Anthony Hopkins releases his first CD, Composer, next week in the UK on the Classic FM label. You can hear all nine tracks in their entirety on the Telegraph’s website starting today, however. It’s easy to write off such discs as these in the same category as classical attempts by Billy Joel and Paul McCartney, but I find something rather beguiling about Hopkins’s compositional style. There’s a clear trajectory in the 5 minutes of Orpheus, and it takes the time to navigate from Hans Zimmer to Richard Strauss in bombastic brass and soothing chorals, a sort of Hollywood-esque Confutatis and Voca Me in the Mozart Requiem. Hopkins moves into lusher, more Romantic territory in the warm cello work Stella, before going full folk in Evesham Fair. Perhaps And the Waltz Goes On treads too far into cliche, but it’s no less enjoyable to hear alongside organ-tainted Amerika and the full-length, three-movement 1947. What I can’t stop listening to on this gloomy, wet day, however, is Margam, a piece that belies Hopkins’s history as a broody thesp (with some tinseltown violins thrown in for added glamor), one who left me enthralled after his performance in the BBC’s miniseries adaptation of War & Peace.

It may not be the most profound thing you’ll hear all year—especially coming the day after I marvelled to the multiculti assemblage of solo harp works performed by Bridget Kibbey at (Le) Poisson Rouge last night (she repeats the concert on Sunday, go if you haven’t already…and even if you have)—but I wouldn’t mind seeing Hopkins’s name on a New York Philharmonic program, perhaps cozied up to some more 20- and 30-something composers, per Zachary Woolfe’s emphatic and essential New York Times piece.

Photo: Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

I’ll freely admit that I went to the Met’s revival of Tosca last night (in descending order of importance) to finally see Roberto Alagna sing an Italian role live and in person, rekindle my love for Patricia Racette’s Puccini prowess and experience the continuing Finnish invasion with conductor Mikko Franck’s Met debut.

All three of those elements held up in spades—Alagna’s “Vittoria”s didn’t disappoint, Franck held a sure hand over the orchestra and Racette unfurled an entire galaxy in her “Vissi d’arte”—but what stuck with me most was, unexpectedly, tenor Joel Sorensen’s Spoleta (pictured, with George Gagnidze as Scarpia). Spoleta is one of those roles that fascinates me, because he has so few lines but plays such an essential part. There wasn’t anything particularly revelatory in Sorensen’s interpretation, but he was no less mesmerizing to watch. His is a Spoleta intoxicated by power and sadism, gleefully signaling Cavaradossi’s torturers to continue and looking as let down as a pauper boy on Christmas morning when Scarpia calls a halt. Whether it was planned or not, he took no fewer than three spills, being thrown across the stage by Scarpia, falling down the stairs in Act II and tripping up the steps leading to the roof in Act III (I’d say the roof of the Castel San’Angelo, but no one needs to reiterate the point that this production is more “Blah, Tosca” than “Va, Tosca”) and made each one look convincing.

Like most of the audience members, Sorensen is almost developmentally disabled around his employer’s prostitutes, but then sneaks some lascivious sniffs of Tosca as she enters. There’s a lot going on in that second act from the three leads, and to compete with not only that but the dismally-dull menstrual and lavatorial set of piss yellow, shit brown and blood red and remain one of the most intriguing visual aspects of the performance is no mean feat. I often wonder if Spoleta is happy with his lot in life or not, and here Sorensen made us see how disturbingly enamored he was of his work, even if his inability to shrewdly see the big picture would prevent him from ever rising to Scarpia levels of power. It was like watching Hannibal Lecter as a Roman lackey. It may even be enough or me to watch this production again on DVD.

Photo: Marty Sohl/Metropolitan Opera

In a bit of a reversal of the recent Ocean Marketing fiasco, Prospero Bertani (whose descendants are surely now Metropolitan Opera subscribers) wrote to Giuseppe Verdi on May 10, 1782, requesting a refund for his expenses to see Aida. Upon the first viewing, he wrote: “I admired the scenery, listened with great pleasure to the excellent singers, and took great pains to let nothing escape me. After the performance was over, I asked myself whether I was satisfied. The answer was in the negative.” Upon a second viewing, he said “It will fill the theatre a few more times and then gather dust in the archives.”

Verdi’s response was to reimburse Bertrani for his two tickets (“This isn’t the entire sum for which asks me, but… to pay for his dinner too! No. He could very well have eaten at home!!!” he writes to his publisher), noting that in return he expected from Bertrani “a receipt for that sum and a note, by which he promises never again to go to hear my new operas, to avoid for himself the danger of other specters and for me the farce of paying him for another trip.” He saw to it that the letter was published in several newspapers.

The best part is Bertrani’s response: “If Maestro Verdi reimburses me, this means that he has found what I wrote fim to be correct.”

The full exchange can be read at Letters of Note. Aida continues to gather dust this spring at the Met, with a recent casting change announced for Marcelo Álvarez’s final few appearances in the run being shared by Riccardo Massì and Marcello Giordani.

(In other news: Hi, it’s 2012 and I’m going to make a better commitment to the newly rechristened Daily Klang before the world ends in 11 months.)

In coming up with a name for her first, all-Bach, Sony recording, pianist Simone Dinnerstein turned to the Francis Bacon chestnut that “there is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.” Bach is for sure a strange beauty. But last night at Caramoor, I couldn’t help but think that the same contention exemplifies the ending of Rossini’s Guillaume Tell—a premonition of Wagner’s Rheingold finale, if not the fertile grounds for ripping off: Philip Gossett’s illuminating program notes reveal an exchange between Wagner and Rossini in which Wagner describes Tell’s aria, “Sois immobile,” as a work that “accentuating each word and sustained by the breathing strokes of the violoncellos, reached the highest summits of lyric expression.” Rossini replied, “So I made music of the future without knowing it,” to which Wagner responded, “There, Maestro, you made music for all time. And that is the best.”

Baritone Daniel Mobbs, a longtime stalwart of the Caramoor/City Opera scene, gave a star turn in the title role of Tell. Stylish and virile, he was a riveting and dedicated presence for nearly the full four hours it takes to get from iconic overture to luscious finale. Mobbs’s website is a treasure trove of audio samples, including this galvanizing account of “Normal, il predisse, o Druidi” from Norma, which should be required listening for every Saturday morning coffee.

Even with a few hiccoughs throughout the evening (owing in part, one can only assume, to the oddly dry air in Katonah last night), there was no weak link in the cast. Like Mobbs, soprano Julianna Di Giacomo commanded the stage, leaving the audience breathless after her Act II entrance aria “Sombre forêt,” and forming one third of the triumvirate in Act IV’s gleaming trio, alongside the earth-shaking mezzo Vanessa Cariddi as Tell’s Swiss miss(us) and Olympian soprano Talise Trevigne as their son, Jemmy. Michael Spyres continues to gain ground in the States for his sweetly lyrical tenor (though, as my colleague Steve Smith noted in his Times review, seemed stiff in comparison to his fellow castmates). All credit, too, goes to Will Crutchfield, the Orchestra of St. Luke’s and Caramoor’s chorus, who tirelessly sailed through the killer score with an archer’s precision.

One question remains: Per last night’s libretto and supertitles, Jemmy alerts his compatriots to battle by SETTING HIS PARENTS’ HOUSE ON FIRE. I mean, it’s all well and good that a new era dawns for the unoppressed Swiss and that Tell survives his death sentence and the tenor and soprano get to reunite (I guess? That wasn’t really addressed, but Grove tells me it is so). But it kind of sucks that after such a crazy day Tell can’t go back to his house, kick up his feet and lay into some fondue and chocolates. The Borgias would never have burned their own house down.

Yum.

My colleague Brian Wise wrote an article for WQXR today on one of my favourite films for this Oscar season, The King’s Speech, noting that—if it takes Best Picture—it will be the first winner since Platoon to feature classical music as an integral part of the soundtrack. Personally, I think the actual score for the film (by cutie French composer Alexandre Desplat who also scored Girl With a Pearl Earring, The Queen, Fantastic Mr. Fox and The Twilight Saga: New Moon) sings on its own, but there’s nothing so chilling and stirring as the stuttering Colin Firth finally making his eponymous oration with the beat of the Allegretto from Beethoven’s 7th making a stiff-upper-lip, dirge-like march into the heart of the film’s climax. Wise covers the controversy surrounding the use of Beethoven in the score under the pretext that the Austrian composer was much loved and used by the Nazi party (as was Mozart, whose Clarinet Concerto factors into TKS). It is, granted, ironic; but not inappropriate. Happenstance read too far into by critics programmed to find such idiosyncrasies and blow them out of proportion. Had Wagner or Richard Strauss been used, now that would be another story.

The second movement of Beethoven’s 7th is a well-played dramatic gem. My biggest criticism with the film’s use of it would be that it is borderline overdone. But the problem is, every time it’s used, I feel like it’s just used so well. Beethoven, perhaps because of his faults and shortcomings, passion and rage, cuts into the heart of the human experience and does so in a hugely cinematic way. Moreover, that beginning rhythm of quarter and eighth notes so eloquently mirrors Colin Firth’s stammer. It’s no surprise that Geoffrey Rush’s character would have chosen that slowed-down version of a speech pattern to pipe into HRH’s ears.

The symphony, as a celebration—as the Grove Dictionary puts it—of the “symphonic ideal,” covers a spectrum of emotions that, prior to the “Eroica,” would have been parceled out between four separate orchestral works. To quote Grove, the Seventh “to create the impression of a psychological journey or growth process. In the course of this, something seems to arrive or triumph or transcend.” Not only that, but the Allegretto movement is a fugal piece that builds upon the same cluster of notes and rhythmic structure while still scaling an emotional summit. Perhaps its simplicity and gravity is what makes it a popular choice in soundtracks. It’s not as flashy or popular as the Fifth or Ninth, which works in its favour. Once you hear those first notes of the Fifth or the “An die freude” of the Ninth, forget about focusing what’s going on onscreen (unless it’s a performance of either aforementioned symphony).

There is, first and foremost, the classic from the Beethoven biopic Immortal Beloved (here it starts at 3:13). I love the full crescendo as Karl van Beethoven shoots himself and Gary Oldman’s Beethoven—as if on some cosmic connection to his son—winces in pain. It’s a low point for both men and the music enhances it without overpowering:

One of my other fav films, Tarsem’s The Fall, uses it for a vivid and dream-like trailer. The film itself is a ballet and the trailer is choreographed impeccably to those pulsating eighth and quarter notes. I love the part where the little girl says “You always stop at the same part, when it’s very beautiful,” it’s almost a sly little metaphor for the breaks in the score for dialogue. In just a little over 2 minutes, The Fall’s trailer matches the horror, beauty and imagination of the Allegretto, note-for-note.

Another classic is Mr. Holland’s Opus, which I remember made me and all of the other band geeks cry in 7th grade. When you start learning about irony, this film hits home—especially in the scene (here at 1:45 in) where Richard Dreyfuss explains to his music students about Beethoven being deaf (after learning about his own son’s deafness). I haven’t watched this movie in over a decade, but in rewatching this clip just now, I forgot how misty I got when Dreyfuss chokes out: “Well, Beethoven wasn’t born deaf.” Oh, the pathos… Also: Love how it goes right from Beethoven into John Lennon. Now there’s a connection.

On a grander scale of tragedy, and for those whose tastes veer into science fiction, the recent flick Knowing pairs the Allegretto with people fleeing THE END OF THE WORLD. And Nicolas Cage driving. The quietness of the movement is a great overlay to the chaos of the impending Armageddon.

This is, of course, a small handful from what can be grabbed off YouTube. The 80s biopic Frances (starring Jessica Lange) is a famous example of use, as was the 1974 sci-fi flick Zardoz, which featured a post-Bond Sean Connery. The Seventh has had play in Wes Anderson films (The Darjeeling Limited), an episode of Seinfeld (“The Maestro”) and even a Karloff-Lugosi classic, The Black Cat which, produced in 1934, is most likely the first use of the work (heard below at 7:35). The central fugal theme of the Allegretto is even mimicked in the organ music played during the satanic ritual.

Hard to think that can be bested. But, over nearly 75 years, the competition has been fierce.

I went to New York City Ballet this afternoon for a late 20th- early 21st-century quadruple bill of works by Benjamin Millepied/David Lang, Christopher Wheeldon/Arvo Pärt, and Peter Martins with both Esa Pekka Salonen and John Adams. I’d actually seen all but the Millepied/Lang, which was my main impetus for going and, sadly yet thankfully it was the first piece. I’ve seen chamber works done by NYCB before, and in the State/Koch Theater—look no further than Jerome Robbins’s Goldberg Variations (which, admittedly, has a full cast dancing to solo piano). However, I don’t think the sheer size of the State/Koch has truly hit me until today as I struggled to surrender to the masterful music and movement that formed Millepied and Lang’s Plainspoken.

Photo: Paul Kolnik

True, part of it is Fourth Ring. It’s always a zoo and it’s always a mixed bag on a matinee—especially when you’re perched at the top in row M. On some days such as today, sitting up there is akin to spending a couple of hours in Target. People have conversations at normal volume, kids fidget and get up for walks, cell phones go off…one enterprising parent decided Target was too good and went full Wal Mart with some McDonald’s that she fed to her little one during Wheeldon’s After the Rain. There was just no enjoying nothing up there. I left after the first intermission.

But it’s not just the people’s fault. When your theater seats 2,586 like the Koch or 3,995 like the Met, there is going to be a reasonably high proportion of talkers, munchers and cell phonies. And chances are high that they’re going to be cashing in on the $20 cheap seats. And yes, in those rare sell-out performances (like NYCB’s well-timed run of Swan Lake this month), there is a good financial incentive to have a house as large as the Koch, but does it really balance out? How many house employees does it take for each performance? In the interest of full disclosure and a point of fact, I used to work for the Koch when it was still the New York State Theater, as an usher in fact. In the early 2000s, we averaged about $35 a performance and there were probably 30 or so ushers working each night (though fewer after the seating rush). For just the ushers that’s about $1050 a performance, or 52.5 seats in fourth ring. Now that’s sort of a pittance next to 2,586, but that’s also just the ushers—some of the lowest men and women on the theatre’s totem pole. I would be really interested to learn how a sold out performance correlates into a company’s finances. Looking on the other end of the spectrum, the average ticket at (Le) Poisson Rouge is about $15 to $20 and, while the club holds a comparatively paltry 800 people (and not, I imagine, all in the main room at once) I would imagine that they have proportionally far fewer operating costs than the Koch. And the fewer people, the more mellow a setting. Even at a place like LPR, where there’s a buzzing bar and table service for crunchy comestibles like nachos, the atmosphere is still relatively more quiet and focused on the art at hand.

You have something bigger than life, like The Nutcracker or the Ring Cycle, and you’re kind of in business with the stadium-style seatings. Kind of. Even with a perfect audience (like those I sat with in the Met’s Family Circle for Nixon in China), the sheer size, the too-big-to-fail aura, left me cold. I think even had the Koch been dead silent this afternoon, it would have taken some yogi-level concentration to feel like a part of the performance. Even at $20, what I’m looking for is a small fashion boutique as opposed to a big-box sweatpants store; otherwise I might as well go see Just Go With It. At least the concessions stand there takes credit cards and gives me something substantial for $8.

The problem is the real complication and conflict between message and reality on the part of companies like NYCB. This season, the company used photos by Henry Leutwyler for an American-Apparel–esque ad campaign aimed directly toward the casual and sexy downtown hipsters that every arts organization wants in its fold. Executive director Katherine E. Brown told the Wall Street Journal back in September that the ad campaign was an attempt to “project the personal and the human side of these really exceptional artists,” swapping tutus for rehearsal clothes. Brown added, “It was clear that making a stronger connection between the audience and the artist is something that would deeply enhance the audience experience and break down the veil between the artist and the audience.”

Personally, I love the ad campaign, but I don’t love the subsequent experience I have in the theater. I feel no connection to the artists when I have to stare down 13 rows of disengaged audience members who are treating the theater like their personal Starbucks. I feel no connection to the artists when they’re engulfed by the sheer vastness of the performance hall. I feel no connection to the artists when I feel like I’m in third class on the Titanic just because I didn’t have more than a Jackson to drop on a ticket. Critics of NYCB’s new ad campaign worried about how showing dancers without fake eyelashes and tiaras would destroy some of the magic? How about sitting near an upper-level restroom where you can hear the toilet backing up mid-performance, or having to shield your eyes from the glare of the light grid?

Photo: New York Times

I wouldn’t be getting long-winded about this had it just been an isolated incident, and I hate feeling so cranky over the idea that the arts are thriving to the point where a Saturday matinee for the City Ballet is so well sold (at least in the upper sections). But I felt the same thing at Nixon next door, and I feel the same way every time I have to qualify my argument that cheap seats to the opera and ballet exist—”but they’re up in K2.” How many friends I have brought or sent to a show only to have them leave disappointed because they felt excluded sitting up in Fourth Ring or Family Circle. How many of those same friends have been well satisfied with performances at Zankel Hall or Galapagos Art Space. Call me cranky. Call me elitist. Call me Eurotrash for saying that the houses of Germany and Austria have the upper hand for seating an average of 1500—over half of the Met’s seating capacity. But I think we’re Morgan Spurlocking ourselves at the expense of the art and the enjoyment of the average concert- opera- or ballet-goer. A 2,500-seat theater isn’t the place to showcase a pas-de-deux set to chamber music by Arvo Pärt, and a 4,000-seat theater doesn’t really suit a radically intimate opera by John Adams. It pleases the big-ticket (no pun intended) buyers on orchestra and first ring/parterre level and ignores those sitting in the rafters.

And maybe I just have a very big case of the Fuck-Its, but I say tear it down like the Berlin Wall. I realize the Koch just underwent significant renovations (I guess the Tea Party is good for something?). I realize that did a huge improvement to the theater, particularly for New York City Opera’s residency. But fuck it. Cut the theater in half and put in a restaurant that doesn’t taste like hospital cafeteria fare. Move the administrative offices up from the basement—natural light will do a hell of a lot for employee morale. Or move all of the operations to a place that isn’t such a wasteland for everything besides theater. Because the alternative, as I saw it this afternoon, is our cultural center of the city lying in a hospital bed drinking two gallons of soda per day and going in for gastric bypass surgery. In this country, that kind of an alternative is an epidemic.