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Women at Work: The Domestic Is Not Free

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By Natalie Erazo

The third iteration of Women at Work shifts to the subject of domestic labor. As homemakers, caretakers, and familial partners, women shape the well-being of our personal, professional, and cultural milieus, though these efforts often go unseen and are erased from history. Women at Work: The Domestic Is Not Free highlights the persistent efforts of women to create, challenge, and subvert domesticity around the world.

The Day I Became a Woman (2000), photo courtesy of Makhmalbaf Film House/Photofest

The series opens with Ousmane Sembène’s seminal Black Girl. Set amidst “postcolonial purgatory,” Black Girl chronicles the life of Diouana (Mbissine Thérèse Diop), a Senegalese woman brought to France to work as a maid for a white family, and her journey to reclaim personal freedom. Also screening in the opening night program is Stefani Saintonge’s Fucked Like a Star, a poetic meditation on black women’s labor set to the words of Toni Morrison’s Tar Baby. Prior to the screening, Saintonge—a member of the black women filmmakers collective New Negress Film Society—will be at BAM to introduce her film.

Other films that look at the emotional labor of caretaking include Juliana Rojas and Marco Dutra’s Brazilian genre-bender Good Manners (As Boas Maneiras). The film follows Clara (Isabél Zuaa), a working-class nurse who takes a job caring for a wealthy mother-to-be. As the film progresses, the women's relationship encounters supernatural forces. A remarkable work of cinematic experimentation, the film considers themes of social isolation, queer identity, and fantasy. Claudia Llosa’s Golden Bear winner The Milk of Sorrow (La Teta Asustada) is a coming-of-age story about a young indigenous woman navigating the inherited traumas her late-mother experienced during the 1980s guerilla uprisings in Peru. Llosa’s film is especially timely as the #MeToo movement has publicly uncovered histories of violence against women worldwide.

The series also includes a number of films about the domestic labor of housewives, including Chantal Akerman’s rigorous depiction of the quotidian routines of a Brussels housewife in Jeanne Dielman, 23, Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles; Martha Rosler’s subversive short Semiotics of the Kitchen, and Todd Haynes’ Safe, starring Julianne Moore.

Further challenging conventional screen depictions of the housewife role is Satyajit Ray’s Mahanagar (The Big City). The film follows Arati (Madhabi Mukherjee), a Kolkata housewife in 1950s India who takes a job as a salesperson despite her husband’s (Anil Chatterjee) traditionalist opposition. The film, more than fifty years old, remains a powerful depiction of the cultural malaise affecting women as a result of modern-day capitalism. Prior to the screening, Dessane Lopez Cassell, curator of August’s Women at Work: Radical Creativity, returns to BAM to introduce the film.

Mahanagar (1963), photo courtesy of Janus Film

Marziyeh Meshkini’s The Day I Became a Woman—screening with Chick Strand’s Woman of a Thousand Fires (Mujer de Milfuegos)—builds a beguiling portrait of women in contemporary Iranian society depicted through three stories of women at different stages of life. A collaboration with Meshkini’s husband, the revered Mohsen Makhmalbaf, and originally banned in Iran, the film illuminates the challenges faced by women and their reflections about freedom. Strand and Meshkini’s films, both loose in plot and simple in their soundscapes, are poetic slice-of-life, near ethnographic depictions of women’s lives.

The midpoint of the series takes a beat to examine representations of domestic service on screen. The Daydream Therapy: Shorts Program, comprising Tracey Moffatt’s incisive montage Lip, Muriel Jackson’s illuminating documentary The Maids, and Bernard Nicolas’ speculative LA Rebellion-set Daydream Therapy (plus a special surprise screening), considers the pervasive, stereotypical images of black women in domestic roles throughout film and television. Pairing these films together merits a discussion on the importance of images and their power to shape narratives and cultural stereotypes. Following the screening, professor and scholar Brandy Monk-Payton will moderate a panel discussion to further unravel the films.

The Domestic Is Not Free also considers community building as domestic labor. Cláudia Varejão’s Ama-San depicts the ancient Japanese tradition of the ama, “sea women” who carry on the tradition of diving for pearls and abalone by fostering a close-knit community and training younger generations of divers.

The series concludes with WILDNESS, the first feature film by MacArthur fellow and multi-disciplinary artist Wu Tsang. The film documents a weekly queer art party Tsang co-produced at Los Angeles bar Silver Platter. Originally home to older generations of Latinx immigrants, the bar was later shared by young creatives moving into the neighborhood, inspiring Wu to film their experiences grappling with themes concerning community, queer identity, and physical and emotional displacement.

Women at Work: The Domestic Is Not Free runs Nov 2—10

Natalie Erazo is the curator of Women at Work: The Domestic Is Not Free and is the Department Coordinator, Film.

Recommended Reading:
Smith, Sarah. “Lip and Love: subversive repetition in the pastiche films of Tracey Moffatt” Screen, Volume 49, Issue 2, 1 July 2008, Pages 209–215.
“Chick Strand” (Film Comment Magazine, September-October 2018 Issue) by Sierra Pettengill
Nothing Happens: Chantal Akerman’s Hyperrealist Everyday by Ivone Margulies

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

In Context: Kreatur

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©Sebastian Bolesch

Kreatur is famed choreographer Sasha Waltz’s newest exploration of the human body and how it grapples with domination, technology, and the darkness within. With costume design from Iris van Herpen and an original score by Soundwalk Collective, Kreatur investigates how we relate to each other and to structures of power. Context is everything, so we’ve provided a curated selection of articles and videos for you to engage with before seeing the piece. After you’ve attended the show, let us know what you thought by posting in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.


Program Notes

Kreature (PDF)

Read

Featured Collection
Sasha Waltz (Leon Levy BAM Digital Archive)
Browse richly detailed entries on all of Sasha Waltz’s BAM productions, plus a selection of photos, artifacts, and ephemera from the BAM Hamm Archives.

Article
Iris van Herpen’s Hi-Tech Couture (New York Magazine)
Dutch designer Iris van Herpen, known for her 3-D printed, futurist garments, constructed the intricate costumes for Kreatur.

Article
Artist Tips: Soundwalk Collective (XLR8R)
Music publication XLR8R dissects the methods behind Soundwalk Collective’s studio practice, their experience working with famed artist Patti Smith, and their recent tribute to the late German singer and actress Nico.


Watch & Listen

Video
Arts.21 Meet the Artist: Choreographer Sasha Waltz (Arts.21)
In preparation for her upcoming role as the co-director of Berlin’s Staatsballet, Sasha Waltz discusses her vision for how contemporary and experimental dance can inform classical ballet.

Video
Sasha Waltz: An Artist’s Questions  (BAM Video)
“Who are we and what are the possibilities of our bodies?” Sasha Waltz is no stranger to the BAM stage. Thus far, her company has performed in the halls of BAM four times, with each performance investigating the limits and expansiveness of the human form through dance. Look back on Waltz’s #BAMNextWave history and forward to her fifth performance, Kreatur.

Video
Sasha Waltz on Kreatur for Roma Europa (YouTube)
“In the process I was afraid that the piece is too negative [...] but I think it’s important to verbalize this to be able to find a way out of it.” Watch choreographer Sasha Waltz, in her own words, discuss Kreatur’s exploration of humanity’s darker side.

Now your turn...

How did you enjoy the show? Likes? Dislikes? Surprises? Tell us what’s on your mind in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

In Context: Satyagraha

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Photo: Markus Gårder  

Circus Cirkör lends its signature acrobatic grace and wit to Philip Glass’ mesmerizing operatic account of Mahatma Gandhi’s experiments with civil disobedience in this new production from Sweden's Folkoperan. Context is everything, so get even closer to the production with this curated selection of related articles and videos. After you've attended the show, let us know what you thought by posting in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.


Program Notes

Satyagraha (PDF)

Read

Article
What is truth? (Eidolon)
Satyagraha presents us with a reflection upon what our truth might be, today.

Article
BAM: The Next Wave Festival (BAM.org)
Explore the rich history of BAM’s iconic festival in this newly released book


Watch & Listen

Video
When You Gonna Get A Real Job?: Philip Glass And Devonté Hynes Compare Notes (NPR)
Philip Glass And Devonté Hynes Compare Notes

Video
A Philip Glass Moment That Could Last Forever (NPR)
Pulitzer Prize-winning composer David Lang has been a Philip Glass fan since high school. But it was a performance of the opera Satyagraha that triggered a genuine epiphany.

Now your turn...

How did you enjoy the show? Likes? Dislikes? Surprises? Tell us what’s on your mind in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

What Can Puppets Teach Us About Climate Change—And Ourselves?

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By Robert Jackson Wood

Photo of Dai Matsuoka, courtesy of Phantom Limb Company



If you’ve seen the work of Jessica Grindstaff and Erik Sanko—who come to BAM November 7–10 with their latest work, Falling Out—you know the sense of leaving a theater perplexed. You feel enchanted but also unsettled, as though haunted by the work’s subconscious. You feel stuck—pleasantly, productively—in the inbetween.


It’s the puppets. On the one hand, we disappear into them completely, empathizing with them, seeing our humanity and sentience as theirs. As Sanko has said, they are blank slates onto which we project our innermost selves. They are our uncanny mirror.

But we also experience puppets in the opposite way: as bundles of cloth, string, and hair, glued together as the profane truths of an illusion. In this sense, they represent an aspect of our humanity that we’d prefer to not think about: the fact that we, too, are made of mere matter, and will one day be nothing but. It is the flickering back and forth between those realities—absorption here, alienation there—that gives puppets their powerful, unsettling charm. In no other art form does disbelief suspend itself so tenuously.

In the context of Grindstaff and Sanko’s latest work, Falling Out, which deals with human vulnerability in the face of man-made and natural disasters, this double-faced nature of the medium has profound implications. What is a disaster, after all, but a moment in which we’re forced to confront our hubristic denial of our own mortality and transience?

In this, the puppets of Falling Out have a fitting on-stage counterpart: Japanese butoh dance, which takes the fine line between man and matter, culture and nature, as one of its implicit subjects. Butoh emerged in the 1950s, not long after another disaster of sorts: the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Before the bomb, nuclear energy represented the pinnacle of our humanity—the ultimate sign of our triumph over nature. But the revelation of its destructive power changed that, suggesting that the highpoint of our humanness could also be the source of its undoing. The rational could be the most irrational thing of all. Try as we might to hubristically transcend nature—to repress our own puppet-like material basis—we remained just another species, vulnerable to forces greater than ourselves.

Butoh responded to the disorientation of this post-war reality by shunning traditional grace and beauty—themselves a kind of denial of death and transience—in exchange for the primal and the grotesque. It treated the body as matter rather than as a timeless vessel of meaning. It evoked transience and alternate temporalities by radically slowing its movements. In essence, it created a liminal space of its own in which the human was never far from the animal, nor life from death.

Falling Out summons the ghosts of Hiroshima and Nagasaki through its references to the more recent nuclear tragedy at Fukushima. But it also spends time with an even more pressing problem: climate change. The issues are similar in that both are rooted in the unintended repercussions of human technological development. But our relationship to climate change reveals an even more telling dimension of our denials. Rather than face the fact of our own transience and potential demise, we project our unconscious fears of annihilation out onto non-human “nature,” where we show as much concern for an anthropomorphized “Mother Earth” and melting glaciers as for ourselves. By doing this, we merely perpetuate the problem of seeing nature as something that exists for us—for our postcards, for our aesthetic gaze—rather than as a mirror revealing our own potential fate. We fail to see its body as ours.

In The Maine Woods, Thoreau wrote:
I stand in awe of my body, this matter to which I am bound here become so strange to me. I fear not spirits, ghosts, of which I am one [...] but I fear bodies, I tremble to meet them. [...] Who are we? Where are we?
This uncanny experience of our own bodies is needed if we are to better understand what is at stake in the climate emergency. The puppets and butoh dancers in Falling Out allow us to do just that. If puppets encourage us to see the human in the material body, butoh encourages us to see the material body in the human. Together, the two forms  should make us question the hubristic distinctions we make between human and nature, man and matter. They should remind us of how interconnected we are with the world that we claim to dominate, and, relatedly, that to dominate nature is to dominate ourselves.

In essence, they should remind us that we, too, dangle from strings.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

In Context: Savage Winter

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Director Jonathan Moore’s Savage Winter paints a vivid portrait of a man at the end of his rope. Set to Douglas J. Cuomo’s electric score, which reinterprets Franz Schubert’s brooding Winterreise for our contemporary moment, the opera investigates human emotion in its most raw state. Savage Winter is a fiercely evocative opera, asking both its protagonist and its audience to confront the depths of despair and possibilities for redemption. Context is everything, so we’ve provided a curated selection of articles and videos for you to engage with before seeing the piece. After you’ve attended the show, let us know what you thought by posting in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.


Program Notes

Coming Soon!

Read

Article
Street Sounds (The Guardian)
“I had discovered an amazing art form - a powerful synthesis of music, acting, poetry, design and dance - and I wanted everyone to share it.” Director Jonathan Moore’s passion for opera, music, and community shines through his desire to make the medium more accessible to everyone

Article
Decoding the Music Masterpieces: Schubert’s Winterreise (The Conversation)
Associate Professor in the Collaborative Piano Unit at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music Jeanell Carrigan breaks down the historical context behind Franz Schubert’s intensely dark suite Winterreise, which is reimagined for contemporary times in Savage Winter.


Watch & Listen

Podcast
Indie Opera Podcast #54: Douglas Cuomo and Savage Winter (Indie Opera Podcast)
Composer Douglas J. Cuomo discusses his work in Kathmandu, the importance of innovative opera, and how he came to develop the music for Savage Winter.


Now your turn...

How did you enjoy the show? Likes? Dislikes? Surprises? Tell us what’s on your mind in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

Less-Than-Strange Window: A Hunt for the Supernatural at BAM

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By Claire Greising

Strange Window: The Turn of the Screw, an inventive adaptation of Henry James’ gothic ghost story, is coming to BAM from Dec 12—15. It tells the story of a young governess who has become convinced that there are evil ghosts lurking in the remote estate where she cares for two children. In a spectacular marriage of past and present, The Builders Association’s new production combines the classic narrative with modern technology and experimental theater practices. Told from the perspective of the governess, the production points out the relativity of truth—leaving the audience to decide if the governess is insane or if the ghosts are real.

Strange Window: The Turn of the Screw premiere at Krannert Center earlier this year. Photo courtesy of Krannert Center for the Performing Arts/University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.


The world of theater is rife with superstitions, from actors’ refusal to say “Good luck” before a show to the utilization of ghost lights (the lanterns that bring brightness to the stage after hours so that spirits can’t haunt the theater). And perhaps these practices aren’t unwarranted—hardly any theater is without its tales of ghostly sightings and happenstances.

BAM’s campus seems like prime breeding grounds for supernatural activity. Operational since the early 1900’s, the Opera House has staged many spooky productions, from 1990’s critically acclaimed Ninagawa Macbeth to the more light-hearted (yet still corpse-ridden) 2014 production of Robert Wilson’s The Old Woman, and everything in between. Furthermore, the BAM Harvey Theater was abandoned for nearly two decades and had fallen into serious disrepair before being rehabilitated by former BAM President and Executive Producer Harvey Lichtenstein in 1987.

Director Yukio Ninagawa’s interpretation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth in the Fall of 1990. Photo courtesy BAM Hamm Archives.

However, BAM is seemingly devoid of the ghostly tales and myths you might expect to find in an institution with its history. In fact, among the stagehands, BAM is known as the least haunted performing arts institution in the world. Louie Fleck, the BAM Hamm Archives Manger who is seen as the go-to source for theater lore and unusual facts, admits that he is approached for BAM ghost stories around Halloween every year. He admits, “I never seem to have a great answer.”

Even so, I made it my personal mission to find the ghosts haunting the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s stages and facilities.

Through my search, I found that BAM isn’t without its creepy stories and urban legends. For example, years ago, stagehands were cleaning the ducts in the Harvey Theater when they found a curious specimen. After some investigation, the object was revealed to be an embalmed monkey carcass. “I said, ‘There’s no way you found a monkey,’” remembers Head Electrician John Manderbach. “Then I looked, and it was like, ‘Yup. That’s a monkey.’” Manderbach notes that this isn’t really a ghost story, but spooky nonetheless.

The Harvey Theater, then known as the Majestic Theater, undergoing renovation in 1987. Photo courtesy BAM Hamm Archives.

My quest ultimately led me to the Theater Management Office, a small, low-ceilinged space connected to the Opera House stage. Inside, Head Usher Jackie David shared that she’d never personally seen a ghost during her 26 years at BAM, but she had been told a fair number of stories about them by ushers and patrons of the theater over the years. While working the coat check, she was approached by a man who had an unusual experience while attending a show at BAM the week before. She explains, “He saw a man in a tuxedo—one of the older, 1800’s tuxedos—and he was standing there dancing.” When the patron looked back after getting the attention of his friend, the man was gone. Another supernatural sighting occurred in the BAM cinemas, when a security guard approached a woman in a hat and requested that she leave, as the theater was closed. Jackie goes on, “when he turned around to get the chains to lock the doors, she’d just disappeared.”

In the end, I don’t think I was able to definitively prove or disprove the existence of ghosts. Perhaps Strange Window: The Turn of the Screw doesn’t really come to a straight answer, either. However, there is something to be said about the connection between the supernatural and the theatrical: ghost stories rely on the audience’s ability to believe in the unbelievable, just like theater often does. But also, in trying to find stories about the dead, I became even more connected to the living. My hunt sent me all over BAM, where I found myself listening to half-remembered anecdotes in hallways and having conversations about monkey skeletons in the wings of the Opera House. Whether by keeping the memory of previous generations’ great artists alive through reimagining their work (as in Strange Window: The Turn of the Screw) or literally housing the lost souls of audiences past, BAM is certainly a space to honor the words and lives of those who have come before us.

Claire Greising is a Production Intern at BAM.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

In Context: Falling Out

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Falling Out is is both a conclusion and a beginning: the final work in Phantom Limb Company’s decade-long trilogy about climate change, the piece strives to spark conversation and action on environmental issues. Context is everything, so we’ve provided some links below for you to contribute, read, watch, and listen to content that will enhance your understanding of the show and the issues. Add your perspective to the conversation by leaving a message with the Memory Telephone, or posting in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.


Contribute

Call for Participation
Share your story with the Memory Telephone (BAM blog)
An invitation from Phantom Limb Company: be a part of the production by recording your story of water, loss, and hope. Your contribution may be used in the show at BAM.


Program Notes

Falling Out (PDF)

Read

Article
Phantom Limb Company explores human toll of Fukushima disaster with “Falling Out” (Tennesseean)
An interview with creators Jessica Grindstaff and Erik Sanko about their research and process for creating Falling Out.

Article
What Can Puppets Teach Us About Climate Change—And Ourselves? (BAM blog)
Erik Sanko has called puppets the blank slates onto which we project our innermost selves. Writing for the BAM blog, Robert Wood explores the fragility and humanity of puppetry and butoh, and its connection to our relationship with the planet we call home.

Article
The Visual Magic of Phantom Limb (Artists & Climate Change)
Director, designer and co-founder Jessica Grindstaff discusses how art can help spark discussion and action on climate change.


Watch & Listen

Video
Making Falling Out (Vimeo)
Phantom Limb theatre artists Jessica Grindstaff and Erik Sanko discuss their artistic response to the Fukushima nuclear disaster, loss, and environmental peril.

Audio
Jessica Grindstaff and Erik Sanko on “All of It”  (WNYC)
Phantom Limb Company’s co-founders talk with New York Public Radio’s Alison Stewart about the third installment of their trilogy on climate change.

Now your turn...

How did you enjoy the show? Likes? Dislikes? Surprises? Tell us what’s on your mind in the comments below and on social media using #FallingOut.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

In Context: Interpassivities

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Classical ballet dancers and migrant workers walk alongside the crowd in this shape-shifting ballet by Danish artist and filmmaker Jesper Just. A modern experience inspired by Jorge Luis Borges, this performance rethinks the meaning of maps, who makes them, and the artificial borders we create. Context is everything, so we’ve provided some articles to read and videos to watch. After you’ve attended the show, let us know what you thought by posting in the comments below and on social media using #Interpassivities.


Program Notes

Coming Soon!

Read

Article
Interpassivities: Jesper Just (Mousse Magazine)
Just speaks with Noam Segal about the creative process behind Interpassivities.

Article
Uncomfortable Gaze: Profile of Jesper Just (ArtAsiaPacific)
A reflection of Just’s recent work, from Continuous Movements (Interpassivities) in Hong Kong to Servitude in Time Square.


Watch & Listen

Video
Interpassivities Jesper Just (Vimeo)
A clip from Interpassivities.

Video
Jesper Just Interview: On “Interpassivities” (YouTube)
Just talks about each element of Interpassivities and how he conceptualized the performance.

Now your turn...

How did you enjoy the show? Likes? Dislikes? Surprises? Tell us what’s on your mind in the comments below and on social media using #Interpassivities.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

Interview with Satyagraha director Tilde Björfors

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A conversation between dramatist Magnus Lindman and director Tilde Björfors

Lindman: So, how much is a circus director enjoying opera?

Björfors: I have come to appreciate that Glass’ music is perfect circus music. There’s something about this sense of the ecstatic, that the music is continuously reaching new heights with minor tweaks that suit the circus we are making here. There are plenty of similarities between circus and opera. They are two incredibly virtuosic art forms. Both try to make the impossible possible and cross the physical and perhaps mental borders of what we humans are capable of doing. We have a center for weightlessness in our brain that develops in the womb as we float around. And it is activated when we see people flying. A physical sensation that we otherwise have forgotten about.

Lindman: If we are to keep to the fetus stage, this also applies to opera. Voices… hearing is perhaps the first sense a child experiences in life. So, what does that have to do with us—a primal scene, a meeting between sound and weightlessness?

Björfors: Circus is about life and death, when you are going to perform the most difficult things, you must be so present in the moment that you are totally naked. And it’s the same thing with opera notes, too. When you are going to reach these notes—you go beyond the made-up, as it were. They are not intellectual art forms in the first instance, they are emotional, or physical...

Lindman: Perhaps we can say they are not bound by words alone. And this is especially so in Satyagraha. The libretto is in Sanskrit. An ancient Indian language that is spoken by very few people today. In other words, a language that you can guarantee almost nobody understands. It is a way to escape from the reasoning-based nature of the word—logos—and the demand by contemporary, or should we say Western people to always be able to understand what is going on. In which case, how are we going to be able to tell a story?

Björfors: I don’t see it as Philip Glass trying to tell the story of Ghandi’s life and history. His aim is more to understand Gandhi from the inside and that we through the music should experience these events and how this individual with his pathos of justice came to be.

Lindman: The libretto is a very carefully chosen selection of verses from the holy scripture Bhagavad-Gita. But rather than spoken lines, the verses in Sanskrit are given to different singers.

Björfors: We want to create order and stay in control. What Glass tries to do is to pull the rug from under us and so enable us to experience the story on another level.

Lindman: We are, however, going to translate certain verses in the production.

Björfors: This is to provide a sense of grounding in any case. But it is not the libretto as such that helps us to understand what is happening in the first place, it is more the story that emerges from the entirety. The situations Gandhi found himself in at that time are reflected in a script that is thousands of years older. And it is the same human dilemma that we are facing today, which means Satyagraha is always relevant. The actions I take today are reflected in future generations. These actions should not only do good in the here and now, but also in a broader and longer perspective.


Lindman: Glass is a very keen student of Indian philosophy and culture. And Satyagraha’s structure challenges our Western information mind set. What is meaning? What does it mean to understand?

Björfors: We are perhaps used to another form of storytelling. But Satyagraha’s structure is totally thought through. The more I work with it, the more I realize how thought through it is. What appears to be disordered is actually full of a different kind of order.

Lindman: We begin with the mythical battlefield. The meeting between the God Krishna and Arjuna, who in the case of the opera, becomes Gandhi. The situation that is the starting point for the Bhagavad-Gita. Where the fundamental question to act or not to act is posed.

Björfors: The three biographical acts then follow. They are not chronological, but we make the same journey three times, deeper and deeper each time. What Glass does, I think, is that via the spirit of Ghandi, he relates to that which has gone before us and that which lies ahead of us. We move through history through the same highs and lows, peaks and troughs, time and time again.

Lindman: Glass depicts this by naming the different acts after three historic fights for justice: Leo Tolstoy, the Russian author who preached non-violence and was labelled a Christian anarchist, Indian author and Nobel Prize winner Rabindranath Tagore, who fought against British colonial rule, and US civil rights leader, Martin Luther King, Jr. That was his thinking, when Glass composed the opera, 35 years ago. However, if we imagine a fourth act being written today. Who would you put in the heading for that?

Björfors: Naturally, I think to myself: where are all the women? I grew up in the 1970s and was very affected by the books about Katitzi written by the Swedish author Katarina Taikon. These stories depict questions of injustice, ignorance, and exclusion through the eyes of a child. Which got you thinking that it was also important to do things for other people, not just for yourself. Which is why one act could be named after Katarina Taikon, perhaps. We do not know today who the Martin Luther King Jr. or Gandhi of the future will be. Is he or she among the people who campaign for human rights around the world? We all have the chance to be the person who makes a difference. It could be you and it could be me.

Lindman: You usually refer to a Gandhi quote: “all through history, there have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they seem invincible. But in the end, they always fall. Always. Truth and love have always won.”


Björfors: Wanting truth and love is not given a high status in society today. For me, the meeting with Gandhi has reminded me of how much power this contains within it. It is perhaps far more feasible to hold fast to the philosophy of Satyagraha than to build walls and close borders.

—Magnus Lindman, Dramatist


© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

The White Album Comes Alive

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By Nicole Serratore

Photo: Lars Jan





“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”

With that succinct opening sentence in her essay, The White Album, Joan Didion probes the identity of the artist, the act of writing, and our compulsion towards narrative. But is her storytelling an artistic venture or a cry for help—or both?

The essay involves 15 vignettes in which Didion flits between her own breakdown and hospitalization, her relationship to the Charles Manson trial, a recording session with The Doors, the shooting of Huey P. Newton, and the San Francisco State College strikes.

Didion gives voice not only to herself as a writer but to a distinct place and time—America from 1966 to 1971, when the country was wracked with division. As a journalist, she was on the front lines. In her words, “I offer only that an attack of vertigo and nausea does not now seem to me an inappropriate response to the summer of 1968.” Her unsteadiness then reflected America’s.

For artist Lars Jan, The White Album remains “one of the great pieces of literature of our time” and one that begged for theatricalization. “It is a very personal monologue. She uses a tremendous amount of theatrical and cinematic language to describe her experience in the world—in terms of being a character, needing to hear cues, and feeling like she needed a script but she had lost it,” notes Jan. She analyzes her own off-kilter performance of her life.

Didion gave permission for this venture and Jan’s broad-spectrum artistic background, which is fitting for this adaptation from page-to-stage. Jan’s work with his performance lab Early Morning Opera moves between visual and performing arts. He has straddled the personal and political as well. Jan’s The Institute of Memory was a multimedia performance that used photographs, reenactments, and surveillance records to search for truth in his late father’s past. With Holoscenes, a durational installation on climate change, he placed performers in a massive aquarium which rapidly filled with water, leaving them to manage tasks under a deluge. Jan has always worked from his own writing, but Didion’s essay has followed him for 20 years. The chance to engage with it was too tantalizing.

Photo: Lars Jan

It also allows Jan to collaborate on-stage with his partner in life for the first time. Actor Mia Barron will perform the text of the essay (save quotations). Typically, Barron works in new play development and Jan in visual and performance art. But with “the quality of the text, and Joan Didion, this is where our two paths have naturally crossed,” he says.

In her essay, Didion explores some of the battles over race and economic justice in the 1960s. But on stage Jan delves the legacy of those events for movements such as Occupy Wall Street and Black Lives Matter, and what “contemporary America has to learn from the movements of the late 60s.”

Moreover, Didion’s depth of analysis varies on these potent issues. Fifty years later, this gives Jan an opportunity to scrutinize the material anew. “I’m interested in not only what she covered and how she covered it, but also what she missed,” Jan says.

To look at those gaps and resonances, Jan is creating a dynamic performance space which he hopes will incite conversation and collision between 1968 and 2018. To do this, the main audience for the show (Nov 28 to Dec 1) will sit in the BAM Harvey Theater, but another smaller audience composed of local students, artists, and activists will be in a windowed, sound-proof box on stage. Within that box, Jan intends to “take the late 60s and distill it into a party.” That young activist audience will bring its own perspective to the events of the past.

As the essay works on two levels, so too will the theater piece. “She’s trying to tell the story of the country and of the time, and she’s also telling the story of herself,” Jan suggests. Didion zooms in and out in her writing, so the show moves between the “internal and macroscopic.” With Didion’s instability will come spatial flux on-stage with the two audiences, Barron, and the box.

Fifty years on, we will experience this expressive and intimate voice that Jan will put “into body, flesh, and blood in space.”


Nicole Serratore is is a freelance theater journalist and critic in New York City.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

The Greek Legacy

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By Andrew Clements

This article was originally published in the Edinburgh International Festival programme, where the Next Wave Festival presentation of Greek (Dec 5-9) premiered in 2017.

In March 2018 the Royal Opera gave the first performance of Mark-Anthony Turnage’s latest stage work, Coraline, an ‘opera for family audiences’ based on the 2002 fantasy novella by Neil Gaiman. It was Turnage’s second commission from the Royal Opera. The previous one, Anna Nicole, had its premiere at Covent Garden in 2011 to the accompaniment of more hype and razzamatazz than any other new work introduced there in the previous 30 years. Anna Nicole had its US premiere at the 2013 BAM Next Wave Festival to similar fanfare. Turnage has travelled a long way from the operatic debutant who composed Greek in the mid-1980s and who at the time wondered whether he had been wise to get involved in such an artistically treacherous art form. ‘I didn’t want to write an opera at all’, he has said of his feelings then. ‘I agreed with Boulez about burning down the opera houses... Opera was not a natural thing for me and I had no interest in it until I decided to do Greek.’

When he began to compose that first opera, in 1986, Turnage was 26; he had a burgeoning reputation as one of the brightest and most distinctive talents among younger British composers, a reputation built on about a dozen, mostly instrumental, works. It had been Hans Werner Henze, whom Turnage had first met in 1983 at the Tanglewood summer school in Massachusetts, who had detected in him the ingredients needed to become a successful music-theatre composer. Henze worked hard to convince Turnage that he possessed those qualities, backing up that judgment with a commission for an opera for the first Munich Biennale, where Greek received its premiere in June 1988; its first British performances were two months later at the Edinburgh International Festival.

Henze had even suggested a possible starting-point to Turnage, steering him towards the plays of Edward Bond, who had supplied the librettos for two of Henze’s own operas: We Come to the River and The English Cat. In the event, however, Turnage followed his own instincts and instead approached the dramatist Steven Berkoff, asking him which of his plays he thought might form the basis of an opera. So it was on Berkoff’s advice that Turnage eventually settled on Greek, a version of the Oedipus myth relocated to the East End of London in the 1970s; he enlisted Jonathan Moore, who was also to direct the Munich premiere, to help him extract a libretto from the richly textured play.

It proved an instinctively appropriate choice, for the varied registers of Berkoff’s language, with dialogue whose tone ranges from the earthily vernacular to lofty, almost Shakespearean imagery, chimed perfectly with the musical idiom that Turnage had already forged for himself. That idiom has its roots not only in composers from the 20th-century art-music tradition, including Berg, Britten, Stravinsky and Turnage’s own teacher Oliver Knussen, but also in jazz, blues and rock. It all gave an edgy pungency and muscularity to the soundworld of the opera. Early in the composition process Turnage realized that the text could be conveyed successfully only in a mixture of speech and song: ‘I wanted the score to be direct and I felt too that all the bad language couldn’t be set to music. It has to be delivered quickly. There are a lot of swear words at key moments in Greek, so there is a lot of speech’.

After the premiere there was the perception, too, that by choosing such subject matter, giving it a sharp political edge and expressing the drama in such vivid musical terms, Turnage had been deliberately courting controversy. More than any other of his works it was Greek that gained him a reputation as the ‘angry young man’ of British music: ‘I was suddenly changed from being an establishment figure… into somebody who was the exact opposite’. That image would persist through much of the next decade, through the composition of his first orchestral works, which were the product of his association with Simon Rattle and the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra, and of the evening-long concert suite Blood on the Floor, with its elements of jazz and improvisation.

But just as it changed Turnage’s image, so the success of Greek to some extent changed the course of his career. As he admitted, ‘Although I haven’t written anything like it since, it was an important work for me and exorcised quite a few demons on the way’. Yet even after that watershed Turnage was never going to become an ‘opera composer’ in the traditional sense of the term: that is, someone who would generate a string of stage works in rapid succession. As it happens, his work-list contains just three more operas from the following three decades, including next year’s premiere. Another stage work, The Country of the Blind, a one-act opera based on a short story by H.G. Wells, has been withdrawn by the composer. The monodrama Twice through the Heart, based on poems by Jackie Kay, was originally intended as a chamber opera and formed one half of a double bill with The Country of the Blind at their first performance in 1997; but it is more accurately categorized as a concert work, a scena or song cycle for mezzo-soprano and ensemble.

The two subsequent operas that remain in the official Turnage canon, then, are The Silver Tassie, first performed by English National Opera in 2000, and Anna Nicole. In almost every respect — dramatic tone, musical style, subject matter — they are as different from each other as two works by the same composer could ever possibly be, yet each in its distinct way owes a debt to Greek, to what Turnage learnt from composing that work and to the theatrical confidence he gained from doing it so effectively.

For The Silver Tassie, with a libretto by Amanda Holden based on Sean O’Casey’s play about an Irish footballer who goes to fight in World War I and returns home in a wheelchair, Greek seems almost to have served as something to react against rather than as a platform on which to build. ‘If I’m really honest’, Turnage has said, ‘when I first got the commission for Greek I was disappointed that I was allowed an ensemble of only 18 players, though it would have been wrong for Greek to have had a large orchestra. But with The Silver Tassie I felt that it would be great to write something that made a big noise on stage.’ For all its impressive qualities — the assurance of the vocal writing and the orchestral interludes, the quasisymphonic shape of the four acts, the striking use of the chorus to sustain the drama through the second act — The Silver Tassie is in many respects the most conventional stage work Turnage has written, and one that dramatically and sometimes musically owes a lot to the example of Britten’s operas.

By contrast though, in its tone at least, Anna Nicole is sometimes recognizably the work of the composer of that first opera, even if Richard Thomas’s libretto (about the life and squalid death of the Texan pole dancer turned Playboy model and billionaire’s wife Anna Nicole Smith) is all too deliberately demotic and lacks the imaginative flights that give the text of Greek such buoyancy, both on the page and in performance. There is a satirical, cartoon-like edge to some of the characterizations in Anna Nicole that looks back to the way in which the ‘hero’ Eddy’s family is portrayed in Greek; but, for all its own subversive qualities, the earlier work possesses a moral dimension that seems to be deliberately avoided in Anna Nicole. Turnage’s music has naturally evolved and widened its stylistic reach too; the chorus writing in particular looks towards the world of musical theatre, but the way in which the various musical elements, whether from Broadway or pop, jazz or expressionism, are woven into a thoroughly self-consistent and personal style in Anna Nicole is as effective as it was almost a quarter of a century earlier in Greek.

© Andrew Clements
Andrew Clements is a music critic for the Guardian and author of the Faber handbook on Mark-Anthony Turnage. This article was jointly commissioned by Edinburgh International Festival and Scottish Opera for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2017 programme.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

In Context: Halfway to Dawn

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David Roussève/REALITY (Love Songs, Next Wave 1999) returns to BAM for the first time in almost two decades with the NY Premiere of Halfway to Dawn, a jubilant dance-theater work celebrating the life of composer and arranger Billy Strayhorn, best known for his standard, “Take the ‘A’ Train,” and as Duke Ellington’s collaborator. In this recent work, the Guggenheim fellow and Bessie award-winning choreographer Roussève meditates on the life and legacy of Strayhorn, layering dance, text, abstract video imagery, and sound design to create a portrait of the jazz virtuoso. Context is everything, so get even closer to the production with this curated selection of related articles and videos. After you've attended the show, let us know what you thought by posting in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.


Program Notes

Coming Soon!

Read

Article
Choreographer David Roussève shines a light on Duke Ellington's unsung arranger Billy Strayhorn at a REDCAT premiere (LA Times)
Read this LA Times preview of the world premiere of Halfway to Dawn from October 2018.

Article
Billy Strayhorn In Five Songs (NPR Jazz blog)
Read about David Brent Johnson’s top five song picks for Billy Strayhorn, and how they exemplify his unique talent and spirit.


Watch & Listen


Audio
Playlist - Billy Strayhorn (Spotify)
Listen to a curated playlist of songs that Strayhorn wrote, including “Take the ‘A’ Train,” “Lush Life,” “Satin Doll,” and more.

Audio
100 Years Of Billy Strayhorn, Emotional Architect Of Song (NPR)
Tom Vitale pays tribute to Billy Strayhorn in 2015 on Weekend Edition Sunday on what would have been the composer’s 100th birthday.

Video
David Rousséve and the Strayhorn Project (YouTube)
Choreographer David Roussève explains his personal connection to the work of musician Billy Strayhorn and speaks about creating Halfway to Dawn while in residence at NYU Tisch School of the Arts.

Now your turn...


How did you enjoy the show? Likes? Dislikes? Surprises? Tell us what’s on your mind in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

In Context: Circus: Wandering City

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Adventurous string quartet ETHEL pays tribute to the legends behind the Circus, featuring archival imagery and firsthand accounts from contemporary circus performers. Context is everything, so we’ve provided a curated selection of articles and videos for you to engage with before seeing the piece. After you’ve attended the show, let us know what you thought by posting in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.


Program Notes

Coming Soon!

Read

Article
String Quartet ETHEL Celebrates 20th Anniversary Season (Broadway World)
Described as "an adventurous quartet with a rock band's zest" by The New York Times and deemed "a genre unto itself" by the Village Voice, ETHEL continues to set the standard for contemporary concert music.

Website
ETHEL official site
Explore ETHEL’s productions over the years

Website
The Ringling Circus Museum
Explore the rich history of the Circus Museum

Watch & Listen

Video
After 146 Years, Ringling Brothers Circus Takes Its Final Bow (The New York Times)
Peek backstage, fly on the trapeze, and meet the show’s ringmaster of 18 years as he reflects on what he’ll miss most — all in 360° video.

Photos
The Finale of 'The Greatest Show on Earth' (Atlantic)
A series of portraits of performers before taking part in the last weekend of the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus at Nassau Coliseum in Uniondale, New York, on May 19, 2017.


Now your turn...

How did you enjoy the show? Likes? Dislikes? Surprises? Tell us what’s on your mind in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

Greek: History, Repeating

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Allison Cook, Susan Bullock, Andrew Shore. Photo: Jane Hobson 
Mark-Anthony Turnage’s groundbreaking and profane 1988 two-act opera, Greek, was set in Britain’s Thatcher era. Based on the in-your-face stage play by Steven Berkoff (adapted by Turnage and Jonathan Moore), Greek’s bleak humor and exploration of social and political unrest continue to resonate. Scottish Opera/Opera Ventures’ acclaimed new production is presented in its New York premiere—the engagement also marks the New York premiere of Greek (Dec 5—9), now a cult classic in the contemporary chamber opera repertoire. Director Joe Hill-Gibbins answered some questions about Greek.


Q: You have spoken of a “hitherto unknown love for the Oedipus story.” What drew you in?
A: Like all ancient myths, legends, and folk tales that remain with us today, Oedipus contains a multiplicity of meanings and interpretations. Like The Passion of the Christ,The Odyssey, or Cinderella, the story is a powerful narrative template that offers different meanings to the different individuals, generations, and communities that encounter it.

One resonant meaning is found when Oedipus searches for the source of the plague that blights Thebes. This detective story ends with him discovering that he himself is the criminal. The source of the plague is his own house, and his own bed. Now this is a version of the Oedipus story I find much easier to connect with: “The problem in the world is a problem in you.” I’ve long been a devotee of the maxim, “When you draw up a list of your own worst enemies, make sure you put your own name at the top.”

There’s another important message to be drawn from the myth: “You run away from the thing you most fear, but every step you take brings you closer to it.” Eddy, like Oedipus, flees from his family home, hoping to escape the grim prophecy of patricide and incest. But, also like Oedipus, unbeknown to Eddy his parents are not his parents, but instead a childless couple who secretly took in another’s baby and raised it as their own. The lies of his surrogate parents allow a tragic irony to strike. As Oedipus heads towards Thebes, and Eddy towards Chalk Farm, both men believe they’re heading away from catastrophe, when actually they’re rushing towards it. Their actions bring about the exact opposite of what they intended. But then that’s the terrible thing about fate, if such a thing exists. If it’s fated to happen then whatever course of action you take—literally whatever you do—only serves to bring you closer to the same point. In trying to save yourself you seal your fate.

This too is a version of the story I can get behind. I’ve stayed up half the night cramming for an exam, and so failed the exam. I’ve tried with every fiber of my being to charm and beguile the object of my desires, and come across as desperately weird. And I imagine we all try to live our lives so that we avoid the mistakes of our parents, and yet are stunned to find that, in ways we didn’t quite see coming, we have become them nevertheless. Saying that thing, in that voice.

Allison Cook, Susan Bullock, Andrew Shore, Alex Otterburn. Photo: Jane Hobson


Like many journeys through the Oedipus myth, this path leads us to questions about psychology and the subconscious. Is the thing we fear the most actually the thing we desire the most? Do we actually crave our own destruction more than our triumph?

Q: Which of the myth’s many lessons or meanings was served particularly well by the operatic form?

A: [Steven] Berkoff, [Mark-Anthony] Turnage, and the original director Jonathan Moore chose to express the way that our parents shape our minds in a distinctive way. In Greek, one singer plays the role of Eddy, but all the other characters he encounters are played by the same three singers. This means that the singers who play Eddy’s surrogate parents and his long-lost mum also play everyone else he meets. Wherever Eddy goes he sees his family. In the cruddy pub he sees them, and over the road in the posh wine bar too. In the riot scene Eddy sees his Dad in the truncheon-wielding police chief, as if his father is trying to kill off his son before he can do the same to him. Greek suggests we can’t escape our family, because we carry them in our heads wherever we go and project their image onto everyone we meet—our bosses, our friends, our lovers.

The operatic form is perfect for expressing this idea. The way that musical themes, phrases and fragments repeat in an opera suggests the way repeated memories and feelings dance around our heads. Whatever present moment we’re in, it is colored by memories from the past that bubble up in our minds. Turnage gives the memories in Eddy’s head a musical form. Football chants remind him of his working-class adoptive parents, and phrases that shimmer like water remind him of being separated from his mother as a toddler, when he fell from a ship into the Thames.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

Under Our (BAM Film) Umbrella

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Photo: courtesy of BAM Hamm Archives
By Gina Duncan, Associate Vice President, Film

Film is just one of the many art forms BAM employs in its mission to provide a home for adventurous artists, audiences, and ideas. And while the moving image has been featured in BAM’s programming since the very early days of the medium, it wasn’t until November 1998 that film had a dedicated and permanent home at BAM. Twenty years later, it is a major, and growing, part of Brooklyn’s cultural landscape.

Over the past year and a half, I’ve led our programming team, driven by the vision of a nimble, responsive, and engaged film program that centers marginalized communities, challenges prevailing narratives, and continues BAM’s mission to share art by bold and adventurous artists with bold and adventurous audiences.

At a moment when the medium’s most exciting voices are rewriting the rules of whose stories get told and how, we have an opportunity to bring to our screens boundary-expanding work that reflects the vitality and diversity of our community—accessible to all, 365 days a year. As we continue to provide an inclusive array of cinematic programs and events, we’ll unite that programming under one umbrella: BAM Film.

For decades, BAM has stood at the cutting edge of culture. Looking through the pages of this guide, I am proud to say that the DNA of our film program is pure BAM.

—Gina Duncan, Associate Vice President, Film

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

A 20th-century Everyman

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Photo: Jane Hobson
By Tim Ashley

This article was originally published in the Edinburgh International Festival programme, where the Next Wave Festival presentation of Greek (Dec 5-9) premiered in 2017.

Sigmund Freud first posited the idea of the Oedipus complex in The Interpretation of Dreams, published in November 1899. In a move itself riddled with significance, however, he insisted that the date on the title-page be changed to 1900: psychoanalysis was to be a new science for a new century; Oedipal theory, in which a child’s first sexual and aggressive instincts are turned towards its mother and father respectively, rapidly emerged as its central tenet; and Oedipus himself, who unwittingly acted on impulses normally repressed out of moral revulsion, in consequence became a 20th-century Everyman.

Almost inevitably, the myth of Oedipus became the subject of a number of major 20th-century works in different artistic media, of which Mark-Anthony Turnage’s Greek (1988) remains arguably the most controversial. Yet though each work may be seen as being in some sense a response to Freud, his theories have been as much challenged as accepted: the two principal operatic treatments from the first half of the century — Stravinsky’s Oedipus rex (1927) and Enescu’s Oedipe (1936) — reveal an awareness of the wider issues surrounding the original legend and take the narrative into territory far removed from psychoanalysis.

Freud based his theory solely on King Oedipus, the most familiar of classical tragedies. Yet Sophocles’ play is by no means the only surviving treatment from antiquity, and, like every myth, that of Oedipus admits of variants. Parricide, incest, self-blinding, exile and an examination of the relationship between fate and reason form its essential elements, but there are also shifts in emphasis and narrative inconsistencies. The suicide of Oedipus’ wife and mother Jocasta is not common to all its versions, and in Statius’ Thebaid and The Phoenician Women of both Euripides and Seneca she remains alive to become a casualty of the war that breaks out between Oedipus’ sons Eteocles and Polynices. That Oedipus puts out his eyes with the pin of her brooch was Sophocles’ invention, albeit much imitated; elsewhere, even more horrifically perhaps, he gouges them out with his fingers.

Freud equated Oedipus’ self-mutilation with the mechanics of repression, but in classical antiquity self-blinding carried symbolic connotations of a turning away from the worldly towards enlightenment and self-transcendence. Sophocles’ last play, Oedipus at Colonus, finds his protagonist calmly confronting his own mortality in the awareness that acting unknowingly effectively absolves him from moral responsibility for his crimes. His death, at peace with the gods who tormented him, carries overtones of spiritual transfiguration, and the play’s closing scenes have been interpreted in Christian terms (notably by Simone Weil) as illustrating the intervention of divine grace at moments of individual suffering.

Oedipus rex and Oedipe adopt an essentially religious stance and are rooted in a personal experience of exile. The composition of Oedipus rex coincided both with Stravinsky’s realization that a return to Stalin’s Soviet Union would be impossible and with his decision to rejoin the Russian Orthodox church after a period of absence. In 1925 he mooted the idea to Jean Cocteau of a work in Latin on a universally familiar subject, whose original French libretto was accordingly translated by the theologian Jean Daniélou. A narration in the audience’s own language precedes each scene, introducing the crucial image of the trap prepared for the principal characters by ‘those sleepless deities who are always watching us from a world beyond death’. Oedipus rex’s dramaturgy has consequently been analysed in terms of Brechtian alienation effects that keep us at a distance while we watch the trap shut, though the music brutally exposes us to the emotions of those caught in it.

There are religious undertones, however. Daniélou’s Latin is that of the Vulgate Bible rather than the language of ancient Rome. ‘Lux facta est’, the climactic phrase at the moment of revelation, derives from the Book of Genesis where it indicates the momentous separation of light from darkness (‘And there was light’) at the moment of Creation. The score, with its alternation of narration, solos and choral responses, is modelled on Bach’s Passions and Handel’s oratorios and the influence of Verdi’s Requiem may be detected in its melodic contours. Stravinsky, significantly, regarded Symphony of Psalms (1930) as Oedipus rex’s logical successor and companion-piece.

The protracted genesis of Oedipe, which occupied Enescu from 1910 to 1931, reflects the rootlessness of a life spent shuttling between Paris and his native Romania in pursuit of a career divided between composition and performance as a violin virtuoso. The trigger was again King Oedipus, which Enescu saw at the Comédie-Française in 1909: he later claimed he wrote the opera to exorcise the memory of the screams emitted offstage by the leading actor at the moment of blinding. In contrast to Stravinsky’s conciseness, however, the work expansively examines Oedipus’ life from birth to death, encompassing his teenage years in Corinth, his murder of his father Laius and his encounter with the Sphinx, as well as material drawn from Sophocles’ two plays. Edmond Fleg’s libretto is an eclectic mythological synthesis, theosophical in stance, and suggesting familiarity with Frazer’s The Golden Bough. Textual digressions permit allusions to the myths of Orpheus, Hercules and Adonis, in which suffering is comparably viewed as a prelude to spiritual experience. The opera opens with Oedipus receiving a symbolic baptism after his birth and closes with an unseen chorus singing Christ’s benediction of the pure in heart.

Cocteau’s text for Stravinsky, meanwhile, formed the starting-point for his own 1934 play La machine infernale (‘The Infernal Machine’), which reconfigures the Oedipus myth in contemporary — even post-modernist — terms. An expanded version of the opera’s narration precedes each act, and ‘Lux facta est’ is literally translated back into French as ‘Lumière est faite’, as the truth dawns on Oedipus. The characters, however, have been robbed of their mythological splendour and nobility: the play has been described as ‘a Freudian joke’ and its tone is bitter and ironic. Cocteau’s Oedipus, arrogant, naive and longing to be cosseted, is so dim that the Sphinx — a Symbolist femme fatale, sick of falling in love with each of her victims before killing him — has to give him the answer to her riddle before he asks for it, in order to ensure the fulfilment of his destiny. Jocasta is a faded beauty, terrified of her encroaching age, haunted by the loss of her son and anxious to find solace with a younger lover.

A more unsettling interpretation may be found in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1967 film Edipo Re, which has its roots in Pasolini’s antagonistic relationship with his own father, an officer in Mussolini’s army. It opens with a prologue, set in the 1930s, which dramatizes the latter’s increasing resentment of his wife’s affection for their son. The father’s frightful attack on the child triggers the main mythological narrative, starkly shot in north Africa. The autobiographical overtones, together with the protracted encounter between Franco Citti’s Oedipus and Luciano Bartoli’s Laius — in a vast open space where each could simply walk past the other — has led some to assume the film’s principal subject is parricide rather than incest: that is by no means true, since a series of increasingly desperate and explicit couplings between Citti and Silvana Mangano’s Jocasta punctuate the successive revelations of the past. At the close, Pasolini returns to the present, as Oedipal conflicts are sublimated in love, spirituality and art: the blinded hero, now an itinerant flautist, is guided through the streets and factories of Bologna by a figure simply called Angiolo (‘angel’), played by Pasolini’s own lover Ninetto Davoli.

Greek, with its scatological language, its angry depiction of the plagues of inequality and tawdry monetarism that stalk Thatcher’s Britain, and provocative juxtaposition of classical music and punk, still has claims to being the most subversive of 20th-century treatments, but it was written in full awareness of the tradition at which it batters. ‘Greek’, Steven Berkoff remarks in the preface to his play, ‘came to me via Sophocles, trickling its way down the millennia until it reached the unimaginable wastelands of Tufnell Park’, and, whether by accident or design, both play and opera embrace and recall intervening variations on the myth’s material. Turnage’s Sphinx Women, like Cocteau’s femme fatale, are bored by the havoc they let loose. As in Edipo Re, tensions are resolved in a demand for love, the lyrical expression of which forms some of the score’s most striking moments. At the opera’s close, Eddy, in language that obliquely recalls Oedipus at Colonus, accepts his destiny while insisting that ignorance absolves him of responsibility for his actions. Yet his conscious decision to reject Oedipal blinding and continue his sexual relationship with his Wife/Mother finally, if troublingly, subverts both Sophocles and Freud: it is here, ultimately, that the work’s true iconoclasm lies.

© Tim Ashley
Tim Ashley is a music critic for the Guardian and author of a biography of Richard Strauss. This article was jointly commissioned by Edinburgh International Festival and Scottish Opera for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2017 programme.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

In Context: Voyage of Time

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Voyage of Time, director Terrence Malick’s love letter to the universe, is a visually expansive, emotionally impactful meditation on the origins of human life, creativity, and connection. The #BAMNextWave screening will feature an immersive live score from Wordless Music Orchestra and narration from Baby Driver actress Lily James. Context is everything, so we’ve provided a curated selection of articles and videos for you to engage with before seeing the piece. After you’ve attended the show, let us know what you thought by posting in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.


Program Notes

Voyage of Time (PDF)

Read

Article
Where to Begin with Terrence Malick (BFI.org)
Director Terrence Malick’s filmography probes into the core of human nature, asking questions about our ‘place in the enormity of the universe’ through rapturous visuals and distinct storytelling. Before seeing Voyage of Time, dive into this primer of his work from the British Film Institute.

Article
‘The Tree of Life’ Unfurls, With a Live Orchestra and Choir (The New York Times)
Wordless Music Orchestra is no stranger to Terrence Malick’s filmography. The group performed a live score alongside the director’s 2011 epic The Tree of Life to much critical acclaim, including this beautiful write-up from the New York Times.

Article
The Not-So-Secret Life of Terrence Malick (Texas Monthly)
Terrence Malick’s personal life is shrouded in mystery, and while parallels between the narratives in his films and his upbringing do exist, more universal interrogations of humanity tie his work together.

Article
Terrence Malick’s Metaphysical Journey Into Nature (New Yorker)
At its center, Voyage of Time searches “for the emotional and aesthetic energy that gives rise to [...] the urge for discovery and creation.”

Watch & Listen

Video
Terrence Malick’s Obsessions (Youtube)
Break down the recurring, lush, and impactful visual motifs that make director Terrence Malick’s work immediately recognizable.

Photos
Wordless Music Orchestra - Never Tear Us Apart (INXS cover) at Sydney Opera House (Youtube)
Wordless Music Orchestra, which will provide a live score for the #BAMNextWave screening of Voyage of Time, is known for pushing the boundaries of orchestral composition in their work. Their performance at Sydney Opera House closed with a reimagined cover of Australian classic 'Never Tear Us Apart' in tribute to legendary rock band INXS.

Video
Lily James: My Life In Movies (Youtube)
Actress Lily James (Downton Abbey, Mamma Mia), will provide live narration for the #BAMNextWave screening of Voyage of Time. James is no stranger to the cinema and gives a rundown of her favorite London movie moments in this interview with Time Out.

Now your turn...

How did you enjoy the show? Likes? Dislikes? Surprises? Tell us what’s on your mind in the comments below and on social media using #BAMNextWave.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

Forever Young

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Mark Morris (Mr. Stahlbaum), Lauren Grant (Marie), and John Heginbotham (Mrs. Stahlbaum). Photo Susana Millman

Mark Morris Dance Group’s The Hard Nut returns to the Howard Gilman Opera House (Dec 14—23). We spoke with some dancers who have held longtime roles.


JUNE OMURA — FRITZ, 23 YEARS

Q: How do you channel the spirit and physicality of a boy so well?

A: I never believe I have done it well until I meet people after a show who were convinced I was a real boy onstage, a compliment that never fails to surprise and delight me. The brilliant makeup, a boy’s haircut, and Marty Pakledinaz’s genius costumes help a lot, as has Mark’s repeated exhortation over the years to “Do less, June!”

Q: What do your children think of you as Fritz, if they’ve seen you perform The Hard Nut?

A: Of course my children have seen me perform The Hard Nut! I’m grateful that I got to keep dancing for long enough after I had them that my girls, at least, remember seeing me in L’Allegro and Dido and Aeneas as well. Their teenage take on Fritz is humbling, however, which is that to them, he is so obviously their (old!) mother that they are incredulous anyone in the audience would be fooled.

LAUREN GRANT — MARIE, 20 YEARS

Q: What’s your favorite aspect of your character?

A: Growing up, every time an eyelash fell out or I saw a shooting star, I always spent my wishes on the hope of finding romantic love. Each winter, when I become Marie again, I relive those wishes and at the end of every show, I get to experience that universal dream coming true. As Marie discovers and embraces her true love, I sense the audience relating to the desire for a deep human connection and feeling satisfaction in watching her attain that dream. This being a Mark Morris production, there is a delightfully bittersweet moment as Marie and her Nutcracker walk off, arm-in-arm, into the distance. Nothing in life is truly perfect.

Q: How has your portrayal evolved over the years?

A: Longevity can offer a wonderful benefit: When a body knows the pattern and mechanics of a role so well, one can experiment with nuance. Each time I reprise this role (I began playing Marie in 1998!) I mine my movement and narrative tasks for the potential of even greater expressivity.

Q: Is there a scene that you cherish the most?

A: The kisses! When my husband, David Leventhal, played the role of Nutcracker for many years, those kisses became very real. When he retired from the stage to manage and direct MMDG’s Dance for PD® program, the lovely new Aaron Loux stepped into his role and I was determined not to let that great kissing scene fall flat.

Lauren Grant (Marie) and June Omura (Fritz). Photo Julieta Cervantes


JOHN HEGINBOTHAM — MRS. STAHLBAUM, 16 years

Q: What’s your favorite aspect of your character?

A: Mrs. Stahlbaum is complicated—she’s benevolent, stressed out, loves and is frustrated by members of her family, values order and cleanliness—at least in public—has erotic feelings for Drosselmeyer, and she enjoys a cocktail. Maybe my favorite aspect though, is that even with her many conflicting states of emotion, she can always rock a pair of 4-inch Christmas pumps.

Q: How has your portrayal evolved over the years?

A: I was younger than the character when I started playing her. Now, I’m at, or nearing, her age. With that in mind, I feel she’s become a little bit more forgiving and understanding of some of the family and friends who populate her beautiful Christmas party.

Q: Is there a scene that you cherish the most?

A: I am very fond of the Party Scene. I’m able to interact extensively with the other performers in this section, and it’s just a joy to dance with them all. A scene I love in which I do not appear is the Snow Scene. I find the humor and beauty of this scene to be heartbreaking and heart filling.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

Beyond the Canon: Wanda + Bonnie and Clyde

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Wanda (1970), courtesy of Janus Films; Bonnie and Clyde (1967), courtesy of Warner Bros/Photofest

It is no secret that the cinema canon has historically skewed toward lionizing the white, male auteur. Beyond the Canon is a monthly series that seeks to question that history and broaden horizons by pairing one much-loved, highly regarded, canonized classic with a thematically or stylistically-related—and equally brilliant—work by a filmmaker traditionally excluded from that discussion. This month’s double feature pairs Barbara Loden’s Wanda (1970) with Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde (1967) screening Sat, Nov 24 at 4:30pm.

By Kristen Yoonsoo Kim

Briefly beloved, largely forgotten, then recently reclaimed, Wanda (1970) has been described as the “anti-Bonnie and Clyde”—its writer and director Barbara Loden said so herself. Yet it’s hard not to talk about the former without mentioning its more widely renowned predecessor. At a glance, they are two legs of the same criminal. Both films, deeply embedded in the mythos of the American road movie, involve a man and a woman robbing banks—Wanda takes place around eastern Pennsylvania, while Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde (1967) is set in Texas and its neighboring states. Penn’s film, boasting two major movie stars in Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, is a proper Hollywood movie, dressed up and romanticized, even with guns ablaze. Wanda, conversely, is at times painstakingly slow, abusive to its leading lady (with Loden directing herself as star) and the audience, who must bear witness to Wanda’s increasingly questionable choices.

As Loden’s film begins, we learn that Wanda Goronski has just lost her job, possibly owing to her poor work ethic, and has given up her children in court knowing they’d be better off without her. She soon cozies up to a cruel common criminal by the name of Mr. Dennis (Michael Higgins), who, despite being no Clyde, seems to project a fantastical desire for his own Bonnie. Unlike Dunaway’s glamorous Bonnie—whose blonde bob-under-beret and knit shirt plus handkerchief combo signaled 50 years of aspirational fall looks—the bedraggled Wanda has no such fashionista legacy. She dawdles around in public with a head full of curlers, only to lose them and revert back to her sad, weeping willow of a ponytail. She walks past store window mannequins—dressed in outfits you might see on Bonnie—but sports beige slacks and a pajama-like shirt. She’s not a head-turner; rather, she floats by, overlooked, underappreciated, or detested by the men in her life.

Even when, at the behest of Mr. Dennis, Wanda finally tries on a new look—an adorable pastel dress and a floral head wrap, looking picture-perfect for Easter Sunday—this determinedly downbeat film has no intention of allowing its title character to enjoy a big transformation moment. Mr. Dennis merely glares at her with contempt, and shames her for her inability to fulfill her role as a woman by asking her where her husband and children are. Wanda blankly explains her situation while painting her fingernails. “I’m just no good,” she laments, “I’m just no good.”

Barbara Loden in Wanda (1970), courtesy of Janus Films


Bleak, brusque and quietly heartbreaking, Wanda is the antithesis of the New Hollywood glamour that Bonnie and Clyde represented, though the talent involved closely orbited each other’s circles. In 1961, Barbara Loden had starred as Warren Beatty’s sister in Splendor in the Grass, directed by her husband Elia Kazan. Then, in 1969, Kazan made The Arrangement, loosely based on his affair with Loden, and cast Faye Dunaway in her role instead, about which Loden was furious. Though Bonnie and Clyde was released three years before Wanda, Loden says she had written the script 10 years before that. Regarding Penn’s film, Loden had said in an interview, “I didn’t care for [Bonnie and Clyde] because it was unrealistic and it glamorized the characters... People like that would never get into those situations or lead that kind of life—they were too beautiful…” To offset the movie set look of Bonnie and Clyde and ground Wanda in harsh realism, Loden had the film shot with a cinéma vérité feel on 16mm in myriad grim locations (the cinematography is by Nicholas Proferes, who would go on to shoot documentaries for vérité pioneers D.A. Pennebaker and Chris Hegedus).

Ultimately, what stands out most about Loden’s film is that Wanda was never an equal partner to anyone—she couldn’t be someone’s Bonnie. Messy, imperfect female protagonists have become more common lately, but Loden led the way for a new generation of women who made art out of systematic silence and repression and their internalization of that pain. Though Wanda is a much quieter movie than Bonnie and Clyde, featuring a frustratingly tight-lipped anti-heroine, it is somehow more shocking to see Wanda, dejected, agreeing to abandon her own children, than it is to see Bonnie robbing people at gunpoint.

Join us for Beyond the Canon on Sat, Nov 24 at 4:30pm

Kristen Yoonsoo Kim is a South Korea-born, New York-based film critic whose work has appeared in The Village Voice, GQ, Vice, Pitchfork, and elsewhere.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.

“The country’s in a state of plague.”

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Greek and the Tragedy of Thatcherite Individualism

Photo Credit: Jane Hobson.
By Chris Tyler

In Mark-Anthony Turnage’s Greek–coming to the BAM Howard Gilman Opera House Dec 5–9–audiences will find themselves transported to a dystopian 1980s London plagued by police violence, racism, and socioeconomic decay. If this litany of ills feels close to home, it’s likely because the U.K. under Thatcher shared quite a bit in common with the U.S. under Trump.

Much like our sitting President, the Iron Lady reviled trade unions, taxes, and the welfare state. She espoused the virtues of the free-market while manufacturing declined and income inequality soared. And she cared little whether or not she was liked, so long as her base supported her frequently unpopular agenda. Ideologically, her eleven-year reign as Prime Minister helped foster a cult of individualism on the British Isles. By privatizing formerly-nationalized industries and squeezing Britain’s social services dry, Thatcher helped consolidate a shift away from postwar collectivist values in the name of economic efficiency.

Upon escaping his parents’ home in the “cesspit” of Tufnell Park, Greek’s protagonist Eddy relocates to the capital in search of a more urbane existence. What he finds, however, is anything but. “The city sits in a heap of shit” as rats run rampant, garbage festers, and young protestors drown in their own blood. Here, we witness the darkest, most chaotic repercussions of Thatcherism. With local government structures dismantled, the polis is left without the ability to manage its own affairs.

Throughout Greek, the spectre of fascism looms nigh. “Hitler got the trains running on time,” Eddy’s father wistfully recalls before goose-stepping away later in the act. In a contemporary update, projected tabloid headlines track the rise of the far right next to news of Boris Johnson’s most recent nationalist sound bite. It doesn’t take long for young Eddy to succumb to his more violent tendencies in a world where “there is no such thing as society.” Such are the perils of a capitalist ethos that downplays governmental responsibility in favor of a DIY, bootstrapping mentality.

Thatcher’s supporters like to argue that she didn’t directly endorse selfishness, materialism, and greed–that these were simply “an unexpected and unwelcome by-product” of her neoliberal agenda. Not only is such an assertion at odds with her own emphasis on personal responsibility, but one needn’t look further than the 2008 financial crisis for evidence of long-term structural flaws in her decision making. By systematically ignoring the needs of Britain’s poor and working class, Thatcher–like Trump–further disenfranchised benefit claimants, immigrants, and other vulnerable members of society by placing them directly in the crosshairs of lower class rage.

At the end of Greek’s first act, Eddy’s mother and Nazi-sympathizing father exclaim that “Fate makes us play the roles we’re cast!” Whether it’s fate or the state is up for debate, but it does seem clear that one shouldn’t have to own property in order to perform.

Greek comes to the BAM Howard Gilman Opera House Dec 5–9, and tickets are still available.

Chris Tyler is a writer and performing artist living in Los Angeles.

© 2018 Brooklyn Academy of Music, Inc. All rights reserved.
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