Two days after John Williams’ birthday falls the anniversary of the birth of Jerry Goldsmith. Unfortunately, this would essentially become the story of Jerry’s life, as despite being three years Williams’ senior and having cracked the A-list ahead of his younger colleague, Goldsmith often seemed to be caught in Williams’ wake.
Sure, he distinguished himself with some of the great film scores of his time, including those for “The Sand Pebbles” (1966), “The Blue Max” (1966), “The Flim-Flam Man” (1967), “Planet of the Apes” (1968), “Patton” (1970), “Papillon” (1973), “Chinatown” (1974), “The Wind and the Lion” (1975), “MacArthur” (1977), “The Boys from Brazil” (1978), “The Great Train Robbery” (1979), “Alien” (1979, butchered in the sound editing), and “Star Trek: The Motion Picture” (1979). For television, he wrote for “Dr. Kildare,” “The Twilight Zone,” “Gunsmoke,” “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.,” and “The Waltons.”
But by the 1980s, the films began to get weaker. It seemed like Goldsmith was always getting tossed the projects Williams passed on, or cheap knockoffs of Williams’ successes. By his final decade, he was stuck writing for such garbage as “The Mummy” (1999), “The Haunting” (1999), and “Looney Tunes: Back in Action” (2003). A notable exception was “L.A. Confidential” (1997), but rarely were his later projects up to his talent. I can recall many a moviegoing experience in which Goldsmith’s music wound up being the only redeeming quality.
Furthermore, he had a reputation for being able to compose at white heat, so he was frequently called upon to write replacement scores for films like “The River Wild” (1994), “Air Force One” (1997), and “The 13th Warrior” (1999). He composed and recorded the score to “Chinatown,” one of the best of the 1970s, in only ten days.
Criminally, he was honored with but a single Academy Award, for his influential score to “The Omen” (1976).
Goldsmith died in 2004, at the age of 75. If he were to come back today, he would mop the joint with all the Hans Zimmers of this world. Like the John Henry of Hollywood composers, he’d be churning out quality film scores to put all the cheap-ass computer steam-drillers to shame.
Today is the 140th anniversary of the birth of Alban Berg.
By coincidence, I just finally got around to watching “Bride of the Wind” (2001), about the life of Alma Mahler – unquestionably a fascinating figure. A composer herself (and also an author), Alma’s lasting contribution would be as a socialite who often left scandal and ruin in her wake.
To its credit, the film does comment on the limitations imposed on women, even society women, at the time. Alma was the wife of composer-conductor Gustav Mahler, who firmly requested that she renounce her own ambitions to support his. Following his death, she would simultaneously promote and obscure his biography and intentions. She also married architect Walter Gropius (with whom she had had an affair during her marriage to Mahler), but not before a hot, crazy fling with the half-mad painter Oskar Kokoschka. Furthermore, she was romantically involved with writer Franz Werfel, and Lord knows who else.
The film was directed by Bruce Beresford, of “Breaker Morant”/”Tender Mercies”/”Crimes of the Heart”/”Driving Miss Daisy” fame. Unlike those titles, however, the only gold “Bride of the Wind” would ever see would be that on the Klimt canvases it aspires to evoke.
Underbaked, badly acted, poorly scripted, and blandly executed, it’s a missed opportunity, to be sure. Even the usually excellent Jonathan Pryce is ridiculous as Gustav Mahler. The scenes of him conducting teeter on the verge of parody. Well, come to think of it, he wasn’t all that convincing as Prince Philip on “The Crown,” either, but even with an actor of his caliber, surely 99-percent of the job comes down to casting. (I liked him fine as Pope Francis.)
Fin-de-siècle culture vultures will get more out of it. As with Bradley Cooper’s Leonard Bernstein biopic, “Maestro,” a cavalcade of significant artistic and historical figures drop by, and you’re expected to deduce that some shmo with no lines is Arnold Schoenberg, because he’s bald, or another is Alexander Zemlinsky, because he’s got the nose. (Yes, I knew who they were immediately, but only a fraction of a percent of potential viewers would.) It’s the kind of movie that allows the NPR crowd to chuckle knowingly to themselves because they get the joke that Gustav Klimt is always hanging around with nude women. You get Mahler’s declaration that the symphony must be like the world. You get Kokoschka’s life-size Alma doll. If only they had gotten Jeffrey Tambor to play Schoenberg, now THAT would have been something.
I streamed it for free on Tubi and still feel like I was overcharged. What a tepid movie about a figure who most certainly was NOT! The one thing it did bring home, through one of those “American Graffiti,” where-are-they-now-style epilogues, is just how astoundingly short history is, as some of the figures depicted lived well into my lifetime. There’s a famous photograph (not in the movie) of Bernstein genuflecting and kissing Alma’s hand, following a rehearsal of Mahler’s “Resurrection” Symphony at Carnegie Hall.
So what’s the Alban Berg connection?
While his is one of the few names that ISN’T dropped in the film, Berg composed his Violin Concerto of 1935 in memory of Manon Gropius, Alma and Walter’s daughter, who died of polio at the age of 18.
Always regarded as the Romantic among serialists – one critic described him as “the Puccini of twelve-tone music” – Berg processes loss and grief with the kind of humanity that seems have eluded Schoenberg, his teacher. The concerto is a fine example of a talented artist bending the rules of a particular system to achieve his own expressive ends.
A shimmering, unresolved longing imbues much of Berg’s music. It makes him effortlessly relatable and more easily discernible as a link to the more traditionally-minded among his Viennese contemporaries. His Violin Concerto really does touch people’s hearts. Furthermore, Berg is not above erecting signposts for the uninitiated, in his concerto alluding to a chorale melody employed by Johann Sebastian Bach and a Carinthian folk song.
Berg himself died of a blood poisoning, the result of an insect sting, later the same year, at the age of 50. His output may be comparatively small, but his stature endures as one of the most important musical voices of the early 20th century. He is certainly the most readily approachable of composers of the Second Viennese School.
Some scholars have pointed out that aspects of the anti-heroine of Berg’s opera “Lulu” – a femme fatale who captivates and destroys the men and women around her – may have been modeled in part on Alma’s personality. Berg was fascinated by Alma’s charm and the ease with which she navigated Vienna’s cultural milieu. The two definitely knew one another and in fact were close enough that the composer and his wife, Helene – who were childless – considered Manon their own daughter and kept a picture of her at their bedside.
The last time I watched “Lulu,” a tree fell on my house. Thematically, I think that’s a worthy addition to Alma’s legacy!
Happy birthday, Alban Berg.
Alma Mahler, “Laue Sommernacht” (“Balmy Summer Night”)
Berg, “Lulu Suite”
Berg, Violin Concerto
CLOCKWISE FROM LEFT: Berg with portrait painted by Arnold Schoenberg; poster for “Bride of the Wind;” Alma Mahler, stylin’; Bernstein genuflecting
Mozart’s masterful Symphony No. 39 is a marvel of classical invention. But not even HIS nimble imagination lit on the idea of including a snow plow.
Last night, on the first of two concerts devoted to a program of the composer’s music, presented by the Princeton Symphony Orchestra at Princeton University’s Richardson Auditorium, a rumbling, scraping basso continuo underscored the work’s last two movements, as a wintry mix was cleared from the parking lot outside the venue. This was especially evident in the silence between movements, though briefly the truck’s back-up alarm did make for a disorienting John Cage-like tug-of-war between everyday and Elysium.
Not everyone braved the weather last night, so a well-sold house was left with pockets of empty seats. A pity for those who couldn’t be there, as the music-making, on the concert’s first half, especially, was inspired and transporting, with plenty of warmth and glow to keep the sleet and slush at bay.
Guest conductor Gérard Korsten, forgoing the standard-issue baton in favor of directing with his bare hands, oversaw the orchestra with energy and commitment. Whether I should be crediting him, the musicians, or the music, I’m not sure – perhaps all three – but whatever or whoever was responsible, all the tumblers aligned for some of the most satisfying Mozart I’ve ever heard from this group, which seldom disappoints, but is frequently more successful in Romantic and 20th century repertoire. (A gross generalization, as a concert they did with a barefoot Daniel Rowland that interleaved Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” with Astor Piazzolla’s “The Four Seasons of Buenos Aires” in 2016 continues to resonate in my memory.)
The program opened with punchy and energetic ballet music from the opera “Idomeneo.” It came off so well, I was disappointed to find it was not the full 25-minute suite, but rather only two of the five numbers, with a combined running time of about 14 minutes. Too bad, because I really loved what I heard. The effect was like being awakened in the middle of a beautiful dream.
But my yearning was short-lived, thankfully, as the highlight of the evening was surely the Piano Concerto No. 20 in D minor – one of only two piano concertos Mozart composed in a minor key – which pretty much fulfilled its ideal with soloist Orli Shaham. Like a poetic alchemist, Shaham turned ivories into pearls, for a performance that balanced the work’s drama and depth, honoring the emotion in the score’s nascent Romanticism while never betraying its Classical poise. The pianist has had a long history with the piece – it was the work that made her want to take up the instrument as a child – but somehow she has managed to keep it fresh and immediate, her involvement evident in every phrase. She silently mouthed passages and swayed to the music and even leaned into the first violins at times, as if to symbolize her sense of oneness with the orchestra. Truly, it was a thing of beauty (with apologies to Keats).
One of the things I love about the Princeton Symphony Orchestra is how the wind players all actually listen to one another. Last night, principal clarinetist Pascal Archer, always full of animation, was characteristically the focal point of some very sensitive wind playing, musically linking arms with clarinetist Gi Lee and flutist Sooyun Kim; but all the winds – and I should include in this the brass (two horns and two trumpets) – were excellent.
While the performance of the symphony as whole did not, for me, attain the giddy heights or emotional depth of the concert’s first half, there’s no question it was well-played. Putting principal percussionist Jeremy Levine on period kettle drums may have been a nod to 18th century practice, but authenticity be damned, I missed the anchor of a strong downbeat as those strings rain their torrents of joy!
Kudos, though, to trumpeters Jerry Bryant (principal) and Thomas Cook, who throughout the evening were consistently fine, both in uniformity and execution – impeccable in their restraint, when necessary – in both “Idomeneo” and the last movement of the symphony. If I could play the trumpet, I would always be tempted to play so that the walls of Jericho would crumble.
As I know I’ve mentioned before, the prospect of an all-Mozart program seldom gets me excited, but the repertoire, soloist, and conductor for this one filled me with anticipation. It gave me pleasure to set aside my deep-seated cynicism, if only for an evening.
The program will be repeated, without freezing rain, today, Sunday, at 4 p.m. I suspect tickets really will be scarce. But, who knows, if last night is any indication, there could be a number of stay-at-homes. You can try your luck at princetonsymphony.org.
Columbia Records’ Black Composers Series was a bold undertaking in the 1970s, a pioneering effort and an idealistic investment in the future – nine albums of unknown repertoire by minority composers, only several of whom might have been on the very periphery of a few collectors’ consciousness, at best. Even so, it’s rumored that the series was originally intended to run to 20 volumes. We are so lucky to have what we got.
On some level, it’s hardly surprising that the plug got pulled, back in the day. After all, the series was a bold gamble. (On the other hand, record labels did take more chances then, and it was an accepted fact that classical records needed time to find their audience.) But did it really have to take Sony 40 years to reissue it on compact disc?
Yet somehow, remarkably, they were still ahead of the curve. Since the seismic social and political shift precipitated by the death of George Floyd, you can’t get through a week without new recordings and live performance of music by Black composers. But in the 1970s, these records were like Holy Grails, and as a collector, in the decades since, my heart would skip a beat if I ever happened across one of the original albums on vinyl.
I was so juiced at obtaining the entire series on CD that I promptly devoted four weeks of shows to the box set on “The Lost Chord” in 2019. Now, for the first time, the programs are being repeated, to coincide with Black History Month, over the four Saturdays in February. Part II will feature contrasting works by George Walker and José Maurício Nunes Garcia.
Walker was the first African American recipient of the Pulitzer Prize for Music – as recently as 1996 – for his “Lilacs for Voice and Orchestra.” He was the first Black musician to graduate from the Curtis Institute of Music. He also studied at the Eastman School and was a pupil of Nadia Boulanger. Tune in for Walker’s Trombone Concerto of 1957.
Then it’s off to South America for Nunes Garcia’s Requiem Mass of 1816. Nunes Garcia was Master of Music of the Royal Chapel in Rio de Janeiro. He composed over four hundred pieces of music, including the first Brazilian opera. The Requiem was written at the request of John VI of Portugal for funeral services for his mother, Maria I.
I hope you’ll join me for Part II of “Black to the Future” – selections from Columbia Records’ landmark Black Composers Series of the 1970s – on “The Lost Chord,” now in syndication on KWAX, the radio station of the University of Oregon!
Clip and save the start times for all three of my recorded shows:
PICTURE PERFECT, the movie music show – Friday at 8:00 PM EST/5:00 PM PST
SWEETNESS AND LIGHT, the light music program – ALL NEW! – Saturday at 11:00 AM EST/8:00 AM PST
THE LOST CHORD, unusual and neglected rep – Saturday at 7:00 PM EST/4:00 PM PST
In common with just about everyone of a certain age, I fell in love with John Williams’ transporting, often inspirational music through repeated listenings to the soundtracks for a string of blockbusters he scored, primarily from the late ‘70s, through the early ‘80s – “Star Wars,” “Superman,” “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” “E.T.,” and so forth.
This week, on “Sweetness and Light,” to mark Williams’ 93rd birthday (he was born on February 8, 1932), we’ll hark back to some of these, but we’ll also hear a surprising number of “B-sides,” as they were once called. You know, like on a classic 45-RPM, with the hit tune on side A, and a lesser-known number on the flip-side. Yes, I’m dating myself, but if you’re old enough to have seen those movies in the theater, you know just what I’m talking about.
One of the things I absolutely love about Williams’ music is that, even in his most intense scores, he’s always able to find moments of light, warmth, and humanity. When you listen to John Williams, you remember how wonderful it is to be alive, in a world of limitless possibility. Moreover, he’s introduced countless people (I among them) to the delights of the symphony orchestra.
At the peak of his influence – a period of decades – he basically defined the sound of the movies. Sadly, Hollywood has given it all up to save a few pennies in settling for a computer-manipulated shorthand of ominous drones and heart-pounding but anonymous chase rhythms.
I hope you’ll join me in saluting the Last of the Movie Music Lions. It’s a John Williams’ miscellany – 15 selections in all, ranging from the 1960s to the 2000s – as we wish the composer a very happy birthday, on “Sweetness and Light,” this Saturday morning at 11:00 EST/8:00 PST, exclusively on KWAX, the radio station of the University of Oregon!
