newyorker--2020-01-06--The 2020 Golden Globes Recap: Michelle Williams for President

“ You ’ ll be pleased to know this is the last time I ’ m hosting these awards , so I don ’ t care anymore , ” Ricky Gervais announced at the start of Sunday night ’ s Golden Globes , toting a beer and grinning at his own dangerousness .
“ I ’ m joking , ” he added .
“ I never did.
” Not caring was the theme of Gervais ’ s opening monologue , whether he was riffing on the rise of Netflix ( “ No one cares about movies anymore ” ) or @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I know he ’ s your friend , ” he scolded the groaning crowd , “ but I don ’ t care ” ) .
As usual , Gervais played the ultimate bad sport , revelling in his insolence and promising more mischief than he delivered .
Whatever .
If Gervais meant to set the tone for what followed , he failed .
Speech after speech showed us what it looks like when people care about things , deeply and publicly .
No sooner had Gervais exited than the Egyptian-American comedian Ramy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Hulu series , said , “ I would like to thank my God .
Allahu akbar.
” Moments later , Russell Crowe won for his role in “ The Loudest Voice.
” Crowe was back in Australia , protecting his family from brush fires , and it fell to Jennifer Aniston to read his urgent message that “ the tragedy unfolding in Australia is climate-change-based.
” Suddenly , giving a damn was in .
Brad Pitt , who won for “ Once Upon a Time .
.
.
in Hollywood , ” summed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his speech : “ Hey , if you see a chance to be kind to someone tomorrow , take it .
I think we need it.
” Earnestness , especially the political kind , is tricky business at awards shows , but the dark early days of the New Year were impossible to keep at bay .
It ’ s been two years since the Golden Globes were the site of a red-carpet siege , as celebrities in black dresses and Time ’ s Up pins spoke out against the mistreatment of women @ @ @ @ @ @ @ preshow was free of insurrection , other than Billy Porter ’ s merciless domination of the red carpet , this time in white satin and feathers .
Inside the hall , however , passions prevailed .
Kate McKinnon , in her tribute to Ellen DeGeneres , who received a lifetime-achievement award , spoke of the validating effect that DeGeneres ’ s coming out had on her in 1997 .
Sam Mendes , who received the best-director prize , for “ 1917 , ” which was also the surprise winner for best drama ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) , dedicated the award to his grandfather , who enlisted in the First World War at seventeen , adding , “ I fervently hope it never , ever happens again.
” Patricia Arquette , who won for the miniseries “ The Act , ” burst whatever Hollywood bubble might have protected the room , sounding off on the threat of war , the courage of migrants , the calamity in Australia , and the importance of voting in 2020 .
Even Quentin Tarantino , picking up the screenplay award , for “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Hollywood , ” had a cause , of sorts : he dedicated his win to the screenwriter Robert Bolt , who was responsible for “ Lawrence of Arabia ” and “ Doctor Zhivago.
” What does Tom Hanks care about ?
Punctuality , it turns out .
Accepting the lifetime-achievement award for film , the Nicest Man in Hollywood was indeed nice , but also hopped up on cold medicine that made him “ a little jittery , ” he warned .
His emotions did seem all over the place .
Moments @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Love Boat , ” he choked up .
Later , he teared up again , right after treating us to his Cecil B. DeMille impression .
This guy is one dose of Mucinex away from his third Oscar !
In between , he noted , with the gentle authority of Mister Rogers , that showing up on time is one of an actor ’ s “ greatest liberating acts.
” As my colleague Rachel Syme noted , this may have been payback .
Hours earlier , his wife , Rita Wilson , had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a hair-and-makeup artist who was unforgivably late .
There was no more eloquent plea than that of Michelle Williams , who won for her portrayal of Gwen Verdon in “ Fosse/Verdon ” and , with the help of its co-creator , Thomas Kail , is currently pregnant .
Williams thanked the Hollywood Foreign Press Association , as many did , but then pivoted : the H.F.P.A.
, she said , had acknowledged not only her performance but the sum of her choices .
“ I ’ ve tried my very best to live @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” she continued , “ not just a series of events that happened to me but one that I can stand back and look at and recognize my handwriting all over , sometimes messy and scrawling , sometimes careful and precise , but one that I had carved with my own hand .
And I wouldn ’ t have been able to do this without employing a woman ’ s right to choose.
” The progression—from artistry to agency to electoral urgency—was as beautifully angled as a Bob Fosse pose .
Our political @ @ @ @ @ @ @ personal and the political .
Not that cheekiness didn ’ t have its place .
There were some memorable wisecracks—notably from Gervais ’ s fellow-Brits .
Phoebe Waller-Bridge , who accepted two awards for “ Fleabag , ” thanked Barack Obama for putting the show on his year-end list , adding , saucily , “ As some of you may know , he ’ s always been on mine.
” ( In the pilot , Fleabag has an erotic encounter with a video of Obama giving a Presidential address . )
Olivia Colman @ @ @ @ @ @ @ II on “ The Crown , ” was her usual combination of delighted and oh-so baffled .
“ I ’ ve already got a little bit boozy , because I thought this wasn ’ t going to happen , ” she confessed .
Sacha Baron Cohen , introducing a clip from “ Jojo Rabbit , ” joked , “ The hero of this next movie is a naïve , misguided child who spreads Nazi propaganda and only has imaginary friends .
His name is Mark Zuckerberg.
” We weren ’ t free of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ either , thanks to Joaquin Phoenix , who won for his performance in “ Joker ” and seemed to accept his award in a state of fitfully awaking from a nap .
Much of what he said was peppered with expletives , and therefore unheard by the TV audience .
But , from what I could gather , his message was that awards shows are phony baloney and that it ’ s not enough for his peers to send good thoughts to Australia or vote in elections : “ We don ’ t @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Springs for the awards sometimes , or back , please.
” Fair enough , but it smacked of ethical one-upmanship , and the delivery was hopelessly garbled .
Yet , if this were the Iowa caucuses , he ’ d somehow be beating Michelle Williams .
As for the award tally , and what it portends for the Oscars next month , it ’ s worth remembering how eccentric a voting body the H.F.P.A .
is .
“ 1917 ” for the big prize ?
Nothing for “ The Irishman ” or “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ !
What puzzles me is what these folks consider funny .
The category for best comedy or musical film covered the Manson murders and Hitler , while “ Succession , ” the sharpest satire on television , won for best TV drama .
And what good is a “ musical ” category if you ’ re going to give Renée Zellweger the drama prize for playing Judy Garland ?
The Golden Globes are Hollywood ’ s drunk wedding ( with Olivia Colman as the tipsy mother of the groom ) , but this @ @ @ @ @ @ @ some emotional tether to guide them through a glitzy evening in an incongruously menacing world .
By the end of the night , even Gervais seemed discombobulated .
“ Please donate to Australia , ” he said , like someone less devilish than he insists he is .
Then , remembering himself , he told the departing crowd , “ Get drunk .
Take your drugs.
” The rest was bleeped .

“You’ll be pleased to know this is the last time I’m hosting these awards, so I don’t care anymore,” Ricky Gervais announced at the start of Sunday night’s Golden Globes, toting a beer and grinning at his own dangerousness. “I’m joking,” he added. “I never did.”
Not caring was the theme of Gervais’s opening monologue, whether he was riffing on the rise of Netflix (“No one cares about movies anymore”) or on the death of Jeffrey Epstein (“I know he’s your friend,” he scolded the groaning crowd, “but I don’t care”). As usual, Gervais played the ultimate bad sport, revelling in his insolence and promising more mischief than he delivered. Whatever. If Gervais meant to set the tone for what followed, he failed. Speech after speech showed us what it looks like when people care about things, deeply and publicly. No sooner had Gervais exited than the Egyptian-American comedian Ramy Youssef, who won for his self-titled Hulu series, said, “I would like to thank my God. Allahu akbar.” Moments later, Russell Crowe won for his role in “The Loudest Voice.” Crowe was back in Australia, protecting his family from brush fires, and it fell to Jennifer Aniston to read his urgent message that “the tragedy unfolding in Australia is climate-change-based.” Suddenly, giving a damn was in.
Brad Pitt, who won for “Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood,” summed up the anti-Gervais tone when he ended his speech: “Hey, if you see a chance to be kind to someone tomorrow, take it. I think we need it.” Earnestness, especially the political kind, is tricky business at awards shows, but the dark early days of the New Year were impossible to keep at bay. It’s been two years since the Golden Globes were the site of a red-carpet siege, as celebrities in black dresses and Time’s Up pins spoke out against the mistreatment of women in Hollywood. This year’s preshow was free of insurrection, other than Billy Porter’s merciless domination of the red carpet, this time in white satin and feathers. Inside the hall, however, passions prevailed. Kate McKinnon, in her tribute to Ellen DeGeneres, who received a lifetime-achievement award, spoke of the validating effect that DeGeneres’s coming out had on her in 1997. Sam Mendes, who received the best-director prize, for “1917,” which was also the surprise winner for best drama (the full list of winners is here), dedicated the award to his grandfather, who enlisted in the First World War at seventeen, adding, “I fervently hope it never, ever happens again.” Patricia Arquette, who won for the miniseries “The Act,” burst whatever Hollywood bubble might have protected the room, sounding off on the threat of war, the courage of migrants, the calamity in Australia, and the importance of voting in 2020. Even Quentin Tarantino, picking up the screenplay award, for “Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood,” had a cause, of sorts: he dedicated his win to the screenwriter Robert Bolt, who was responsible for “Lawrence of Arabia” and “Doctor Zhivago.”
What does Tom Hanks care about? Punctuality, it turns out. Accepting the lifetime-achievement award for film, the Nicest Man in Hollywood was indeed nice, but also hopped up on cold medicine that made him “a little jittery,” he warned. His emotions did seem all over the place. Moments after singing the theme from “The Love Boat,” he choked up. Later, he teared up again, right after treating us to his Cecil B. DeMille impression. This guy is one dose of Mucinex away from his third Oscar! In between, he noted, with the gentle authority of Mister Rogers, that showing up on time is one of an actor’s “greatest liberating acts.” As my colleague Rachel Syme noted, this may have been payback. Hours earlier, his wife, Rita Wilson, had taken to social media to vent about a hair-and-makeup artist who was unforgivably late.
There was no more eloquent plea than that of Michelle Williams, who won for her portrayal of Gwen Verdon in “Fosse/Verdon” and, with the help of its co-creator, Thomas Kail, is currently pregnant. Williams thanked the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, as many did, but then pivoted: the H.F.P.A., she said, had acknowledged not only her performance but the sum of her choices. “I’ve tried my very best to live a life of my own making,” she continued, “not just a series of events that happened to me but one that I can stand back and look at and recognize my handwriting all over, sometimes messy and scrawling, sometimes careful and precise, but one that I had carved with my own hand. And I wouldn’t have been able to do this without employing a woman’s right to choose.” The progression—from artistry to agency to electoral urgency—was as beautifully angled as a Bob Fosse pose. Our political candidates could take notes on fusing the personal and the political.
Not that cheekiness didn’t have its place. There were some memorable wisecracks—notably from Gervais’s fellow-Brits. Phoebe Waller-Bridge, who accepted two awards for “Fleabag,” thanked Barack Obama for putting the show on his year-end list, adding, saucily, “As some of you may know, he’s always been on mine.” (In the pilot, Fleabag has an erotic encounter with a video of Obama giving a Presidential address.) Olivia Colman, who won for playing Queen Elizabeth II on “The Crown,” was her usual combination of delighted and oh-so baffled. “I’ve already got a little bit boozy, because I thought this wasn’t going to happen,” she confessed. Sacha Baron Cohen, introducing a clip from “Jojo Rabbit,” joked, “The hero of this next movie is a naïve, misguided child who spreads Nazi propaganda and only has imaginary friends. His name is Mark Zuckerberg.”
We weren’t free of the preening kind of political speech, either, thanks to Joaquin Phoenix, who won for his performance in “Joker” and seemed to accept his award in a state of fitfully awaking from a nap. Much of what he said was peppered with expletives, and therefore unheard by the TV audience. But, from what I could gather, his message was that awards shows are phony baloney and that it’s not enough for his peers to send good thoughts to Australia or vote in elections: “We don’t have to take private jets to Palm Springs for the awards sometimes, or back, please.” Fair enough, but it smacked of ethical one-upmanship, and the delivery was hopelessly garbled. Yet, if this were the Iowa caucuses, he’d somehow be beating Michelle Williams.
As for the award tally, and what it portends for the Oscars next month, it’s worth remembering how eccentric a voting body the H.F.P.A. is. “1917” for the big prize? Nothing for “The Irishman” or “Little Women”? You crazy kids! What puzzles me is what these folks consider funny. The category for best comedy or musical film covered the Manson murders and Hitler, while “Succession,” the sharpest satire on television, won for best TV drama. And what good is a “musical” category if you’re going to give Renée Zellweger the drama prize for playing Judy Garland? The Golden Globes are Hollywood’s drunk wedding (with Olivia Colman as the tipsy mother of the groom), but this year’s participants seemed to crave some emotional tether to guide them through a glitzy evening in an incongruously menacing world. By the end of the night, even Gervais seemed discombobulated. “Please donate to Australia,” he said, like someone less devilish than he insists he is. Then, remembering himself, he told the departing crowd, “Get drunk. Take your drugs.” The rest was bleeped.


newyorker--2020-01-06--Ayatollah Mystified That He Is the Only Dictator Trump Dislikes

TEHRAN ( The Borowitz Report ) —Iran ’ s Supreme Leader , Ayatollah Ali Khamenei , is “ completely baffled ” as to why he appears to be the only dictator whom Donald J. Trump does not like , the autocrat said on Monday .
Speaking to reporters in Tehran , the long-reigning tyrant expressed puzzlement and dismay that Trump had not given him the adulation that he has showered on seemingly every other totalitarian in the world .
“ Trump loves Vladimir Putin and Mohammed bin Salman , and he ’ s even given Kim Jong Un a cute @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reason , I leave him cold , ” the visibly saddened Ayatollah said .
“ I just don ’ t get it.
” Khamenei initially tried not to take Trump ’ s distaste for him personally , he said , “ but when it became clear that he liked even second-tier strongmen like Recep Tayyip Erdoğan , of Turkey , and Rodrigo Duterte , of the Philippines , I ’ d be lying if I said it didn ’ t hurt.
” One possible reason Trump might dislike him , the Ayatollah theorized @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t realize how repressive I am.
” “ If he did his homework , he ’ d see that I trample press freedoms , shred basic human rights , and persecute political opponents , ” he said .
“ In terms of the things that are important to him , I really check all the boxes .
”

TEHRAN (The Borowitz Report)—Iran’s Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, is “completely baffled” as to why he appears to be the only dictator whom Donald J. Trump does not like, the autocrat said on Monday.
Speaking to reporters in Tehran, the long-reigning tyrant expressed puzzlement and dismay that Trump had not given him the adulation that he has showered on seemingly every other totalitarian in the world.
“Trump loves Vladimir Putin and Mohammed bin Salman, and he’s even given Kim Jong Un a cute nickname, but, for some mysterious reason, I leave him cold,” the visibly saddened Ayatollah said. “I just don’t get it.”
Khamenei initially tried not to take Trump’s distaste for him personally, he said, “but when it became clear that he liked even second-tier strongmen like Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, of Turkey, and Rodrigo Duterte, of the Philippines, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt.”
One possible reason Trump might dislike him, the Ayatollah theorized, is that “he just doesn’t realize how repressive I am.”
“If he did his homework, he’d see that I trample press freedoms, shred basic human rights, and persecute political opponents,” he said. “In terms of the things that are important to him, I really check all the boxes.”


newyorker--2020-01-06--Operatic Shows of Force

Operatic Shows of Force

Your judgment of the new Metropolitan Opera production of Alban Berg ’ s “ Wozzeck , ” which runs through January 22nd , may depend on how you classify it .
The director is the South African artist William Kentridge , who is steeped in the Central European Expressionist milieu from which Berg ’ s ferocious anti-military opera emerged .
If the staging is considered as an entry in Kentridge ’ s multimedia œuvre , it delivers a potent distillation of signature motifs : brusque drawings and prints of wounded faces and ravaged landscapes ; stop-action animation of spasmodically jerking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
If , however , you measure the work against the emotional breadth of Berg ’ s opera , you may find it wanting .
On opening night , I admired the virtuosity of the director ’ s technique but wished that he had paid more heed to the desperate inner lives of the characters .
Kentridge has transplanted “ Wozzeck ” from the early-nineteenth-century setting of Berg ’ s libretto to the period of the First World War .
This makes good sense , since Berg served in the Austro-Hungarian Army from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ opera during the conflict .
Berg fashioned the libretto directly from Georg Büchner ’ s 1837 play , “ Woyzeck , ” an unblinking portrayal of an ordinary soldier ’ s degradation by military discipline and medical experiment .
Berg wrote of Wozzeck , “ There is a bit of me in this character , since I have been spending these war years just as dependent on people I hate , have been in chains , sick , captive , resigned , in fact humiliated.
” Büchner ’ s text , fragmentary in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ famously prophetic of twentieth-century concerns .
Berg could hardly have found anything more modern among the playwrights of his own period ; the young Bertolt Brecht was one of many under Büchner ’ s spell .
Yet Berg brings to bear his own preoccupations—in particular , a nostalgia for a shattered fin-de-siècle world .
Although the music of “ Wozzeck ” is ostensibly atonal , glimmers of Wagner , Puccini , Mahler , and Strauss shine through the work ’ s dark façade .
The most piercing lyricism is reserved for Wozzeck ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ falls victim to his madness .
Her monologue at the beginning of Act III , in which she reads from the Bible and ponders her child ’ s bleak future , is obviously modelled on Desdemona ’ s “ Ave Maria ” scene in Verdi ’ s “ Otello.
” It is this half-buried Romantic dimension that goes missing in Kentridge ’ s production .
Although the Great War looms over every moment of the staging , it never becomes clear whether we are experiencing Wozzeck ’ s nightmarish premonitions of the conflict @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Characters often wear gas masks , hobble on crutches , and have bandages on their heads .
Maps of troop movements in Flanders are projected onto a large screen behind the stage .
The sets , designed by Sabine Theunissen , deploy sculptural accumulations of junk to render the locales where Wozzeck experiences successive humiliations : a captain ’ s quarters , a doctor ’ s laboratory , a tavern garden , a soldiers ’ barracks .
Greta Goiris , the costume designer , applies fantastical touches to drab uniforms and workaday wear @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out against a mostly black-and-white color scheme .
Kentridge is at his best when crowds fill the stage , matching the teeming density of his visual aesthetic .
His most bravura gesture comes in Act III , as Wozzeck staggers away from the pond where he has murdered Marie and into a bar full of drunkenly dancing figures .
Berg prepares the change of scene with two enormous orchestral crescendos on the single note B , the second louder than the first .
Kentridge made the inspired decision to have dancers enter during @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stage and on the screen at the back .
They appear to be emanating from the concentrated beam of sound .
Much less successful is Kentridge ’ s illustration of the overpowering final interlude , which follows Wozzeck ’ s death , by drowning .
The triple-forte climax of the passage was marked by a groaningly obvious sequence of explosions on the screen .
The unremitting focus on war iconography blotted out the opera ’ s main narrative thrust : the deterioration of Wozzeck ’ s mind in the grip of military routine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ scenario , the soldier is not at war but serving in a town regiment ; violence explodes from the machinery of the system .
The baritone Peter Mattei , who took the lead role , is one of the finest singing actors in opera , but in this staging he had little opportunity to trace the character ’ s arc toward madness ; too often he seemed like an extra in a larger tableau .
Elza van den Heever , as Marie , was similarly sidelined by the pervasive imagery of masculine aggression @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s strong suit as a director—it was also a blind spot in his previous Met productions , of Shostakovich ’ s “ The Nose ” and of Berg ’ s “ Lulu ” —but here the characterizations are weaker than ever .
It ’ s instructive to compare this brilliant but somehow hollow affair with “ The Head and the Load , ” Kentridge ’ s monumental theatrical tribute to African soldiers who served in the Great War .
It played at the Park Avenue Armory at the end of 2018 ; I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Many of the same visual tropes were employed in that production , yet its episodic , pageantlike structure proved a better counterweight to Kentridge ’ s thematic obsessions .
In “ Wozzeck , ” his agenda is too often at cross-purposes with that of Berg , for whom psychology was everything .
The one singer who held his own amid the swirl of images was the tenor Gerhard Siegel , who delivered the part of the Captain with cartoonish flair and precisely biting diction .
He was , perhaps not incidentally , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Mattei and van den Heever both sang superbly , but the blunt force of Büchner ’ s language didn ’ t always register .
I had similar reservations about the conducting of Yannick Nézet-Séguin .
He showed unerring command of Berg ’ s devilishly difficult score , but he dispatched it too cleanly and efficiently .
His pristine account of the final interlude failed to convey its melancholy collapse into the Mahlerian past .
In all , this was a “ Wozzeck ” lacking in both horror and humanity .

Your judgment of the new Metropolitan Opera production of Alban Berg’s “Wozzeck,” which runs through January 22nd, may depend on how you classify it. The director is the South African artist William Kentridge, who is steeped in the Central European Expressionist milieu from which Berg’s ferocious anti-military opera emerged. If the staging is considered as an entry in Kentridge’s multimedia œuvre, it delivers a potent distillation of signature motifs: brusque drawings and prints of wounded faces and ravaged landscapes; stop-action animation of spasmodically jerking figures; photographic collages and cinematic montages. If, however, you measure the work against the emotional breadth of Berg’s opera, you may find it wanting. On opening night, I admired the virtuosity of the director’s technique but wished that he had paid more heed to the desperate inner lives of the characters.
Kentridge has transplanted “Wozzeck” from the early-nineteenth-century setting of Berg’s libretto to the period of the First World War. This makes good sense, since Berg served in the Austro-Hungarian Army from 1915 to 1918 and began composing the opera during the conflict. Berg fashioned the libretto directly from Georg Büchner’s 1837 play, “Woyzeck,” an unblinking portrayal of an ordinary soldier’s degradation by military discipline and medical experiment. Berg wrote of Wozzeck, “There is a bit of me in this character, since I have been spending these war years just as dependent on people I hate, have been in chains, sick, captive, resigned, in fact humiliated.”
Büchner’s text, fragmentary in form and corrosive in tone, is famously prophetic of twentieth-century concerns. Berg could hardly have found anything more modern among the playwrights of his own period; the young Bertolt Brecht was one of many under Büchner’s spell. Yet Berg brings to bear his own preoccupations—in particular, a nostalgia for a shattered fin-de-siècle world. Although the music of “Wozzeck” is ostensibly atonal, glimmers of Wagner, Puccini, Mahler, and Strauss shine through the work’s dark façade. The most piercing lyricism is reserved for Wozzeck’s common-law wife, Marie, who falls victim to his madness. Her monologue at the beginning of Act III, in which she reads from the Bible and ponders her child’s bleak future, is obviously modelled on Desdemona’s “Ave Maria” scene in Verdi’s “Otello.” It is this half-buried Romantic dimension that goes missing in Kentridge’s production.
Although the Great War looms over every moment of the staging, it never becomes clear whether we are experiencing Wozzeck’s nightmarish premonitions of the conflict or his shell-shocked recollections of it. Characters often wear gas masks, hobble on crutches, and have bandages on their heads. Maps of troop movements in Flanders are projected onto a large screen behind the stage. The sets, designed by Sabine Theunissen, deploy sculptural accumulations of junk to render the locales where Wozzeck experiences successive humiliations: a captain’s quarters, a doctor’s laboratory, a tavern garden, a soldiers’ barracks. Greta Goiris, the costume designer, applies fantastical touches to drab uniforms and workaday wear. A blood-red gown for Marie stands out against a mostly black-and-white color scheme.
Kentridge is at his best when crowds fill the stage, matching the teeming density of his visual aesthetic. His most bravura gesture comes in Act III, as Wozzeck staggers away from the pond where he has murdered Marie and into a bar full of drunkenly dancing figures. Berg prepares the change of scene with two enormous orchestral crescendos on the single note B, the second louder than the first. Kentridge made the inspired decision to have dancers enter during the second crescendo, both on the stage and on the screen at the back. They appear to be emanating from the concentrated beam of sound. Much less successful is Kentridge’s illustration of the overpowering final interlude, which follows Wozzeck’s death, by drowning. The triple-forte climax of the passage was marked by a groaningly obvious sequence of explosions on the screen.
The unremitting focus on war iconography blotted out the opera’s main narrative thrust: the deterioration of Wozzeck’s mind in the grip of military routine. Crucially, in Büchner’s scenario, the soldier is not at war but serving in a town regiment; violence explodes from the machinery of the system. The baritone Peter Mattei, who took the lead role, is one of the finest singing actors in opera, but in this staging he had little opportunity to trace the character’s arc toward madness; too often he seemed like an extra in a larger tableau. Elza van den Heever, as Marie, was similarly sidelined by the pervasive imagery of masculine aggression. Psychology has never been Kentridge’s strong suit as a director—it was also a blind spot in his previous Met productions, of Shostakovich’s “The Nose” and of Berg’s “Lulu”—but here the characterizations are weaker than ever.
It’s instructive to compare this brilliant but somehow hollow affair with “The Head and the Load,” Kentridge’s monumental theatrical tribute to African soldiers who served in the Great War. It played at the Park Avenue Armory at the end of 2018; I saw it in Amsterdam last May. Many of the same visual tropes were employed in that production, yet its episodic, pageantlike structure proved a better counterweight to Kentridge’s thematic obsessions. In “Wozzeck,” his agenda is too often at cross-purposes with that of Berg, for whom psychology was everything.
The one singer who held his own amid the swirl of images was the tenor Gerhard Siegel, who delivered the part of the Captain with cartoonish flair and precisely biting diction. He was, perhaps not incidentally, the cast’s only native German speaker. Mattei and van den Heever both sang superbly, but the blunt force of Büchner’s language didn’t always register. I had similar reservations about the conducting of Yannick Nézet-Séguin. He showed unerring command of Berg’s devilishly difficult score, but he dispatched it too cleanly and efficiently. His pristine account of the final interlude failed to convey its melancholy collapse into the Mahlerian past. In all, this was a “Wozzeck” lacking in both horror and humanity.
The day after Thanksgiving, the young Norwegian soprano Lise Davidsen made her Met début, as Lisa in Tchaikovsky’s “The Queen of Spades.” I caught up with her performance a couple of weeks later, and had no serious argument with colleagues who had acclaimed her as one of the strongest dramatic voices to have arrived at the house in many years. Davidsen, equipped with both silver-bright top notes and a warmly expressive, mezzo-like lower range, has the elemental gift of being able to fill the gigantic Met auditorium with rich, blazing tone. Such effortless force has not been often heard at Lincoln Center since the retirement of Birgit Nilsson, the most superhuman of singing Scandinavians.
Davidsen has been performing opera for less than ten years, and so far her voice is more impressive as a technical phenomenon than as a fully musical one. Each pitch gleams perfectly in place, but in “The Queen of Spades” she seldom shaped the notes into authoritative phrases or paragraphs. In this respect, she reminds me of the young Deborah Voigt, who made a prodigious first impression at the Met in the early nineteen-nineties but never quite delivered the theatrical goods. Davidsen appears destined for a major career singing Wagner and Strauss, but to fulfill that promise she will need to articulate texts more sharply than she does on her début recording, on the Decca label. That said, the power of her voice is an event in itself, and it is the kind of power that sacrifices nothing in the way of beauty. Even more notably, Davidsen intersperses displays of force with delicate lyrical strokes. This was the wonder of her Act III monologue in “The Queen of Spades,” in which she averts her gaze from the darkness consuming her lover. Greater wonders presumably await. ♦


newyorker--2020-01-06--DJ Shadow’s Sonic Archeology

DJ Shadow’s Sonic Archeology

Almost all art , even a lot of the good stuff , is ephemeral : toil , creation , then oblivion .
Take the 1974 suspense film “ Juggernaut , ” starring Anthony Hopkins and Omar Sharif .
It ’ s not “ Casablanca , ” but it ’ s a neat little thriller .
Remember “ Juggernaut ” ?
Of course you don ’ t .
And if Omar Sharif ’ s work can fade into obscurity what hope remains for everyone else ?
On his new album , “ Our Pathetic Age , ” Josh Davis , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ offered some hope for everyone else ( and for Omar Sharif ) .
Midway through the album is a song made entirely out of four words from “ Juggernaut , ” modulated , tweaked , and repeated over and over .
Davis is the godfather of sampling : layering bits of song and sounds atop bits of other songs and sounds to make an original work—a musical collage .
One song on his 1996 album , “ Endtroducing , ” is carried by a piano riff he found on a 1970 album by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ percussion from a high-school-band record .
“ If it ’ s got quality , even if it takes twenty , thirty , forty , fifty , sixty years , eventually it ’ ll get its place in the sun , ” Davis said the other day .
“ D.j.s , they kind of right the balance over time.
” He was sleuthing through the archives of music and recorded sound at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts , where , perhaps , his latest work of resurrection lay hidden among @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the boxes of Korean folk music , or a recording made at a convention of mobile-home dealers in Kentucky .
He was outfitted as an urban archeologist : rain jacket , backpack , San Francisco Giants hat , and the air of someone who ’ s made enough discoveries to know not to expect one .
Davis was accompanied by Jonathan Hiam , the archive ’ s curator , who had long black hair and wore a green suède blazer .
As Hiam showed him around , Davis pulled out a few sleeves @ @ @ @ @ @ @ produced by Chocolate Mama Records , by Ron Seagram , who ’ s described on the cover as the “ Sophisticated Soul Man.
” “ You can tell by his cool glasses , ” Davis said .
He kept it for later .
The archives live in rows and rows of shelving in the basement of the library , at Lincoln Center .
The eight hundred thousand albums , cylinder recordings , and snippets of spoken word make up a great deal of the history of recorded music , and recorded sound in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , one is reminded that it ’ s not so easy to find the quality .
Most music that gets recorded , with a few notable exceptions—Cher , early Weezer , Lizzo—is bad .
“ I ’ m known for championing certain artists that maybe didn ’ t get the amount of attention they should have , ” Davis said .
“ But sometimes it ’ s a challenge to literally just find a record , stop , and then do something with it .
Sometimes you can get incredible things .
Sometimes @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said , “ Last night , my colleague Jessica found all these Donny Osmond albums in German.
” Davis looked unmoved .
Nein , danke , Herr Osmond .
The search continued .
An album called “ Farmer ’ s Daughter , ” by a band called the Keyes , which had collaborated with Brian Wilson , looked promising .
Davis nabbed it .
A few years ago , Davis ’ s collection numbered sixty thousand records .
He also has lots of CDs , but , for him , there is something @ @ @ @ @ @ @ record in the acetate section and sniffed .
“ Palmitic acid , ” Hiam said .
It smelled like an old library .
Ahh .
“ My friend and I wanted to make a cologne called Acetate for Men , ” Davis said .
Digital may smell like burned royalties , but it doesn ’ t take up space .
The library staff calculated that each foot of shelved lacquer records weighs a hundred and sixteen pounds—roughly , one Prince per foot .
The shelves are movable , opening and closing with a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a turn .
The corridor where Davis had just stood began to close , like the trash compactor in “ Star Wars.
” “ I was in a record-store basement in Sacramento once , and the records were stacked in pillars , ” Davis said .
“ Eight feet high .
I was going through a stack , and the weight of a bunch of pillars started to shift against me , and , for a moment , I thought , Oh , that ’ s the end.
” Davis grabbed a final @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Then he retreated to the safety of the playback room , a space stuffed with ancient record players , VCRs , and reel-to-reel tape decks .
“ The guy who fixes them goes by the name Midnight Bob , ” Hiam said .
“ Fixes stuff all over the city .
He ’ s got a mullet and a mesh muscle shirt.
” A technician played Davis ’ s picks .
The Keyes were a dud .
The Sophisticated Soul Man delivered some decent adult contemporary .
But it was a weird @ @ @ @ @ @ @ final hope .
When the needle dropped , a delicate choral arrangement purred .
Davis looked intrigued .
“ You can take a split second of these voices and turn it into a symphony , ” he said .

DJ Shadow Illustration by João Fazenda
Almost all art, even a lot of the good stuff, is ephemeral: toil, creation, then oblivion. Take the 1974 suspense film “Juggernaut,” starring Anthony Hopkins and Omar Sharif. It’s not “Casablanca,” but it’s a neat little thriller. Remember “Juggernaut”? Of course you don’t. And if Omar Sharif’s work can fade into obscurity what hope remains for everyone else?
On his new album, “Our Pathetic Age,” Josh Davis, the musical artist known as DJ Shadow, offered some hope for everyone else (and for Omar Sharif). Midway through the album is a song made entirely out of four words from “Juggernaut,” modulated, tweaked, and repeated over and over. Davis is the godfather of sampling: layering bits of song and sounds atop bits of other songs and sounds to make an original work—a musical collage. One song on his 1996 album, “Endtroducing,” is carried by a piano riff he found on a 1970 album by an unknown messianic rabbi/pianist, paced by percussion from a high-school-band record.
“If it’s got quality, even if it takes twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty years, eventually it’ll get its place in the sun,” Davis said the other day. “D.j.s, they kind of right the balance over time.” He was sleuthing through the archives of music and recorded sound at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts, where, perhaps, his latest work of resurrection lay hidden among the private collection of Lou Reed, the boxes of Korean folk music, or a recording made at a convention of mobile-home dealers in Kentucky. He was outfitted as an urban archeologist: rain jacket, backpack, San Francisco Giants hat, and the air of someone who’s made enough discoveries to know not to expect one.
Davis was accompanied by Jonathan Hiam, the archive’s curator, who had long black hair and wore a green suède blazer. As Hiam showed him around, Davis pulled out a few sleeves. One was a 1987 album, produced by Chocolate Mama Records, by Ron Seagram, who’s described on the cover as the “Sophisticated Soul Man.” “You can tell by his cool glasses,” Davis said. He kept it for later.
The archives live in rows and rows of shelving in the basement of the library, at Lincoln Center. The eight hundred thousand albums, cylinder recordings, and snippets of spoken word make up a great deal of the history of recorded music, and recorded sound in general. Perusing the space at random, one is reminded that it’s not so easy to find the quality. Most music that gets recorded, with a few notable exceptions—Cher, early Weezer, Lizzo—is bad. “I’m known for championing certain artists that maybe didn’t get the amount of attention they should have,” Davis said. “But sometimes it’s a challenge to literally just find a record, stop, and then do something with it. Sometimes you can get incredible things. Sometimes you can waste four hours.”
Hiam said, “Last night, my colleague Jessica found all these Donny Osmond albums in German.” Davis looked unmoved. Nein, danke, Herr Osmond. The search continued. An album called “Farmer’s Daughter,” by a band called the Keyes, which had collaborated with Brian Wilson, looked promising. Davis nabbed it.
A few years ago, Davis’s collection numbered sixty thousand records. He also has lots of CDs, but, for him, there is something about analog. He picked up a record in the acetate section and sniffed.
“Palmitic acid,” Hiam said. It smelled like an old library. Ahh.
“My friend and I wanted to make a cologne called Acetate for Men,” Davis said.
Digital may smell like burned royalties, but it doesn’t take up space. The library staff calculated that each foot of shelved lacquer records weighs a hundred and sixteen pounds—roughly, one Prince per foot. The shelves are movable, opening and closing with a giant crank. Hiam gave the crank a turn. The corridor where Davis had just stood began to close, like the trash compactor in “Star Wars.”
“I was in a record-store basement in Sacramento once, and the records were stacked in pillars,” Davis said. “Eight feet high. I was going through a stack, and the weight of a bunch of pillars started to shift against me, and, for a moment, I thought, Oh, that’s the end.”
Davis grabbed a final record, a band-camp recording from 1972. Then he retreated to the safety of the playback room, a space stuffed with ancient record players, VCRs, and reel-to-reel tape decks. “The guy who fixes them goes by the name Midnight Bob,” Hiam said. “Fixes stuff all over the city. He’s got a mullet and a mesh muscle shirt.”
A technician played Davis’s picks. The Keyes were a dud. The Sophisticated Soul Man delivered some decent adult contemporary. But it was a weird vibe—old-person sexy.
Band camp was the final hope. When the needle dropped, a delicate choral arrangement purred. Davis looked intrigued. “You can take a split second of these voices and turn it into a symphony,” he said.
The chorus began singing, softly, “Hallelujah!” ♦