DOUBT at People's Light

Last night I saw DOUBT at People's Light and Theatre in Malvern, PA., with a group of friends. Having experienced the riveting production on Broadway with Cherry Jones, I wondered if this local production would measure up. Let me tell you, I was on the edge of my chair for the entire 80 minutes. The acting by the ensemble of four was terrific, and there were things I caught that I hadn't remembered from the first time: for one, that Sister Aloysius, the principal of St. Nicholas' School, had been married before; her husband had died in WWII on the Italian Front, fighting Adolf Hitler.

            The parallel is obvious: Sister Aloysius fights what she suspects is evil in her school. She is not "popular" with the student body; she believes in toughness and discipline and prizes truth above love and harmony. She goes forward solely on the strength of her experience and convictions. I couldn't help but wonder -- if more people had the courage to speak up when they suspected evil of a popular character (be it Father Flynn, Adolf Hitler, Bernie Madoff or Stalin,) if more of us were less concerned with offending others and being popular -- I wonder if more of the world's evil could be nipped in the bud, or diverted. 

            From a craft standpoint, the marvel of this play is how it moves inexorably from beginning to end, and carries you with it. The pacing is masterful, with tension starting high and ratcheting higher in each scene, occasionally lightened by a little humor (courtesy of great delivery by the actors.) The playwright, John Patrick Shanley, saves the bombshells of revelation for the end of each scene. It isn't so different from what Rachmaninoff said -- that each piece must have one high point you're building to, and everything you do must point to it.

Hamlet, trickster, and the amazing Quasthoff

Living nine miles from Center City Philadelphia is like having a cultural banquet table from which to pick and choose, right in my backdoor.  Thursday my husband and I met friends at the Lantern Theater for a production of Hamlet. Friday I brought my 14 year old to a Philadelphia Opera double bill: Ravel's L'enfant et les sortileges (which I'd always wanted to see) and Puccini's Gianni Schichhi. And Saturday was the final concert of our Philly Orchestra subscription series.
The Lantern put on an energetic production of Hamlet; Polonius was humorous, Gertrude eloquent, and the facial and physical acrobatics of Geoff Sobelle, who plays Hamlet, staggering. What struck me most, though, were Shakespeare's words. I sat there wondering if I too was guilty of the very ambition, guile, and cunning that destroyed the Danish court. Shakespeare digs into your psyche this way.
Gianni Schicchi was pure fun. After the Ravel (Ravel is one of my favorite composers, but not perhaps for opera, or maybe Colette's libretto was too moralistic or the direction unimaginative) Puccini's lush orchestrations and vocal line were like balm, the famous aria O, mio bambino caro, and its orchestral foreshadowing tossed in nonchalantly, like a piece of Italian chocolate. My daughter and I laughed through the entire sly story. After the show, we walked a few blocks to Rita's and got a gelati and a blendini (appropriately Americanized Italian treats,) to cap off an evening she gratifyingly told her dad was "great."
By happenstance, we saved the best for last. Simon Rattle demanded everything from the Philadelphia Orchestra and the Philadelphia Singers, in Berlioz's nearly four-hour-long oratorio THE DAMNATION OF FAUST. But the highlight of this stellar concert was the artistry of the bass/baritone Thomas Quasthoff, who sang Mephistopheles. The other two soloists were brilliant in their own right, but Quasthoff captured us with his total embodiment of the role, his impeccable diction, and his vocal power and color that elevated everyone sitting behind and before him. He sounded even more in command than he did at the solo recital we heard him give at UCLA nearly ten years ago. One doesn't even need to mention the incredible fact that as a thalidomide victim, his ability to ambulate is severely hindered, that he apparently has only one lung. One can't help but think, what the heck is holding me back? Honestly.

Pleasures of Chopin in a Power Outage

7 a.m. Rain pouring down. I see a blue flash in the woods beneath the power lines, followed by an ominous long buzz that vibrates through the kitchen. The lights overhead zap off, and flames leap up in the woods behind my neighbor's. The dog, watching beside me, jumps back, frightened. A second later, the lights come back on – it can't be safe to have electricity coursing through lines that are obviously damaged, and I try calling my neighbor, a widow, to warn her about the fire. Decide to call 911 first. The dispatcher says a Lower Merion crew has been sent out already. Then the fire subsides and everything goes dead.

When I take the dog outside to investigate, a policeman tells me that an underground transformer has been damaged and the power lines are down. PECO trucks come rolling up to the site. The dog and I go on our way.

Back inside, there's no phone, no electricity, and no internet –- could be a bummer, but there's also no painter! (For the past two weeks, our house and its occupants have been held hostage by a painter, who has parked all his equipment in our living room and shows up only when he deems his conditions optimal.)

I'm thrilled, because the house is quiet, I am freed of electronic obligations, and my piano works fine without electricity. So, surrounded by dry-vac, rollers, brushes, gallon cans of paint, fans, stepladders, dropcloths, screwdrivers, tubes of caulk, I sit down at the keyboard and play the Chopin Preludes, Etudes, Bach Goldberg Variations, and Brahms Opus 76 that I have been working on. Ahh. Music sounds better in natural light, no matter how gloomy, and without an electrical buzz in the background. An acoustic instrument, made of wood and wire and felt, needs only the power of a human touch.

John Williams in Philadelphia

Just heard the dazzling Australian guitarist John Williams at the Perelman Theater (the small theater in the Kimmel Center,) presented by the admirably serious-minded Philadelphia Chamber Music Society. Looking remarkably fit and trim for 68, he stepped onto the light-filled contemporary stage in a zip-front black tunic and black pants, sat down on a piano bench with a footstool and microphone in front of him, and two speakers behind him, and proceeded to dispatch a J.S. Bach transcription of a Vivaldi harspichord concerto with speed, elegance, and a purity of approach that transmitted the scope of all three movements with masterful unity. Equally brilliant was his rendition of Albeniz' Torre Bermeja. He spoke easily from the stage and never left it the entire first half, but it was his body language (calm, shoulders relaxed) and attitude (no lingering over emotional high points, no contortions over sentiment) that made his performance satisfying. Although my seat partner did not care to listen to his arrangements of movie tunes on the second half of the program, this pairing of the classical with world music and pop culture has become a hallmark of Williams' programs. His fleet, perfectly synchronized fingerwork and clear-headed approach make it all work, somehow.