Daily Blague

Sondra Radvanovsky moved me to tears at the end of today's Met broadcast of Don Carlo. I'm half sorry that I didn't hear her Elisabetta in the house, but only half, because only one other singer would have been better than bearable, Ferruccio Furlanetto, the Filippo. I have learned something new about opera; my new understanding springs from the recognition that, as long as Ms Radvanovsky's mouth is open and producing sound, I am a happy man. (I even like her speaking voice.) Little imperfections here and there - all is forgiven in advance. I have never felt this way about a singer before. I've always held singers up to a preconceived idea of how they ought to sound, and so every one of them has necessarily disappointed me, at least occasionally (although a tiny few, such as Cheryl Studer in her prime, have had a breathtaking way of nailing my ideal again and again). But with Ms Radvanovsky, I am listening to Sondra Radvanovsky oblivious of ideals. I'm not going to try to persuade you that she is the best singer ever. That, as anybody familiar with opera fans should know, would be purposeless and possibly counterproductive. I'm just saying that at long last I get it.

Yesterday, I watched The Saddest Music in the World. This is not a film that I am quite ready for. Half Eraserhead, half I really have no idea what, this Canadian oddity, directed by Guy Madden,with a screenplay by Kazuo Ishiguro,  does have one unforgettable image, and that's of the Baroness's transparent, beer-filled legs. By all means, watch it just to see them, but don't expect me to explain them... Last night, we watched The Asphalt Jungle for the first time. This 1950 classic directed by John Huston is the mother of all heist flicks, and I've got to see it again soon. I've got to see it again soon in any case, because Kathleen fell asleep toward the end and wants to know how it comes out.

Off to Grace Rainey Rogers for the second of our two evenings there with the Guarneri Quartet. Mozart, Dohnanyi, and Dvorak.