Let it never be said that I fail to keep my finger on the pulse of popular culture, if at times a little tardily. Many readers will have heard about the extraordinary, not to say beautiful, Ms Brick some time before I did; indeed, I am still not at all sure who she is, or what she does, aside from having written a now renowned article in the Daily Mail. (This will, I trust be the one and only time I provide a link to that particular website.) Is there not, however, something wonderfully operatic about this woman's delusions, her grasping towards and her sudden attainment of that greatest of modern idols, celebrity? Does she not present a weird, if undeniably down-market, cross between the Woman in Schoenberg's Erwartung and the telephone obsessive in Poulenc's (and Cocteau's) La Voix humaine? So, is it to be a monodrama, or something more along the lines of Powder Her Face (roles at the very least for the stewardess and the pilot), or Anna Nicole even? A chorus of Daily Mail readers would make horrifyingly good musical drama, perhaps thereby offering a nod to Moses und Aron? Samantha in Sprechstimme, a Golden Calf of celebrity around which Mail readers eagerly shed their suburban inhibitions? Perhaps even a male Samantha, underlining the Mosaic precdent further? Bookmakers are presently declining to offer odds against a Linbury Theatre outing in 2013. Suggestions for composer, librettist, and vocalist(s) are most welcome...
O Wort, du Wort, das mir fehlt!
Showing posts with label Anna Nicole. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anna Nicole. Show all posts
Thursday, 5 April 2012
Friday, 18 February 2011
World premiere: Anna Nicole, Royal Opera, 17 February 2011
Royal Opera House
Anna Nicole - Eva-Maria Westbroek
Old Man Marshall - Alan Oke
The Lawyer Stern - Gerald Finley
Virgie - Susan Bickley
Cousin Shelley - Loré Lixenberg
Larry King - Peter Hoare
Aunt Kay - Rebecca de Pont Davies
Older Daniel - Dominic Rowntree
Blossom - Allison Cook
Doctor - Andrew Rees
Billy - Grant Doyle
Mayor - Wynne Evans
Runner - ZhengZhong Zhou
Daddy Hogan - Jeremy White
Gentleman - Dominic Peckham
Trucker - Jeffrey Lloyd-Roberts
Deputy Mayor - Damian Thantrey
Four Lap Dancers - Yvonne Barclay, Katy Batho, Amy Catt, Amanda Floyd
Four Meat Rack Girls - Kiera Lyness, Marianne Cotterill, Louise Armit, Andrea Hazell
Onstage Band - John Parricelli (guitar), John Paul Jones (bass guitar), Peter Erskine (drums)
Richard Jones (director)
Miriam Buether (set designs)
Nicky Gillibrand (costumes)
Mimi Jordan Sherin and D M Wood (lighting)
Aletta Collins (choreography)
Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Antonio Pappano (conductor)
From the sublime (Parsifal, the night before) to the not-even-ridiculous. It would be difficult to come up with a more contrasting work than Mark-Anthony Turnage’s Anna Nicole, not simply, nor even principally, from a gendered standpoint. Written in collaboration with librettist, Richard Thomas, we have a new opera, which, as almost everyone by now will be aware, is based upon the life of Anna Nicole Smith. Having spoken to a considerable number of people over what must be approaching a year, I can only recall one having heard of her, but apparently she is more celebrated in other quarters. A woman who physically suffered and financially gained from excessive breast enhancement, Smith ‘apparently’ died from a drugs overdose. Such is not the inspiration for Anna Nicole, in that little effort seems to have been expended to produce an independent artwork; rather we have something akin to a report of what the lawyers have permitted Thomas and Turnage to reproduce. Apparently changes had to be made very late in the day indeed, which may or may not be connected with the setting aside in January of this year of Howard K Stern’s conviction for providing Smith with controlled substances.
The music is more or less entirely without interest. One barely notices it, beyond dubious pastiche, in the first act. At best, it aurally resembles sub-sub-Broadway Weill, with hints of even further sub-sub-Berg. Closed forms are the order of the day, but they come across as short-winded, formulaic even, rather than polemical. Weirdly selected near-bits of Stravinsky are thrown in, for instance, passages for woodwind almost straight out of the Symphonies of Wind Instruments. And a parody that is barely a parody, of the Wedding March from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream music, covers over the cracks for Anna Nicole’s wedding to Old Man Marshall. The music for the second act, supposedly more tragic in tone, is mawkishly sentimental and, like everything else about the act, sounds over extended by at least half an hour. (Both acts last for about an hour.) Puccini might just have made something of this; Turnage cannot. Moreover, the writing for chorus, which makes up so much of the first act, suddenly disappears. Doubtless the claim will be that that ever so subtly marks a tightening of tragic focus. However, like the increasingly tired feel of the sets – even Richard Jones and his design team can only do so much with such material – the impression is of an attempt to spin out something that has long since been exhausted.
The jokey-cum-profane libretto is worse, attention-seeking and utterly banal. One tires of its childish provocations quickly, indeed within a few seconds. Incessant swearing tires rather than shocks. Perhaps someone finds a litany of alleged synonyms for breasts amusing; perhaps that would be the same person who has a real-life interest in this sorry tale. Nothing is remotely erotic; the opera is more akin to The Benny Hill Show. Anna Nicole is not, to put it mildly, Lulu. The legal wranglings arising from the deaths of Marshall and Smith might have made useful dramatic fodder, but these are not explored. Perhaps it as well, for one cannot imagine, to put it mildly, Anna Nicole becoming The Makropulos Case.
I am suspicious of any work that seems designed to disallow almost any adverse criticism. Stravinsky accomplished that magnificently in The Rake’s Progress; yet, as so often, he seems to be a glorious exception. Anna Nicole is not, etc. If one complains about the ‘musical’ element, one will doubtless be assailed as ‘élitist’, as if somehow wishing for the best were something of which to be ashamed. Likewise all the popular culture elements. If one questions the banality of the libretto, not only ‘élitism’ but prudishness will also be alleged. Far from it, in my case: I find much of what is said straightforwardly puerile, and not in the slightest shocking, let alone hilarious. (An audience that laughs uproariously at crudely rhyming ‘profanities’ may need to get out a little more.) Puerility will then doubtless be part of ‘the point’, but one can say that about anything. This seems merely trashy rather than ‘about trashiness’. Question the musical language, insofar as it may exist, and one will be accused of ideological ‘élitism’: the horror – the ghost of Darmstadt!
Whether dealing with music or text, true characterisation approaches zero; everything is simply a matter of plot and situation. Is that the point? Again, if so, ‘the point’ is surely wrong. Certain works can operate very well, even achieve greatness, without conventional characterisation at their heart, instantiating in its place an idea. However, Anna Nicole, is not, to put it mildly, Fidelio. Not only Stern but even Anna Nicole herself seems a mere caricature, without the caricature making a dramatic point. Nor is there anything of interest in the way the story is told. Hopes rise when Anna Nicole’s mother, Virgie, dissents from the way Stern tells a part of the story – the death of Anna Nicole’s son, Daniel – and it seems as though we might be in for some sort of re-telling from a different perspective. It is really just a matter, however, of recounting her dissent. Anna Nicole is not, to put it mildly, The Mask of Orpheus.
The opera – it actually seems more like an attempt at a musical – is also offensively and, frankly, childishly anti-American. Many of the rest of us have noticed that capitalism is not a solely American phenomenon. The use of ‘American’ accents, sometimes more successfully Texan or indeed American than at others, is odd at best. We do not ask singers in an opera with a French setting to sing as if they were Inspector Clouseau. It all seems intended to make fun of a cultural setting of which the writers seem to have little more knowledge and understanding than many of the rest of us. Imagine the horror that would rightly be expressed, were someone to decide to do something similar about India, Zimbabwe, Argentina, or indeed just about anywhere else. This is, with apologies to Edward Said, Occidentalism that is not even interesting.
Everything, moreover, seems to hang on the fact that this is ‘based on a true story’. We seem to be led to believe – and I tend to believe it myself – that it would be of no interest to anyone, if the story were presented fictionally. At best, then, the work becomes reportage, concerning an unfortunate soul to be cruelly mocked; for those of us who have little or no interest in the life story of the aforesaid unfortunate soul, it is not clear what the point might be. At least an opera such as John Adams’s Nixon in China deals with a political event of considerable importance, whilst remaining musically negligible. In ‘historical’ operas worth their salt, the ‘history’ is not the sole point, but a spur to artistic invention. Anna Nicole is not, to put it mildly, L’incoronazione di Poppea. Perhaps worst of all, the treatment of Smith herself and, still more, her son seems straightforwardly exploitative. Is this a proper way to memorialise Daniel Wayne Smith? (I am unsure even whether to mention him here.) Does he deserve to be served up as entertainment? These people’s predicament is not, despite the presence of a press pack, really explored, let alone analysed; it is just retold.
Jones does what he can, with great attention to detail, and colourful sets, especially during the first half. Moreover, the opera is truly cast from strength, whether with respect to members of the Royal Opera Chorus, such as the Four Lap Dancers and the Meat Rack Quartet, or the starring roles. The cast is huge, putting one in mind of another recent Jones production, though Anna Nicole is not, to put it mildly, The Gambler. Yet the unsubtle amplification, whilst ensuring that every word can be heard, crystal-clear, begins to tire as much as the melodramatic antics of the plot. The ever-reliable Susan Bickley makes the best of what she is given as Virgie. Alan Oke proves frighteningly credible in age as Old Man Marshall and sings as well as we have come to expect – which is very well indeed. Eva-Maria Westbroek gives a truly bravura performance in the title role; the lack of characterisation is not hers. If Westbroek’s gifts were wasted, then I do not know what the term would be for the squandering of Finley’s resources. Antonio Pappano seemed to have the measure of the score, marshalling his forces with tight rhythmic control. The orchestra played with verve, as well drilled as one could imagine. To what end, though?
Was the increasing high pitch of the promotion – it seems to have worked, for performances have sold out – possibly related to a fear that the music and text were so weak? One has to take risks with new works; it is heartening that the Royal Opera was willing to do so. Let us hope that the next new work will prove more fruitful, and perhaps – dare I suggest it? – take the world, not just this country, as its compositional oyster. Previous commissions include works by Henze, Goehr, Birtwistle, and Berio. Just think of the time – I wish I could have been there – when Stockhausen’s Donnerstag received its premiere at Covent Garden. Better luck next time, I suppose…
Anna Nicole - Eva-Maria Westbroek
Old Man Marshall - Alan Oke
The Lawyer Stern - Gerald Finley
Virgie - Susan Bickley
Cousin Shelley - Loré Lixenberg
Larry King - Peter Hoare
Aunt Kay - Rebecca de Pont Davies
Older Daniel - Dominic Rowntree
Blossom - Allison Cook
Doctor - Andrew Rees
Billy - Grant Doyle
Mayor - Wynne Evans
Runner - ZhengZhong Zhou
Daddy Hogan - Jeremy White
Gentleman - Dominic Peckham
Trucker - Jeffrey Lloyd-Roberts
Deputy Mayor - Damian Thantrey
Four Lap Dancers - Yvonne Barclay, Katy Batho, Amy Catt, Amanda Floyd
Four Meat Rack Girls - Kiera Lyness, Marianne Cotterill, Louise Armit, Andrea Hazell
Onstage Band - John Parricelli (guitar), John Paul Jones (bass guitar), Peter Erskine (drums)
Richard Jones (director)
Miriam Buether (set designs)
Nicky Gillibrand (costumes)
Mimi Jordan Sherin and D M Wood (lighting)
Aletta Collins (choreography)
Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)
Orchestra of the Royal Opera House
Antonio Pappano (conductor)
From the sublime (Parsifal, the night before) to the not-even-ridiculous. It would be difficult to come up with a more contrasting work than Mark-Anthony Turnage’s Anna Nicole, not simply, nor even principally, from a gendered standpoint. Written in collaboration with librettist, Richard Thomas, we have a new opera, which, as almost everyone by now will be aware, is based upon the life of Anna Nicole Smith. Having spoken to a considerable number of people over what must be approaching a year, I can only recall one having heard of her, but apparently she is more celebrated in other quarters. A woman who physically suffered and financially gained from excessive breast enhancement, Smith ‘apparently’ died from a drugs overdose. Such is not the inspiration for Anna Nicole, in that little effort seems to have been expended to produce an independent artwork; rather we have something akin to a report of what the lawyers have permitted Thomas and Turnage to reproduce. Apparently changes had to be made very late in the day indeed, which may or may not be connected with the setting aside in January of this year of Howard K Stern’s conviction for providing Smith with controlled substances.
The music is more or less entirely without interest. One barely notices it, beyond dubious pastiche, in the first act. At best, it aurally resembles sub-sub-Broadway Weill, with hints of even further sub-sub-Berg. Closed forms are the order of the day, but they come across as short-winded, formulaic even, rather than polemical. Weirdly selected near-bits of Stravinsky are thrown in, for instance, passages for woodwind almost straight out of the Symphonies of Wind Instruments. And a parody that is barely a parody, of the Wedding March from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream music, covers over the cracks for Anna Nicole’s wedding to Old Man Marshall. The music for the second act, supposedly more tragic in tone, is mawkishly sentimental and, like everything else about the act, sounds over extended by at least half an hour. (Both acts last for about an hour.) Puccini might just have made something of this; Turnage cannot. Moreover, the writing for chorus, which makes up so much of the first act, suddenly disappears. Doubtless the claim will be that that ever so subtly marks a tightening of tragic focus. However, like the increasingly tired feel of the sets – even Richard Jones and his design team can only do so much with such material – the impression is of an attempt to spin out something that has long since been exhausted.
The jokey-cum-profane libretto is worse, attention-seeking and utterly banal. One tires of its childish provocations quickly, indeed within a few seconds. Incessant swearing tires rather than shocks. Perhaps someone finds a litany of alleged synonyms for breasts amusing; perhaps that would be the same person who has a real-life interest in this sorry tale. Nothing is remotely erotic; the opera is more akin to The Benny Hill Show. Anna Nicole is not, to put it mildly, Lulu. The legal wranglings arising from the deaths of Marshall and Smith might have made useful dramatic fodder, but these are not explored. Perhaps it as well, for one cannot imagine, to put it mildly, Anna Nicole becoming The Makropulos Case.
I am suspicious of any work that seems designed to disallow almost any adverse criticism. Stravinsky accomplished that magnificently in The Rake’s Progress; yet, as so often, he seems to be a glorious exception. Anna Nicole is not, etc. If one complains about the ‘musical’ element, one will doubtless be assailed as ‘élitist’, as if somehow wishing for the best were something of which to be ashamed. Likewise all the popular culture elements. If one questions the banality of the libretto, not only ‘élitism’ but prudishness will also be alleged. Far from it, in my case: I find much of what is said straightforwardly puerile, and not in the slightest shocking, let alone hilarious. (An audience that laughs uproariously at crudely rhyming ‘profanities’ may need to get out a little more.) Puerility will then doubtless be part of ‘the point’, but one can say that about anything. This seems merely trashy rather than ‘about trashiness’. Question the musical language, insofar as it may exist, and one will be accused of ideological ‘élitism’: the horror – the ghost of Darmstadt!
Whether dealing with music or text, true characterisation approaches zero; everything is simply a matter of plot and situation. Is that the point? Again, if so, ‘the point’ is surely wrong. Certain works can operate very well, even achieve greatness, without conventional characterisation at their heart, instantiating in its place an idea. However, Anna Nicole, is not, to put it mildly, Fidelio. Not only Stern but even Anna Nicole herself seems a mere caricature, without the caricature making a dramatic point. Nor is there anything of interest in the way the story is told. Hopes rise when Anna Nicole’s mother, Virgie, dissents from the way Stern tells a part of the story – the death of Anna Nicole’s son, Daniel – and it seems as though we might be in for some sort of re-telling from a different perspective. It is really just a matter, however, of recounting her dissent. Anna Nicole is not, to put it mildly, The Mask of Orpheus.
The opera – it actually seems more like an attempt at a musical – is also offensively and, frankly, childishly anti-American. Many of the rest of us have noticed that capitalism is not a solely American phenomenon. The use of ‘American’ accents, sometimes more successfully Texan or indeed American than at others, is odd at best. We do not ask singers in an opera with a French setting to sing as if they were Inspector Clouseau. It all seems intended to make fun of a cultural setting of which the writers seem to have little more knowledge and understanding than many of the rest of us. Imagine the horror that would rightly be expressed, were someone to decide to do something similar about India, Zimbabwe, Argentina, or indeed just about anywhere else. This is, with apologies to Edward Said, Occidentalism that is not even interesting.
Everything, moreover, seems to hang on the fact that this is ‘based on a true story’. We seem to be led to believe – and I tend to believe it myself – that it would be of no interest to anyone, if the story were presented fictionally. At best, then, the work becomes reportage, concerning an unfortunate soul to be cruelly mocked; for those of us who have little or no interest in the life story of the aforesaid unfortunate soul, it is not clear what the point might be. At least an opera such as John Adams’s Nixon in China deals with a political event of considerable importance, whilst remaining musically negligible. In ‘historical’ operas worth their salt, the ‘history’ is not the sole point, but a spur to artistic invention. Anna Nicole is not, to put it mildly, L’incoronazione di Poppea. Perhaps worst of all, the treatment of Smith herself and, still more, her son seems straightforwardly exploitative. Is this a proper way to memorialise Daniel Wayne Smith? (I am unsure even whether to mention him here.) Does he deserve to be served up as entertainment? These people’s predicament is not, despite the presence of a press pack, really explored, let alone analysed; it is just retold.
Jones does what he can, with great attention to detail, and colourful sets, especially during the first half. Moreover, the opera is truly cast from strength, whether with respect to members of the Royal Opera Chorus, such as the Four Lap Dancers and the Meat Rack Quartet, or the starring roles. The cast is huge, putting one in mind of another recent Jones production, though Anna Nicole is not, to put it mildly, The Gambler. Yet the unsubtle amplification, whilst ensuring that every word can be heard, crystal-clear, begins to tire as much as the melodramatic antics of the plot. The ever-reliable Susan Bickley makes the best of what she is given as Virgie. Alan Oke proves frighteningly credible in age as Old Man Marshall and sings as well as we have come to expect – which is very well indeed. Eva-Maria Westbroek gives a truly bravura performance in the title role; the lack of characterisation is not hers. If Westbroek’s gifts were wasted, then I do not know what the term would be for the squandering of Finley’s resources. Antonio Pappano seemed to have the measure of the score, marshalling his forces with tight rhythmic control. The orchestra played with verve, as well drilled as one could imagine. To what end, though?
Was the increasing high pitch of the promotion – it seems to have worked, for performances have sold out – possibly related to a fear that the music and text were so weak? One has to take risks with new works; it is heartening that the Royal Opera was willing to do so. Let us hope that the next new work will prove more fruitful, and perhaps – dare I suggest it? – take the world, not just this country, as its compositional oyster. Previous commissions include works by Henze, Goehr, Birtwistle, and Berio. Just think of the time – I wish I could have been there – when Stockhausen’s Donnerstag received its premiere at Covent Garden. Better luck next time, I suppose…
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Journalism and the contempt with which our newspapers treat music
Depressing but true: almost whenever one reads a British newspaper article concerning a subject about which one knows something, one finds it littered with factual errors, even before considering the dubious opinions generally voiced. (Quite apart from anything else, it makes one reluctant to believe a word from other articles, concerning subjects about which one is not informed. In which case, how does one inform oneself? Certainly not from newspapers...) A reader kindly sent me a link to a recent piece in The Independent (click here). It starts unpromisingly, entitled 'Do we really need to sex up opera?' Could the unimaginative pandering, the manufacturing of a non-existent controversy (this is not just newspapers: consider much broadcasting too) be more obvious? But let us leave the silly question aside for the moment. On a cursory glance, I spotted the following errors or dubious claims:
- Opening sentence: 'More nonsense is talked about opera than any other single art form.' Is not the publication of such an article a self-fulfilling prophecy concerning such 'nonsense'? Is opera a 'single art form' at all? One might argue that much of the point is its combination of different forms.
- Second sentence: 'It may be the nature of the form itself, all hysterics and extremes of passion.' How can 'hysterics and extremes of passion' constitue the 'nature' of a 'form'? Even if we let that pass, is does the description really pass muster for most, let alone all, of the repertoire? Is not the writer presenting a caricature, perhaps even an 'hysterical', 'extreme' caricature?
- The next paragraph broaches Anna Nicole, the new opera by Mark-Anthony Turnage, due to be premiered at Covent Garden next month. In case any readers have been on Mars and have somehow missed the marketing bombardment, it will concern the life of Anna Nicole Smith. '"Shocking," say the opera purists,' we read. '"Needed," retorts the opera house, "if we are to attract new and younger audiences."' Who on earth are these 'purists'? I doubt that anyone would be shocked by the prospect; some may not be interested, but shocked? Did a spokesman for the Royal Opera House actually say what the writer claims? Perhaps, yet our suspicions might just be aroused.
- At last, a little sense: '"Naughty girls",' we read, 'are indeed the stuff of opera.' So why manufacture this silly controversy, since the 'purists' are presumably aware of works such as Carmen, which the writer has just mentioned? In any case, the (relatively) good work is undone in the next sentence, which opens: 'The work which started it all, Monteverdi's Coronation of Poppea, of 1643, has as its heroine a woman who sleeps and murders her way to the top...'. One can (sort of) grant Monteverdi starting it all; despite the existence of earlier examples in the 'form', it is not unreasonable to consider him to have written the first great operas. However, Poppea is Monteverdi's final opera; even leaving aside those that have been lost, we have two preceding masterpieces, not to mention dramatic madrigals and so forth.
- ' Alban Berg's unfinished Lulu, first performed in 1938...'. We can all make mistakes, but is it not the job of sub-editors to check facts? Lulu was first performed in its two-act version in 1937, in Zurich. There is then a passage which at best confuses, concerning the end of the work as completed by Friedrich Cerha (or in Berg's own Lulu-Suite), but which the innocent reader would think referred to the two-act version.
- 'Some of the best classical composers of our day – Philip Glass, John Adams, Harrison Birtwhistle, Thomas Adès and Mark-Anthony Turnage – have set their hands to writing operas.' Whatever one may think of the eccentric, entirely Anglophone selection of composers, it would be preferable to spell Sir Harrison Birtwistle's name correctly. We all make typographical errors, of course, but it is telling that a sub-editor would not pick up on what ought to be a matter of common knowledge. (Doubtless it would be different in the case of someone important, such as a footballer's wife, a Big Brother contestant, or Anna Nicole Smith.)
- 'Asked whether he had a view of what theatre should be, Verdi replied "Yes. The theatre should be full." And he was able to fill it, then as now, with operas which combined the most perfect melodies with the most dramatic plots and lots of really big (and expensive) sounds.' Again, whatever one may think of Verdi, does he really deserve so childish a description as that, at which even Classic FM might blanch? A schoolteacher would, I hope, chide such inanity if it came from the pen of a dull five-year old.
- 'The cost of seats doesn't help, although I have sat in the Covent Garden amphitheatre listening to Placido Domingo sing Simon Boccanegra, with a full orchestra and choir, for less money than I then had to pay for a West End production of Arthur Miller's View From the Bridge with a cast of half-a-dozen, no music and no better seats.' Does the foregoing make any sense? If the latter evening were the more expensive, why should this help explain an alleged fall in the 'pre-eminence' of opera? The cost may well be a problem; if so, what is the relevance of the Miller reference?
- 'State-subsidised houses have also tried to prove their worth by commissioning new works, of which Anna Nicole is one. If there is a complaint from composers, it shouldn't be a lack of outlets. They now have a far better lot than aspiring film directors.' I do not mean this as a criticism of the Royal Opera House or indeed of any other house, but just how many new works do they present? Does this really present an array of opportunites to composers? Sadly not: perhaps the writer should speak to some 'real-life composers'. I can assure him that they do exist. Moreover, why is 'commissioning new works' presented as if it were some new idea? How does the writer think Mozart's - or Monteverdi's - operas came about? Presumably he knows, in which case his point remains at best obscure.
- 'Serial music, minimalism and atonality have excited musicians but not the general public, who prefer the melody and directness of musicals. It's not the subject matter so much as the cerebral nature of so many modern works that puts them off.' It had to come; it is of course all Schoenberg's fault, or should that be Philip Glass's? I cannot be bothered to go into the substance, such as it is, of the claim right now, but what a strange assemblage: 'Serial music, minimalism and atonality...'. It suggests, shall we say, a little haziness concerning the meaning of the terms.
- 'Music can make you feel what you want to feel – pride, pity or patriotism – but opera can also make you sense what you don't want to – the dangerous yearning for a new beginning in Wagner's Parsifal, sympathy for a witch in Handel's Alcina, admiration for a philanderer in Mozart's Don Giovanni.' I am not at all sure what he is getting at here re Parsifal, though fear it may be a stereotypical 'Wagner was a (proto-)Nazi' idiocy. 'Sympathy for a witch' though? Are we back in Miller-land (The Crucible)? Has anyone ever thought this was an apt way of characterising any response ever experienced to Handel's opera or its eponymous sorceress? Moreover, to describe Don Giovanni as a 'philanderer' seems akin to describing Faust as a 'student'; there may be a rather large point or two being missed. The distinction made between feelings engendered by 'music' and those by 'opera' eludes me entirely. Is it really the case that other music cannot 'make you sense what you don't want to,' assuming that the phrase means anything at all?
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