Philip Glass’s iconic opera Einstein on the Beach rolled into New York over the weekend and it was quite the event. Ransom and I went Sunday and my first comment to him was, “this is NOT your typical opera crowd!” I was in the minority; most attendees were far younger, far hipper at this Brooklyn Academy of Music presentation. It was definitely a downtown crowd.
Einstein was first staged in New York at the Metropolitan Opera, though it was not a Met production; the producers simply rented the space. And it was only there for two performances back in November of 1976. Ransom was among the people lucky enough to see one of those performances. He famously said:
As I listened to that five-hour performance, I experienced an amazing transformation. At first I was bored -- very bored. The music seemed to have no direction, almost giving the impression of a gigantic phonograph with a stuck needle. I was first irritated and then angry that I'd been taken in by this crazy composer who obviously doted on repetition. I thought of leaving. Then, with no conscious awareness, I crossed a threshold and found that the music was touching me, carrying me with it. I began to perceive within it a whole world where change happens so slowly and carefully that each new harmony or rhythmic addition or subtraction seemed monumental.
Not everyone has the same experience; Ransom attended that performance with a friend who left after an hour or so. That friend? The legendary American composer Samuel Barber.
As befits Ransom’s husband, I had an experience yesterday more akin to his: I loved it! There were times I was bored; there were scenes that went on too long; but I never thought of leaving and every bit of patience was rewarded by something magical or powerful. It was a musical experience almost unmatched in my history.
Full disclosure here: I loved Philip Glass’s music the very first time I heard it. That was at a 1985 concert at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond. The Philip Glass Ensemble nearly peeled the paint off the walls of the smallish theatre space, and I was enraptured. When Songs for Liquid Days came out in 1986 I was hooked and when I first saw ABT dance Twyla Tharp’s In the Upper Room, with music by Philip Glass, I was completely blown away – so much so that I’ve probably seen that incredibly percussive and driving dance piece ten times.
There are also the films: Koyaanisqatsi, Powaqqatsi and Naqoyqatsi, The Fog of War, The Hours, Notes on a Scandal and a new score for the 1931 Dracula – to name only some. But Einstein is unique; I’ve read about the reaction to it and can well believe how strange it must have seemed to some people back in 1976. It’s not perfect, and I agree with Anthony Tommasini’s review in the NY Times when he says it could be “trimmed a bit. Maybe more than a bit.”
For all its aural intensity, head-banging repetitiveness and showy production, the most breathtaking scene was the penultimate: on a darkened stage we see a rectangular shape lit from within by bright white light. It is perhaps fifteen feet wide by a foot tall. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the left side begins to rise. Over the next several minutes or so it moved slowly toward the vertical, while an organ riffs slowly and quietly. If there’s such a thing as the sound of a couple thousand people holding their breath, I heard it yesterday. Finally, when the column is fully vertical it begins, just as slowly, to rise as a soprano begins a wordless eight-minute aria. It was mesmerizing, in both the sense of “holding the attention of (someone) to the exclusion of all else” and in the archaic sense of being hypnotized. It was a really powerful group experience. (The image above is from a recording of the opera, capturing the moment I’m talking about).
Coming at the end of a week when the local PBS affiliate ran all 16 hours of Wagner’s The Ring of the Nibelung, I can tell you, I am exhausted.
And smiling.
I was at VMFA for Glass's two performances and also for the memorable performance, at another date, by Robert Wilson. This was back in the late '80's.
ReplyDeleteHe walked out to a bare stage with only a wooden chair in a pool of light. He sat for a very long time and looked at the audience. Hilton Als described this kind of performance in his eloquent and informative review of "Einstein" in this week's New Yorker.
Presently, Wilson began to talk about his ward and collaborator, Raymond Andrews. Wilson's language was slow and deliberate, with many pauses. The performance was long. I do not recall that there was any music.
I remember some nodding heads in the audience, notably a particular director with whom I was sitting.
The performance was mesmerizing.
It must have been, in its way, enthralling. I notice no mention is made of creaky joints, etc. from sitting for so long. THAT is impressive!
ReplyDeleteOur PBS station has shown the Ring over about the last month. I have recorded it all (the last one on Sunday) and now need advice on watching. Should I try for more than one in an evening or space it out to keep both sanity and mobility? I await word from the expert!