Tag: Beethoven

Sex, Death, Tolstoy

On March 19, 2010

Poor Sandra Bullock. Poor Kate Winslet. Famous, adored, lauded, beautiful. Divorcing. Lord only knows what the machinations are within any relationship to make it go kaput, but among the many assumptions being made, I think the only one worth betting on is the tough road both the respective parties have traveled. Bullock canceled an appearance in London out of “unforeseen personal circumstances” –which to me, means, ‘I don’t want to see anyone right now.” Fair enough.

But what happens when love gone wrong goes public? Celebrated Russian writer Leo Tolstoy imagined such an ugly scenario when he sat down to write The Kreutzer Sonata, based on Beethoven’s fiery music. The story revolves around a man sharing his tale of love, jealousy, suspected infidelity, and finally murder. Upon its publication in 1889 it was perceived as perverted, disgusting and scandalous; authorities promptly banned it. A year later, Tolstoy wrote a kind of apology for it, though it did nothing to dim the bright salacious bulb of the original, its glaring light shining capturing the money-spot of sexy pain and orgasmic violence.

Toronto’s Art of Time Ensemble decided to stage Tolstoy’s work, adding, as befits their collectively experimental soul, elements of dance, theatre, and of course, music to the works. The Kreutzer Sonata was performed last year in Toronto to great acclaim, and is currently receiving a revivial, on now through March 21^st (Sunday) at the Enwave Theatre at Harbourfront Centre. I had the chance to chat with one of its performers, actor/director Ted Dykstra, who had so impressed (and scared) me doing a brilliant rendition of Allan Ginsberg’s Howl at a previous Art of Time Ensemble event. Dykstra, ever the insinghtful artist, had some fascinating things to say about Tolstoy, marital jealousy, and the idea of a “world-class” city.

What’s different about this year’s performance?

Last year I read my own adaptation, but this year I’m stupid enough to try to do it without reading it.

Why memorize it?

You can’t do it complete justice just reading it –you have to live it. In order to live it, you have to memorize it. I memorized the whole thing –well, I adapted the novella and memorized the adaptation –so it’s about fifteen minutes long. I think (Tolstoy)’s crazy (laughs)… in a genius way! Geniuses are allowed to be crazy! It’s very dark humour.

How much humour comes through?

It comes the day I’m doing it –and it can go a lot of different ways. I like to let it do me rather than me do it. What’s great is that, first of all, live music. Andrew (Burashko, AOT’s Artistic Director) is actually playing, underscoring bit of narration. I have the advantage of these live people underscoring (what I’m doing). In the second half of it, the same music is used to celebrate nothing but beauty. It’s a celebratory thing about love.

How timeless/timely is The Kreutzer Sonata?

Anyone who’s ever experienced marital breakup or jealousy in any form will see themselves in it, either as the aggressor or the victim, and that’s a pretty large section of the human population. Also, we really think so little of what’s behind a crime, and this lets you into the mind of a person so you can understand his madness. I have to be sympathetic to the character I’m playing; this is a guy who murdered his wife, and that’s an interesting thing to watch. As far as timely goes, it’s not anymore or any less timely, it’s just universal.

Talk about the synergy between disciplines in the Art of Time: music, theatre, dance.

It’s there between Andrew and I for sure. Neither of us is content to just be one thing. We both like to cross boundaries and disciplines. I’d like to do it even more and so would he. I think the city is starting to be ready for it. I do get frustrated with Toronto sometimes. The very fact one has to say “world-class” is embarrassing! Nobody in any great city, ever, has to say they are “world-class” –and that’s what makes it world-class. Andrew would be a celebrity in Manhattan. He’d be at BAM, doing the cool stuff. He’d be sold out, sought after, written about. He’s one of those artists. Here, except for a small group of our population, he’s literally unknown. I’m tired of telling my friends in theatre who he is –I mean, I’m happy to do it really, but it is frustrating to have such great work going on so below the radar. There is a slow sea change, though, so it’s exciting.

The Kreutzer Sonata runs at the Enwave Centre at Harbourfront Centre March 18th through 21st.

When Internets Die

By Catherine Kustanczy

On November 24, 2009

In opera

(Note: I wrote this lastnight. Enjoy... )

At the time of writing this, I have no internet connection. Rather like withdrawl from a serious drug habit, I’m shaky, nervous, unsettled, angry, … repeat. It’s interesting timing, considering that lately I’ve been considering my life pre and post-internet age, with the same question cropping up at the end of all considerations: what the hell did I do before it came flashing and html-ing into my life? I don’t use it to surf idly -though I think there’s value in that -but like many in the media world, as the basis of my day-to-day communications and work-related tasks. Everything, from pitching a story, to chasing down the key players, to prep to research to fact-checking to writing and final product requires my use of the interwebs. When did reporting and writing get so complicated? When did streamlining become mainlining? How did simplicity get so complex? The loss of the internet has left me with a host of questions related to the nature of my activities and creative choices. I resolved to do something useful with my time -useful in a way other than that as defined by internet surfing, that is -by writing both creative and journalistic stories, talking with friends, and sitting with my addiction -feeling it and not judging. Harder than it sounds. I’m restless by nature and I suppose regular exposure to the internet feeds that.

Still, lack of one connection means a different -perhaps familiar – connection, redefined and rediscovered. It was with a mix of annoyance and resignation that I came to accept the fact that I was -am -cut off. An internet-equipped friend kindly helped me in some necessary prep work but I’d turned on the telly in the hopes of filing the gaping void of non-connectedness; I don’t just use the internet for information, but, like many, for connection with others -close, far, known and unknown. Television just doesn’t fill the same hole. But I’ve come across some really, extraordinarily good programming.

Among the many delectable offerings on AUX’s excellent, arty-leaning video flow was the Michael Franti video for the catchy, peppy ska-meets-funk-pop single “Say Hey”. Filmed in Rio, the video is a bright, powerful shot of pure, unadulterated joy. Franti dances joyously with kids -tweens and toddlers alike -along with grandparents and assorted musicians. Damn. If I had internet, I thought, I would’ve missed this little gem from one of my favourite artists who released, in my estimation, one of the finest albums in recent memory. The depiction of joy in “” gave me a far greater feeling of connection and reminded me of the power of music -to move hearts, mountains, and minds.

Speaking -typing -of moving mountains, the Choral section of the Ode to Joy just finished on Bravo! and I’m recalling the tender memories I have of seeing Sir Simon Rattle conducting the very same ten years ago in Royal Festival Hall in London; it remains one of my dearest memories of London, to this day, though it was hardly the first or last time I saw the piece. The memory of my night at the Hall, however, remains seared in memory, and comes back jut that much clearer without the techno distractions I’ve become such a willing slave to over the past few years. Now I see Beethoven’s Hair has come on -it’s a documentary directed and co-produced by Larry Weinstein, a wonderful Canadian filmmaker I had the opportunity of interviewing for Inside Hana’s Suitcase back in the spring. Larry had told me during our wide-spanning conversation that he loved making the doc about LVB, and tonight of all nights, here it is. Of course, I wouldn’t have known about it unless my internet connection had died. I’m tempted to say I’m grateful.

Could I have heard the Ode (and learned of poor Ludwig’s possible lead poisoning) chained to the elusive, semi-illusory velvet handcuffs of internet connectivity? I caught the ode – this celebration, this tribute to human capacity, capability and credo to greatness, to compassion over cruelty, to space over time, to choice over tyranny -after being forcefully cut off from a terribly isolating habit. Now alas, the addiction isn’t over yet. I’m still itching to check my mail, check Facebook, see what people are doing on Twitter and blast around from site to site, ping-ponging between videos and articles and sounds and sites.

But, much as I love it, I cannot deny that the central role I’ve given the internet in my life has closed me off to plumbing further depths -imaginative, cognitive, sensual, creative -that I know are awaiting rediscovery. I think I need to reconnect -and not just with the bobbing heads and cold letters on my monitor, but with the reason I started this blog: a keen passion for music, art, and all the other cultural things that colour this short existence. It feels like the least I can do -for me, and indeed, for you, the reader.

Play On

By Catherine Kustanczy

On April 25, 2009

In music

I had the distinct pleasure of interviewing journalist Steve Lopez about his book The Soloist last year; the film version of his story, involving his unlikely (if wonderfully fated) relationship with musician Nathaniel Ayers had just wrapped, and I was curious as to how Lopez felt about his relationship with his schizophrenic, formerly-homeless friend being portrayed onscreen.

I’ve admired Lopez for a while, because he engages in the sort of journalism I aspire to: socially-conscious, full of humanity and integrity, shot through with passion. He writes about the most marginalized people in our society -people like Mr. Ayers, whose stories, while incredible, might never get told were it not for his bravery and heart. Yes, heart. Some journalists have them, you know.

After being moved up from its December release, the film The Soloist was finally released yesterday. I’m curious to see how it will marry the hugely important artistic sides of the tale with the terrible, sometimes-frightening twin realities of mental illness and homelessness. At the end of reading Lopez’s book, I was moved beyond words, and the only thought I had was to put on Beethoven. I’m sure Mr. Ayers would like that.

Bipsy, Balls, Weill & Northrop

By Catherine Kustanczy

On October 8, 2008

In music

I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed puppet theatre until I saw Famous Puppet Death Scenes, put on by Calgary’s Old Trout Puppet Workshop, last year. It was bizarre, it was gross, it was moving. It had moments of extreme insight, and others that wallowed in the most deliciously macabre humour. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and some of the powerful images it presented. Puppets may just be “blocks of wood”, as Old Trout puppeteer Judd Palmer told me last week, but what they convey in the hands of such skilled masters is something far past the corporeal. To quote my first PlayAnon interviewee, they’re “show(ing) us who we really are.” Quite an achivement for mere blocks of wood. Run, don’t walk, to see one of the best pieces of … well, whatever you want call it. The pseudo-kiddie skit “Das Bipsy and Mumu Puppenspiel” is worth the price of admission alone.

The Young Centre, where you’ll find the Old Trouts’ puppet show, just came off a successful run of shows in their first-ever cabaret series, sponsored by Canwest. With roughly 150 artists ranging from gospel (Jackie Richardson) to world sounds (Waleed Abdulhamid) to classy jazz (Patricia O’Callaghan) and much more, the Canwest Cabaret Series, was, by all accounts, a smashing success. I was able to take in the Cabaret’s Kurt Weill Songbook Saturday night, pre-Nuit Blanche-ing, and I must say, it had some of the best performances of Weill I’ve ever seen. Peppered with a range of interpretations and styles (including beautifully lyrical readings by Mike Ross and Sarah Slean, sexy, classic renditions by O’Callaghan, and decidedly scatty, quirky performances by Mary Margaret O’Hara), the Kurt Weill Songbook was a great example of an important idea: bringing supposedly “high” and/or “obscure” art to the masses -as in, to the ordinary grubs (us, that is) who happen to love it. Just days before, German songstress Ute Lemper had captivated a sold-out crowd at Roy Thomson Hall with her Dietrich-esque readings of Weill, and while the dressy crowd surely ate it up, the audiences assembled Saturday at the Young Centre were definitely more casual -in jeans, sipping beers, chatting with others at the numerous little tables set up in the Bailie Theatre so as to give a club-like feel. It was intimate, casual, and smart.

Monday night I attended the evening of skits and sketches put on by national political theatre group The Wrecking Ball. Made up entirely of pieces written only in the past week, and having had only one rehearsal, the show was part of a national effort to bring attention to the arts cuts that have so coloured the lives of Canadian artists these past few months. Along with clever work by Rick Roberts and Pierre Brault, the evening also featured work by Canadian playwright Judith Thompson, whom Kelly Nestruck, the Globe’s Theatre Critic, rightly says is “swiftly turning into Canada’s David Hare.” Dead on. My favourite, however, was Teresa Pavlinek’s tale of two ordinary people who share a bus ride, along with stationery, and eventually, their dreams and ambitions. Called “The Road to Ordinary”, it was perhaps the least partisan piece of the evening, but for me, it was also the most moving, notable for the subtle ways in which Pavlinek showed how culture has the power to change lives. Great acting too, from Ieva Lucs and Hardee T. Lineham. Best Speech of the Evening Award went to Michael Healey, who reminded the packed Tarragon that, despite what we may think of him, Prime Minister Harper is a patriot too. It was brave, good, and ballsy. Kudos, Michael.

The last word goes to Northrop Frye, again, taken from The Educated Imagination. I like this one, because, based on the artists I’ve spoken with, including my next PlayAnon interviewee, artists of various disciplines in this country didn’t really speak to one another until the arts cuts were made public. What a way to foster discussion. Still, there’s a long way to go in terms of cultivating those connections. So, without further adue, Mr. Frye’s thoughts…

… just as it’s easy to confuse thinking with the habitual associations of language, so it’s easy to confuse thinking with thinking in words. I’ve even heard it said that thought is inner speech, though how you’d apply that statement to what Beethoven was doing when he was thinking about his ninth symphony, I don’t know. But the study of other arts, such as painting and music, has many values for literary training apart from their value as subjects in themselves. Everything man does that’s worth doing is some kind of construction, and the imagination is the constructive power of the mind set free to work on pure construction, construction for its own sake. The units don’t have to be words; they can be numbers or tones or colours or bricks or pieces of marble. It’s hardly possible to understand what the imagination is doing with words without seeing how it operates with some of these other units.