The Metropolitan Opera is not going to make its video transmissions available for pay-per-view as originally planned, according to the Times. Oh well. The broadcasts will still wind up on PBS and some on DVD, however.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Hotblooded (Check It and See)
The invaluable Mike Richter is posting at his web site excerpts from a privately recorded NYCO Faust from 1968, with a hotblooded cast led by the legendary Norman Treigle. Get there quickly, though, because Richter will take it down by Friday night.
In Memoriam: Sarah Pettit, 1966-2003
Sarah Pettit died five years ago today. Those who spoke at her memorial service attested to her vibrance, her quick wit, her strength. And to this: they had all fallen in love with her.
As had I. When I met her, nearly 20 years ago—it doesn’t seem possible that it was that long ago, but it also doesn’t seem possible that she is gone—she had just been hired as an editorial assistant at St. Martin’s Press. She had to get by my space, in a small open area around the corner from reception, to get to her office, really more of an office suite that was walled off from the rest of the 18th floor, since her boss and his senior assistant, Keith Kahla, were smokers.
I’ll never forget how she took in my little area—the cluttered desk, the hinky filing cabinets, the typing table with the IBM Selectric on it, the shelves upon shelves of manuscripts, books, and other such things—her first day. Although I had been working there for two years, the look she gave suggested she had seen it all; her eyes flashed with intelligence, her half-smile was ironic and knowing. She was no doubt judging me. Not coldly, though. Sympathetically, kindly even.
We were all smitten. None of us had ever met anyone like her. Her language was different, for one thing. She was the first person I knew how added “from hell” to her conversation. Soon we were all doing it. Reading the newspaper could make her “head explode.” People who were particularly anal or nerdy were “pointy-headed freaks.” Gay men were “ponces.” “Hello ponces!” she greeted Keith and me one morning. It thrilled me to be included, just to be a part of her world.
If she liked you, you got a nickname. Keith was “Keithly Keith.” I was Jessela. To be perfectly honest, “Jessela” would not have been my first pick. Which no doubt she knew. She was wise about people’s defenses. But it was funny, too. And she would pronounce it with such affection that it was irresistible.
We became fast friends. We lunched together, went out together, gossiped, sat together at company functions. There were rumors that we were having a romance, which shows how far people will allow romantic fantasy to re-organize their apprehension of the most fundamental facts.
After she left St. Martin’s we stayed close. She was always good for a reality check. Sarah was addicted to truth. Like Pamina in Zauberflöte, she would have said, “Die Wahrheit! Die Wahrheit! Wär sie auch Verbrechen!” (“The truth! The truth! Even if it were a crime!”) Sometimes her candor could be bracing. It was never unkind.
It never occurred to me to ask anyone else to be my son’s godmother. She took the responsibility seriously. She visited shortly after he was born. She babysat. It amazes me still that she babysat. She had an important job at the time, at Newsweek.
It was when she babysat that turned out to be the last time I saw her before her illness. She wanted to know what heartburn medication I was on, as she had been having pains in her chest. She was in some discomfort. None of us could have guessed it was a tumor.
A little over a year later, she was dead. I still cannot believe it. She is still the most remarkable person I have ever met.
I think about her every day. Every day I miss her. She set a high standard for herself, and for those of us fortunate enough to be counted as her friends. It is a standard I have yet to meet. Five years later, I am still trying to be worthy of her love, of the gift of her friendship, of her courage and honesty. Compared to Sarah, though, we all must be found wanting.
As had I. When I met her, nearly 20 years ago—it doesn’t seem possible that it was that long ago, but it also doesn’t seem possible that she is gone—she had just been hired as an editorial assistant at St. Martin’s Press. She had to get by my space, in a small open area around the corner from reception, to get to her office, really more of an office suite that was walled off from the rest of the 18th floor, since her boss and his senior assistant, Keith Kahla, were smokers.
I’ll never forget how she took in my little area—the cluttered desk, the hinky filing cabinets, the typing table with the IBM Selectric on it, the shelves upon shelves of manuscripts, books, and other such things—her first day. Although I had been working there for two years, the look she gave suggested she had seen it all; her eyes flashed with intelligence, her half-smile was ironic and knowing. She was no doubt judging me. Not coldly, though. Sympathetically, kindly even.
We were all smitten. None of us had ever met anyone like her. Her language was different, for one thing. She was the first person I knew how added “from hell” to her conversation. Soon we were all doing it. Reading the newspaper could make her “head explode.” People who were particularly anal or nerdy were “pointy-headed freaks.” Gay men were “ponces.” “Hello ponces!” she greeted Keith and me one morning. It thrilled me to be included, just to be a part of her world.
If she liked you, you got a nickname. Keith was “Keithly Keith.” I was Jessela. To be perfectly honest, “Jessela” would not have been my first pick. Which no doubt she knew. She was wise about people’s defenses. But it was funny, too. And she would pronounce it with such affection that it was irresistible.
We became fast friends. We lunched together, went out together, gossiped, sat together at company functions. There were rumors that we were having a romance, which shows how far people will allow romantic fantasy to re-organize their apprehension of the most fundamental facts.
After she left St. Martin’s we stayed close. She was always good for a reality check. Sarah was addicted to truth. Like Pamina in Zauberflöte, she would have said, “Die Wahrheit! Die Wahrheit! Wär sie auch Verbrechen!” (“The truth! The truth! Even if it were a crime!”) Sometimes her candor could be bracing. It was never unkind.
It never occurred to me to ask anyone else to be my son’s godmother. She took the responsibility seriously. She visited shortly after he was born. She babysat. It amazes me still that she babysat. She had an important job at the time, at Newsweek.
It was when she babysat that turned out to be the last time I saw her before her illness. She wanted to know what heartburn medication I was on, as she had been having pains in her chest. She was in some discomfort. None of us could have guessed it was a tumor.
A little over a year later, she was dead. I still cannot believe it. She is still the most remarkable person I have ever met.
I think about her every day. Every day I miss her. She set a high standard for herself, and for those of us fortunate enough to be counted as her friends. It is a standard I have yet to meet. Five years later, I am still trying to be worthy of her love, of the gift of her friendship, of her courage and honesty. Compared to Sarah, though, we all must be found wanting.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Astrid and Birgit and Martha
Intrigued by Alex Ross's post on the prank played by Astrid Varnay on Birgit Nilsson? Then check out this transcription of a televised discussion with Varnay, Birgit and the great Martha Modl. Here's one gem, Nilsson on her testy relationship with Karajan:
"Making music with him was marvelous. But doing theater with him wasn't so marvelous. He was a lighting technician. We walked around like blind pilgrims looking for some light, with our faces tilted up to catch some if we found it. If you liked his lighting everything was fine! Everyone was so reverent about him. I didn't see why you had to be more reverent about Karajan than about anyone else. I said what I thought. Once he said, 'Frau Nilsson, do that again, but this time with heart. You know your heart, it is there where your wallet is.' 'Then we have at least one thing in common, Herr von Karajan' I replied."
Double Threat
At a recent concert in Frankfurt, violin phenom Julia Fischer dazzled the audience with Saint-Saens's Third Violin Concerto. Then she returned after the intermission and, in the words of the report on Sign and Sight, "sat herself down at the concert grand and launched into the probably even more difficult Piano Concerto in A-minor, Op. 16, by Edvard Grieg." Talk about an overachiever!
Friday, January 18, 2008
Liberté. Égalité. Fraternité. Diversité?
I have been observing with some amusement, and not a little confusion, the reactions among the French intelligentsia to Nicolas Sarkozy. No matter what he says or does, he invites an avalanche of hostility. I don’t have a dog in this fight, as the saying goes. But I am struck by the incoherence of much of the criticism.
As is well known, France, like several other countries in western Europe—dare I say “old Europe”?—suffers from declining population and the rising cost of entitlements. It’s the same demographic trap that has ensnared many of the members of the European Community. The only possible solution is some kind of retrenchment, which Sarkozy has attempted to pursue—already at the cost of strikes and other demonstrations.
At the same time, the government has to deal with the social and cultural challenge posed by their Muslim population. Muslims find themselves discriminated against and ghettoized. But the non-assimilationist tendency of some Muslim communities feels like a threat to the secularism of the French state.
It’s a tall order, and Sarkozy has approached it with an amplitude of bravado, inelegance, and the kind of hard-line rhetoric that is easy to pronounce but hard to enforce. His message on both fronts—economic and social—is to call for a cultural shift in France.
This is what seems to infuriate the intellectual class. Sarkozy has not hidden his admiration for the “Anglo-Saxon” model, as it’s known in France. This seemingly quaint term—it reminds me that Israelis like to call Jews from English-speaking countries “Anglo-Saxim”—conjures up a variety of French nightmares: America, for one; England, for another; unfettered capitalism of the Reagan-Thatcher variety, for yet another.
For Sarkozy, I imagine, the “Anglo-Saxon” model is a way to try to goad the French to being more productive and less entitled—as well as to create a public sphere that is more open to divergent cultural traditions.
All of this smacks of anti-intellecualism to the French noosphere. Bernard-Henri Lévy, who, one would think, would be making common cause with Sarkozy (they share a Jewish heritage, fondness for America, and the urge to shake up conventions), twisted himself into a pretzel explaining why he won’t, in a recent review-essay in the New York Times Book Review. Sarkozy’s drawing his cabinet from all parties, for instance, is neither an attempt to create unity nor a shrewd political ploy; it’s a sign of intellectual bankruptcy. “Sarkozy is the first French president willing to listen to all ideas, because for him they are indistinguishable,” he writes. Better for Sarko be close-minded, I suppose.
The eminent—and eminently hot—Caroline Fourest has found in anti-Sarkozism a ticket to ride. I don’t want to come down hard on Fourest, who is in many ways a penetrating critic of much of French society. But her distaste for Sarko does not make much sense to me. Surely a feminist like Fourest should respect the fact that seven of the fifteen posts in Sarkozy’s cabinet are taken by women—the most in French history?
This week in Le Monde, Fourest published a bitter riposte to an attempt by Sarkozy to insert into the preamble of the French constitution the concept of “diversity.” She accused him of fomenting a “counter-revolution.”
Why the fuss? In Fourest’s view, altering the constitution to allow for considerations of “diversity” would give a legal foundation for the government’s attempts to ameliorate social inequalities through discrimination positive. The color of one’s skin, rather than the facts of one’s economic situation, would entitle someone to a remediating benefit. It’s what we would call affirmative action.
This is a horrible thought to an ardent secularist like Fourest. (French secularism, unlike the American kind, is really in-your-face and bolshy. It seems to view anyone who avows a religious sentiment as an out-and-out de Maistre.)
I am overstating Fourest’s case a little. She has elsewhere made the persuasive argument that Sarkozy’s stated intolerance of xenophobia actually provides cover for the most separatist and anti-social Muslim groups. She genuinely believes in diversity as well. Nonetheless, is it not astonishing to see a member of the left oppose affirmative action?
All of these outbursts seem overly reactive. It’s not unlike all this discussion of Sarko’s personal life. As has been widely reported, his wife left him, and he has taken up with a former model. All of which is hurting his image and providing fodder for all sorts of smart-aleckiness.
What no one seems to be saying, however, is that, had she been elected president, something quite similar would have befallen Ségolène Royal. Her long-time partner has left her, and I am sure that if she were now occupying the Élysée, much of the same speculation about her love life would be rampant in the media.
And none of this helps France conquer its problems. I hope for France’s sake that a way forward can be found, that France’s public intellectuals can get beyond these criticisms of style and foster a productive conversation about how to recharge the French economy and make all of its citizens feel as though they count. Otherwise, France will result to short cuts, like offering nuclear expertise for sale to dodgy gulf states, to bolster its accounts, and become a locus for the kind of resentment and dissatisfaction that leads to acts of violence, within its borders and out.
As is well known, France, like several other countries in western Europe—dare I say “old Europe”?—suffers from declining population and the rising cost of entitlements. It’s the same demographic trap that has ensnared many of the members of the European Community. The only possible solution is some kind of retrenchment, which Sarkozy has attempted to pursue—already at the cost of strikes and other demonstrations.
At the same time, the government has to deal with the social and cultural challenge posed by their Muslim population. Muslims find themselves discriminated against and ghettoized. But the non-assimilationist tendency of some Muslim communities feels like a threat to the secularism of the French state.
It’s a tall order, and Sarkozy has approached it with an amplitude of bravado, inelegance, and the kind of hard-line rhetoric that is easy to pronounce but hard to enforce. His message on both fronts—economic and social—is to call for a cultural shift in France.
This is what seems to infuriate the intellectual class. Sarkozy has not hidden his admiration for the “Anglo-Saxon” model, as it’s known in France. This seemingly quaint term—it reminds me that Israelis like to call Jews from English-speaking countries “Anglo-Saxim”—conjures up a variety of French nightmares: America, for one; England, for another; unfettered capitalism of the Reagan-Thatcher variety, for yet another.
For Sarkozy, I imagine, the “Anglo-Saxon” model is a way to try to goad the French to being more productive and less entitled—as well as to create a public sphere that is more open to divergent cultural traditions.
All of this smacks of anti-intellecualism to the French noosphere. Bernard-Henri Lévy, who, one would think, would be making common cause with Sarkozy (they share a Jewish heritage, fondness for America, and the urge to shake up conventions), twisted himself into a pretzel explaining why he won’t, in a recent review-essay in the New York Times Book Review. Sarkozy’s drawing his cabinet from all parties, for instance, is neither an attempt to create unity nor a shrewd political ploy; it’s a sign of intellectual bankruptcy. “Sarkozy is the first French president willing to listen to all ideas, because for him they are indistinguishable,” he writes. Better for Sarko be close-minded, I suppose.
The eminent—and eminently hot—Caroline Fourest has found in anti-Sarkozism a ticket to ride. I don’t want to come down hard on Fourest, who is in many ways a penetrating critic of much of French society. But her distaste for Sarko does not make much sense to me. Surely a feminist like Fourest should respect the fact that seven of the fifteen posts in Sarkozy’s cabinet are taken by women—the most in French history?
This week in Le Monde, Fourest published a bitter riposte to an attempt by Sarkozy to insert into the preamble of the French constitution the concept of “diversity.” She accused him of fomenting a “counter-revolution.”
Why the fuss? In Fourest’s view, altering the constitution to allow for considerations of “diversity” would give a legal foundation for the government’s attempts to ameliorate social inequalities through discrimination positive. The color of one’s skin, rather than the facts of one’s economic situation, would entitle someone to a remediating benefit. It’s what we would call affirmative action.
This is a horrible thought to an ardent secularist like Fourest. (French secularism, unlike the American kind, is really in-your-face and bolshy. It seems to view anyone who avows a religious sentiment as an out-and-out de Maistre.)
I am overstating Fourest’s case a little. She has elsewhere made the persuasive argument that Sarkozy’s stated intolerance of xenophobia actually provides cover for the most separatist and anti-social Muslim groups. She genuinely believes in diversity as well. Nonetheless, is it not astonishing to see a member of the left oppose affirmative action?
All of these outbursts seem overly reactive. It’s not unlike all this discussion of Sarko’s personal life. As has been widely reported, his wife left him, and he has taken up with a former model. All of which is hurting his image and providing fodder for all sorts of smart-aleckiness.
What no one seems to be saying, however, is that, had she been elected president, something quite similar would have befallen Ségolène Royal. Her long-time partner has left her, and I am sure that if she were now occupying the Élysée, much of the same speculation about her love life would be rampant in the media.
And none of this helps France conquer its problems. I hope for France’s sake that a way forward can be found, that France’s public intellectuals can get beyond these criticisms of style and foster a productive conversation about how to recharge the French economy and make all of its citizens feel as though they count. Otherwise, France will result to short cuts, like offering nuclear expertise for sale to dodgy gulf states, to bolster its accounts, and become a locus for the kind of resentment and dissatisfaction that leads to acts of violence, within its borders and out.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
A Pavlovian Top Ten List
Russell Platt's top-ten classical recordings of 2007 list in this week's New Yorker has got me salivating--every one of them is one I am keenly interested in hearing (or seeing). Somehow I'm going to have to find the scratch--and the room in my overcrowded apartment--for these.
Amazing News
My grandfather died of pancreatic cancer, nearly 40 years ago. I was barely five at the time, so I never got to know him. About 15 years ago or so a close friend of our family died of the same disease. And, of course, Pavarotti was a pancreatic-cancer victim, too.
It's a diagnosis that comes as a death sentence. But that may be changing. Marilyn Horne has apparently finished a course of experimental treatments for pancreatic cancer, and she now declares herself cancer-free. It's obviously wonderful to have Horne back. But even more wonderful is that this new treatment, a vaccine, works.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Steamboats
I subscribe to the motto that it's never too late to be behind the times, so I have no shame in saying that I've just caught up with Caleb Crain's superb blog, Steamboats Are Ruining Everything. In addition to updating readers on Crain's publications, it is also an acute running commentary on those literary and historical areas Crain knows so well. It's probably the best written blog I think I've ever come across; each post is meticulous. And don't miss the incredibly touching tribute, with photos, to his late dog, Lota.
Monday, January 14, 2008
I'm Sick of Seeing New York City Destroyed
Before 9/11, I, like many other people, was not immune to the fantasy thrill of seeing New York City "destroyed" in movies such as Independence Day. But now I'm more than just tired of it. I think it's sick, cruel, and insensitive. Not to mention cynical. Filmmakers can hide behind the excuse of fantasy, but they know that they're playing on the residual horror of 9/11. Since that dreadful day in 2001 we've had The Day After Tomorrow and War of the Worlds and most recently I Am Legend and the upcoming Cloverfield. I'm sure I'm leaving a lot more out.
If the wound weren't still so raw, these films would simply be recycling a visual cliché. Instead it's offensive. I'm tired of feeling beat up. Find another city to pick on.
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