Volver (al invierno)

Last Saturday night I braved frigid temperatures and tempestuous winds to hear Alarm Will Sound play works of Varèse at Columbia. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to be greeted at the door of the Miller Theatre by a sign broadcasting the fact that the concert had sold out. Although the sudden change in New York weather, from balmy to near-arctic, was nothing short of shocking, I was determined not to waste a hard-earned parking space. I switched to plan B, elevated my furry Eskimo-style hood, and headed to the Lincoln Center area to finally catch Pedro Almodóvar's latest film, Volver.

I have seen nearly the complete canon of Almodóvar's films, and his masterpiece Hable con Ella (Talk to Her) in particular hovers close to the top of my all-time favorites list. I had been meaning to see Volver since its release last fall; perhaps the delay allowed my grandiose expectations to inflate and subsequently prevent me from forming an objective opinion. In his previous film, La Mala Educación (Bad Education), the director eschewed his penchant for populating his films with female characters and focused instead on men (albeit men in dresses and heels). With Volver, Almodóvar returns to his specialty: bringing neurotic, funny and eminently "real" women to life onscreen. Penélope Cruz's Oscar nomination is well deserved, and the Hitchcockian references (starkly dramatic score, uncomfortably intimate close-up shots, and Heinz 57 post-murder cleanup) were reminiscent of his earlier film noir efforts featuring Victoria Abril.

Unrelated announcement: Restaurant Week has begun! I lunched yesterday at Asiate inside the Mandarin Oriental. With the exception of a quickly rectified "fly-in-the-soup" situation everything was completely lovely and delicious. Unfortunately this sort of thing happens to me often - whether I'm dining at the Russian Tea Room or Taco Bell, my food and beverages are somehow magnets for foreign objects. And once at Remi, years ago, they even forgot to bake my chicken.

High-Tonality Diet

Lately I've strayed (quite unintentionally, of course) from my usual diet of atonality mixed with post-minimalism, seasoned with a bit of prepared piano and extended techniques. This change in routine began with a frantic email from friend BSW, artistic director of the Artemis Chamber Ensemble. "I completely forgot there was a continuo part on this program! Can you help?" Hours later I found myself at a rehearsal, silently thanking my harpsichord teacher for his strict figured bass sightreading requirements. Luckily there was a realization in the score, and unlike many such parts it appeared to have been written by an actual keyboard player. The piece was Bach's Cantata No. 51. Also included on the 45 minute (ADD-friendly) concert were two lovely works by twentieth-century Americans, Barber's Canzonetta (for solo oboe and chamber orchestra) and Quiet City by Copland. The trumpet and English horn solos echoed deliciously through the cavernous space, and after I had completed my duties I retreated to the audience and thoroughly enjoyed the remainder of the program. The concert began at 3 and by 4:30 I was already munching on a kimchi pancake and dumpling soup.

This week I'm obligated to turn my attention to Mozart. I'm beginning to believe that, just as it is (sadly) inadvisable to let large quantities of chicken Parmesan and Junior's cheesecake become a quotidian occurrence, it may also be worthwhile to cultivate variety in my artistic existence. I keep experiencing late-night cravings for atonality though. Is there a pill for that? Or perhaps a patch?

All is quiet on New Year's Day...

I spent most of last week on my parents’ couch with yet another cold (I’m beginning to wonder if a suit against the school teacher who invented Airborne would hold up in court). Luckily I was in the company of a spectacular book, Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Upon its release several years ago, a review in Vogue piqued my curiosity, although I seldom permit myself to read fiction (too many weighty musicology tomes piling up around my apartment). I was reminded of it again when a cinematic version of another of the author’s novels, Everything Is Illuminated, arrived in theaters. I didn’t catch it, and now I would prefer to read the book first, which may have to wait until next Christmas.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is one of those rare and most potent works of art that can cause one to laugh and cry with equal vigor. For some reason, the closest comparison I can think of is Terms of Endearment, the plot of which isn’t really similar at all, except in its subject matter of losing someone close to you. Foer’s novel is ingeniously narrated by Oskar, who at the age of nine is an inventor, jewelry designer and tambourine player, among other things. The story, alternately hilarious and heartbreaking, follows Oskar on his quest to unravel a mystery his father left behind when he died on the morning of September 11, 2001.