LAPO

Once again we owe much to the venerable conductor, Kurt Sanderling. Whether or
not his efforts with the vast, lumbering Eighth Symphony of Dimitri
Shostakovich were actually worth his time with the Los Angeles Philharmonic
this past weekend, he certainly put the work forward in the best possible
light.
The symphony dates from 1943 and needs to be heard, therefore, in the light of
its composer’s moods in his war-torn country. Like the other “War” symphony,
the Seventh, it begins with vast statements: in this case a deep, sombre
opening slow movement that explodes into abrasive madness near the end and
takes up nearly half of the symphony’s hourlong span. Comparisons to some of
Gustav Mahler’s more psychotic outpourings are inevitable.
Then, like Mahler, Shostakovich does a certain amount of thrashing to devise
ensuing movements large enough to balance his opening statement. Like Mahler
(in the Fifth Symphony, for example) he is not completely successful. The two
brief scherzos, in Shostakovich’s well-known jokey style, sound trivial. They
lead to a slow movement that meanders down dark corridors before finally coming
to rest in gleaming C-major sunshine.
That one moment is the symphony’s highpoint, but it is a single moment out of a
very long run. A finale, built out of forgettable melodic blocks, ends softly
and serenely (an effect ruined on Friday afternoon by heavy conversation in
seats L-27 and 28). That moment, too, is potentially beautiful.
Sanderling’s way with Shostakovich is familiar from his previous visits here.
Having known the composer, he also seems gifted with powerful insights into the
rhetorical side of this music. He drew a tremendous, virtuosic performance out
of the orchestra, full of pianissimos that you didn’t so much hear as feel as
goosebumps, and overpowering outbursts that were never raucous or cheap. If
there is a case to be made for this imperfect work, a matter open to argument,
let it be on Sanderling’s level of eloquence.
Elizo Virzaladze, the darkly handsome pianist from Soviet Georgia who had
played Mozart with Sanderling on a previous visit, did so again, starting the
program with the B-flat Concerto (K. 450). One of the less-frequently performed
of Mozart’s mature concertos, it operates on a quiet, witty, warm-hearted
level. Sanderling in his wisdom had reduced the size of the string contingent,
so that the lovely wind scoring came through nicely.
Even so, it was not a successful performance. A term like “deadpan” is never
pleasant to encounter in discussing Mozart performances, but no other
description fits Virzaladze’s unloving, uninflected onslaught on Mozart’s
magical measures. The program biography states that she “reads Shakespeare and
Goethe in their original languages.” Too bad she did not accord Mozart that
same favor.