Tag: cinema

Michail Jurowski: “Music Is An Abstract Art”

Jurowski conductor Russian classical music

via IMG Artists.

Sometimes new works will wash over the listener like a gentle wave. Others will strike intensely, like a thunderbolt. The latter is an apt description of my reaction to hearing Moses, a late nineteenth century work by pianist-conductor-composer Anton Rubinstein. Written in eight scenes and based on episodes from the book of Exodus, the vocal work follows the story of Moses from his childhood through to being given the Ten Commandments and handing authority to Joshua. It’s a long listen (over three hours), but is a deeply evocative aural journey, with an abundance of rich vocal writing weaved throughout a plush neo-Romantic score.

Moses is so familiar, and yet not; epic and yet intimate, religiously specific and yet broadly encompassing, it sounds so much like the things I love and yet nothing at all like any of them. There are clear references backwards (to works by Balakirev and Mussorgsky), forwards (Zemlinsky and Henze), and most firmly within Rubinstein’s own time (specifically Wagner, and more specifically, Tannhäuser and Lohengrin). Being lots of things at once and requiring a very large number of musicians, the work was never actually presented during Rubinstein’s lifetime, or for a long period of time after. A planned presentation in Prague in 1892 fell through when the theatre (then Neues Deutsches Theater; later Státní Opera) went bankrupt; public taste had shifted too, and Rubinstein’s passing in 1894 left the work in relative obscurity – until the efforts of conductor Michail Jurowski.

First, the obvious: yes, Michael Jurowski is the father of Vladimir and Dmitri, both celebrated conductors. Yes, his father was a conductor and composer, and his grandfather, David Block, was a conductor too. Yes, both he and his sons have conducted the work of his father. And yes, Moses was an immense labour of love; the maestro dedicated years to preparing and restoring the score for performance, which took place two ago (October 15th, 2017) at Warsaw’s National Philharmonic Hall. The world premiere, recorded and released last year on Warner Classics, featured the immense talents of the Polish Sinfonia Juventus, Warsaw Philharmonic and Artos Children’s choirs, as well as a talented group of soloists including Stanislaw Kuflyuk, Torsten Kerl and Chen Reiss. The Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung called the album “an immense declaration of faith and culture” and indeed, it is that, but it is also a deeply expressive work with a clear narrative sense, thanks to the precise work of its dedicated maestro. Jurowski imbues the work with palpable momentum while allowing moments of deep beauty to shine through: there’s a beguiling interplay between a textured, spindly orchestra and Irina Papenbrock’s silky vocal delivery in “Picture 3: Have You Come, My Friend”; further along, Chen Reiss’ ethereal soprano intones luxuriantly within and around rippling strings and sonorous brass in “Picture 7: Jordan Flows Around Its Loins.” It may be a Geistliche Oper (or sacred opera, a term invented by Rubinstein himself to imply a unique blend of opera and oratorio forms), but Moses has its share of magical moments that transcend the boundaries of faith, and, dare I say, offer a space where one might meditate on the integration of spatial, sensual, and spiritual.

That integration is something Michail Jurowski excels at, through his numerous recordings and live performances. Having studied conducting in his native Moscow under Leo Ginsburg, Jurowski went on to assist the legendary Gennady Rozhdestvensky at the National Radio and Television Symphony Orchestra of Moscow, and conducted regularly at Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko Moscow Academic Music Theatre as well as Komische Oper Berlin. Before departing the Soviet Union in 1989 (he’d accepted a permanent post with the Dresden Semperoper), Jurowski had frequently conducted performances at the Bolshoi Theatre. Since then, he’s held numerous positions, including Chief Conductor of Leipzig Opera, Principal Conductor of Deutsche Oper Berlin, General Music Director and Chief Conductor of the Northwest German Philharmonic Orchestra, and Chief Conductor of WDR Rundfunkorchester in Köln; he’s also made numerous guest appearances (Leipzig Gewandhaus, Oslo Philharmonic, Bergen Philharmonic, London Philharmonic Orchestra, to name a few) and has conducted a myriad of operas and ballets in many prestigious houses, including Teatro alla Scala, Bayerische Staatsoper, Oper Zürich, and the Bolshoi.

Michail Jurowski conductor Russian music classical live performance

Photo: T. Müller

Earlier this year Jurowski made his long-awaited North American debut, leading the Cleveland Orchestra in a program of works featuring Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich; the concert was met with extreme success, and, as you’ll read, meant a great deal to the maestro. Recently he completed a series of concerts in Sweden, where he opened the season of the Norrköpings Symfoniorkester; the well-received concert featured works by Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and the world premiere of Elena Firsova’s new double concerto for violin and cello, which featured violinist Vadim Gluzman and cellist Johannes Moser as soloists. Norrköpings and Jurowski have enjoyed a long and fruitful collaboration, with numerous live performances and recordings in their shared history including, quite notably, a 2015 release through cpo featuring the work of his father. Jurowski has also made numerous recordings of the work of Shostakovich, particularly special in light of the close association his family shared with the composer. His 2017 album of live recordings (Berlin Classics) with the Staatskapelle Dresden from the International Shostakovich Festival in Gohrisch won the German Record Critics’ Prize, with the conductor also being awarded the third International Shostakovich Prize by the Shostakovich Gohrisch Foundation that same year. Along with Shostakovich, music of Prokofiev, Grieg, Tchaikovsky, Meyerbeer, Rangström, and Khachaturian (another family friend) constitutes a good part of his discography.

Jurowski Kancheli classical recording Rundfunk-Sinfonieorchester Berlin

via cpo

A cornerstone of my own musical explorations is his 1995 cpo recording of Symphony No. 2 and Symphony No. 7 by Georgian composer Giya Kancheli. Jurowski alternates moments of tenderness and dread in a seriously engaging sonic tapestry underlining textures between strings, woodwinds, brass, and percussion. One moment, shimmering, glittering and gleaming in resplendence, that beauty giving way to awesome, awfully gripping moments of piercing violence. Few conductors, I think, understand Kancheli’s music better than this;  Jurowski engineers the sound against blinking, winking silences in a way that makes one rethink ideas around space, movement, and resonance. Such expertise highlights, once more, that holy, wholly beguiling trinity of spatial-sensual-spiritual in understanding music, an approach I strongly suspect transferred more than a bit onto his offspring.

Among his many engagements this season, Jurowski is scheduled to lead Boris Godunov at Bayerische Staatsoper (a revival of a Calixto Bieito production from 2013) with a stellar cast featuring Dmitri Ulyanov, Ekaterina Vorontsova, and Brindley Sherratt; he’s also returning to La Scala for a revival of Swan Lake. This Thursday he’ll be on the podium for a concert with the St. Petersburg Philharmonic featuring the music of Beethoven and Penderecki. Just as you’d expect, Jurowski is as much of a great storyteller with words as he is with music, and he’s happy to share more than a few intriguing tales. We recently spoke about a host of various topics: his American debut, meeting Stravinsky, and how the experiences of Dmitri Shostakovich underline the importance of nuance in relation to artistic integrity.

Michael Jurowski conductor Russian music classical

via IMG Artists

You had your American debut recently; how did it go?

I felt it was fantastic. It was a huge success. We got standing ovations, and it was a big present for me, especially after a long time waiting.

Too long.

Well you see, better late than never!

Did you notice any differences between American audiences and European or Russian audiences?

In general, no, It is different between a prepared audience and one absolutely fresh, but it can be this way in Vienna, in Berlin, and it is not a question. I met a really very good, prepared, and cultured public. The Cleveland Orchestra has a very long and very big tradition. I heard this orchestra in the 1960s in Moscow with George Szell, and I remember these concerts very well — it was one of the most powerful feelings in my life, to experience such an orchestra and conductor. So when we met it was within the first five minutes we understood each other.

The program was fresh to the orchestra — not the Tchaikovsky violin concerto, but the Eleventh Symphony of Shostakovich, which is today rather seldom presented onstage. It is a symphony which had influence from Hungarian events of 1956, but Shostakovich’s special talent and his genius was that he referenced, in his compositions, the problems of the whole world. The vision of violence, of death, of life, everything, not in the biographical sense in one or other way, but in the intonation. This is really music from heart to heart, and I can say it was truly so. I had the possibility for these concerts to speak with the public, and it was about forty minutes. We spoke about my personal experience with Shostakovich, some biographical moments. It was in parallel with Vadim Guzman, who brought his violin, on which was premiered the Glazunov violin concerto. It was an incredible but historical instrument.

I was very happy. I had not only the possibility to make music together with this orchestra but also to have contact with the public. I had the feeling I was in paradise.

How much do you think music contributes to breaking down barriers — cultural barriers, political barriers, emotional barriers?

Music, first of all, is notes. It is really seldom we can find the direct connection between historical or political events, so music in general is a retrospective art, or an art for the future — what I felt, by some fact of life, or what I want to wish for humanity, and so on. The Tenth Symphony of Mahler connects with the event of the letter of architect Walter Gropius to his wife, and he understood his wife was not with him; it was a shock, and from this shock began the composing of Symphony, the climax of the first movement. It’s a question we know: what was this input (the source of inspiration)? For Shostakovich, for example, one of his most famous pieces is his Seventh Symphony. It was composed during the terrible blockade in Leningrad during the war, but you see, the material of the first movement was in Shostakovich’s head before the war. And for Shostakovich, violence does not have a national form; violence is violence, it is more than geographical. So this is one of the reasons why, for example, the Seventh Symphony has such success today. This season I will conduct it in Italy; I’ve done it almost every year somewhere, and this year it will be in Sicily.

Michail Jurowski conductor Russian music classical live performance

Photo: T. Müller

In an interview earlier this year you said you had wanted to be a film director originally, and I wonder how much cinematic sense you bring, because some of your recordings are strongly cinematic.

Your comparison with cinema… maybe this observation is right. I try to blend with theatre. I am also a theatre (opera) conductor. I look behind and remember in my childhood I didn’t want to be a musician, because my father was a composer. I wanted to be a theatre director. Our house was open for contact with really fantastic artists of the time — among our guests was not only Shostakovich, but also Oistrakh and other great musicians. My father had very regular contact with various artists in cinema as well. In the West the names of Soviet directors are not so important, except maybe Dziga Vertov or Sergei Eisenstein, very big directors of the 1930s — of course society was absolutely closed, but I can tell you that such directors as Bykov, Romm, Gerasimov, and other Soviet directors – they were all top-quality in terms of artists of world cinema. For me, it was a very important moment (to be around them) and to ask myself, “What is moving conflict? How do I find inputs as to what brought this music?” Music is an abstract art; it is only notes. I just try to understand what happens with these notes, but it means I compose, in a sense: the changing of effects, the language of music, this moving between con moto and sostenuto, the idea of musical structure. Musical form can be only realized during live performance; music is when we play and in this case, form, structure. It’s what happens, I hope, when I bring the right form to the public during various pieces.

The other side, from my personal kitchen, is from a time when I had a big friendship with the Tonkünstler Orchestra. The traditions of this orchestra are to repeat one program through seven or eight concerts, so with this program, it was, as usual, a series of concerts including two or three in the Musikverein. It was sometimes rather difficult to repeat, seven or eight times, the same composition, night after night.

That seems rather strenuous!

Yes, it was. For a moment I changed my understanding of this program — what I must feel, what I must think, just come with this Shostakovich work that I had to conduct seven days in a row without pause. This symphony, as with almost all of them, needs very high tension, and after seven concerts I felt myself … well, the best thing was to go fishing afterwards. I was absolutely empty and terribly tired. I was fine up to the second day or after that, but before me was three or four next — that night I understood if I go by plot, so to say, by events, every time, and prepare myself for some climaxes or some moments which in life happened unfortunately, then for me it must be personally not only a pleasure to make big music, but interesting. And from this moment, the door for this action and understanding of what happens in music, was opened.

Composer Igor Stravinsky and cellist Mstislav Rostropovich in Moscow, September 1962. (Photo: RIA Novosti archive, image #597702 / Mikhail Ozerskiy / CC-BY-SA 3.0)

You observed in that same interview that Stravinsky would “imbue the music with a human meaning.” What did you mean?

I had the opportunity to speak with Stravinsky in 1962. He was in Moscow, playing there, it was his visit together with Robert Craft, his first time visiting Soviet Russia. He had received permission to visit. Stravinsky not only conducted – he was a very good conductor – but also he had some meetings with Soviet composers.

My father took me to one of these meetings. Standing there, about four metres from him, he asked me what I wanted to compose. I was sixteen years old. I told him I wanted to be a conductor.

“And what do you want to conduct?”

At that time we were allowed to know Le Sacre du Printemps (The Rite of Spring) — I had the score. I told him, “Of course, Sacre du Printemps!”

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s such a beautiful piece, but so difficult.”

“It’s not difficult,” he said, “everyone and his dog can conduct it.”

I remember this. He was highly intelligent when he spoke. It was incredible. I remember some of the musicologists asking him about his autobiography, things like, “In your conversations with Mr. Craft, what is true?” and Stravinsky said, “Truth is only music; don’t believe the words.”

Stravinsky gave us very different pieces, different ideas. He had personal experience with Rimsky-Korsakov and Tchaikovsky, but his expression became different from the Russian music of Firebird, Petrushka and of course Sacre. He was composing these anarchic, fantastic things, destroying all worlds, with these fantastic harmonies in his new classics. He’s a very important person of the 20th century and I would compare him with Picasso, because stylistically, he is like Picasso: he changed a lot during his life. Where is the real Picasso? We don’t know. And we don’t know where the real Stravinsky is either, but he is real, always.

Jurowski ballet Scarlet Sails Bolshoi dance Russia USSR

Olga Lepeshinskaya as Assol and Vladimir Preobrazhensky as Arthur Grey in a scene from Vladimir Jurowski’s ballet Scarlet Sails, staged at the State Academic Bolshoi Theater of the USSR, December 5,1943. (Photo: RIA Novosti archive, image #941010 / Anatoliy Garanin / CC-BY-SA 3.0)

How does that quality of ‘the real’ translate in leading pieces by your father? Or watching your sons conduct his works?

If you speak about my father, I find him one of the outstanding composers of his time. He died very early – he was 56 years old – and he was not in the music mainstream. We are Jews, the whole family, so within the Soviet Union, our stock line was “ten kilometres” behind others, so to say. His work was not forbidden, of course, he had a very big success with the public, but he had no help from organizations that developed success. His ballet Scarlet Sails, after the romantic novel of Alexander Grin, it was on for fourteen years, on the stage of the Bolshoi – it was on during the war. At the time there was a hunger for the high romantic, and a very, so to say, Christ-like idea about the inferno in life and paradise in future. In this sense it captured Grin’s theme, that patience of the soul has to be without any orders – then Captain Grey will come with a big ship, with red sails, and take one and one’s life. Shostakovich wrote a highly positive critique to this ballet in the central press.

scarlet sails movie poster Russian Soviet novel cinema Grin Alexandr Ptushko

Movie poster for the 1961 film Scarlet Sails (directed by Alexandr Ptushko) based on the novel. (Photo: Mosfilm)

The music of my father was high romantic. I cannot say he was like some other composers. His was tonal music, and with a very positive feeling, but step by step, his own view of life became worse and worse; belief was very difficult and he was ill. There were a lot of difficulties in his life. During the war there were difficulties experienced by everybody, but after the war it was sometimes very difficult, and very personal, and I’m very happy all of us – Vladimir and Dmitri and me – opened the pages of his music. My recordings of his work were met with good press, and there were very successful concerts in Moscow this year, by Dmitri – with his symphonic poem Otello; and Vladimir’s concert with students, he had a big success with Scarlet Sails; and my concert also, with the Fourth Symphony, and again with students of the Moscow Conservatory. The time for him is coming, but it’s not for only my father’s name.

After the war, in the Soviet Union especially and in Moscow, there was an absolutely fantastic group of composers, really high-rate composers, not only Shostakovich, who I think was a genius, but also Khachaturian, Karayev,  Weinberg, and others whose music now also is getting attention. Now I’m making a CD of Weinberg’s music with Staatskapelle Dresden; other pieces are already ready — the Clarinet Concerto, for instance. I hope by the end of this year it will be ready to release.

It’s encouraging to see the work of these composers being more frequently performed and recorded.

It’s very good! I must say, I, personally think society today has a lot of cliches that really close off the connection with the high-level composers of that time – the 1950s, 1960s, 1970s. In this time, Soviet music was not only Schnittke, Gubaidulina, Denisov and so on – whose work I played a lot. Granted, it was not a very big group of composers, but there were enough that any musical culture would be proud to have them. I met practically all of them. After our immigration, I had no contact, not only with these people – most of them died – but the world in the West opened big doors for me, and I had a free feeling from different sides.

Now I’m almost 74 years old, and I don’t think I lived with a view that looked only behind, of course not, but I understand that not everything today is for the development of the soul, so I try with all my forces to compensate for that, and I’m very glad that Vladimir has done practically the same. It’s in a bit of a different form, but he has more possibilities. He is now at the age — well, a little older — as I was when we jumped to Germany. At his age right now is precisely when I really began my world career, incredibly.

It was like a whole second life for you to start over as you did.

In this form, yes.

classical live performance moser gluzman jurowski sweden culture

Leading the Norrköpings Symfoniorkester in October 2019 with violinist Vadim Gluzman and cellist Johannes Moser. (Photo: Calle Slättengren / Norrköpings Symfoniorkester)

What role do you think authenticity plays? You mentioned cliches and the development of the soul. It seems like within the cultural world today authenticity is getting harder and harder to find.

I suppose that it depends from what point of view you take things. In the famous and very good Little Tragedies story of Pushkin, Mozart and Salieri, there is a whole tragedy from the phrase, “There is no justice on the earth, they say. But there is none in heaven, either.” I think that is wisdom and… we must give the last moments of our time for beauty, or for persons, and so on. Every event has different sides. It is today very simple for young people to say, “Shostakovich was a collaborator, he was a Communist party member” – but today it is not obligatory to be a member of some party.

At the end of the 1950s, especially for Shostakovich, he felt like Hamlet, “to be or not to be” – to live or not to live, because after Stalin’s death, it was a bit of fresh air. I remember this time, I was eight or nine years old. I remember it very well. And it was from one side to the other side; the role of music in creating a social community was incredibly important, higher than now. At that time, the leader of the Soviet composers Tikhon Khrennikov, was a composer – not a high composer, but good, and his idea was not to help somebody who might be better than him. That was clear. In fairness, I must say that Khrennikov managed to save the Union of Composers, unlike other creative unions – ones for writers, artists, theatrical figures, where there were many victims of the great terror after the war in the 40s. But, it happened with a lot of conductors as well, ones who didn’t want a guest conductor better than they were.

Michail Jurowski conductor Russian music classical live performance

Photo: T. Müller

Some would observe that’s the negative side of human nature.

Yes, human nature. From the other side though, the position of composers was not only from the point of view of cultural but international presence, because internationally there were only two names – Prokofiev and Shostakovich, and later Khachaturian, who was from Armenia, which helped. Near to Shostakovich were some friends, who were also as I understand now, secret agents of the KGB. They gave him advice, and it was around this time when Shostakovich considered suicide.

It was at the time when his wife had died (in 1954), and Shostakovich had come to his moment and he could not compose or do absolutely anything. He had two children that needed at that time to come to the light road, so to say – his son Maxim, and his daughter Galina – but Shostakovich was absolutely destroyed as a person. His friend, cinema producer Lev Arnshtam, who made the film Five days, Five nights, invited the composer abroad in what was then the DDR. (Shostakovich was composing music for the film, a joint project between the Soviet Union and East Germany about the WW2 bombing of Dresden.) When Shostakovich got to Dresden he was given the possibility to live in Gohrisch (roughly 47 kilometres southwest of Dresden). Nothing had been destroyed there during the war, unlike Dresden, which had been totally destroyed. Gohrisch was not a village, not town, but something between; it was filled with fantastic air, good views looking to the river, mountains – but Shostakovich cried every day, he could not compose, until one day he made the conscious choice to stop composing the film music and instead composed the Eighth String Quartet, one of the most important compositions of the 20th century. He wrote it in three days. Then he received the advice  to be member of the communist party, and decide all his problems in one day. He was not really a member of the party as a big ideologue – absolutely not – but most people near him understood why he made this step, and from it, he was able to compose what he wanted. He said, “The more decent people in this party, the more likely it will be better.” Naivety…!

Is knowing when to compromise the secret to authenticity, do you think?

It’s the secret of surviving the regime. It was an opportunity to save himself. In Stalin’s time, he was in danger, and after Stalin died, he could’ve been a hero of fairy tales, but, I must say, political power was afraid of him, because he could write some tune for the anniversary of the Republic, or the Seventh Symphony inspired by the Psalms, or use poems of Yevtushenko in the Thirteenth Symphony with double sense – Shostakovich knew to do this, not only in his big symphonic works but in his quartets. So to give some reply here… when we speak about cliche, well, it originates from an order: “Who is not with us is against us. We must know that the crocodile that ate your enemy is not your friend yet!”

A cliche can today bring mass ideology, mass meaning, mass press, the point of view of one composer against another; this is very sad, because we have really very different points and conditions of life, and if we don’t understand this, we can’t give our true selves, guilty or not guilty.

It feels like there are a lot of artists now who still have to make those compromises in order to work and to ensure their ideas are heard.

I don’t know. Maybe. I understand today it is practically almost all the same, what happened with humans and artists – there are some groups of covert artists who are, so to say, in front, and these artists must be, possibly, in good shape with their souls. But, I don’t know if it’s good or not-good; we are not angels, and we also don’t live in paradise.

Bruno Ganz, A French Novel, And Grappling With Loss

garnier angel opera detail

Detail from the top of the Opera Garnier, Paris. (Photo: mine. Please do not reproduce without permission)

This morning I sat in my light-strewn living room, scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed, impatiently waiting for the espresso to gurgle itself to sharp, acid life, when I learned of the passing of Swiss actor Bruno Ganz. Known for his roles as the angel Damiel in Das Himmel uber Berlin and Hitler in Downfall, Ganz was active mainly in Europe, and was known for stage, screen, and symphonic appearances. He was friends with Claudio Abbado, and among many readings, offered the work of German poet Hölderlin at a tribute concert to the late conductor in 2014. I recall seeing Ganz’s name through the years listed in various orchestral program guides in Germany and thinking how special it would be to see him perform live. Alas.

In looking through various reports (including one from a recent project in which Ganz is bearded, and to my eyes, resembles some kind of magical Teutonic Zeus) I was reminded of my introduction to Ganz’s work as a teenager, which was (as I suspect was true for many artsy, angsty teens growing up in 1980s North America), through Der Himmel über Berlin, known to the English-speaking world as Wings of DesireWim Wenders’ poetic meditation on history, spirituality, and human vulnerability left an indelible impression, with Ganz’ expressive face and haunting voice creating a spell that never quite lifted. As The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw observed about his performance, “Ganz’s face is delicate and boyish, with an ascetic sensitivity. The poetical presence of his beautifully modulated speaking voice is also what makes the role so memorable.” In seeing the movie again last summer, I found myself weeping at the delivery of certain lines, the framing of a certain shot, the look in the eyes of both Damiel and Marion (Solveig Dommartin) in the club where the roars of Nick Cave create a hypnotizing background din. I’ve not been able to watch it since; emotions come brimming to the surface like uncontrollable hot lava, a reaction I could have never anticipated as a wide-eyed, enchanted teen.

engel ganz wenders

Still from “Der Himmel über Berlin” (“Wings of Desire”,) 1987.

Such sensitivity has, I realize, become something of a hallmark, one I’ve grappled with to varying degrees of success. Oftentimes that sensitivity and wonder are tied up together in strange configurations and manifest within the cultural realm. The older I get, the more I am amazed at the mechanisms behind how one offsets the other; the way a singer will lean into a note, the resonance of percussion across the vast expanse of a hall, the wet ambiance of strings — things that I find myself invariably and sometimes wordlessly moved by. Writing about such things is no easy task, and it will surprise no one to learn I have taken a step back from such duties. Enthralled, enraptured, enlightened, enraged… enchanted; all these things, and more, live within and can be icily uncomfortable to narrow into the mean parameters defined by the precise and rather severe geometry of language. 

legs book reading

Photo: mine. Please do not reproduce without permission.

Enchantment was borne in my younger days through the encouragement of figures who would place challenging things in front of me, things (be they movies, books, TV shows, composer works) they had full faith I would somehow understand and appreciate. I was raised in what might be termed a firmly anti-intellectual household, with newspapers being the only regular reading source (and no, not the fancy, so-called “paper of record,” either); attempting to reach beyond that atmosphere, despite my mother’s (primal if passionate) opera love, was not at all encouraged and was, in fact, basis for fierce and unyielding criticism. But discoveries were always possible; one of those things was Wings of Desire, introduced by a piano teacher (now a dear friend); another was Jacques Cazotte’s The Devil in Love, loaned to me by an arts-loving teacher my final year of high school. (Where or how she got hold of an English translation I cannot say; the work only got a proper one a few short years ago.). Her dog-eared copy, with pencil underlinings from her own younger days (I presumed), brought a world of intrigue and yes, enchantment, setting my Faust-loving imagination aflame. “The devil takes many pleasing shapes” is its premise, with a Borgian-style layers-within-layers narrative, an intentional blurring and integration of the surreal, the Gothic, and the fantastical, and free floating questions of the nature of desire, morality, and abundance, reflecting the spirit of the age in which it was written (1772) and offering a timely-timeless devilishly dialectical dance that you can still shake your ass to in 2019.

Cazotte devil illustration

Illustration from the first edition of “The Devil in Love” by Jacques Cazotte. (Photo via the Stanislavsky Theatre).

Alongside updates and tributes to Bruno Ganz on my newsfeed were tidbits about the novel’s operatic translation which recently opened at the Stanislavsky and Nemirovich-Danchenko Moscow Academic Music Theatre, in Moscow. Russian composer Alexander Vustin created the work over several years, finishing it in 1989; the work lay dormant until the theatre decided to feature it to mark their 100th birthday. This work made my list of intriguing things for 2019, and if photos and quick news clips are anything to go on, it’s a production I hope to someday experience live; I remain open to whether the element of enchantment will be as present as it was upon my first reading as a teenager. My acute sensitivities lean in a direction which oppose nostalgia, but embrace reshaping; this quality has inserted itself into areas tangible and not. I have embraced much of what my mother left me as my very own, without (at last) the drama of recrimination or any burden of guilt. It has come as something of a pleasant surprise that the things my mother greatly valued are the things I have allowed myself to reshape and redefine, sometimes with purposeful intent, other times with an unthinking authority that is, I suppose, the natural result of being an only child. Emboldened by a new sort of freedom which arose out of my mother’s passing (a domineering presence rendered into initially shocking absence) meant being allowed to remake her still and finite passions into my wide-ranging passionate pursuits.  Inheritance has become a less a winding lane of the past than an avenue for the future.

Still, the loss of a precious cache of items which had belonged to her has been hard to overcome, not only for the fact they were pregnant with her long ago and far-away memories, but because they were so wrapped up in mine — new, fresh, raw. Without divulging every painful detail, I will only write: in the morning I moved into my current place of residence, I had a box of jewelry and a satchel of pearls; things were delivered and arranged; once that was finished, I passed out in exhaustion, and realized with horror, shortly thereafter, that the box and satchel were nowhere to be found. What did I do, I keep asking myself, to deserve this? Why wasn’t I smarter? Why did this have to happen? My mother’s understanding of (and approach to) the world was built on merit-based effort and behaviour: be a good person, and good things happen; be the opposite, and you deserve what you get. It’s a notion that has tipped the broader world into extreme chaos, and, within my micro one, radiated burning slabs of blame, shame, and a horrible, near-paralyzing sadness. I have kept this information to myself and shared it with only a few (including yes, proper authorities), but those items, I realize with much pain, are not going to magically appear before me, the way Damiel suddenly manifests before Marion, the way Biondetta appears before Alvaro — no angel, no devil, there is only the wide, yawning chasm of loss.

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Hans Brüggemann, Angel Playing the Lute; 1520; Bode Museum, Berlin. Photo: mine. Please do not reproduce.

The revelation here of my sharp vicissitudes of providence means enduring the inevitable smirks and Schadenfreude of some. I accept this. Various details of my life are, apparently, points of envy — something I find utterly baffling to comprehend. (I envy the presence of their partners, paramours, children, extended relatives, and wide and active social circles, particularly during the lonely holiday periods, but at regular weekends as well.) I have chosen to reveal this personal history in order to embody a dictum I voiced within the past year, one relating to the importance of embracing vulnerability. There are things to be silent about, and things to shout about, and still yet things that straddle between; the point is acknowledging the tender spot within, where vulnerability meets and makes peace with the existential zero of silence. Pema Chödrön might remind me this is precisely where I need to be, in the middle, fully present. It’s hard, and it’s lonely. The symphony of sighs fades in and out; today it was interrupted by the whispering wonder of enchantment. I’m glad I was sensitive enough to listen. Maybe in the spring it will become a song. 

Dancing Norman McLaren, One Frame At A Time

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Artists of the Ballet in rehearsal for Frame By Frame. (Photo: David Leclerc)

If you don’t know the name Norman McLaren, you will, and soon, thanks to a new production happening at the National Ballet of Canada. The UK-born, Canada-based animation innovator, who won an Oscar for his 1952 anti-war film Neighbours, was one of the most important and influential figures in the history of film. It has been rightly been noted that McLaren (who passed away in 1987) “extend(ed) the boundaries of creative animation” through his unique and highly experimental approach. His 82 works (along with 52 test films) were added to the UNESCO heritage collection in 2009, and his name is slowly coming to be recognized more widely outside of experimental cinema circles. It’s been keenly observed that “without him, (Canada) would be lighter an Academy Award or two, and likely much more.”

The title of the National Ballet of Canada’s new work, Frame By Frame, set to premiere at Toronto’s Four Seasons Centre this coming Friday (June 1st), references McLaren’s painstaking method of drawing on film stock, frame by meticulous frame, and of his work with stop-motion animation sequencing. Each animated frame had a slight differentiation (being done by human hands, after all), which resulted in a charmingly wobbly end effect when viewing.

Canadians of a certain generation will remember, with glee, McLaren’s exuberant creations, having been exposed to them regularly in school and on television. They were an inescapable part of growing up in Canada, like so many animated works that came from the beloved National Film Board (NFB). I loved the wiggly lines (the so-called “boiling” effect in action) and the zealous embrace of surreal imagery that characterized so much of McLaren’s work; it forced you to think and feel at once, a new experience for small children more used to fantastical diversion and reaction-inducing entertainment. The jolly headless hen from “Hen Hop” forever makes me smile, even as it makes me think carefully about what’s on my dinner plate (to say nothing of reminders of the horror-meets-macabre-humor of my mother’s childhood farm stories, which I will leave to reader imagination). McLaren’s works were so unlike the Disney ones I’d see in cinemas as a child, more free and fun and loopy. Many also had strong social messages, like 1952’s “Neighbours“, a nine-minute film that uses pixilation to tell the story of two people who fight over a single flower; it garnered much praise and admiration, from artists like Pablo Picasso as well as the Academy of Motion Picture Arts And Sciences. He also worked with a host of famous music figures, including Glenn Gould, Ravi Shankar, Pete Seeger, and Oscar Peterson (the latter being featured in Frame By Frame), and his “Pas de Deux“, “Adagio“, and “Narcissus” are among the most beautiful dance films ever made. The animator met his life partner, Guy Glover, at a ballet performance in London, and his fascination with both music and art permeates his creations, whether they are music/dance specific or not. McLaren firmly believed that when it came to film, “how it moved was more important than what moved.”

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Norman McLaren working on “Hen Hop” in 1942. (Photo: BFI)

It is understandable, then, that one sees within McLaren the unmistakable qualities which are so suited to a stage transfer of his life and works. Choreographer Guillaume Côté (who is Associate Choreographer at the National Ballet of Canada and a longtime beloved artist there) and celebrated director Robert Lepage drew inspiration from McLaren’s works — their rhythms, their energies, their winking, sometimes-whimsical, sometimes-pensive spirits — in creating Frame By Frame. Along with a host of celebrated theatre productions and work for Cirque du Soleil, Lepage has also leant his talents to classical music arts; his opera productions have been staged at the Canadian Opera Company, Opéra National de Paris, and the Metropolitan Opera in New York.  In creating Frame By Frame, his first work with the National Ballet of Canada, Lepage recently said that “(c)lassical ballet is a wonderful craft, and I respect it a lot. It’s just that it also needs to be reinvented in a certain way if we want the craft to survive.”

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Robert Lepage and Guillaume Cote in rehearsal for Frame By Frame. (Photo: Elias Djemil-Matassov)

The production is a collaboration between the National Ballet of Canada, the National Film Board of Canada, and Ex Machina, Lepage’s production company in Québec City. It is a project several years in the making, and will reportedly make full use of a range of multidisciplinary technologies, including live projections and camera work. The Québecois director has said he wanted to create a “digital homage” to McLaren’s analogue world, and Friday night, audiences will see for themselves the fruits of these labours, with the animator’s work being brought to life in a whole new way.

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Jack Bertinshaw in rehearsal for Frame By Frame. (Photo: Elias Djemil-Matassov)

National Ballet Second Soloist Jack Bertinshaw will be performing the role of Norman McLaren in Frame By Frame. The Australian-born dancer has been in a range of works for the company since joining in 2011, including a sprightly performance as Uncle Nikolai in seasonal presentations of The Nutcracker, Mitch in A Streetcar Named Desire, Benno in Swan Lake, and the title role in Pinocchio. I was curious to ask him what it was like to work around the level of technology LePage is utilizing, his experience as an Australian in discovering the works of a Canadian icon, and the various joys and challenges of capturing life, art, and animation through movement.

What’s it like to embody a real person? It seems like a rather unique opportunity within the ballet world.

I’ve done quite a bit of reading and obviously Robert and his team have done a lot of extensive research. With each scene we talk through each concept and what their aim is and what it should be acted as, and portrayed as. They wanted to make sure I had enough of myself in it too. While I’m being Norman and staying as true to that as the kind of fun-loving guy he was, he was also around this this close-knit group of friends —we touch on that. I wouldn’t say it’s difficult, but you’re right, most of time it’s a character like the Mad Hatter, you don’t get to go through a life from beginning to end very often. We do things like Nijinsky and it’s a portrayal, but it’s rare. Certainly this sort of a part is new for me.

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Artists of the Ballet in rehearsal for Frame By Frame. (Photo: David Leclerc)

Have you ever worked on show with this level of technology?

Not this much. My background is in jazz and tap, I came from one of those schools who’d do their yearly shows that were as high-tech as possible, with cool lighting and such — but not anywhere near this level of high-tech projection. (In Frame by Frame) it comes from everywhere — above, front…  I’m holding a camera at one point that works. It’s really amazing.

Does the technology make it easier or harder to perform in?

It depends — if anything, it’s easier and harder. Something Guillaume and I have had to figure out, mostly, is how we can best enhance this technology; we can’t fight against it. We have to be clear on the certain themes we’re dancing as there’s a camera from above on us, and that’s being projected onto the back screen so the audience in general will be looking at the above aspect — we can’t fight against that. It’s been a learning process over three years now, and it’s been really unique. This is the first time for dancers that we’ve been in the process from the get-go, from the round-table of, ‘let’s create a ballet.’ We normally get to the process where the choreography arrives, and they’ve got things in order, with storyline and sets and costumes/designs somewhat figured out. This is the first time where we’d go to Quebec for a week or two in the summer and we would be with Ex Machina, at their building with all their equipment, and we’d workshop. We played with so many different types of technology there — what works, what doesn’t work.

And LePage was open to all of it?

It was his idea! He has the studio and the technology to do all of this on the regular, for his works with his team.

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Greta Hodgkinson and Jack Bertinshaw in rehearsal for Frame By Frame. (Photo: Elias Djemil-Matassov)

What’s this kind of collaborative creation been like?

Inspiring! Working with Robert LePage and his team has been incredible. It’s like nothing we’ve ever done. It’s going to be so different — that’s one thing we’re interested to see: how Toronto audiences perceive it, how they take these ideas. It’s a lot of fun in a lot of scenes — a lot of Norman’s works were fun and funky, with odd humor and quirkiness, so we’ve made sure that’s a good part of it while also maintaining enough of Norman’s life throughout.

There will be audiences who either know McLaren’s work very well, or don’t know his stuff at all but love the ballet. What do you think they’ll come away with?

The show is so versatile, I think audiences who don’t know anything about him will still certainly come away with quite a lot. We sometimes portray exactly the work and sometimes we recreate it, like with “A Chairy Tale” — we’ve studied that video, and we do every single chair move and have black light going. We’ve tried to do the exact replications and bring (his works) to life so people who know it will appreciate it, and people who don’t, it’ll be like the first time watching his work. 

So capturing the spirit of his work.

Yes, a lot.

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Jack Bertinshaw (Photo: Sian Richards)

Guillaume has said that “everything that’s put on stage nowadays should be multidisciplinary, in a way.” Do you think there should there be a multidisciplinary Sleeping Beauty or Swan Lake? Using contemporary technology in producing traditional works is a big issue in the opera world also.

I certainly believe we should respect and honor the old original works. Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake today, I believe, are the most beautiful how they were originally created, but when you’re creating something new that’s never been done before… it’s why multidisciplinary is a bigger thing. Today we’re so exposed to new technology anyway, but there’s still a crowd that loves that original stuff.

Introducing anything new means risking people getting angry…  

Nijinsky was one of the first originators of conceptual dancing and they threw tomatoes at him!

Once the shock of the new fades, it’s been suggested it then becomes the new norm. Some productions have to fight against history, but with this it seems like you’re less fighting it than celebrating it. What’s it been like to learn about these works? 

Being Australian, I’m wasn’t aware of McLaren or his movies, but my mother is, oddly enough — she’s in film and television PR, so she’s a lot more in that world. She’d heard of him, and my uncle in London, he’s a cameraman for film, he knew his work also. My mum’s company and circle of friends heard about Frame by Frame and were like, “Wow, Norman McLaren!” Meanwhile I’d never heard of him before three years ago. I’ve done a lot of research and found out a lot more. We’re not making our own version of things; we’re honoring his works as truly as we can.

Video Interview: Me, Talking Bel Canto, Opera’s Relevance, And More

Voila, here’s my first public chat about opera.

John Price of Canadian publication Exclaim! Magazine and I discuss all things Donizetti, especially as related to L’elisir d’amore (The Elixir of Love); the Metropolitan Opera production was re-broadcast (in its Live in HD format, through Cineplex Events) to a VIP audience last week. Alas, the microphones stopped working early on, and I apologize to those opera-goers who couldn’t properly hear in the auditorium. Fingers crossed if and when there’s another event, the technology will cooperate! It was, nonetheless, a very fun event, and it was really lovely to meet and chat with audience members of all ages at intermission and after the screening. Mille grazie!

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Pretty Yende as Adina in Donizetti’s “L’Elisir d’Amore.” Photo: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Opera experts will kindly note I was speaking to a non- classical-loving audience. No, I didn’t mention the big aria in this work — everybody should like what they like without the pressure (and possible distraction) of “waiting” for The Big Song; yes, I mentioned the importance of supporting new and contemporary opera works alongside old chestnuts. (Related: I referenced the Staatsoper Berlin’s new season, which had just been announced, within this context.) No, I didn’t mention Rossini; yes, I mentioned Ligeti. (Why not?) No, I didn’t remember (oddly) that baritone Davide Luciano is Italian; yes, I’m still mortified.  No, I didn’t go with a form-fitting dress; yes, I made a grave fashion error (or perhaps several).

Many thanks to the Toronto friends and supporters who came out to this; your encouragement honestly means more than you know. Cheers to more of these types of events, and fingers crossed on being able to do them in a few different languages as well. Weiter

 

Head & Heart & Movies & Me

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Movies were one of my first great loves. I would sit in the grand silence of many an old cinema, with scratchy red seats, the velvet sheen long since worn off, and spider webs wrapped like lace around the dusty, grey crystals of faded, wheezing-gold wall sconces, floors sticky with a thousand screaming-kiddie afternoons and breathless teenaged nights. It was magic. Star Wars, Superman, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Rocky, Jaws, Clash of the Titans and Flash Gordon, and later, Thelma and Louise, Aliens, JFK, and Tim Burton’s Batman were a part of my culture diet, alongside nights at the opera and afternoons at the museum. Along the way, I developed a desire to direct movies, write movies, produce movies, be in movies. 

When I was old enough to attend the then-named Festival of Festivals (which later grew into the behemoth that is the Toronto International Film Festival), I purposely sought out the strange, the unusual, the odd — stuff that I might never see again. That’s what a film festival’s really for, isn’t it? The blockbusters could wait. Along with the big, ballsy blockbuster stuff, I had developed a love of smaller fare: the intimate wordplay of Woody Allen’s work, the poetry of Federico Fellini, the deliberate thoughtfulness of Ingmar Bergman. The work of Wim Wenders, whose visual poetry and keen integration of timing, color, sound, and performance feel quietly operatic, yet grandly passionate, fired my imagination with tales that deviated from the orderly narratives I’d seen in so many Hollywood movies. The smaller works introduced me to new ways of looking at old myths, and the courage to dream up new ones. 

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Even as I wrote, I continued to watch, waiting in interminable lines (and frequently terrible weather) to be let in to the dusty, dark palace of my dreams. I clearly remember the many magical elements of De vliegende Hollander (The Flying Dutchman, seen at the film festival): long silences punctuated only by breath and wind, brown-and-gold tinged cinematography, the mud around an actor’s face. Terence Mallick’s The Thin Red Line utterly awed, silenced, stunned, into a very intense head and heart-space. Walking home later, the rain drops that sat, jewel-like, on the grey, lined cobblestone streets of Dublin looked different, filled with a magic I knew nothing of, but could only marvel at.
This wonder extended itself to all types of movies, provoking equally powerful reactions and throwing open doors of creativity and dreaming, inspiring stories and screenplays that meshed the human, the historic, the fantastical, and the frightening. Going to the movie was a ritual, usually exercised opening night; there was something about the occasion that seemed exciting, and important to be a part of culturally. Sure, the actors were hot/interesting/cool, but what friends and I really wound up talking about over drinks in a smoky bar later was the way things were filmed, the way they sounded, the shadows, the light, the performances – the way everything came together and made us feel. And that’s ultimately what it was about: feeling. Big or small, indie or studio, if we felt something, if we were moved, if we came out of there and found everything looked different, the source hardly mattered. Being moved and being entertained were not mutually exclusive experiences. Back in the 1980s and 90s, I happily hopped between the small, medium, large, and super-gulp worlds of movies with ease, untroubled by questions around budgets, marketing, demographics, brand, or even hype. I simply went because I loved movies, and I loved the experience of going to see them.

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I don’t know when the divide came, or how. It’s strange that so many of the filmmakers I admire aren’t around anymore (“dead” doesn’t necessarily translate literally in Hollywood), that so many of the actors whose worked I followed are either now a part of blockbuster franchises or relegated into old fart-style roles, that films like Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, The Grand Budapest Hotel, or Only Lovers Left Alive should be anomalies. And yet, in the landscape of contemporary movies, they are, and they’re treated more as lovable/weirdo/cool/hipster-y outsiders than full, firm, equal – and necessary – parts of the film industry. The sharp rise of delineations between blockbuster and indie rile, depress, infuriate, but hardly surprise; it feels as if hype is somehow more important than heart – real heart, not the cliched, easily-digestible kind manufactured by the bucketful and ladled out by studios keen on a quick ROI. Why should head and heart be so separate? Small sparks might provide temporary heat and light in the film world now, but nothing like the roaring fire I once felt. 

Style plays as much of a role as content here. I greatly miss the grand experience of movie-going in an old cinema. The contemporary glass-and-metal popcorn palaces just don’t cut it; movie-going is a seduction, what with the raising of a curtain, the teasing of trailers, the shared silence, the delicious anticipation, the film itself a penetrating, all-encompassing, extended main course, with little side plates of things to dip in and out of for fun or rumination (or both). Multiplexes are, to my mind, the opposite of sexy; attending one is akin to going to a peep show featuring a plastic performer. I don’t feel seduced, I don’t feel beguiled, I don’t want more. Everything’s too loud and everything’s very ugly. Watching movies on a laptop is strange and uncomfortable, ease and convenience replacing the slow brew and simmer of a movie-going experience that feels long ago and far away. 
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Getting the movies out of one’s blood completely is, however, an impossible task. Very often find myself thinking in cinematic terms, directing scenes in my head, framing visuals I see or imagine, coming across various faces and casting them in the many unpublished narratives that sit, Leviathan-like, on my hard drive. My faith is partially restored by digital culture too, and by my work as an arts journalist; interviewing various filmmakers whose work I admire, connecting with other film lovers on social media, and the ease with which digital culture now allows one to access movies new and old, has lead to a kind of cinematic renaissance of sorts. I’m looking at old works with new eyes, and new works with far more critical readings and realizations, armed as I am with a knowledge of an industry in flux and the tyranny of what is perhaps best termed “kinder-mind.” 
When I like something, it’s good to be able to proclaim that love loudly, with a modicum of possible influence (maybe?) and to find a community with which to share that love; expressing dislike (and cynicism) is a much harder task, especially when something (or someone) is extremely popular, and it’s something I grapple with. I hope I’m getting better, and I hope there are more movies on the horizon to inspire, entertain, move, and beguile – and more places to be seduced in. There’s still few things better than having your breath taken away in the darkness.

Faust It

Faust is one of my favorite legends. The story of a man who defied the limits of mortality and the chains of morality has a resonance far past its German origins. I devoured both the Marlowe and Goethe tales as a child, enchanted by the mix of the dark and the divine. Years later, I discovered the operatic, musical, cinematic, and rock and roll adaptations. Faust reverberates a lot through popular culture, even making an appearance at the Crossroads, with one Robert Johnson. It brings up questions around how much you’re willing to trade in order to get what you want – not necessarily what you need, as the Rolling Stones astutely noted, but what your ego shrieks at you to go after, whether it’s love, money, fame, or a gilt-edged, flourescent combination of all three. “Careful what you wish for; you just might get it” -truer words were never more ironically bleated.

It’s a myth with personal resonance for many people, particularly those working in the arts; how much would we be willing to sacrifice in order to live comfortably? Compromise is a fact of life and a frequently a necessary rusty old catalyst for success; how much of our selves -our morals, beliefs and ideals -would be give up in order to be published/heard/seen? There’s always a trade-off, as Faust reminds us. Nothing comes easy -and nothing ever comes for free.
Director F.W. Murnau, best known for the creepy vampire flick Nosferatu, filmed a much-lauded version of Faust that was released in 1926. It would be his last German work before going off to Hollywood. Though we can’t surmise the sorts of sounds Murnau might’ve wanted for his classic work, we can at least use our imaginations, something that’s less and less common in the movie house these days. Accomplished Canadian composer Robert Bruce runs a series of live scoring events for silent films. He’ll be performing live musical accompaniment to Faust this coming Friday (tomorrow) night. We exchanged ideas about the film and the role of music in cinema.

Why Faust? What’s the attraction?

In this particular case, it is the film more than the legend for me. I have looked at many silent films in search of finding ones that still hold up well today, and ones that do well with my musical scores. I have to believe in the film quite a bit to even get started. Faust was a special case -the film is truly wonderful! What I have done with it musically is easily my best and most effective effort out of all the silent films I have scored. This sort of thing doesn’t happen too often in any multimedia project, where the planets just line up so well.

How did composing for Faust compare with other silent films you’ve scored?

More work went into composing special original music for Faust. The score is also longer than any other one (it’s just under two hours), and it’s one of the very rare silent film scores I’ve done that uses more of my deep, more (obviously) classical/ambient music, as opposed to the comedy programs which generally use lighter music. It is more involved -but also more rewarding, for me, and, seemingly, for the audience too.

Why do you think live scoring has become such a popular phenomenon in 21st century culture?

I’ve been lucky to have done extremely well with my silent film programs so far. Audiences have been very receptive and happy with my programs. Since I only work with select films, I’ve had the opportunity to really develop the scores and see that they blend and work well with the story/visuals. That’s something that probably didn’t happen too much back in the 1920s, as new films came in the theaters pretty much every week, and the house musicians had to keep up. It’s almost an advantage today to go back and revisit like this.

Silent film/live music programs became a lost art at the start of the sound era. They are also a very different kind of experience. I think the gradual rediscovery of (live scoring) has been a pleasant surprise for many people in recent times. Also, as they are so retro and low-tech – I think that is refreshing in today’s super-highly-produced film/media environment. Artists and filmmakers in (the early 20th century) had to rely on pure talent and ability and music, and far less on technical and editing tricks. That shows. Also, the live music element, when it works well, is a very different experience -it’s more involved than a recorded score.

You’re Where?

I like being challenged in cinema -confused, even. Daniel Cockburn‘s You Are Here fits the bill beautifully. Part detective-story, part Borgesian puzzle, the work draws on a number of influences, from Dali to Phillip K. Dick to steampunk. Cockburn has concocted a tale that will furrow your brow even as it opens your heart.

I had the opportunity of speaking with actor-filmmaker Nadia Litz about the film -and her own work -as part of this year’s Toronto International Film Festival. It was illuminating to glean her insights, as well as her thoughts around acting with fellow Canadian thespian Tracy Wright, whose final onscreen appearance in the movie is as much about the heart as it is the head. Wright waas beloved by many in the Canadian arts world; she tragically passed away earlier this year, leaving a gaping hole in the theatre and film worlds here. Ergo, the meeting of emotional and intellectual couldn’t be made more plain than in the many close-ups Cockburn has of her face. Litz is eloquent in speaking about not only a great actor, but a great personal friend.

Nadia Litz on You Are Here by CateKusti

Equally, the actor also witty and wise in chatting up her own short that screened at TIFF. With the intriguing title of “How To Rid Your Lover Of A Negative Emotion Caused By You”, the work is a zesty mix of macabre humor and ugly truth. Like, literally pulling-stuff-out-of-yours-and-your-loved-ones-guts truth. Ouch.

I really felt Litz really hit on a piece of honesty in this film, in a much more bold, if equally compelling way, to You Are Here. Both works are, at their essence, about the importance of connection; even fraught with peril, upheaval and discomfort, human connection is perhaps the most valuable thing we have -and the thing we most often take for granted, that passes us by, flickering, dying, and finding manifestation in something -anything -else, even its reverse. Ugly truths indeed.

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