Category: Music, Dance & Theater

The New York Philharmonic on Wednesday, June 23.

I haven’t attended many Philharmonic concerts over the past year or so, and as I sat through this one, the finale for the 2009–2010 season, I settled upon one reason why: I hate Avery Fisher Hall. The venue has a reputation for bad acoustics that, frankly, seems deserved. From what I’ve read, much has been done over the years to improve the space and—who knows?—maybe those efforts have created a better experience for listeners down on the floor in the orchestra seats. I, however, routinely sit along the side of the hall in its third tier, and from that vantage point, phasing and balance issues are nearly always noticeable. I’m perfectly content sitting in the cheap seats at the Metropolitan Opera House and Carnegie Hall, but in Avery Fisher, a cheap seat inevitably feels like a very cheap seat. Attending concerts there can be tantalizing. Too often, something feels off about otherwise marvelous music, and it’s frustrating, in part because I don’t know who to blame. The musicians? The conductor? The hall itself? If I’d forked over more money, would I be hearing a better performance? I don’t know.

The performance of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis Wednesday exemplified that kind of experience. The New York Choral Artists sounded wonderful, but the soloists did not. They dragged. Their voices strained against one another without balance or blend, often muddling into a mess of centerless vibrato. At the time, I blamed the soloists, but in retrospect, I’m not entirely sure that’s fair, and ultimately, it doesn’t matter. For whatever reason, the concert was less than I had hoped. Why should it matter why?

Shakespeare in the Park, presented by the Public Theater, on Sunday, June 13.

A little more than a decade ago, I saw the Royal National Theatre production of The Merchant of Venice starring Henry Goodman, directed by Trevor Nunn, and it stunned me. The first time I saw it (and I saw it multiple times, queuing outside in the cold damp London weather for the privilege of buying a ticket that guaranteed me only a spot to stand in the back of the theatre), even after the cast members took their final bows and the house lights came on, I sat riveted in my seat, too overwhelmed to move. I wrote pages upon pages about the experience in my journal (which was, in many ways, the forerunner to this blog), and I babbled to anyone who would listen about how Goodman delivered some of Shylock’s trickier lines and how Nunn handled several crucial scenes.

That powerful production changed how I think about The Merchant of Venice specifically and theatrical interpretation in general: how you can find the open spots in a text and stretch the work to find new truths. Ironically, because it looms so large in my memory and holds such a special place in my heart, that production also makes me skeptical of Merchant productions that don’t handle the play’s thornier problems in the same generous manner—which is, of course, a long-winded way of saying that I’m not sure how fair I can be to the new Shakespeare in the Park Merchant, a production that intrigues, puzzles, and frustrates me. The fact that it is still very early in its run—still in previews—doesn’t help, no doubt. It’s hard to know whether the rough spots will be ironed out eventually or whether they’ll remain there, uneven and distracting. That being said, though, I don’t think all the parts fit together here, and I have significant misgivings about Al Pacino’s portrayal of Shylock. Fair or not, of this I’m sure: This production would not have motivated nineteen-year-old me to see it three times.

The New York City Ballet on Thursday, June 10.

Variety in programming is one thing, but the New York City Ballet’s program Thursday night wasn’t just varied; it was hopelessly mismatched, featuring three works that didn’t make a bit of sense alongside one another, to jarring effect. The musical contrasts were most extreme, moving from Arvo Pärt’s refined minimalism to Bruno Moretti’s melodramatic mashup of early Stravinsky and Mahler to a syrupy, over-orchestrated medley of Gershwin tunes. In retrospect, the music might have exaggerated the differences among the three, to the detriment of the program as a whole, or maybe the problem was simply that “After the Rain” is so delicate and lovely that the works following could only lumber about by comparison. Regardless, though, it was an odd program—fine dancing, of course, but a strange aesthetic experience.

Momix at the Joyce Theater on Tuesday, May 11.

Someone once told me that prop comedy is the lowest forms of stand-up. That probably is one of those statements that sweeps a bit too much—though it was meant to denounce Carrot Top, and I have no objections there—but the essential idea is that props easily become gimmicks, and gimmicks are lazy. In any event, I found myself thinking of that comedy maxim as I watched Momix perform an anniversary program comprising works from the past dozen or so years. Certainly, the troupe rates far above Carrot Top (shudder), but even so, under the artistic direction of Moses Pendleton, Momix essentially performs prop choreography, which seems to have the same weakness as its comedic counterpart: it’s gimmicky. The troupe’s pieces can be imaginative and beautiful, but more often, they’re clever but shallow, and at their worst, they’re nothing but empty acrobatic show pieces, artistically inert and, frankly, dull.

Now playing at the Walter Kerr Theatre on Broadway.

There’s something a very A Midsummer Night’s Dream about A Little Night Music. The Sondheim musical (based on the Bergman film Smiles on a Summer Night) introduces us to a number of unhappy, mismatched couples and then sends them all to the forest—well, the countryside here, but it serves the same symbolic purpose—where they sort themselves out, partnering off as they “should” more or less by accident. Anyone watching could be forgiven for mumbling something about what fools these mortals be. It’s that kind of story.

Which is to say it’s sweet and sometimes charming but also a bit exasperating because everyone is so blundering: few of the characters are truly actors in their own lives; rather, they just react, blindly, which makes for a flailing piece of drama. Certainly, a character’s passivity can be true to life, but I find it unpersuasive here, a little too glib, too smug—lazy sneering at the bourgeois. Sondheim’s music is always intriguing, but A Little Night Music will not go down as one of my favorite musicals.

Maude Maggart at the Algonquin Hotel on Friday, April 16.

Maude Maggart has a wonderful voice, but recordings don’t do her justice. So much of her performance is in the performance—in her expression and bearing, in the intimacy she creates as she sings, the crooked smiles, the elegantly raised eyebrows, the hushed notes you have to hold your breath to hear in the small room—that CDs feel inadequate by comparison. Audio alone lacks that spark that makes her such a mesmerizing singer.

But in person, she’s magical. Her latest program isn’t so themed as the ones I’ve heard previously (Parents and Children and Good Girl/Bad Girl, still my favorite), but it, too, is perfectly paced and very thoughtfully put together. I never get over just how good Maggart is at getting her listeners to really listen to a song, mull over its lyrics, and experience the arc of its melody as if for the first time.

Chanticleer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Saturday, April 10.

Months ago, when I learned that the name of Chanticleer’s 2009–2010 spring program would be In Time Of…, I immediately realized that the choir must be planning to perform “in time of,” a work by Steven Sametz recorded in 1999 on Colors of Love. I sent Sean a giddy, overexcited e-mail to that effect (direct quote: “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”) because “in time of” is my favorite track on that album and I’ve wanted to hear it live for years. I was right about the program, of course, and the performance was gorgeous, of course, but with some distance (sorry about the protracted writing schedule—we’ve had company and I’m dreadfully behind), I now wonder whether this all might be a sign that I’ve gotten a bit too fangirl-ish about Chanticleer. Working myself into a happy frenzy months before the actually concert is probably excessive, you know?

But the choir is just so good, and the spring concerts are held at the Met’s Temple of Dendur room, with its vast glass windows and reflecting pond and reverberant sound, and it’s like a sort of secular worship service, and I look forward to it every year. Maybe I do get a bit giddy, but I don’t overestimate the performance’s beauty. It’s lovely. So there.

With Julius Drake, piano, at Alice Tully Hall on Wednesday, March 31.

Tenor Ian Bostridge has an odd presence on stage. He must be in his forties, but he has the gawky, stretched-out limbs of a teenage boy who’s just experienced a massive growth spurt, his adolescent air exacerbated by overlarge ears and floppy, baby-fine hair. As he sings, he lurches about unpredictably, swaying and twitching, hands fluttering. Some people consider his bearing and behavior distracting (a couple of them sat behind me at this performance), but I find it sort of endearing. Too goofy to be contrived, his movements might be weird but they’re undoubtedly innate and sincere. Then again, I often sit with my eyes closed at concerts, so I might not be the best judge—especially because Bostridge’s clear, expressive voice could easily inspire me to forgive all manner of sins.

Now playing at the Samuel J. Friedman Theatre on Broadway.

Playwright Donald Margulies has a knack for dialogue and an evenhanded way with his characters, which makes Time Stands Still both enjoyable and exasperating. The four characters—and the relationships among them—feel very true to life, but they can be tiresome, too, with the principled becoming self-righteous, the optimistic blinkered. They have their soapboxes, their pet issues and obsessions—all very human, all quite recognizable—but damn, if I didn’t want to shake each of them at one point or another!

But the performances are shaded and compelling, the character arcs gracefully rendered, and the strained, sad love story at the play’s heart is beautifully told. As frustrating as I found Time Stands Still at times, I warmed to it in spite of myself. Margulies knows what he’s doing.

Lyon Opera Ballet at the Joyce Theater on Saturday, March 14.

One of the best-known classical ballets is Swan Lake, so there’s something kind of funny about a modern dance troupe performing a work titled “Beach Birds.” They have little in common, of course—just a shared tendency to adapt avian mannerisms into the syntax of their own movement. The ballerinas glide across the stage, gently raising and lowering their arms like swans alighting on the water, and the modern dancers cock their heads and dart headlong this way and that like gulls racing across the sand. In a way, the swan and the gull embody the different styles: one graceful above all else; the other less elegant, perhaps, but energetic and spirited and free.

“Beach Birds” was choreographed by Merce Cunningham, who died last year and is remembered as one of the giants of modern dance. The other two works on the program—“Duo,” choreographed by William Forsythe, and “Grosse Fugue,” choreographed by Maguy Marin—felt slight, overshadowed by comparison, but still interesting. All three made me wish I knew more about modern dance.