughter of the Highland rebel chief Douglas D'Angus. Elena loves Malcolm; her father wants her to marry Rodrigo so as to cement the bond between the rebel factions; and Uberto is James V incognito. When Elena spurns Uberto, he generously gives her a ring that will  get her access to the king should she ever need his favor.  When Rodrigo is killed and her father & Malcolm captured, Elena takes the ring to Stirling Castle and is astounded to find that James V is actually the man she knows as Uberto. The prisoners are freed; happy ending; cabaletta.

The music varies from  inventive to formula in the twinking of an eye; when Act I seems set to end with a jaunty stretta, we instead have a hymn with offstage harp. The vocal demands for the principals are strenuous indeed, with pages of coloratura and the extremes of range to be dealt with. I still recall the brilliant performance of this piece at Carnegie Hall in the 1980s with Frederica von Stade and Marilyn Horne.

Daniel Mobbs, tall and handsome, sang strongly as Douglas and cut a fine stage figure.  The inimitable Barry Banks (Uberto/James V) has made a career out of singing these fiendish, high-lying roles and  he was very impressive here as he spiraled upward and cascaded thru the waves of fiorature. It is not a sweet voice, but he can make it terribly tender (in the gorgeous 'O fiamma soave'). One or two minor blips seemed insignificant in the face of the onslaught of remarkable singing he delivered.

As Elena, Alexandrina Pendatchanska has all the right instincts; her singing is expressive and she flies thru the passagework undaunted. Unfortunately the voice itself is rather edgy and the tone can lose focus. Also it is a couple of sizes too small to make the kind of effect that her temperament would suggest. Her interpolated high notes were  metallic and unpleasant. A valiant effort, but I can imagine there must be other sopranos around who could have made a finer vocal impression in this role. Her best moments came in the softly wondrous 'Tanti affetti' where she did not put pressure on the tone; but the final cabaletta was overwrought and sometimes strident.   

Robert McPherson (Rodrigo) and Laura Vlasak Nolen (Malcolm) were surprise treats for the audience.  {They are pictured above, culled from the Playbill}.  McPherson was making his NYCO debut and showed off a large, clear and warm voice with undaunted forays to the top. He is a strapping young guy with a handsome face and a broad 'masque' that says: "I am a singer". The audience took to him at once, and I imagine he will only get better in the run of performances now that debut nerves are past. Were I running NYCO I would have been waiting offstage with a contract for him for several future roles.

I heard Ms. Vlasak Nolen a couple years ago in a smallish role in the Dukas ARIANE where she made a disproportionately big vocal impression. Who could have guessed she would pull off this sort of Rossini triumph but that's just what she did. Her voice is free-wheeling as she sent the runs and turns flying out into the house; she can ascend to the high range with clarity and force while her full-toned deep notes show a smouldering warmth that put me in mind of Shirley Verrett's success in ASSEDIO DI CORINTO. During the intermission I heard the Horne comparisons wafting about on the Promenade and they seemed apt. She and Mr. McPherson went on my list of singers to follow; it's a short list these days, but these are two voices I'll want to hear again.

It's too bad that the audience was so small: the gallery was sparsely populated and swatches of empties in the orchestra and on all levels. Some people found the super-titles riotous and there were loud guffaws at a couple of points in Act II. I guess that laughing to oneself is no longer in fashion.

Kate Lindsey at the Goethe Institute

Kate Lindsey is one of those singers who immediately attracts your attention; when I heard her as Tebaldo in DON CARLO at the Met earlier this season she made a distinct impression vocally and dramatically. In a way it was sort of like a SALOME I attended at NYC Opera in the mid-1970s when an unknown basso singing one of the Nazarenes made me think, 'This guy has IT'. That was Samuel Ramey.

Tonight at the Goethe Institute, Kate gave a recital with pianist Vlad Iftinca that went beyond confirming my earlier impression; both vocally and in her presentation she showed herself already - at a very young age - fully capable of holding an audience in the palm of her hand. The voice is clear, with a warm core and an easy, expansive range. She can go low with a fully-feminine intimacy and she can go high like a fledgling soprano while the middle remains round and poised. This even tonal quality allows her to do just about anything she wants vocally, seemingly without effort. Beyond that, there is beauty of expression in the lyrical passages and an unexpected intensity which make her quite fascinating to listen to.

If that were not enough, she is also a very attractive girl with a perfect figure and an easy, graceful and unaffected manner. She has a strong sense of the drama & theatricality of what she is singing, and her face is so expressive that you cannot take your eyes off her.

Mr. Iftinca walked to the piano and began playing the opening bars of the gorgeous Berlioz cycle LES NUITS D'ETE and Kate strolled down the aisle in a breath-of-spring white and green frock holding a single white rose as she sang the opening 'Villanelle'.  In 'Spectre de la Rose' she sang in a tender reverie, followed by the despair of 'Sur les lagunes' and the longing of 'Absence' beautifully rendered in voice and poetry. 'Au cimitiere' was almost stark in its feeling of loss. Then, shaking off the darkness, Kate brought the cycle to a close with the ironic, seductive 'L'Isle Inconnue'. Mr. Iftinca's playing was luxuriant.

The Berlioz cycle is so engrossing and was presented with such beauty that part of me wanted to just get up and go home, taking it with me. But Kate and Vlad had Nin and Schoenberg to offer and they maintained the high level. Earthy and vibrant in the Spanish songs, Kate's warmth of tone and Vlad's colorful playing pleased the audience greatly. Reappearing in a sexy black gown, Kate launched Schoenberg's Brettl-Lieder in sexy cabaret style, using the voice as as an expressive force and Mr. Iftinca as an accomplice. This set was by turns lusty, subtle and grandly theatrical, full of innuendo. Kate's singing was ripe and seductive as she gave each vignette the 'treatment'.

The room sometimes seemed too small to contain the music and the emotions. This was more than a promising recital by a young singer; it was a promise that is already fulfilling itself. Cheers for this wonderful mezzo and her superb pianist as they were called back twice. Kate's announced Cherubino at the Met next season is at the top of my list of operatic imperatives.

After the recital I walked back to the West Side thru Central Park; you'd think after all these years that I'd be jaded by the City but looking south to the bejeweled skyline gave me a rush.   

TRAVIATA at the Met

Tuesday March 20, 2007 - TRAVIATA is the opera I've seen more often than any other, about 50 times. I've walked out on a couple of Violettas: Kiri Te Kanawa (just dull) and Cristina Gallardo-Domas (just awful) and I've also seen every sort of production you could imagine. I've come to know every note and 90% of the words. And I still love it.

The Met's Zeffirelli production does nothing to enhance the intimacy of the love story. The elevator scene-change from bedroom to deserted salon for the final scene is a gimmick whose time as passed.  Audiences love to ooooh and aaaah the sets, especially the garish one for Flora's party.

Some excellent performances in smaller roles, notably Tony Stevenson (a sweet-voiced Gastone), the stalwart John Cheek (Dr. Grenvil) and tall, big-voiced John Hancock (Baron Douphol). Leann Pantaleo is an attractive Flora..

I saw Krassimira Stoyanova's Violetta a few seasons back; not knowing anything about her I went on a whim and loved it. She was again very impressive and expressive last night though possibly not on peak vocal form. It is good to hear this music sung with a clear, warm & well-projected middle range. All evening Stoyanova relied on piano/pianissimo in the high register, creating luminous effects; but there were times I craved a bit more 'zing' on the upper notes. Her 'Addio del passato' and the entire final scene showed Stoyanova's voice to best advantage.

Jonas Kaufmann (Ken Howard photo, above) is a tall, slender and very good-looking fellow who looks 'of the period' with his pale complexion and tangled mass of long, dark hair. In Act I, Kaufmann showed us an Alfredo who is nearly paralyzed with shyness at the prospect of finally meeting the woman he has loved from afar for a year. Modest and reticent, he is petrified when called on to propose a toast but he sees his do-or-die moment and won't let it slip away. Finally alone, Stoyanova and Kaufmann treated us to a wonderfully shaded 'Un di felice' with a fine blend of timbres and a long kiss at the end; Alfredo's passion has overcome his inhibitions. Kaufmann sang the Act II aria with his darkish timbre underlining the lyrical phrases; dynamic variety and a touch of Italianate sob put a perfect finish on his expression of romantic contentment. Moments later, in the cabaletta, Kaufmann's sense of excitement propelled the music forward; his high-C was not perfect but was the right reckless response of the young man as he rushes off for Paris to set things right. At Flora's party, Kaufmann lets Alfredo's confusion and jealousy bubble up into a tempestuous denunciation of Violetta; some lyric tenors are really taxed here but Kaufmann has reserves of tone which he poured on the hapless woman along with the degrading flinging of the money. In the final scene, Stoyanova & Kaufmann gave us a tender 'Parigi, O Cara' and then, overcome with remorse, Kaufmann helplessly watched his beloved die.

Dwayne Croft became a favorite baritone of mine after I first saw him at Glimmerglass in the early 1990s. Since then he has had his vocal ups and downs, reportedly being plagued by sinus troubles. A this performance, he started very strongly. The duets with Stoyanova were beautifully sung and phrased by both singers, rightly becoming the centerpiece of the opera. But later, Croft seemed nervous in 'Di Provenza'. Armiliato gave him a fast tempo so as not to stretch the line too taxingly, but Croft did not seem comfortable and a bit of roughness threatened near the end. After that, Croft receded vocally and dramatically as the evening wound to its close.

Dmitry and I were amused but ultimately annoyed by the coughs, sneezes and snorts from the audience during the Act III prelude. It seemed that every bar of the music had to be punctuated with a consumptive obbligato; an ironic contrast to the utter silence during the whole of the recent MEISTERSINGER but as Dmitry pointed out: Wagnerites would have killed...

MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA

Continuing to watch movies at home that we never saw in the theatre, yesterday it was MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA. Not having read the book I took the film at face value and thought it was both moving and gorgeously made. The cinematography and costumes (Academy Awards in both categories), the marvelous score (John Williams, with solo turns by Yo-Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlman), as well as the depiction of a tradition which was swallowed up by World War II keep the senses rapt while the personal stories of the girls who have ended up - for various reasons - in the world of the geishas unfold against harrowing world events.

At a very young age Sayuri is sold with her sister by their impoverished father to a 'geisha mother'. The girls are separated in the city and grow up in different geisha houses which are filled with intrigue and betrayal. Sayuri (Ziyi Zhang) crosses the path of the established ruling geisha Hatsumomo (Gong Li) who manipulates and taunts the girl. Sayuri's unhappy world is brightened in a momentary encounter with The Chairman (Ken Watanabe), a rich gentleman whose kindness Sayuri can never forget; she carries the image of The Chairman with her, along with his handkerchief, as a symbol of unattainable love.

As Sayuri matures into a delicate beauty, she is taken under the protection of the prosperous and gentle Mameha (Michelle Yeoh) who prepares Sayuri for her debut. In the course of her training Sayuri again encounters The Chariman but the culture of manners prevents her from revealing her feelings to him. Instead she draws the affection of his disfigured friend Nobu (Koji Yakusho). In a ritual bidding war for Sayuri's virginity, Mameha manipulates the outcome. In the meanwhile, Hatsumomo's jealousy at being displaced by Sayuri causes a violent struggle and a fire which destroys the geisha house.

As World War II breaks over Japan, The Chairman and Nobu arrange for Sayuri to escape to the countryside where she spends five years laboring in poverty. The final devastation of the war seems to put an end to any hope Sayuri might have but unexpectedly she is called back into the world of the geisha as a powerful American officer has become smitten with her photograph. The Chairman needs the friendship of this officer for business purposes, and Sayuri, out of loyalty and love, returns to the city. She finds that the refinement and sophisticated sensuality that marked the geisha's life has been replaced by a garish mockery of that world; her friend Pumpkin (Youki Kudoh) still dresses in geisha style but there the similarities end: the new crop of 'geishas'  are just cheap parodies, common prostitutes who carouse with the Americans for a few bucks. Into this new world, Sayuri must try to revive her life. 

No spoilers for those who haven't seen it! The unusual casting of three of China's outstanding actresses (Zhang, Li & Yeoh) strikes a slightly jarring note but their performances shine. Gong Li's English is not always clear, but she plays a bitch to the hilt while still gaining our sympathy not only as she is displaced in the hierarchy but also: she has to hide her own secret love affair for a young general. Li, always a remarkable beauty, has matured in a state of grace. Ziyi Zhang gains admiration not just for her lovely visage and demure demeanor but also for her nuanced performance in a world where the real thing is never said or done. Michelle Yeoh gives a virtuoso performance as the kind and practical Mameha, incredibly poignant as she discovers her own protector has fallen for Sayuri. Youki Kudoh (so touching in SNOW FALLING ON CEDARS) paints a skillful portrait of a young girl who moves from a culture where the showing of a wrist was considered highly suggestive to a world where all sense of decorum (and sobriety) has vanished. Mssers. Watanabe and Yakusho reveal their feelings towards Sayuri in subtle ways, yet one cannot tell til the end how things will fall out.

Visually and musically the movie is a breathtaking backdrop for the depiction of a changing world. Now I will read the book; people who did so before seeing the film were disappointed so maybe in a way it's worked out better for me.    

Spring? Not yet...

Today was the first 'shorts & tee' hiking day. I felt overheated as I ventured up the paths at the northern tip of our Island, but when I came down to the Hudson River the illusion that Spring was near faded away. Dark clouds were rolling in ahead of the cold front, and the River was choppy. The robins flitting in the branches along the riverbank will need to find a warm place to sleep tonight: snow is predicted.

I'm in a lull between performances this week, though next week will be busy: TRAVIATA on Tuesday, Kate Lindsey's recital on Wednesday, and DONNA DEL LAGO on Thursday.   Kate's recital, by the way, is a public event at the Goethe Institute (across from the Met Museum) at 7:30 on Wednesday evening, March 21. For the very modest cost of $10 you can discover this young mezzo-soprano who reminds me so much of Frederica von Stade: beloved Flicka who jumped directly from Mannes to the Met and into the hearts of Mollie and me and thousands of others.

On the ballet front, may I draw your attention to Pauline Golbin's Dancer on Dancer interview with Craig Hall at the NYC Ballet website (link to the site in the right-hand column). Yes, Craig Hall - that guy who is really a principal dancer but  is being held hostage in the Corps. Even though this picture of Craig & Janie Taylor appears to have been taken by a traffic helicopter hovering above Lincoln Center, I love it because it reminds me of the stunning performance these two dancers gave in FAUN.

Also in the Dancer on Dancer area of the NYCB site are some new photos by Kyle Froman.

Last week while Lisette and I were savoring Pain Quotidien's trance-inducing hot chocolate, one of the dancers came in with her folks. Naturally I was spellbound, and too shy to say anything to her...and besides, she deserves to have her lunch in peace. Once I asked Vinson Cole if singers like to be 'recognized' in public; he thought, in general, that they do.  Dancers seem more reticent to me, and comparing conversations I had with dancers and singers while working at Tower I must say, singers really love to talk while in general the dancers were more reserved; I suppose they do their 'talking' onstage though I did find that 'the bigger the star, the friendlier they are'.  I remember a story about Janis Joplin going shopping for a winter coat at Macy's years ago and being recognized by the clerks and other customers and having to sign a few autographs. After things cooled down, Janis said to her publicist: "Shit, I can't even go shopping in peace any more." Her friend chided her: "Oh, Janis...you LOVE IT!" to which JJ finally replied, "Yeah, you're right!"

Since I'm rambling, I'll mention that I'm re-reading James McCourt's 1971 novel MAWRDEW CZGOWCHWZ, the story of the world's first operatic oltrano. This was a landmark novel for opera queens, of which number I suppose I must include myself. Actually a few of the characters are based on people I knew in my very early opera-going days. Some of them are still going, too. There is a 'musical' error in the book which I find amusing. It seems like Mawrdrew's story would make an entertaining film though I suppose the potential audience would be pretty small.

The McCourt book, with it's gay profusion of words, is taking me longer to get thru than  the book I just finished, Woodward & Bernstein's FINAL DAYS. What a page-turner that proved to be! I lived thru the whole Watergate era but I'd forgotten so many of the details. The one truly unforgettable incident, which stays with me to this day, was the moment when - during the endlessly droning hearings - Alexander Butterfield let the cat out of the bag about the White House taping system. I knew right then the Nixon presidency was over.

Remembering that put me in mind of another historic moment of 'live television'  in 1963. My brother and I were idly watching the blanket coverage  in the days following the John F. Kennedy assassination. We were sort of lulled into a stupor by the whole thing. They were bringing Lee Harvey Oswald out from a holding cell to transport him to prison and, in what seemed like slow-motion, Jack Ruby stepped out of the crowd and shot Oswald. My brother and I were struck dumb for a split second, as were the commentators. Then all Hell broke loose.

Tamara Mumford in Recital

Tuesday March 13, 2007 - A star-studded audience was on hand to salute the wonderfully expressive singing of the Met Young Artist Program's Tamara Mumford in recital at Bruno Walter Auditorium. When the gods were handing out gifts, Tamara was clearly one of their favorites: she is a beautiful young woman with starry eyes, a dazzling smile, gorgeous complexion and luxurious hair; she is tall and has a perfect figure, a natural elegance and a commanding presence. On top of all that, she can sing.

In a striking tailored black and silver gown, Tamara immediately set the mood with an unusual  pair of Ravel songs  ('Kaddisch' and 'L'Enigme Eternelle') which displayed the warmth and depth of tone which would suffuse the whole evening. Tamara has a luminously darkish lower register which flows freely, without forcing. Pianist Justina Lee was her musical ally in the very diverse programme.   

Haydn's demanding 'Arianna a Naxos' was given a vividly operatic treatment by the two women. Tamara  painted the  tenderness, anger and resignation of the abandoned Ariadne in an ideal meshing of bel canto with dramatic accents in the recitatives.  She moves the voice easily and  had excellent support from Ms. Lee.

Mahler's Ruckert Lieder  are forever linked in my mind to my late friend, the Japanese contralto Makiko Narumi. When I saw they were on the program tonight, I felt uneasy: I haven't listened to these songs since Makiko passed away. It was quite difficult for me to hear another voice in 'Liebst du um Schoenheit'  but as the songs progressed I felt drawn into Tamara's interpretations and as she was singing the profoundly moving 'Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen' ('I have become lost to the world') I realized that I could keep Makiko's voice in my heart and still let another voice speak to me. Tamara's beauty of expression in the closing lines - 'I am dead to the world's turmoil and I rest in a quiet place. I live alone in my heaven...in my love...in my song' - was a great consolation for me.

I thought the Mahler would have been the emotional and vocal apex of the evening, but I was wrong. Tamara of the Russian name then revealed herself as a classic Russian mezzo in three Rachmaninov songs which were just plain thrilling. Chills and tears swept over me as singer and pianist delved into the colours and passions of this music; 'In the silence of the mysterious night' reached another level of poetic and musical inspiration.

The set of Rorem songs might have been an anti-climax in lesser hands, but Tamara and Justina turned them into a magical, integral part of the evening. Clarity of diction is a big asset in these songs, and Tamara has it. 'The Serpent' was superbly done and could have been a perfect climax to the evening, but the young ladies ended on a different note with 'The Lordly Hudson' which lauds our great river on whose  banks I'd been walking in the morning.

Mr. Rorem was in the audience and I had the pleasure of meeting him briefly afterwards, and I was very pleased also to meet Dona Vaughn from the Met who works with the young singers, and also Ken Noda (super-pianist-coach), and the mezzo-soprano Kate Lindsey who will give her recital next week.

Lisette had been telling me about working with Benita Valente that afternoon, and I was thrilled to see this great favorite of mine in the audience and even more thrilled to actually meet her in the greenroom. I tried - in my usual clumsy way - to express verbally my admiration for her.  Ms. Valente is a very kind lady and it was an uncanny coincidence that I had been thinking about her earlier in the day.  Her singing has always been a special joy for me.

To Tamara I expressed a hope that she would be our next Olga when ONEGIN is revived. For me she is the kind of singer who will be a real asset to the Met in coming seasons.