Copenhagen Pleasures: Part Two

Before leaving for Denmark, I'd taken the precaution of ordering tickets online for two tempting events-- a new staging of Giselle at the Royal Danish Ballet and a new production of Handel's Partenope at the Royal Danish Opera. Both were scheduled at the "Gamle Scene"-- the handsome old opera house in the square named Kongens Nytorv. And both, for reasons I'll explain below, were especially newsworthy. I suspected-- quite rightly-- that tickets might be difficult to get on the spot.

On October 25th, shortly after our arrival in Copenhagen, we attended Giselle. It was a lovely introduction to the Danish cultural scene, but also exciting because this production was Nicolaj Hubbe's first project in his interesting new job as director of the RDB. Though I hadn't seen Hubbe dance very recently, I knew him-- and his reputation-- as a splendid principal dancer with the New York City Ballet. I expected his history with the NYCB to shape what he'd do as director in Copenhagen-- especially in this important initial production. I guess I was looking forward to an edgy, Balanchine-inspired evening, rather than the conventional romantic version of Giselle that he did mount. Conventional, but beautiful! And beautifully danced by the long-legged, elegant Silja Schandorff and Nehemiah Kish, her Canadian Albrecht. I've since read that Hubbe dedicated this production to Henning Kronstan (an earlier dancer, ballet-master and director at the RDB) in whose staging he himself apparently danced his first Albrecht. I also heard that the second cast (we saw the first), with Mads Blangstrup and Gudrun Bojesen, had a very different feel. When I asked an usher about it, she gushed "Oh Mads-- he's so gorgeous!" Kish may not have been as dramatically compelling as his Danish colleague, but he was no slouch in the role. At any rate, the audience was ecstatic. Since this was the last night for Giselle, the applause went on and on. No one wanted to let the dancers go home.

Our opera experience a few days later was even more thrilling. But first I must write about our pre-opera cab ride with an articulate and intelligent driver (not at all unusual in Copenhagen!). When he learned that we were going to the venerable "Old Stage," and that we were a bit early, he offered to turn off his meter and take us for a short tour of the city. He particularly wanted us to see the Operaen-- Copenhagen's modern new opera house, which had opened in 2005. Parking at the edge of the Inderhavnen Canal, he pointed across the harbor to the striking, Henning Larsen-designed building, blazing with lights, on Holmen Island. As we looked across the water and nodded admiringly, the cabbie told us about Maersk McKinney Moeller, the Danish tycoon who had commissioned and paid for the entire cost of the expensive new structure. Moeller, whose family owns a vast container ship company, was for years considered to be Denmark's wealthiest citizen. (Lately, he's been replaced in that stratospheric niche by Kjeld Kirk Kristiansen, the head of Lego.) We had a lively discussion about the pros and cons of such beneficence. Only a day later, we would hear again about this prominent billionaire. Invited to pay a visit to new friends in Charlottenlund, up the coast from Copenhagen, we were given explicit instructions for approaching their house. It was accessible only from one end of their street, since the street was awkwardly divided in half midway by a barrier built to protect a wealthy neighbor-- this same Moeller.

But back to the opera. Again, we were present at the final night of a sold-out production. The lobby of the Gamle Scene was packed, the audience buzzing with anticipation as we all waited impatiently for the doors to open. This was not my first Partenope. In fact, I'd seen a glorious production of it by the same director-- Francisco Negrin-- at Glimmerglass in 1998. I rather doubted that many in the Copenhagen audience had caught that one. But they probably had seen, or certainly knew about, the RDO's 2005 Giulio Cesare, also directed by Negrin and with much of the same cast. It received rave reviews in Copenhagen as well as enthusiastic attention elsewhere when it came out on DVD.

Which explains why there was proleptic excitement for this new Partenope. Like Negrin's Giulio Cesare, it was a modern dress version-- witty and lively, full of humorous quirks and comic absurdities, but its modernity unblemished by "Eurotrash." Handel's music and its glorious lyricism, it goes without saying, is magnificent. I still remembered the terrific performances of it at Glimmerglass by counter-tenors David Daniels and David Walker. The RDO, on this last night, was equally memorable. Andreas Scholl, as Arsace, started out slightly wan, but quickly picked up strength and ended the evening singing powerfully and beautifully. Christophe Dumaux, a counter-tenor new to me, was a sweet-voiced, tender Armindo. I especially liked Tuva Semmingsen's peformance in the pants role of Rosmira. Only Inger Dam-Jensen, in the title role, seemed slightly outclassed. The orchestra-- the original instrument band Concerto Copenhagen led by Lars Ulrik Mortensen-- was outstanding and vigorously cheered by the audience. But so was the entire cast. Bravos, bravissimos, whistles and rhythmic clapping went on forever! In sum-- a wonderful Copenhagen evening.

Copenhagen Pleasures: Part One

I always like to travel in autumn, rather than in the summer months. The cool weather is better for touring, the colors richer, the crowds smaller, and cities are alive, humming with fall events. This year my husband and I decided to go to Copenhagen. Why? One reason was that we'd never been there. Yet, sight unseen, I already had an agreeable impression of Denmark. I liked the country's reputation for taking care of its citizens, for the relative smallness of the disparity between rich and poor, the supposed modesty of Danish lifestyles. Also appealing was the Danish history of innovative design, not to mention the Michelin stars recently awarded to several Copenhagen restaurants. On a map of Europe, I even liked Denmark's precarious position, its disparate parts jutting up energetically from the mainland towards Norway and Sweden.

Scandinavia wasn't totally virgin territory for me. I had been to Helsinki and loved that visit. But that was many years ago-- a work-trip to cover the opening of the then-new Kiasma contemporary art museum, designed by Steven Holl. Oddly enough, while we were in Denmark, Steven Holl's name cropped up again. His architectural firm had just won an international competition for a major Copenhagen commission-- a new and dramatic gateway to the city. To be sited at the Copenhagen harbor, Holl's so-called "LM Project" looks to be a stunner. (See pics at left for night and day views.) It will consist of two eccentric high-rise office towers set on opposing banks of the waterway and connected by pedestrian bridges 65 meters above the harbor. In these worrisome economic times, and in keeping with Denmark's commitment to alternative energy, it's notable that the buildings' public spaces will be constantly lit ("always glowing," in the words of the project statement) by electricity generated from wind turbines lining the bridges.

If my experience this fall was typical, the turbines should work fine. I can testify that there's no shortage of wind-power in Copenhagen. Or rain. Since, at least in autumn, the two often occur together, a hood on your waterproof parka turns out to be far more practical here than an umbrella. Umbrellas have a terrible tendency to collapse. Or to catch the breeze and make you fear that you'll momentarily be airborne above the Tivoli Gardens or the Stroget, Copenhagen's long pedestrian shopping street. Or perhaps you'll be dangerously blown about while trying to rush directly across one of those wide ten-traffic-lane avenues that are commonplace in this city. And what good is an umbrella when you're on a bike, which is how multitudes of Danes get from here to there, rain or shine.

I could see some of those never-ending streams of bicyclists from the wide picture window in our comfortable 15th floor hotel room at the Radisson SAS Royal. The expansive view-- onto the busy Vesterbrogade, Tivoli, and way out over the cityscape towards the Oresund Bridge to Sweden-- was marvelous. So, too, the good-natured, cheerful service from everyone at the hotel. And not only the hotel. The service people I met everywhere in Copenhagen-- in shops, supermarkets, restaurants, theaters-- all seemed to be amazingly tall, blond, good-loking, amiable and eager to be of help. And surprisingly fluent in English. Equally kind were those Copenhageners I boldly accosted on the street or in train stations or at bus stops to ask for assistance finding my way. Citizens on public transportation were generous with help, translating impenetrable (to me) announcements about delayed trains, arranging for bus drivers to indicate my correct stop, etc.-- all without being asked. (Danish public signage, on the other hand, was often peculiarly misleading...) Was I just lucky, mostly moving about in the right (i.e., upscale) parts of town, or was I in a country totally without spleen?

Well-- not entirely. In spite of Denmark's high standard of living and strict immigration policies, migrant issue are not unknown here. And neighborhoods, of course, vary. In Copenhagen newspapers (several have on-line English-language editions) I did read about the darker side of the city-- e.g., shootings and biker-immigrant clashes in the Norrebro area; violence, fires and destruction of squats in Christiania. And walking back to the hotel late one night through back streets beyond the rail station, I saw a lineup of obviously poor immigrants waiting to get into a shelter. So-- perhaps life is less good for those workers from Turkey, Somalia, Lebanon, Iraq.

For a tourist, in the center of the city, those problems seemed distant. More pressing was how to have enough time to see everything we wanted to see-- the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, the "Black Diamond," the Danish Design Center, the Caillebotte show in Ordrupgaard, Daniel Libeskind's Jewish Museum, the Louisiana Museum, the new theater, the art galleries, the shops, the palaces, the university, etc., etc., etc.
Next installment-- two terrific events we did see...

Calling for Mondegreens

The New Yorker's delightful blog, The Book Bench, informs us today that Merriam-Webster, in its online community here, is asking readers to submit their favorite mondegreens. They're accepting entries until Friday, July 25, 2008, and will reveal the ones they like best on July 28. Should be great fun to read!

The Gumshoe as Survivor

Hard to believe, but it's 27 years since detective Arkady Renko first surfaced in Gorky Park. Gumshoes are rarely immortal. Case solved, throw-away-thriller disposed of, and the fictional detective vanishes from memory and the bookshelf. A few are luckier-- Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot, for example. Or Chandler's Marlowe, Hugo's Police Inspector Javert, Simenon's Commissaire Maigret. Absorbed into the history of Western popular culture, quasi-iconic figures, they've become points of reference. For some theorists (see Tzvetan Todorov) the stories in which these characters appear have provided fertile subject matter for the structural analysis of narrative itself. Will some recent standout detectives like the poetic Inspector Dalgliesh also prove to have staying power? Too soon to tell.

The rough-edged, cynical Arkady Renko of Gorky Park had all the makings of a survivor, and Martin Cruz Smith has now kept him going through five subsequent novels. In the four following the first, however, Renko seemed to lose some of his allure. So it's good to find that, in Stalin's Ghost, Arkady has come alive again. Alive, but (as one would expect) seriously threatened. His current environment-- the not-so-fictional country called "The New Russia"-- is filled with nascent fascists, aggressive ultra-nationalists, greedy capitalists, murder-prone police, mafia hit-men, squalid neighborhoods, and deluded elderly citizens longing for Stalin's return. When a false spring softens Moscow's ice, physical reminders of the grim past also appear-- Turkish workers digging beneath the basement cafeteria of the Russian Supreme Court uncover skeletal remains of the victims of Stalinist purges.

Arkady is of course older now, if not necessarily more judicious about the crimes he chooses to investigate. Nor is he less personally tormented. The changed political system has scarcely improved his working conditions. At the prosecutor's office, his treacherous boss Zurin is still as likely to stab him in the back as commend him for a job well done. At home, his love-life is in disrepair. His lover Eva is about to desert him, it seems, for Nikolai Isakov, Arkady's new colleague in the Moscow police department. A much-vaunted Black Beret hero of the dirty Chechen wars, Isakov has a dark past, reactionary political aspirations, and an infuriating ability to charm crowds as well as the susceptible Eva. He may also be a cold-blooded murderer who would kill to conceal past crimes committed in Chechnya.

Arkady has been warned off by Isakov's pals, even physically threatened. He knows that investigation of his rival is both fraught with danger and tainted by personal motives. Moreover, he's been assigned by Zurin to another case. Thus the stage is set for the intertwined, thrillerish events which follow-- many suspenseful, many violent, many revelatory of political corruption.

Yet the heart of Smith's novel, and the reason for our sustained interest in Arkady, may be elsewhere. If Renko does seem alive, it's not solely because of his adventures but because we come to know him intimately: his disconsolate self-deprecation, his outraged morality, his difficult relationship with Eva, his desire to examine "the etiquette of cuckoldry." We appreciate his acerbic insights. We understand his painful, paternal concern for Zhenya, the erratic homeless boy he's adopted. And then there's what we learn about Arkady's past. We've always known that Arkady's father was a close friend of Stalin and an important general in the Soviet army, but have never witnessed his extreme cruelty to both his young son and his wife. Midway through Stalin's Ghost, the narrative takes a surreal turn. Arkady, critically wounded, is confined to a hospital bed. Hovering between life and death, in a dream-like, brain-damaged state, he relives scenes with his sadistic father, scenes from his childhood in which Arkady is abused and his mother driven to suicide. Those childhood experiences neither sum up Arkady's nature nor determine his later actions, but they evoke, as it were, the ghosts of Stalin that haunt Renko's own past-- a melancholy shadow that paradoxically helps to flesh out his character.

Albany's Annus Miserabilis

For Albany, it's been an amazing year. One shock after another. The NY Times yesterday toted up some of the startling events that occurred upstate during the past twelve months. We all know most of them-- Spitzer's spectacularly indecent crash-and-burn, Hevesi's downfall over petty misuse of government perks, Bruno's surprising decision not to run again, the emergence of Paterson, New York's first black (and legally blind) governor. Plus a bunch of corruption cases that were less public, less unusual, only suggested, not detailed by the gray lady. Nothing in the Times article was especially new (unless you hadn't heard that Governor Paterson, along with acknowledging his various marital digressions, had also admitted to using marijuana and cocaine), but for the future the cumulative effect of so many shocks to the political system is still an unknown. Will Bruno's departure finally oil the tracks at the state legislature? Will the news from our usually inert, dun-colored and immovable state capitol change from the familiar story: nothing new, nothing happening, no budget yet, no compromises in the air, all representatives mired in stony party positions, no possibility of reform where reform is needed. Any chance that next year will be better? An annus mirabilis?

Paul Krugman on Obama's Pennsylvania defeat

Anyone interested in the Democratic primary (and who isn't?) should read Paul Krugman's excellent column in the April 25th issue of the NY Times. Krugman suggests that perhaps Hillary managed to triumph in Pennsylvania (despite heavy odds) because of her no-nonsense style, her command of details, her economic policies-- that these resonate with voters "in a way that Obama's eloquence does not."

Krugman's analysis of how the Obama campaign has slipped over from "Yes we can" to "No she can't" is enlightening. As is Krugman's observation that the Obama campaign has "put far more energy into attacking Mrs. Clinton's health care proposals than it has into promoting the idea of universal coverage." Krugman has elsewhere pointed out in convincing detail the clear superiority of Hillary's health care plan. In this column he goes on to question whether the supposed "new politics" espoused by the Obama campaign is a useful way to clarify the huge disparity between Bush politics and the Democrats' message. The Democrats, he says, can (and should) present themselves as the party of prosperity and economic security-- the party responsible for Social Security and Medicare, the party responsible for the splendid surpluses of the Clinton years. Indeed, the "contrast between the Clinton economy and the Bush economy is the best free advertisement the Democrats have had since Herbert Hoover." Yet the Obama campaign's "new politics" tries to blame both parties for our current disastrous situation. Krugman sees that tactic as very dangerous-- "a self-inflicted state of confusion." Even, perhaps, a recipe for defeat in the fall.

Jean Nouvel's ArtfulTower

 

Will New Yorkers finally be gifted with a host of eye-filling, mind-bending post-millennial buildings? I hope so, but if we're in for an architectural renaissance, it's been slow in coming. For too long our city has been notorious for its grey-bearded attitude towards architecture. In the late 90s there were some intimations of a new openness-- one thinks, for instance, of Christian de Portzamparc's anti-perspectival LVMH building on 57th Street. More recently, we've had Santiago Calatrava's soaring designs, Norman Foster's multi-faceted Hearst Magazine tower, and, in the past year, Frank Gehry's wind-blown InterActive Corporation in Chelsea and Bernard Tschumi's bulging Blue Building on the Lower East Side.

I was excited when I first learned that Jean Nouvel was about to begin building in New York. Since he emerged in the 1980s in Mitterrand's France, the innovative Nouvel had been creating wonderful architecture everywhere else in the world, it seemed, and he's even gone on, this year, to win the Pritzker! His first two projects for our city were a bit disappointing, but now there's the Tower Verre-- Nouvel's thrilling design for an unconventional 75-story skyscraper.

Located at 53 West 53rd Street, adjacent to the Museum of Modern Art, the Tower Verre would provide three floors of much-needed expansion galleries for MOMA. A residential condo and a hotel would sit atop the galleries. The developers might have avoided controversy and satisfied cranky neighbors if they'd opted for a dull glass box, another midtown mediocrity, for the site. Nouvel's design is anything but dull. The Tower Verre is electric, eccentric-- it torques and turns, it makes lively theater out of its revealed criss-crossing elements, and it exploits the required zoning setbacks to narrow upwards to a dramatic, ethereal spire. Community members complain that the tower reaches too high, that it would be 100 feet taller than the Chrysler Building. But that's part of the design's interest. The height and shape of Nouvel's tower would cleverly complement Chrysler, playing against that building's Art Deco crown to create a provocative 21st-century addition to Manhattan's skyline.

But will the Tower Verre get built? Right now the project's chances seem less than brilliant. Nouvel's design is under attack by the usual forces of reaction-- the stodgy defenders of architectural banality, vociferous NIMBY community members, and even a few nervous public officials. Since the building would involve the transfer of air rights from St. Thomas Church and the University Club, the Landmarks Preservation Commission must approve the project. At a recent commission meeting, most of those speaking out were reportedly negative. It would be a shame-- and a loss for the city-- if the nay-sayers succeed in killing Nouvel's splendid tower.

On Becoming Immortal, or the Elevation of Jean-Loup Dabadie

What does it take to be seated sous la coupole today? Not what you'd think. The bar for induction into the Academie francaise has dropped to a new low.

Take the latest "immortal"-- he's the lyricist and screenwriter Jean-Loup Dabadie, voted in on April 10th. Le Monde mocked the selection, calling Dabadie a "saltimbanque." Well-- what has this fellow done to merit being chosen? He did write a couple of novels (one at the age of 17) and several screenplays for Claude Sautet and others. But apparently he's best known for the 300 songs he "authored" (as they phrase it in the Academie's press release). The lyrics were written for Juliette Greco, Serge Reggiani, Nana Mouskouri, Jean Gabin, Yves Montand, and ("inevitably," according to TLS) Johnny Halliday. The secretary of the Academie claims that they are just moving with the times. Movement can be up or down, of course. So what's happening here? Is it possible that this downward droop is in fact a reflection of the notoriously lowbrow taste of France's new president?

Banville Despite Himself

I'm a longtime Banville fan. I admit it. I've read and enjoyed almost all of his books, take pleasure in their play of language, their allusive links. I loved the Nabokovian trilogy that begins with The Book of Evidence. I thought The Untouchable was a stunning transformation of the Anthony Blunt story. I liked the ironic traces of DeMan and Althusser in Shroud. I thought fondly of Murdoch when I read The Sea. With each new volume, I was prepared for a surprise. Yet I was taken aback when I learned that Banville had written his next book under a pseudonym, albeit a peculiarly transparent one. Why? Did he intend to adopt another style? Was he creating a different kind of book? Did he want to address a different audience? Was he looking for a larger readership? I was curious, but decided to put those questions aside and to read Christine Falls as if it were written by an unknown writer-- some obscure Irish debutant named Benjamin Black.

At first reading, I was (as I suppose the author hoped) duly ensnared by the novel's plot, a willing victim of page-turneritis. This new book did indeed seem to be different. A sport of a novel-- an entertainment, a "thriller." The noir story, with its nefarious baby-smuggling ring and the ghoulish doings of the trans-Atlantic Dublin/Boston Irish mafioso, was compelling enough and did catch me up. So yes, I thought. This is a departure-- a trip into another novelistic species.

Recently, I decided to reread the book-- and to read it as if written by Banville. This time the juicy character details jumped off the page rather than the now-known plot. Quirke's, of course, primarily. His ambivalent familial entanglements, his deceptions, his half-in-love-with-death pose, his uneasy morality, his great clumsy size but tiny feet (nicely noticed by his niece/daughter Phoebe), his flashy silver cigarette case, his incessant drinking, his crooked smile, his artist's mannequin, his turkey carpet, his lack of a first name, his extraordinary sensitivity to smell, his expensive clothes, too elegant for the low places in which he finds himself, and probably too good for his dark job as a pathologist in the morgue of the Holy Family Hospital. I was also more amused this time by Q's amorous encounters. Odd that this bearish, morose, self-absorbed, sardonic, easily bored, often soused or, when not, then hung over, guy is so (inexplicably?) attractive to all shapes and ages of women-- his sister-in-law, especially, but also various young nurses, aging widows, nuns both young and old, shopgirls...

Then there's the Banvillesque (almost cinematic) habit of vision-- the offbeat way characters are positioned in a scene. They can be watching others from unexpected angles, i.e., looking down on someone below, or observing another across lines of moving traffic, or glancing up at a figure seen in a half-lit window. Occasionally a character will stand sideways, perhaps at an acute angle to the wall, and only then peer through a doorway into a room. Never direct, never straight on, even when there's no one to see-- Quirke, for instance, is caught looking upward, eyeing "the tall windows, thinking of all those shadowed rooms with people in them, waking, yawning, getting up to make their breakfasts, or turning over to enjoy another half hour in the damp, warm stew of their beds," but not seeing a soul.

Benjamin Black is Banville-brilliant about much else in the novel-- about weather, about a world of smells, about the changing feel of the air. The dank, gloomy atmosphere of Dublin, the sinister texture of the city's bars, the freezing wind and biting sleet of wintry Boston-- all seem as central to Christine Falls as Quirke et al. and the noir plot. So why, I ask you, bother with the pseudonym?