Sviatoslav Richter, for me, formed the starting point. Bruno Monsaingeon’s substantial documentary film of the great Russian pianist, a biographical memoir long available on DVD, remains a haunting masterpiece of musical observation and perception that led to others of its kind, not least the more recent two-hour DVD (Amazon £15.53) of the winter journey by train across Eastern Europe with the gifted young Polish pianist Piotr Anderszewski in company with a shiny Steinway grand.
Playing on a train is not an engagement in the art of the tranquil, as I discovered when I journeyed on the revamped Orient Express with another music critic, the avuncular John Amis of the BBC, from Verona to London, enticed by free tickets, sleeping berths and meals with the chance - at least for me - to write a commemorative article in the Herald newspaper.
There was also an entertainment factor in the form of a Beethoven recital on a grand piano in the cocktail bar by the modish pianist (already heard during John Drummond’s day at the Edinburgh Festival) Jan Latham Koenig, who was working his passage across Europe for a fee, it was said, no more than the price of a ticket. In other words, like me, he probably had a freebie.
It was not, however, the noise of the train which got in the way, even though Koenig seemed impervious to it. It was the frequent plunging into tunnels, which coincided with that portion of the journey through the Alps. Drink, at Orient Express prices, was no sedative, and when Koenig, looking stunned that there were critics on board, joined us for dinner he said we should not treat it too seriously. It was all just a piece of fun.
I cannot say I laughed, except at his embarrassment. But Anderszewski’s impeccable film is another matter entirely. The rightful winner of major awards, it is made for smiles not laughs. It has a scrupulously devised screenplay and is a nostalgic journey, entitled Unquiet Traveller, around his Polish past, with stops for concerts and rehearsals in Warsaw and elsewhere, including some delicate moments of Brahms with Gustavo Dudamel and the Philharmonia Orchestra, slotted into Monsangeon’s probing scenario. The result is musical portraiture of the most entrancing sort.
Seated alone at the keyboard while snowy vistas sweep past the windows, Andreszewski dips into favourite pieces, talking quietly as he plays. If the green train stops at a station - he finds all stations thought-provoking - he steps outside, then climbs back on board, maintaining the continuity of his private dialogue and the sounds he draws from the keys. It is all utterly personal and holds you in its grasp.
I have treasured this disc for a while and, because Andreszewski, an articulate Bachian among other things, has become a familiar figure in Scotland, it is something easy to take pleasure in.
No mere travelogue or conventional interview, it delves into an inspired pianist’s persona, watches what he does, listens to what he says as he sits there unfurls some Schumann and switches straight from the depths of Szymanowski to Mozart, softly singing fragments from The Magic Flute, which obsess him as the snow scene gleams outside.
Snow: ah yes, snow certainly comes into it as the train trundles along then pauses to let him disembark for a visit to a vegetable market with his granny in Budapest. Later, back on board, friends and colleagues materialise for an illuminated supper with frozen schnapps while the end of The Magic Flute rings out in the background.
No it is not the Orient Express and all the better for not being.
21 September 2016
Playing on a train is not an engagement in the art of the tranquil, as I discovered when I journeyed on the revamped Orient Express with another music critic, the avuncular John Amis of the BBC, from Verona to London, enticed by free tickets, sleeping berths and meals with the chance - at least for me - to write a commemorative article in the Herald newspaper.
There was also an entertainment factor in the form of a Beethoven recital on a grand piano in the cocktail bar by the modish pianist (already heard during John Drummond’s day at the Edinburgh Festival) Jan Latham Koenig, who was working his passage across Europe for a fee, it was said, no more than the price of a ticket. In other words, like me, he probably had a freebie.
It was not, however, the noise of the train which got in the way, even though Koenig seemed impervious to it. It was the frequent plunging into tunnels, which coincided with that portion of the journey through the Alps. Drink, at Orient Express prices, was no sedative, and when Koenig, looking stunned that there were critics on board, joined us for dinner he said we should not treat it too seriously. It was all just a piece of fun.
I cannot say I laughed, except at his embarrassment. But Anderszewski’s impeccable film is another matter entirely. The rightful winner of major awards, it is made for smiles not laughs. It has a scrupulously devised screenplay and is a nostalgic journey, entitled Unquiet Traveller, around his Polish past, with stops for concerts and rehearsals in Warsaw and elsewhere, including some delicate moments of Brahms with Gustavo Dudamel and the Philharmonia Orchestra, slotted into Monsangeon’s probing scenario. The result is musical portraiture of the most entrancing sort.
Seated alone at the keyboard while snowy vistas sweep past the windows, Andreszewski dips into favourite pieces, talking quietly as he plays. If the green train stops at a station - he finds all stations thought-provoking - he steps outside, then climbs back on board, maintaining the continuity of his private dialogue and the sounds he draws from the keys. It is all utterly personal and holds you in its grasp.
I have treasured this disc for a while and, because Andreszewski, an articulate Bachian among other things, has become a familiar figure in Scotland, it is something easy to take pleasure in.
No mere travelogue or conventional interview, it delves into an inspired pianist’s persona, watches what he does, listens to what he says as he sits there unfurls some Schumann and switches straight from the depths of Szymanowski to Mozart, softly singing fragments from The Magic Flute, which obsess him as the snow scene gleams outside.
Snow: ah yes, snow certainly comes into it as the train trundles along then pauses to let him disembark for a visit to a vegetable market with his granny in Budapest. Later, back on board, friends and colleagues materialise for an illuminated supper with frozen schnapps while the end of The Magic Flute rings out in the background.
No it is not the Orient Express and all the better for not being.
21 September 2016
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