Photo by Chris Lee
I have fond memories of John Corigliano‘s ambitious opera, The Ghosts of Versailles.
But the New York composer’s earnest, labored attempt to rise to the occasion of a grand symphonic statement commemorating the 10th anniversary of 9/11 was no more satisfying to me than the recently opened reflecting-pools memorial on the site of the destroyed Twin Towers. Both high-profile projects, while well intentioned and ably crafted, seemed to me uninspired.
To succeed on a visceral or spiritual level, a musical evocation of 9/11 must spring from a deep, inner creative imperative. But from his own description (scroll down to “In the Composer’s Words”) of his thought processes, Corigliano seems to have focused too much on what NOT to do, rather than on creating an impact that would be meaningful to him and the audience. His “One Sweet Morning,” which I heard last Friday at its inaugural performance by the New York Philharmonic, which commissioned it, seemed to arise not from a compelling need or vision but from the urgency of coming up with the Big Statement for the Big Orchestra on the assigned date.
This farflung epic—a pastiche of four diverse poems from different times and diverse cultures—ruminated and fulminated on war and loss but bore little relation to the specific time and place being commemorated by this native New Yorker who still resides there. There were sparks of musical electricity, including a cacophonous crescendo at the end of the second movement, which presented Homer’s harrowing account from “The Iliad” of a gory Trojan War battle. There were also meditative moments of affecting poignancy. But the parts lacked cohesion and cumulative impact.
The denouement fell particularly flat. Whether he was at a loss for stronger material or truly felt that his 2005 song, “One Sweet Morning” (from which the half-hour-long work derives its title) was a fitting, ready-made conclusion, Corigliano decided to resort to recycling that modest score, with its pray-for-peace lyrics by a witty purveyor of old standards, “Yip” Harburg. It was an weak coda.
The piece was anchored by the commanding performance of mega-mezzo Stephanie Blythe, whose vocal range (particularly in the lower register) was super-human. But the end result lacked resonance with what we went through on that terrible day or with the healing and rebuilding thereafter. The Trojan War was messily hand-to-hand; the slamming of airplanes into buildings was efficiently impersonal. Both had this in common, though—a recitation of the names of the dead.
There is, however, some good news to report from this concert: At the beginning of their third year together, the musicians and their conductor and music director, Alan Gilbert, seem to have at last achieved a happy synergy after a lackluster start. (I’ve been critical of Gilbert, here and here.)
This orchestral reawakening was most evident to me in the piece on the three-work program (which also included an early Barber opener) that I knew well—Dvorák‘s Symphony No. 7. Gilbert extracted a sensitively nuanced, convincing interpretation from his players and seemed to have released them from the restrictions of the dry sound that he had intentionally elicited during the previous two seasons.
Whether this new lushness (familiar to Philharmonic audience from the tenure of the previous music director, Lorin Maazel) was merely an exception made for the romantic Dvorák or a sound to be heard for the full season remains to be seen.
In other Philharmonic news, the new season has also brought a new voice (familiar but unidentified in the concert hall) for the obligatory turn-off-your-cell-phone warning. It’s actor, Philharmonic broadcast announcer, member of its board and possible future mayoral candidate, Alec Baldwin.
He has brought his own brand of wry humor to this admonitory task:
Here, more than anywhere else, the slightest sound matters!