Michael Mayer’s production makes the sparkly life so unsexy and over-sugared, the last act’s bleakness comes off as refreshingly spare.
Messiaen, Mahler, and a mile of singers.
The North Africa campaign that the West often forgets about.
If Neapolitan is the language of Lenù and Lila’s imprisoning neighborhood, then Italian is the language of social mobility.
Messiaen’s Visions de l’Amen, at Zankel Hall.
“This deluxe production of a lavish opera rests on such a wispy score.”
Vernacular voices strung like Christmas lights along an elevated park.
But really, the Met Opera needs to eliminate the brownface.
“It was loony.”
“To describe it as gaudy and silly is a compliment, not a complaint.”
New music by Ashley Fure, old music by Stravinsky, and a Wagner chaser.
Andris Nelsons conducted as if he would rather be at home watching TV. Some music can endure an uncommitted performance; Bernstein’s can’t.
Twanging aircraft cables? Crinkly paper moved by speaker vibrations? Sure.
This hugely ambitious show portrays an idiosyncratic, multiethnic, and open postwar society that propelled itself into the industrial age with brio.
It’s been called bloated, dated, naïve — but it also contains a lot of beauty.
As the city has become more global, I have watched the music world get healthier, more complex, and less hermetic.
Beethoven’s only opera, reinterpreted in the era of mass incarceration.
Dudamel brings out the symphony’s loudest, brightest aspects.
A new production with one of Broadway’s biggest voices, and also a ghost.
We don’t want more James Levines. But how about more Zaha Hadids?