Talking about the Cantos as soon as this one-act Opera by Alexei Sumaka appeared in the repertoire of Perm Opera house. Otherwise it cannot be: the creative team of the project — the headliners theatre of the most fashionable trends. In addition to Maestro Currentzis and Sumaka here and Kseniya Peretrukhina (set design), and Alex Lobanov (costumes) and Simon Alexander (Director). The play is nominated for best Opera. In private nominations awarded all of its creators. However, there nominations? The pathos of the message is so ambitious that his authors should speak only as the Makers. That’s right — with capital letters.
The hype surrounding Cantos mad. Somewhere all know that in Perm the tickets can not buy. The play there is rare — because you are not going to replicate a spiritual act? In Moscow the representatives of the media warned that not everyone will get accredited for watching — the place is small, only 150 people will be let into the secret, which will occur on the stage of the “Palace on Yauza”. Feeling their exclusivity and involvement, observer of the “MK” is ready to dive into something sacred.
Sacred began with the passage into the hall. A narrow corridor, completely dark, led to the unknown far away. Maybe in heaven, but rather hell. Ran back one by one. Some, not to assess adequately the ritual of the moment, behaved ill: resisted, demanded to turn on the light, tried to light lanterns in the phone, tearfully whined something about a broken leg. Standing in this crowd of ignorant, I mentally gathered all his considerable experience of avant-garde and the mystery of action and humbly fulfilled all the requirements of the organizers, because I know for sure: resistance is futile. Then we sat for a long time on the stage, turned to the hall. The hall itself is covered with dry trees, soon closed the curtain. Further developments occurred in a small space of the stage between the two spectator areas. Sacredness all arrived. Not all, again, were ready to meet — the common people naively demanded action. People in the know whisper explained that it’s already started.
Then there was the actual action. Sorry, Action. Was there a solo violin (Xenia, Gamari) with a very distinct melodic material is built on lamenting descending seconds, pretty major sexmachine with Nona, and many times repeated short minor motif played in cadence. Of course, all this was interrupted by eddy atonal passages, in order not to go on a misplaced sentimentality. The solution is very concise, if not to say minimalistic. Was choir MusicAeterna, great-sounding a Cappella in the tricky syncopated rhythms. Was percussion. There were texts of Ezra pound, sung and spoken, of some scraps of dialogue, whispers, tramping, Shawty, hiss, mumble, timpani beats, the sounds of various drums… was the move of the choir, dressed in gray linen. Dry trees. And, of course, was himself Teodor Currentzis as… no, not the conductor of the Pastor who shepherds the flock. Including, by the way, not only musicians and artists but also the audience.
In the finale, which is embarrassing to name the show, it was the ritual, the mystery of the vigil, perhaps even mass (or rather, true, black) — now in the final, hellishly long and silent, the Maestro lifted the audience and led them to a closed curtain. Quiet was music — harmonic vertical, repeated many times the string section of the orchestra. Group of people all drawn to the barrier, and there was no end to this human flow (it turns out that 150 people is a lot). And all the chords were mentally locked, like a chain, you need to determine at the hearing on the solfeggio, and have stiff legs, and already began to growl “narrow-minded” (those who in the beginning of the show didn’t want the poor to move), but then it happened: the curtain opened, i.e., opened. We saw… saw the empty auditorium, the string group of the orchestra on the balcony and felt a strong smell of incense. Remembered was the smell of sulfur from Chekhov’s the Seagull, but seditious the thought was driven away as sowing misplaced irony. Past the incense burners, we proceeded to the exit in the closet, never finding something that, apparently, became Ezra pound. However, maybe someone has found. Some were so gruppirovanie that could not even in the dark (in the closet, too, the light was turned off) to figure out the window in which they undressed. The stairs we descended through the flames, kindled in special pots, which was also quite sacred.
Well, that’s all. Oh yeah! The question arises: what kind of Ezra pound? However, dedicated self-evident. But for the rest… a Poet be was an American. Modernist, imagist, fascist. For the last he was convicted — spent in Pisa in a terrible pit without shed and a bucket to defecate. (The Italians were very cruel to the Nazis — the mutilated bodies of Mussolini and his mistress, they simply hung by the legs at a gas station in Milan.) Went mad, was kept in a mental hospital. Renounced his work. The last 14 years of his life, observing a vow of silence. The typical hero of the twentieth century, if we understand the twentieth century as an era of destruction and degradation. Perfect figure for the apologists of sociopathy, necrophilia and fighters against the norm as a philosophical and ethical category. There is another question: what was it? The mystery dip in the sacred or the profane game in the forefront? The answer in Wikipedia is not found.
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