In the last few days, the New York Philharmonic has been conducted by Iván Fischer, the Hungarian. He is one of the Fabulous Fischer Brothers, the other being Ádám, also a conductor. Iván’s program with the Philharmonic consisted of Mozart on the first half and the Fischers’ fellow Hungarian, Béla Bartók, on the second.
I attended Saturday night’s concert.
The program began with an overture (a good way to begin): that to The Magic Flute. The orchestra started almost together. They were mainly together throughout the overture. This was not the crispest music-making but neither was it sloppy.
Maestro Fischer was natural and judicious in tempo. In the wind fanfares—“announcements”? “statements”?—he took an inordinate amount of time. I had never heard those rests so extended. But this conductor knows what he is doing, I have no doubt.
Exceptionally good in the overture were the dynamics: un-staid and un-stagnant. And Fischer handled Mozart’s syncopation with savvy and flair.
Do you recall a line by Meredith Willson (in his Music Man)? “This elegant syncopation.”
Before moving on, I would like to jot a sartorial note. Most conductors dress in tails or black pajamas (that Mao suit that dominates the classical-music industry). Iván Fischer dressed in neither. He had on, it appeared from my seat, a jacket and slacks, with a tie.
And the evening’s soloist had on a smashing gown, yellow and blue—the colors of the Ukrainian flag. For several years, she has dressed this way. She was born in the Soviet Union. Clearly, she is expressing solidarity.
I am speaking of Lisa Batiashvili, the Georgian violinist. Her concerto on this occasion was Mozart’s No. 5, the “Turkish.”
At the outset, she was not her best self. Her intonation was iffy. Making matters worse, some French-horn onsets were terribly blunt. But thereafter, all was excellent, certainly from Batiashvili.
She is a model of taste. That may make her sound boring. No, she is full of verve: tasteful, musical verve. From her bow came a stream of beautiful, characterful Mozart.
When she began the cadenza, I thought, What the . . .?, and checked our program booklet. This is what I read: “a cadenza written by Tsotne Zedginidze, a 15-year-old composer/pianist from Georgia who is a participant in the Lisa Batiashvili Foundation.” It is a wonderful, imaginative cadenza, employing modernist touches while observing the spirit of the concerto.
In the middle movement, Adagio, Batiashvili exhibited unforced beauty and the gift of simplicity. (You remember the Shaker hymn, “’Tis a gift to be simple.”) She breathed right, and so did Mr. Fischer and the orchestra.
So much of music is breathing, isn’t it?
As a rule, rondos are quick, but Mozart marks his rondo in this concerto “Tempo di Menuetto.” So it was, from our forces. Ms. Batiashvili conveyed a touch of the dance, a touch of the Gypsy—and, when the time came, a touch of the Turk.
The “Turkish” Concerto does not end flashily. It ends matter-of-factly. Therefore, the applause is usually modest. It was, in David Geffen Hall. Yet it was sustained. Batiashvili was called back repeatedly and could have played an encore—but she demurred.
There is something classy about that. Encores after concertos have become de rigueur, and all too.
After intermission, there was a single work: The Wooden Prince, Bartók’s pantomime ballet (or ballet d’action) from 1917. Before giving the downbeat, Maestro Fischer took a microphone and began to speak to the audience. What the . . .? This is an American disease, not a European. Iván Fischer is not supposed to do this. Here on our shores, every concert is a concert-lecture—whether you want it to be or not.
Fischer began by saying something like this: “You are about to hear a ballet score, a masterpiece.” Oh, no, I thought. He is going to engage in special pleading, about a work by a composer from his country. Does Bartók really need it?
But that was not Fischer’s purpose. He wanted to explain to the audience that they would see stage directions, projected on a screen overhead. They could follow the story that way. Now the Prince is pouting; now the Princess is preening. They could imagine the dancing and be their “own director.”
Fischer’s remarks were brief and apt. No harm done.
But I thought, Oh, come on. Are the stage directions really necessary? Can’t music carry the day? We don’t put up stage directions for The Firebird, do we? Or for Romeo and Juliet. Or for Swan Lake. Or for . . .
I really grumbled (internally). But, you know? It was a good idea, these projections. As they followed the story, the audience laughed, murmured, and sighed.
Of course, they could have followed the story via the music as well. This performance was colorful and vivid. It had a keen sense of rhythm. It had some outstanding individual playing, too. This ballet can seem a concerto for orchestra. (Did Bartók write one of those?)
Anthony McGill was stylish on his clarinet. Ryan Roberts was stylish on his English horn. Carter Brey was the same—and aristocratic—on his cello.
Not often do you get to hear The Wooden Prince—even in suite form, to say nothing of complete, as offered by the New York Phil—and Fischer et al. did it justice.
It is not my practice to critique audiences. But, immediately after the Bartók, many people streamed to the exits. A reader recently told me that he had heard a term from Sir Colin Davis, the late conductor: a “standing evacuation.” David Geffen Hall witnessed one on Saturday night.
Maestro Fischer did not ask principal players to stand, for solo bows. Why? I think he sensed that the applause was so weak, there would not be enough to accompany the exercise.
Frankly—and if you don’t want frankness, don’t consult these reviews—I felt a little ashamed.
