I’m back once again a little bit earlier than planned, and once again, I’m writing from a heightened emotional state that may not make a fantastic Substack. There is just a lot happening.
Last week I waxed exasperated about the trailer for Maestro, a film that will probably be better than I think it will be. The nose controversy has somewhat subsided - the Bernstein family put out a statement in its defence, Bradley Cooper can’t say anything during the strikes (this is one film that certainly won’t be delayed for actor and writer press), and while I don’t think it was maliciously created I still think it’s bad and looks bad. But enough of the movies, until someone wants to pay me to write about Maestro (I’ve read Bernstein’s collected letters and spent several hours on his YouTube videos and other writings, so my qualifications are moderate and my books are open)...
A highlight of yesterday was going to see Dr Leah Broad’s talk at the Edinburgh Book Festival. I have not yet read Quartet, her group biography of Ethel Smyth, Rebecca Clarke, Dorothy Howell, and Doreen Carwithen, but it is now moving to the top of my reading pile. She speaks very eloquently and with great passion about these composers and the fact that - really - the fact that their music has not been as extensively catalogued, recorded, or performed as their male contemporaries comes down to their gender. Championing underperformed works from outside the canon is a constant process of exploration, discovery, interrogation, and re-imagining histories while being informed by the historical realities that led Smyth’s, Clark’s, Howell’s and Carwithen’s music to be swept aside. There is a further consideration of programming in a non-tokenistic way - not programming a piece by a ‘woman composer’ merely for the progressive kudos, but programming neglected and celebrated composers on equal footing. The facts of Quartet and the current classical music industry, where 7.7% of all such concert programming composed by women, is sobering, but on the whole, it was an inspirational and horizon-expanding hour.
Then I came out into the courtyard of the Edinburgh College of Art, the Book Fest’s new home, and made the crucial mistake of opening Twitter. It’s reported that John Eliot Gardiner punched the young bass William Thomas after the latter exited the stage from the wrong side during a concert of Les Troyens in La Côte-Saint-André, France - the same concert which is to be performed at the Proms on 3 September. Gardiner has issued a public apology and ‘decided to withdraw’ from the rest of the concerts in London, Salzburg, Versailles, and Berlin. The singer’s management has also issued a statement, without naming Gardiner. It is not the first time an ‘incident’ has been alleged where Gardiner has been involved; think pieces on other known bullies within conducting (the list is long), and comparisons to Lydia Tár, have come in thick and fast in the aftermath. Sure, Tár was fiction, but every person I told about this incident in person - none of whom are classical music fans - evoked Cate Blanchett’s terrifying performance immediately and unprompted.
In equally terrible news, American countertenor David Daniels - who pleaded guilty to and was convicted of sexual assault a mere matter of weeks ago - posted that he was getting job offers in Europe and receiving substantial support from industry stalwarts. It was news that all but killed the hope of ever possibly re-making this system and highlighted the absolute necessity of doing so. For every abusive artist that gets a second, and third, and fourth chance protected by a system that puts musical excellence above common human decency (and, indeed, criminality), there is another artist - possibly with equal potential, almost always with less power - who is pushed to the sidelines, whose artistic development and safety are not valued, and who has to watch their abuser continue to get accolades and professional success in a precarious industry. There is no quantifying the talent and humanity lost in the process.
I do not know what the answer is, and I am quite angry about the whole matter. It feels as if the appearances of fragility in the classical music industry makes both fans and fellow professionals more likely to close ranks and protect their own figureheads, at the expense of talented future artists and practitioners. While there is much hand-wringing over the economic precarity and sustainability of classical music institutions and ensembles, the real issue of longevity may be a personal one.
Tonight I will hear a concert performance of Tannhäuser, an opera by Richard Wagner - perhaps the most publicly problematic composer in the canon for his virulent antisemitism (and complicated nationalism, and casual sexism, but the antisemitism was extreme even for his time). It certainly helps when a terrible person is dead and 110 years out of copyright. Neither his nor his descendants' pockets will be lined. It also helps as well that there has been a reckoning with Wagner's legacy both as a (poor) theorist as well as his family connection to Hitler - an extensive one. There was, and perhaps still is, an exhibition at the Bayreuth Festival - the festival Wagner founded to perform his works and his works only - entitled ‘Silenced Voices’. The panels give the names and stories of the (mostly but not exclusively Jewish) artists and musicians who worked at Bayreuth before the Nazis came to power and subsequently lost their jobs, livelihoods, and sometimes lives. Alison Kinney, who has been to Bayreuth in person, astutely describes its content, impact on the festival and its attendees, and limitations.
Some commentators, including scholar Mark Berry and conductor Daniel Barenboim, have expressed dismay at the reduction of Wagner’s legacy to his worst views and those of his worst fans. Honestly, I have occasionally wondered this myself. And of course this fascist state-sponsored exile and murder is a whole different league of terror and abuse than what Gardiner and Daniels have perpetrated. Wagner (and his family), Gardiner, and Daniels are all different tiers of shitty people, but similar reckonings are due. But after this week’s violences and glimmers of hope, I can no longer agree that such gestures can be too much, too long, or too prominent. This exhibition and similar acts of remembrance are perhaps inconsequential and imperfect in the fundamental inability to make up for the violence they memorialise, but it would be a worse world if they were swept under the rug.
At least today, with the visibility of petty podium tyrannies, there’s a glimmer of hope that we can course correct, pulling old gods off their pedestals and ensuring a safe environment for all. That said, sometimes the most likely route there seems to be burning it all down and starting again.
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What I recommend
N.B. some of this is, shamelessly, my own writing
It’s been great being back at the four Edinburgh Festivals, though I wish they wouldn’t all take place at the same time. I have had one piece published around the Edinburgh International Film Festival and will have another out shortly. Interviewing Thomas Schubert, star of Christian Petzold’s phenomenal Afire, was an absolute pleasure. He couldn’t be more different from his character. You can read it in The Skinny, where you’ll also find Eilidh Akilade’s fantastic review of the same film.
Three excellent writers have written some expectedly excellent words on Ira Sachs’ Passages, a film I can’t stop thinking about and need the entire wardrobe from.
Five years ago, I wrote a piece on Bernstein’s music in the movies for his centennial: I’d love to go even more in-depth now, but it was a great research project at the time.
And lastly, please donate to my marathon charity fundraiser if you’re so inclined! The race is in 30 days and I’m losing my mind while resting my knee.
What I’m reading:
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath: feels like it is written just for me, which makes me the millionth girl to say this, which is immensely, existentially comforting.
Having finished Penance (mentioned last time), it’s growing on me. Eliza Clark’s latest reminded me less of her debut Boy Parts and more of three other books I've read quite recently: John Darnielle's Devil House, Alison Rumfitt's Tell Me I'm Worthless, and a sprinkling of Heather Parry's Orpheus Builds a Girl. Dense, knotty, and unsatisfying but I think that's the whole point. The structure, framing device, and different voices are all really well constructed, but I needed to sit with the way it hangs together for a few days after finishing it to see its very clever, and very potent, way of framing our own obsession with the worst of humanity. I expected a slightly bigger punch at the end, but wouldn’t that have ruined the mundanity of humanity’s darkest urges?
What I’m watching:
Red, White and Royal Blue: some advice to you all - go into this film with expectations on the floor, and you'll have a brilliant time. I’ll close this newsletter with perhaps my all-time favourite Letterboxd review