About Tuesday night’s Kafka Fragments ….
Vocally, musically, it is hard to imagine a better performace. Without any show of effort Upshaw delivered the full range of Kurtág’s music: lyric, acidic, tender, frothing with rage, awestruck, disgusted, bemused, exasperated, overwhelmed with terror, cynical, desolate …. Each etched with emphatic clarity. Each distinguished from the others so that there is not a moment of confusion. Each succeeding the other with no transition, after the briefest pause. It was beautiful, terrifying, bewildering, shattering.
The performace was a triumph for Upshaw. She demonstrated that she can do anything. At one point she was laying face down on stage, her head covered by her arms, and even from that position her voice filled Disney Hall.
Yes, but didn’t Peter Sellars ruin it all with his staging?
The answer is No. In fact, the costumes and the stage business saved the work from becoming a period piece of mid-20th century Arty Eastern European Existentialism. For that alone, Sellars deserves thanks. Moreover, Sellars has made explicit a trajectory of moods—if not a narrative—that is really present in the music. The details were perhaps arbitrary, but the sense of the whole harmonized with the sense of the work. Part 1 is a wild ride across the whole range of moods. Part 2, “The True Path,” is an impassioned lyric interlude. Part 3 is a descent into madness. Part 4 is a kind of transcendence that ends in reconciliation.
The staging also capitalized on the personal dynamic of the two musicians involved: the soprano (Upshaw) and the violinist (Geoff Nuttall) were in costume, they each had their own actions, they interacted. They didn’t exactly portray characters, but they registered a human context and human exchange that was moving. Both were in tears at the end, and no wonder.
That said, there were things not to like. I agree with AD that David Michalek’s black and white still photograph projections were an abomination. Who wants to look at that crap when there was Upshaw and Geoff Nutall to look at? During “The flower hung dreamily” section the projections of dead leaves and bare branches were distractions that Upshaw’s titanic singing and riveting mime fortunately blasted into oblivion.
I suppose I can imagine a restrained straight recital performance, in which the vocalist gets to wear a lovely gown, and deport herself elegantly, and doesn’t have to scrub the stage floor or wash dishes. That could be good, too. And it might leave Kurtág’s music more freedom. But, this demonstration of the intense theatricality of the piece is important. It throws a light on the rest of Kurtág. He is all intense, condensed exclamations—with no story, no development, no build up and no reminiscences. There are no introductions and no afterwards: he says his bit and stops, end of story. One impassioned exclamation is followed by another, usually in an entirely different mood. This is not dramatic in the sense of Mozart or Verdi or Wagner, but it contains the possibility of a dramatic treatment: gists and piths of ecstasy, voluptuousness, passion, outrage, despair.
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