Another update
Jan. 31st, 2005 04:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tarigwaemirBlair Hall Apts., on the Feast of St. John Bosco
I spent Friday watching all the movies that Tryogeru lent me. My mother had been terribly excited about watching Farewell My Concubine because she had heard about the film before as a brilliant work of Chinese cinematography. However, she apparently had not heard about the homosexual innuendoes in the film, which soon made her a little uncomfortable. She stopped watching halfway through the movie. I think though what really alienated her was the Beijing opera itself. I think it's hard for foreigners to really appreciate it, although perhaps it might be easier for the Japanese with their Noh and Kabuki tradition. (Pansori, that is Korean folk opera, is narrated by a soloist accompanied by a drummer, and thus doesn't quite have the same parallel. It is musical but not theatrical.) I didn't really get it either. >_> I suppose pansori would sound equally strange to the Chinese--heck, it sounds strange to modern Koreans, I bet. Anyway, I still liked the movie, accessibility of Beijing opera aside, and both Mother and I agree that Leslie Cheung is very attractive. Although I can't quite fangirl over him the way Tryo-chan does. ^_~
실미도 (Silmido) was nothing short of incredible. I have to admit that at first I was kind of pessimistic about the movie because it starts off as the typical military thriller about the North-South conflict. Men training under harsh, violent conditions, with cruel superiors who have little concern for ethics or human rights, all in the name of patriotism, blah blah blah. I found it vaguely disgusting, but then again, I didn't know what to expect. (My parents on the other hand did know what to expect because they had been living in Korea at the time of the Silmido incident and had seen it on the news.)
Silmido tells the story of a secret military troop formed for the sole purpose of infiltrating North Korea to assassinate Kim Il Sung. The soldiers are all former convicts who had the choice of either facing a death sentence or fighting for their country--if they succeeded in their mission, their crimes would be erased from the records and they would be hailed as national heroes, or so their superiors promise. The troop undergoes rigorous, horrendous training, with each man being directly supervised by an Air Force soldier. Despite the conditions they suffer, they are reinvigorated by their new sense of pride in their hardships and the slim but possible hope for a future. When one of them gets injured during a training session, he begs not to be sent away, to stay in the training hell. Once they had been the scum of society; now they were soldiers, the best soldiers, and they felt invincible.
But on the night when they were finally about to carry out their mission of assassination, the orders were recalled. Politics now favored a diplomatic approach to relations with the North, and the secret troop of former death row inmates was now an embarrassment. For two years, the soldiers stagnated on their training island, growing increasingly restless and uncontrollable. Their direct superior begged to have them incorporated into the army or even sent to Vietnam rather than be useless, but the government was afraid that the truth about Silmido would be revealed to the international community, which would shame the South Korean government and endanger the talks with the North. Finally, they order that the troop be eliminated by the very Air Force soldiers who trained them--if they refused, then everyone on the island would be killed. However, the troop finds out about the orders and decide that it's better to kill than be killed. They kill all their superiors--with whom they had formed friendships over the years--and escape the island. They hijack a bus and drive to Seoul, in hopes of letting the truth be known. However, the government calls them Communists and sends the army against them. They die, in despair, betrayed by the country that they had hoped to serve.
The troop was first formed under the aegis of President Park Chung Hee, and the incident occurred during the rule of his successor. It's difficult to remember, of course, that South Korea was not a democracy until the election of Kim Young Sam in 1993, and all previous presidents for the most part were dictators. What pisses me off when American leaders talk so self-righteously about spreading democracy throughout the world is that, well, that is the result of "spreading democracy": a series of dictators, supported by American troops and money, committing outrages until internal dissent grows strong enough to oust them. South Korea was the "democratic" bastion against the Communist North Korea, but the only difference between the two governments until recently was that one was capitalist and didn't starve its people while the other did. What the U.S. really cares about is not worldwide democracy but having an international community that will cooperate with its economic and military interests. And there's nothing necessarily wrong with that! But when the simple truth is that actions taken by the U.S. make or break nations, the tone of moral superiority is hardly going to endear you to the countries who have to deal with the consequences. >_< And that concludes the political discussion for today.
On Saturday, my mother and I went to see Puccini's Turandot at the Metropolitan Opera. You may recall me mentioning the opera buff grandfather at our church who bought us the tickets; what I didn't know then was that he had obtained seats on the third floor. There are five balconies above ground level, and prior to this performance we had always bought tickets on the fifth, since only the worst seats were affordable--it is, after all, the Metropolitan Opera House--and even then, only barely within the limits of our spending pockets. (Fifth is called Family Circle, first is called Dress Circle, and ground is, not surprisingly, called Orchestra, if I recall correctly. I don't what the third or any other level is called because until now I'd never even imagined that I would be able to get a seat there.) The closeness of the stage was absolutely thrilling, and with my binoculars, I could even see the makeup on the performers' faces. And I could actually see the conductor enter the pit this time; usually we crane our heads and wait for the cue of other people's applause because it's nearly impossible from the fifth level to see the orchestra unless you're in the very first row of the balcony.
As for the performance, once again, I have to say that there's a world of difference in viewing a production on screen and on stage. The grandfather lent us a DVD of the same production of Turandot, first designed by Zeffirelli about ten years ago. We watched the DVD last month, so the set, costumes and choreography this time around were all extremely familiar. Also, I've listened to the opera about ten or twelve times by now (it's on my computer, after all), so the music and story weren't new either. (I could actually stop looking at the subtitles in some scenes because I remembered the libretto.) But seeing it live really does change everything: you hear the footsteps of people moving about on stage, you see the minute movements of every performer, you hear the breaths people take to sing, you see all the details of the set that you never notice when watching on television. And of course, the acoustics are much, much better. I have to say, the Metropolitan Opera's chorus awes me the most. On television, you have the privilege of watching the performances of the best singers, but because the focus is on the soloists, you never really appreciate the strength of the chorus, which is perhaps the most complex and finely honed instrument of all.
The tenor who sang Calaf, Johan Botha, was incredibly disappointing. The first act, he kept getting drowned out by the sound of the orchestra, and since I was familiar with the music, the failure to crescendo at the right moments really, really made me squirm in my seat. Talk about denied anticipation! At the end of the first act, Calaf calls out "Turandot! Turandot! Turandot!" and rings the gong three times. With each "Turandot" I held my breath and hoped that the next would reach the appropriate volume of triumph--but alas, his voice remained weak to the end. After all that buildup! How frustrating! He was better during the second act, and Mother commented that he was probably saving his voice for the Nessun dorma aria. But no, the aria was a disaster. Again, the failure to crescendo on the final "Vincero!" leaving the audience feeling flat, without any of the buildup and catharsis of emotion that is the aria. I was rather flabbergasted; Nessun dorma is so famous that I can't imagine that it would be missing from a tenor's standard repertoire. You can't be a decent tenor (and the Metropolitan Opera definitely only hires world-class singers) and fail on Nessun dorma! I don't know, perhaps his voice was gone that day? I suppose one could say that we had been spoiled by Domingo's performance (Domingo played Calaf on the DVD we watched, and not only is Nessun dorma one of his best arias, he also simply had a superior voice even if we disregarded Botha's inability to achieve volume), but the recording I have on my computer is definitely by a much inferior tenor and even he sang the aria successfully. I mean, in many ways, Domingo is an ideal performer: he is handsome, he knows how to act and he probably has the best voice of his generation. But even discarding any high expectations for Botha, who is unfortunately one of those round little men who make the opera's hero look like a beach ball on two spindly legs, and who lacks any noticeable acting talent (he tries, but fails), one would at least expect him to sing well. And Mother even said that she'd heard of him before, which means that he is a tenor of at least moderate fame. To give him credit, his voice's quality was nice, even lovely at times, but he simply didn't have any dynamic range, and he couldn't reach all the fortissimi.
On the other hand, the sopranos were brilliant. The soprano who sang Turandot, Andrea Gruber, gave a beautiful performance. The unfortunate paradox of Turandot is that the role requires a Wagnerian soprano, a highly specialized fach known for its incredible range and volume. There are not very many Wagnerian sopranos, but they definitely embody the stereotypical opera singer: huge because that sort of volume and range requires a robust body, with loud, brassy voices, and usually middle-aged as well because it takes time and training for the voice to reach the right timbre. Thus, the cold princess for whose beauty dozens of princes would willingly die must be played by someone who almost inevitably looks...well, to throw aside all tact, old and fat. Furthermore, for most people, especially dilettantes like me, the Wagnerian soprano's voice doesn't exactly sound beautiful. Their arias require the stereotypical glissandos and shrieking high notes, and they don't have the pure sound of more lyrical voices that sound so haunting and lovely. But it is a testament to Gruber that she made Turandot sound gorgeous. When she sang In questa reggia, her voice gave me shivers--and I assure you, that particular aria is not the easiest to appreciate. And in the duet with Calaf in the third act, she really did nearly bring me to tears. She's brilliant at acting too; I'd always had trouble understanding the motivations for Turandot's sudden turnabout in the third act, but her performance made it natural and emotionally moving. And although I doubt anyone would call Gruber beautiful enough to kill, with a little distance and the conviction of her performance, one could almost see the princess that the librettist must have imagined.
But the soprano who played Liu, Krassimira Stoyanova, stole the audience's heart--and is it any surprise? Liu's arias are the most tragic, and while they may not be as memorable as Nessun dorma, they are certainly just as beautiful. Signore ascolta was the only aria met with applause in the entire performance, and the audience cheered her with "Brava!" Of course Stoyanova's voice was incredible. Even if she had sung without a single gesture, without a single facial expression, her voice alone would have acted for her. The pianissimi were so keenly gorgeous that I can't possibly find the words to describe it. The deceptively simple ease with which she sang so expressively--that indeed is what makes the tragic aria so heart-breaking. Stoyanova seems to be a relatively new singer, but if this performance is indicative of her caliber, I think she'll definitely be famous.
Some final notes: watching Farewell My Concubine before the opera was useful because Zeffirelli's production uses many elements of Beijing opera in the costumes and choreography. Many of the stylized gestures, which I had initially found a little confusing when watching the DVD, made a lot more sense after watching that movie. There's a bit of a hodgepodge of various Chinese traditional dances (not to mention how they mix up Taoist and Buddhist symbols into a crazy collage) but the effect still feels surprisingly authentic.
I spent yesterday finishing up Evangelion, at long last, and am still thoroughly confused not to mention somewhat disgruntled. I'm going to watch the OVA tomorrow and see if it makes more sense. If not, expect me to gibber in frustration. Hm...out of my goals for break, I think I only achieved two. Actually, I also did write most of a review for Daejanggeum, so I guess that makes three? I don't know why my mind is wired so bizarrely that I feel like I need to be "productive" even during intersession, but of course that doesn't stop me from doing nothing anyway. >_>
But tomorrow I'll be back in Cambridge! I think I'm ready to go back to school. Home is nice and comfortable, but I tend to waste my days away in front of the television and reread books that are not always worth rereading.
Yours &c.
I spent Friday watching all the movies that Tryogeru lent me. My mother had been terribly excited about watching Farewell My Concubine because she had heard about the film before as a brilliant work of Chinese cinematography. However, she apparently had not heard about the homosexual innuendoes in the film, which soon made her a little uncomfortable. She stopped watching halfway through the movie. I think though what really alienated her was the Beijing opera itself. I think it's hard for foreigners to really appreciate it, although perhaps it might be easier for the Japanese with their Noh and Kabuki tradition. (Pansori, that is Korean folk opera, is narrated by a soloist accompanied by a drummer, and thus doesn't quite have the same parallel. It is musical but not theatrical.) I didn't really get it either. >_> I suppose pansori would sound equally strange to the Chinese--heck, it sounds strange to modern Koreans, I bet. Anyway, I still liked the movie, accessibility of Beijing opera aside, and both Mother and I agree that Leslie Cheung is very attractive. Although I can't quite fangirl over him the way Tryo-chan does. ^_~
실미도 (Silmido) was nothing short of incredible. I have to admit that at first I was kind of pessimistic about the movie because it starts off as the typical military thriller about the North-South conflict. Men training under harsh, violent conditions, with cruel superiors who have little concern for ethics or human rights, all in the name of patriotism, blah blah blah. I found it vaguely disgusting, but then again, I didn't know what to expect. (My parents on the other hand did know what to expect because they had been living in Korea at the time of the Silmido incident and had seen it on the news.)
Silmido tells the story of a secret military troop formed for the sole purpose of infiltrating North Korea to assassinate Kim Il Sung. The soldiers are all former convicts who had the choice of either facing a death sentence or fighting for their country--if they succeeded in their mission, their crimes would be erased from the records and they would be hailed as national heroes, or so their superiors promise. The troop undergoes rigorous, horrendous training, with each man being directly supervised by an Air Force soldier. Despite the conditions they suffer, they are reinvigorated by their new sense of pride in their hardships and the slim but possible hope for a future. When one of them gets injured during a training session, he begs not to be sent away, to stay in the training hell. Once they had been the scum of society; now they were soldiers, the best soldiers, and they felt invincible.
But on the night when they were finally about to carry out their mission of assassination, the orders were recalled. Politics now favored a diplomatic approach to relations with the North, and the secret troop of former death row inmates was now an embarrassment. For two years, the soldiers stagnated on their training island, growing increasingly restless and uncontrollable. Their direct superior begged to have them incorporated into the army or even sent to Vietnam rather than be useless, but the government was afraid that the truth about Silmido would be revealed to the international community, which would shame the South Korean government and endanger the talks with the North. Finally, they order that the troop be eliminated by the very Air Force soldiers who trained them--if they refused, then everyone on the island would be killed. However, the troop finds out about the orders and decide that it's better to kill than be killed. They kill all their superiors--with whom they had formed friendships over the years--and escape the island. They hijack a bus and drive to Seoul, in hopes of letting the truth be known. However, the government calls them Communists and sends the army against them. They die, in despair, betrayed by the country that they had hoped to serve.
The troop was first formed under the aegis of President Park Chung Hee, and the incident occurred during the rule of his successor. It's difficult to remember, of course, that South Korea was not a democracy until the election of Kim Young Sam in 1993, and all previous presidents for the most part were dictators. What pisses me off when American leaders talk so self-righteously about spreading democracy throughout the world is that, well, that is the result of "spreading democracy": a series of dictators, supported by American troops and money, committing outrages until internal dissent grows strong enough to oust them. South Korea was the "democratic" bastion against the Communist North Korea, but the only difference between the two governments until recently was that one was capitalist and didn't starve its people while the other did. What the U.S. really cares about is not worldwide democracy but having an international community that will cooperate with its economic and military interests. And there's nothing necessarily wrong with that! But when the simple truth is that actions taken by the U.S. make or break nations, the tone of moral superiority is hardly going to endear you to the countries who have to deal with the consequences. >_< And that concludes the political discussion for today.
On Saturday, my mother and I went to see Puccini's Turandot at the Metropolitan Opera. You may recall me mentioning the opera buff grandfather at our church who bought us the tickets; what I didn't know then was that he had obtained seats on the third floor. There are five balconies above ground level, and prior to this performance we had always bought tickets on the fifth, since only the worst seats were affordable--it is, after all, the Metropolitan Opera House--and even then, only barely within the limits of our spending pockets. (Fifth is called Family Circle, first is called Dress Circle, and ground is, not surprisingly, called Orchestra, if I recall correctly. I don't what the third or any other level is called because until now I'd never even imagined that I would be able to get a seat there.) The closeness of the stage was absolutely thrilling, and with my binoculars, I could even see the makeup on the performers' faces. And I could actually see the conductor enter the pit this time; usually we crane our heads and wait for the cue of other people's applause because it's nearly impossible from the fifth level to see the orchestra unless you're in the very first row of the balcony.
As for the performance, once again, I have to say that there's a world of difference in viewing a production on screen and on stage. The grandfather lent us a DVD of the same production of Turandot, first designed by Zeffirelli about ten years ago. We watched the DVD last month, so the set, costumes and choreography this time around were all extremely familiar. Also, I've listened to the opera about ten or twelve times by now (it's on my computer, after all), so the music and story weren't new either. (I could actually stop looking at the subtitles in some scenes because I remembered the libretto.) But seeing it live really does change everything: you hear the footsteps of people moving about on stage, you see the minute movements of every performer, you hear the breaths people take to sing, you see all the details of the set that you never notice when watching on television. And of course, the acoustics are much, much better. I have to say, the Metropolitan Opera's chorus awes me the most. On television, you have the privilege of watching the performances of the best singers, but because the focus is on the soloists, you never really appreciate the strength of the chorus, which is perhaps the most complex and finely honed instrument of all.
The tenor who sang Calaf, Johan Botha, was incredibly disappointing. The first act, he kept getting drowned out by the sound of the orchestra, and since I was familiar with the music, the failure to crescendo at the right moments really, really made me squirm in my seat. Talk about denied anticipation! At the end of the first act, Calaf calls out "Turandot! Turandot! Turandot!" and rings the gong three times. With each "Turandot" I held my breath and hoped that the next would reach the appropriate volume of triumph--but alas, his voice remained weak to the end. After all that buildup! How frustrating! He was better during the second act, and Mother commented that he was probably saving his voice for the Nessun dorma aria. But no, the aria was a disaster. Again, the failure to crescendo on the final "Vincero!" leaving the audience feeling flat, without any of the buildup and catharsis of emotion that is the aria. I was rather flabbergasted; Nessun dorma is so famous that I can't imagine that it would be missing from a tenor's standard repertoire. You can't be a decent tenor (and the Metropolitan Opera definitely only hires world-class singers) and fail on Nessun dorma! I don't know, perhaps his voice was gone that day? I suppose one could say that we had been spoiled by Domingo's performance (Domingo played Calaf on the DVD we watched, and not only is Nessun dorma one of his best arias, he also simply had a superior voice even if we disregarded Botha's inability to achieve volume), but the recording I have on my computer is definitely by a much inferior tenor and even he sang the aria successfully. I mean, in many ways, Domingo is an ideal performer: he is handsome, he knows how to act and he probably has the best voice of his generation. But even discarding any high expectations for Botha, who is unfortunately one of those round little men who make the opera's hero look like a beach ball on two spindly legs, and who lacks any noticeable acting talent (he tries, but fails), one would at least expect him to sing well. And Mother even said that she'd heard of him before, which means that he is a tenor of at least moderate fame. To give him credit, his voice's quality was nice, even lovely at times, but he simply didn't have any dynamic range, and he couldn't reach all the fortissimi.
On the other hand, the sopranos were brilliant. The soprano who sang Turandot, Andrea Gruber, gave a beautiful performance. The unfortunate paradox of Turandot is that the role requires a Wagnerian soprano, a highly specialized fach known for its incredible range and volume. There are not very many Wagnerian sopranos, but they definitely embody the stereotypical opera singer: huge because that sort of volume and range requires a robust body, with loud, brassy voices, and usually middle-aged as well because it takes time and training for the voice to reach the right timbre. Thus, the cold princess for whose beauty dozens of princes would willingly die must be played by someone who almost inevitably looks...well, to throw aside all tact, old and fat. Furthermore, for most people, especially dilettantes like me, the Wagnerian soprano's voice doesn't exactly sound beautiful. Their arias require the stereotypical glissandos and shrieking high notes, and they don't have the pure sound of more lyrical voices that sound so haunting and lovely. But it is a testament to Gruber that she made Turandot sound gorgeous. When she sang In questa reggia, her voice gave me shivers--and I assure you, that particular aria is not the easiest to appreciate. And in the duet with Calaf in the third act, she really did nearly bring me to tears. She's brilliant at acting too; I'd always had trouble understanding the motivations for Turandot's sudden turnabout in the third act, but her performance made it natural and emotionally moving. And although I doubt anyone would call Gruber beautiful enough to kill, with a little distance and the conviction of her performance, one could almost see the princess that the librettist must have imagined.
But the soprano who played Liu, Krassimira Stoyanova, stole the audience's heart--and is it any surprise? Liu's arias are the most tragic, and while they may not be as memorable as Nessun dorma, they are certainly just as beautiful. Signore ascolta was the only aria met with applause in the entire performance, and the audience cheered her with "Brava!" Of course Stoyanova's voice was incredible. Even if she had sung without a single gesture, without a single facial expression, her voice alone would have acted for her. The pianissimi were so keenly gorgeous that I can't possibly find the words to describe it. The deceptively simple ease with which she sang so expressively--that indeed is what makes the tragic aria so heart-breaking. Stoyanova seems to be a relatively new singer, but if this performance is indicative of her caliber, I think she'll definitely be famous.
Some final notes: watching Farewell My Concubine before the opera was useful because Zeffirelli's production uses many elements of Beijing opera in the costumes and choreography. Many of the stylized gestures, which I had initially found a little confusing when watching the DVD, made a lot more sense after watching that movie. There's a bit of a hodgepodge of various Chinese traditional dances (not to mention how they mix up Taoist and Buddhist symbols into a crazy collage) but the effect still feels surprisingly authentic.
I spent yesterday finishing up Evangelion, at long last, and am still thoroughly confused not to mention somewhat disgruntled. I'm going to watch the OVA tomorrow and see if it makes more sense. If not, expect me to gibber in frustration. Hm...out of my goals for break, I think I only achieved two. Actually, I also did write most of a review for Daejanggeum, so I guess that makes three? I don't know why my mind is wired so bizarrely that I feel like I need to be "productive" even during intersession, but of course that doesn't stop me from doing nothing anyway. >_>
But tomorrow I'll be back in Cambridge! I think I'm ready to go back to school. Home is nice and comfortable, but I tend to waste my days away in front of the television and reread books that are not always worth rereading.
Yours &c.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-01 10:53 pm (UTC)and Silmido sounds so movie-like that it's hard to believe it actually happened. i agree very much with everything you said about american policy. *sigh*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-02 03:05 am (UTC)Re: Silmido, I know what you mean, and it's so weird to realize that it was something that took place in my parents' lifetime, something that they lived through the way we lived through 9/11. Very disturbing.