Mini-Review: In Search of Beethoven

Directed by Philip Grabsky. 2009.

Ludwig van Beethoven is almost certainly the most intimidating of composers. The scale, complexity, and sheer force of his music overwhelm the listener. The image of the Olympian Beethoven triumphing over deafness, isolation, and the long shadows of his predecessors overwhelms the historian. Yet we ought not to feel distant from the composer who left so much of himself in his music, music which shows us not the caricature of the irascible genius but a whole man: witty, rambunctious, despondent, elated, introspective.Yet Beethoven is still difficult to bring to the screen either in drama or a documentary. In the latter case, then, play too much music and the dialogue feels burdensome. Play too little and you create a lecture. How many experts do you call in? How many pans over the dozen still portraits can you make? Which letters do you quote? Overall, how do you bring Ludwig van Beethoven into focus?

Philip Grabsky's "In Search of Beethoven" attempts this challenge, exploring Beethoven's life and music chronologically over nearly two and a half hours with the help of many musicologists, historians, and performers. The script competently traces Beethoven's life from his birth in Bonn in 1770 through his career in Vienna. We see Beethoven as a son struggling to support his fracturing family, an eager student of Haydn's, a dashing virtuoso, and a composer determined to make his mark. 

While this biographical outline is adequate it serves mostly to stitch together the interviews with performers and scholars. These little interviews I enjoyed quite a bit. They focus on specific sections or aspects of particular pieces and are rather little introductions to the many Beethoven pieces performed. We hear from scholars like Cliff Eisen, conductors like Riccardo Chailly, Roger Norrington, and Gianandrea Noseda, and performers from Emanuel Ax to Janine Jansen. The performers and conductors each discuss the challenges of performing Beethoven as well as bring their own metaphors to explain these pieces. Emmanuel Ax was easily the most enjoyable to watch, discussing the curious fingering of the second piano sonata. He is so affable and insightful in his segment one wishes he was more prominently featured. Likewise Kristian Bezuidenhout beautifully explains the genius of the opening to the Fourth Piano Concerto.

While the film does focus on the significance of Beethoven as a composer and cultural figure I found the length of the film and it's segmented structure do not create a monumental image of Beethoven. Rather said length and structure and the variety of pieces and performers contribute to a sort of multi-faceted  "search for Beethoven," coming at this complicated man and his art from many angles. Because of this appropriateness of structure to the task at hand I think the film overcomes the challenges we mentioned above and does bring us closer to the composer. "In Search of Beethoven" does not give us a "complete Beethoven" to meet, but it suggests that he and his music are worth spending a lifetime getting to know.

Of Sagas and Not-Sagas

saga. sa·ga – /ˈsɑgə/ [sah-guh]

noun. a medieval Icelandic or Norse prose narrative of achievements and events in the history of a personage, family, et cetera.

e.g. Saga:

A man named Thorarin lived in Langadal. He held a godord, but was a man of no influence. His son Audgisl was a man quick to act. Thorgils Holluson had dispossessed them of their godord and they considered this a grievous insult. Audgisl approached Snorri, told him of the ill-treatment which they had suffered and asked for his support. From: The Saga of the People of Laxardal

e.g. Not-Saga:

Edward helped me into his car, being very careful of the wisps of silk and chiffon, the flowers he'd just pinned into my elaborately styled curls, and my bulky walking cast. He ignored the angry set of my mouth.

When he had me settled, he got in the driver's seat and headed back out the long, narrow drive. From Twilight "The Twilight Saga" by Stephenie Meyer

Also not a saga:

Monty Python - Njorl's Saga

On Television

In a recent episode of the web program "Poliwood" screenwriters and Hollywood veterans Roger L. Simon and Lionel Chetwynd both concluded television programming is of a high quality today. Broadly speaking, anyway. I really could not fairly comment on such a statement because I watch practically no television shows. Yet I do not quite share their enthusiasm and this is mostly because I find television as a medium is really not well understood. There seems to be very little understanding of what the television medium is good for and what material is appropriate to it. Let us take a systematic look at television programming, aka TV.

First, what is the distinguishing characteristic of TV? Foremost is that TV is episodic in nature, consisting of many short episodes either 25 or 45 minutes in length. Second is that these shows are broken then into smaller bits of 7-11 minutes. This is the basic unit of TV and while some might criticize it simply for being, I will not. All art forms have their conventions, scenes, lines, stanzas, meters, et cetera. This is television's. Yet it does bear two faults. First is the persistence of the commercial interruptions and whirligigs on the lower third of the screen are so distracting and deleterious to enjoying the show it is surprising to me they are tolerated. Such tolerance, I believe, we owe mostly to habituation. Would anyone tolerate commercials in the middle of a movie, or between movements of a symphony? Since people time-shift their programming and skip commercials we will not belabor this point as we want to consider what TV might be at its best. Second is that this highly predictable unit creates highly predictable patterns of climax within the drama. This is both highly limiting for the writer and dull for the audience.

Let us return back to the length of the whole show, though, i.e. TV's episodic nature. Episodic content has been derided since Aristotle, who called episodic plots "the worst" for their lack of probability and necessity in the sequence of the episodes and their tendency stretch out a plot beyond its capabilities. (see Poetics, ix.) "Types of plots" and their hierarchy is the subject of its own and substantial essay. We may consider it at a later date. Let us instead focus on Aristotle's point that a given story, speaking generally, will have an ideal form. For as the musician has at first a highly abstract musical idea and then chooses the best structure and instrumentation to express it, so the author must choose the best form for his story. On the other hand we may observe that every given work of art has an essence and this essence may be expressed in different mediums, with the effect of generating variations on the main theme. This perspective is summed up by the [perhaps apocryphal] quote from director Stanley Kubrick, that "If it can be written, or thought, it can be filmed."

Adopting this perspective we may then ask "Is there an idea, or at least an unacceptable form or artistic expression for a given work?"  This is impossible to assess without creating a taxonomy of plot types, though we may make a few general remarks: that abstract "stories" are suitable toward musical expression, less abstract but still general and concise concepts and personal statements for poetry,
plots that take place over the course of one day suitable for the stage, spectacle for film. . . and what for television?

Let us consider some existing, common TV genres. Two common TV species are the "Wagon Train" (i.e. a journey through a strange place) and "the [wacky] adventures of. . ." These genres have had countless TV incarnations and are perhaps the most appropriate for episodic expression as the drama of the episode is self-contained. As such they are a good form for morality plays and fables. The only commonalities from show-to-show are the characters, who never undergo any changes in this genre. This genre is commonly called the sitcom. The same is true for the similar genres of the police procedural or courtroom drama. The main problem with this particular style is that it is essentially the same plot over and over again. This fact coupled with the fact that the characters to not undergo any change makes the show dull and repetitive after a point.

Yet there are many TV shows and many in which the characters do change. These shows have several factors to balance: 1) crafting a sensible plot for a single episode (i.e. creating a self-contained drama), 2) crafting a dramatic arc over several episodes (i.e. creating one large drama, since as Aristotle says a proper drama consists not simply of a variety of things one person did, but a variety of significant actions and events, i.e. significant to the theme/moral/point of the story), and 3) working within the time limitations of a) the 7-11 minute blocks of individual episodes, and b) how many episodes they can/must make. As you might imagine successfully balancing these variables is quite a feat. The fact that episodes are written one at a time, often if not usually without a plan for larger story arcs bodes ill for achieving goal No. 2. The fact that the length of the season is not determined by the writer, with the show either being canceled too soon or extended beyond the limits of the material bodes ill for achieving goal No. 3. That TV shows are often canceled early in their run is no surprise, but also unfortunate is when popular shows often continue beyond what they ought to.

The last great challenge of episodic content was voiced by Edgar Allen Poe, who stated episodic content inherently produces no sense of unity for the sum of the episodes. Since they are spread out they cannot achieve the impact that a single event, like a short story or poem, can. Poe also says that certain classes of prose require no unity and uses Robinson Crusoe as an example. The parallel between Crusoe and episodic TV content is fortunate. Such is true and brings us to what I believe is the heart of television's appeal: the passage of time. Poe did not think any benefit could counterbalance the loss of unity attendant spreading out a story into multiple sittings.

Yet the ability of television to reach the viewer weekly, potentially for years on end, is exceptional. Because of this, people, consciously or not, essentially perceive TV as real at some level. Listen to people talk about television characters and how frequently they bring their favorite characters up. This is possible first because of the temporal aspect of TV we already mentioned and second because of the commonplace element of TV. No matter how much one is attached to certain historical or traditional dramatic figures, their remoteness limits how often we relate to them. What TV inherently loses in unity its structure then it inherently provides in apparent veracity. The obvious but extreme case of "soap operas" is the clearest example of this phenomenon. These lives go on and on, paralleling ours for years. (Such shows also have the most banal plots and the plots are stretched out immeasurably beyond their proper duration.)

TV being a young medium we essentially have no barrier in relating to it: it exists in our world. We are not distanced by differences of dress, language, or culture. It progresses with us in our lives unlike a single, self-contained event like a Greek drama. Aside from fantasy and science fiction shows, TV programs are also usually plausible, or more specifically they depict events and places more or less common to us. People know what court rooms, hospitals, and sitcom locales look like and we relate to the quotidian situations most readily. In contrast even "plausible" dramas in the forms of plays and films usually depict scenes and situations we have not been in.

As an aside, one might make a similar point about video games. While being able to make certain moral choices in a game increases identification with the character and situations, having to solve puzzles and perform mundane tasks like walking around diminishes the overall impact of the story.

Above we observed: "a series of events that befall one person do not necessarily make a dramatic plot." TV writers observe this insofar as some of the episodes are self-contained and others have permanent effects on the character and plots which will be developed over time. This blending can be dramatically effective but it also adds to the element of veracity we perceive because in our own lives some days are normal and others (and other events) more broadly significant. Is this mixed style to be praised? Let us perform a little test. Consider your favorite story, a movie or novel or anything. Now consider the main character. Would that movie or novel be enhanced by adding dozens of incidents that do not, or barely, affect the plot? Sure you might feel like you know the character better because you remember when he argued with his wife, was in a car accident, and so on? Of course not. On the other had a series of relevant episodes depicting character-forming struggles might. Veracity then is by itself not a virtue, but an element of TV, potentially useful to great effect. Thus what the plot loses in unity by expansion it does not automatically gain in significance by its veracity. Rather it must use its episodes toward a larger dramatic plot, otherwise it is no better than the "adventures of. . ." species of television.

As we have said some plots then may support interspersed episodes while others may not, likewise a short-form treatment and a long-form treatment have different effects. Yet what stories require dozens and dozens of hours to be told? Miniseries and even films have achieved tremendous breadth of time with the durations of 2-12 hours. Films like Wild Strawberries, 2001: A Space Odyssey and TV miniseries like The Six Wives of Henry VIII, I, Claudius, and John Adams all have tremendous scopes of time. A film need only suggest the passage of time for the viewer to feel it. A filmed version of events that take many years need not in fact take many years. No plot needs so many hours as TV can provide, but rather may optionally be expanded and potentially with good effect.

Briefly we may discuss "reality TV" which may appear ideal insofar as it is indeed "real" and proceeds at a "real" pace. In fact it is the worst of both worlds, providing neither the accurate depictions of particulars (the function of history/documentary) nor the philosophic axioms of art.

TV then is not a poor or inferior medium but it simply tends toward vulgarity, banality, and repetition, yet probably not at a greater rate than any other form. Perhaps the quotidian element of TV is prone toward such things. TV is unique also regarding our expectations of it: we expect a great deal of constant programming content. This puts unnecessary pressure on writers. Good TV, and by that I mean a good TV show from the first episode to the last, is exceedingly difficult to do, consider again the challenges outlined in paragraphs four and five above, without such added limitations. Even if they are met, other than the purpose of achieving a quasi-reality the common "TV Show" structure has no purpose as no plot could require it. That which is not required, is extraneous, and that which is extraneous detracts. Dramatic long-form programming would  better served by the form of the miniseries, which balances concise drama with some and relevant episodic content.

While the miniseries seems to be less popular today, TV programming, especially on cable TV, seems to follow the same pattern, with short 10-12episode seasons. This is not a guarantee for success but it may help remove some of the bloat.

On Vacationing

Summer has arrived in the Norther Hemisphere and thus in the land of your humble blogger. School is out and many look forward to their vacations. There is something I do not quite understand about what we broadly consider vacationing. I dispute neither the importance nor pleasure of leisure time. Likewise even amusement is a sort of relaxation and is thus necessary. Yet vacationing seems to many to be something of special importance, but what and why?

The chief characteristic of the vacation seems to be a longer-than-usual freedom from one's duties. Most basically, then, a vacation is a lack, but a lack cannot provide a positive good but merely relief. This leisure, though, does allow people to pursue something for its own sake rather than out of necessity. People naturally have expectations about what such pursuits should be and do for them but a common response might be they hope to "enjoy" their vacation or something similar. We might divide the vague concept of "enjoy" into "pleasure" and "happiness." Considering the former first, all people aim at pleasure and all take delight in pleasing sights, sounds, and so on. We do seek it for its own sake and not to achieve something else. Yet pleasure is simply a favorable response to some stimulus to our senses. It is also temporary and fades as we grow habituated to the stimulus. If such is the essence of the vacation we should not be surprised to find most people wanting for something more soon after the vacation has ended. Indeed such is most common. Of happiness let us consider Aristotle's thoughts:

. . . everything that we choose we choose for the sake of something else–except happiness, which is an end. Now to exert oneself and work for the sake of amusement seems silly and utterly childish. But to amuse oneself in order that one may exert oneself, as Anacharsis puts it, seems right; for amusement is a sort of relaxation, and we need relaxation because we cannot work continuously. Relaxation, then, is not an end; for it is taken for the sake of activity. (Ethics, X.vi. 1176b)

Happiness then does not consist in amusement, relaxation, or idleness. Aristotle argued it consisted in virtuous activity and most chiefly in a contemplative life. He also added, "in a complete life" since "one swallow does not make a summer, nor does one day; and so too one day, or a short time, does not make a man blessed and happy." (Ethics, I.vii. 1098a) Also happiness depends part on past acts, part on present ones, and part of the expectation of doing in the future. Happiness thus requires work and work over a period of time. More precisely then we might say it requires cultivation.

In his collection of writings commonly referred to today as his "Meditations," which we would understand better if we thought of them as "writings or exhortations to himself," Marcus Aurelius stated a similar position:

Everyone dreams of the perfect vacation–in the country, by the sea, or in the mountains. You too long to get away and find that idyllic spot, yet how foolish. . . when at any time you are capable of finding that perfect vacation in yourself. Nowhere is there a more idyllic spot, a vacation home more private and peaceful, than in one's own mind, especially when it is furnished in such a way that the merest inward glance induces ease (and by ease I mean the effects of an orderly and well-appointed mind, neither lavish or crude.) Take this vacation as often as you like, and so charge your spirit. But do not prolong these meditative moments beyond what is necessary to send you back to your work free of anxiety and full of vigor and good cheer. (Translation, C. Scot Hicks and David V. Hicks.) (Meditations, Book IV. iii.)

Whether it be toward pleasure or happiness, one ought to have an idea what one is intending to gain from a vacation, lest one be disappointed.

Movie Review: Mr. Hulot's Holiday

Directed by Jacques Tati. 1953.

Mr. Hulot's Holiday, or Mr. Hulot's Holidays, is crafted with such subtlety and affection one cannot help falling in love with it. I say falling because while it worked its charm on me during my first viewing it grows on you more and more over time. My fondness for this movie is part nostalgia for the curious patrons of the Hotel de la Plage and part excitement to see Mr. Hulot and his antics, perennial in their freshness, grace, and charm. What exactly is this movie though? In his introduction to the 2001 edition Criterion DVD, director Terry Jones summed it best this way, that Mr. Hulot's Holidays is sort of a series of postcards from a vacation.

Postcards indeed, and you could pause this movie at any moment and find a little gem of a postcard from Mr. Hulot's seaside vacation. The gags and scenes are impossible to summarize and we would do violence to the film to dissect them. We can say though that each one takes delight in life's little incongruities. Mr. Hulot looks at everything with a pure curiosity, neither cynical or skeptical. He simply looks on and says, "Hmm. Funny that this is so. But how did. . . Did I. . . hmm."

Mr. Hulot is often the cause of the curious incidents he so quizzically looks upon. These "little holidays" are attended by the movie's musical score, a short, lilting, jazzy little theme. Sometimes the music is dubbed over and sometimes it is diegetic, started by one of the patrons. The effect of this, sometimes showing the source of the music and sometimes not, is that we feel the music is always going on. Someone is always starting some little adventure somewhere, someone is always getting the ball rolling. Sometimes we start it rolling, sometimes we keep it rolling, but don't let it stop! Likewise the theme varies in instrumentation. Sometimes it is orchestrated, sometimes it is on a piano, once someone whistles it. The effect is that of theme and variation: all of these little diversions, digressions, and variations on the main theme, i.e. Mr. Hulot's joyful outlook.

Of course they are only variations on a theme, little treasures, if we adopt Mr. Hulot's outlook. Otherwise they are inconveniences and trifles.

The hotel patrons are almost as colorful as Mr. Hulot: the commodore recounting his exploits from the war to whoever will listen, the touring couple who seem to be inspecting everything as they walk through, the perpetually exercising fellow with his goofy squats, the pretty girl and the host of youths courting her attention. The old generation of guests at the hotel cling to their habits, their cards and radio and regular meals. They show up to eat when the lunch bell rings and they go to bed when the radio signs off. Hulot shows up and literally blows them out of their habits.

Terry Jones also aptly said Mr. Hulot's Holiday was Tati's most forward-looking movie. I agree, and Hulot's jazzy version of "When the Saints Go Marching In" sets the tone. Mr. Hulot does not bring chaos and modernity. He just adds a little pizazz and an appreciation for the beauty that is already there. In Mr. Hulot's Holiday the patrons realize what Hulot brings, though they might outwardly be annoyed with the inconveniences of his antics. The people of Mon Oncle (except for the children) and Playtime (except for the party scene) do not see what Hulot brings. He is lost on them and among them.

Yet here Mr. Hulot is not lost, this is his world and we are glad, grateful, to accompany him on his holidays. For all of their complaining, the patrons all make plans to return. They tell Mr. Hulot, "Glad to have met you" and "same time next year." Absolutely.

In the spirit of Terry Jones' observation about the film. . .

Postcards from Mr. Hulot's Holidays.

click to enlarge

Around the Web

For Saturday, June 19 through Friday, June 25 2010.

1) In the WSJ, historian Ron Chernow on "The Feuding Fathers."

2) At Mises Daily, Jeff Riggenbach on "The brilliant but confused radicalism of George Orwell."

3) At In Character, Emily Colette Wilkinson reviews "Marcus Aurelius: A Life" by Frank McLynn.

4) In the WSJ, opera reviews from Heidi Waleson, including a review of "The Golden Ticket" an opera by composer Peter Ash and librettist Donald Sturrock, based on Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

5) In Opera News, Ray Sawhill on the film genre of the "composer biopic."

6) Remembering contralto Maureen Forrester.

–

N.B. The new all-CSS, javascript-free top navigation is based on Steve Gibson's great work at Gibson Research Company. He has a number of great projects at GRC.com

The Bach Cantata Pilgrimage

Conductor Sir John Eliot Gardiner discusses his "Bach Cantata Pilgrimage" with his Monteverdi Choir and Orchestra. In 1999 Gardiner set out to perform all of the Master's extant church cantatas on the appointed feast day and all within a single year.

Bach is probably the only composer whose musical output is so rich, so challenging to the performers and so spiritually uplifting to both performer and listener alike, that one would gladly spend a year in his exclusive company.

–Sir John Eliot Gardiner

The Bach Cantata Pilgrimage

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI
Total Time: about 60 minutes.
 

Choice Curmudgeonry

With a hat tip to Gerard Van der Leun of American Digest. . .

John Derbyshire, author most recently of "We Are Doomed: Reclaiming Conservative Pessimism," had in the WSJ a few weeks ago a short list of books for the curmudgeon.

It is a fine list and includes H. L. Mencken and Gulliver's Travels. As such I was reminded of some of my favorite curmudgeonly passages from Mencken and Swift.

–

Gulliver's Travels. Part III, Chapter VIII.

A further Account of Glubbdubdrib. Antient and Modern History Corrected.

Having a desire to see those antients who were most renowned for Wit and Learning, I set apart one Day on purpose. I proposed that Homer and Aristotle might appear at the Head of all their Commentators; but these were so numerous, that some Hundreds were forced to attend in the Court, and outward Rooms of the Palace. I knew, and could distinguish those two Heroes, at first Sight, not only from the Croud, but from each other. Homer was the taller and comelier Person of the two, walked very erect for one of his Age, and his Eyes were the most quick and piercing I ever beheld. Aristotle stooped much, and made use of a Staff. His Visage was meagre, his Hair lank and thin, and his Voice hollow. I soon discovered that both of them were perfect Strangers to the rest of the Company, and had never seen or heard of them before; and I had a Whisper from a Ghost who shall be  nameless, "that these Commentators always kept in the most distant Quarters from their Principals, in the lower World, through a Consciousness of Shame and Guilt, because they had so horribly misrepresented the Meaning of those Authors to Posterity." I introduced Didymus and Eustathius to Homer, and prevailed on him to treat them better than perhaps they deserved, for he soon found they wanted a Genius to enter into the Spirit of a Poet. But Aristotle was out of all Patience with the Account I gave him of Scotus and Ramus, as I presented them to him; and he asked them, "whether the rest of the Tribe were as great Dunces as themselves?"

A Mencken Chrestomathy. XVIII. Pedagogy. The Education Process

If I had my way I should expose all candidates for berths in the grade-schools to the Binet-Simon test, and reject all those who revealed a mentality of more than fifteen years. Plenty would still pass. Moreover, they would be secure against contamination by the new technic of pedagogy. Its vast wave of pseudo-psychology would curl and break against the hard barrier of their innocent and passionate intellects– as it probably does, in fact, even now. They would know nothing of learning situations, integration, challenges, emphases, orthogenics, mind-sets, differentia, and all other fabulous fowl of the Teachers College aviary. But they would see in reading, writing and arithmetic the gaudy charms of profound knowledge, and they would teach these ancient branches, now so abominable in decay with passionate gusto, and irresistible effectiveness, and a gigantic success.

A Mencken Chrestomathy. XVIII. Pedagogy. Bearers of the Torch

This central aim of the teacher is often obscured by pedagogical pretension and bombast. The pedagogue, discussing himself, tries to make it appear that he is a sort of scientist. He is actually a sort of barber, and just as responsive to changing fashions. That this is his actually character is now, indeed, a part of the official doctrine that he must inculcate. On all hands, he is told plainly by his masters that his fundamental function in America is to manufacture an endless corps of sound Americans. A sound American is simply one who has put out of his mind all doubts and questionings, and who accepts instantly, and as incontrovertible gospel, the whole body of official doctrine of his day, whatever it may be and no no matter how often it may change. The instant he challenges it, no matter how timorously and academically, he ceases by that much to be a loyal and creditable citizen of the Republic.

Wagner and The Lord of the Rings

The music of Richard Wagner and the writing of J. R. R. Tolkien are both considerable interests of mine so you can expect substantial writing on both topics in the future. For now, I was recently watching Peter Jackson's spectacular film adaptation of "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring" and came upon two rather striking similarities. The first is of set design and the second of music.

 Leif Roar as Klingsor in Parsifal, about to set Kundry against Parsifal.
Stage design and artistic supervision by Wolfgang Wagner. 1981

 Christopher Lee as Saruman in The Fellowship of the Ring,
invoking the spirit of the mountain against the Fellowship.

Artwork and conceptual drawing by Alan Lee and John Howe, 2001.

Parsifal, Act I.

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring,
The Great River

The scene (using the word loosely since Wagner did not divide the acts into smaller scenes) in Parsifal is quite complex, with multiple choruses, the Knights marching up Montsalvat to the bells, and many themes including those of the Grail, the Eucharist, and the Lance. Shore's scene is considerably simpler but they function in not dissimilar manners. In Fellowship Aragorn catches sight of enormous statues of kings of old, his ancestors. This is simultaneously a reminder of their grandeur and weakness, and also his, that he is the rightful heir but turned from the path since he shares his ancestors' weakness to be tempted by the Ring of Power. Likewise the themes demonstrate Amfortas' mixed feelings, his sacred duty, his suffering, and his sin.

Likewise the figures of Klingsor and Saruman more than superficial relations. Generally, neither managed his tendency to sin and each turned to dark arts. In his classic work on Wagner, Albert Lavignac describes Klingsor:

[he] has vainly sought to root out of his heart the tendencies to sin; and, not succeeding, he has destroyed his animal instincts by laying violent hands on himself. . . he has listened to the Evil Spirit, and received from him unhallowed instructions in the art of magic. . . [Lavignac, 212]

That Saruman succumbed to a natural weakness and was not simply corrupted by studying "too deeply the arts of the enemy" requires some explication, handily provided by Tolkien himself in a letter c. 1956:

In the view of this tale and mythology Power–when it dominates or seeks to dominate other wills and minds (except by the assent of their reason)–is evil, these "wizards" were incarnated in the life forms of Middle-earth, and so suffered the pains of both mind and body. They were also, for the same reason, thus involved in the peril of the incarnate: the possibility of "fall," of sin, if you will. [Tolkien, 237]

Likewise where Klingsor "Layed violent hands on himself" Gandalf rebukes Saruman for his unnatural machinations, saying, "he that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of reason." [The Fellowship of the Ring, "The Council of Elrond."]

Yet we ought not to read too much into these similarities and we should avoid trying to craft analogies and allegories here. The characters are themselves different and function differently in the plots of their respective stories. I do not suggest one was a model for the other but rather point out the noteworthy similarities of style and fundamental themes of two artists exploring man's nature in these particular scenes.

  –

Bibliography

Lavignac, Albert. The Music Dramas of Richard Wagner and his Festival Theatre in Bayreuth. Dood, Mead, and Company. New York. 1901.

Tolkien, J. R. R. The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien. Letter No. 181, an unfinished letter to Michael Straight. c. 1956. p.237. Houghton Mifflin Company.  New York. 2000.

Mozart: Rhapsody and Reverie

I. Rhapsody

Musicologist Arthur Hutchings on the Mozartian rhapsody:

. . . the form is "a becoming." In it we may be aware of phrases, of sequences which show metabolism. . . but the main principle of its form is the approach to and decline from climax. . . we imagine ourselves to be the performer; if we do not live along its line, we are not fulfilling the composer's demands of us. [Hutchings, 139.]

Piano Concerto No. 21, KV.467 - Andante

II. Reverie


Musicologist Cuthbert Girdlestone on the Mozartian "Dream Reverie:"

The true "dream" does not imply any strong emotion; it does not exude passion, but the exquisite fancy of a fresh and rich nature is its character. When melancholy speaks it is not with a tragic voice. They are inspired by a spirit of fairyland, too far removed from reality to know sorrow. Their form is that of a long, winding melody which cannot be broken up into phrases and follows on almost uninterruptedly from one end to the other, and Mozart's rhythms are found here at their freest. [Girdlestone, 39.]

Piano Concerto No. 6, KV.238 - Andante

Violin Concerto No. 3, KV.216 - Adagio

Gidon Kremer, violin. Nikolaus Harnoncourt conducting the Wiener Philharmoniker


String Quartet in E-flat, KV.428 - Andante con moto

Salomon Quartet

–

Bibliography

Hutchings, Arthur. A Companion to Mozart's Piano Concertos. Oxford University Press. New York. 1948.

Girdlestone, Cuthbert. Mozart and his Piano Concertos. Dover Publications, Inc. New York, NY. 1964.