Chopin and Suk: Ingrid Fliter (piano) / BBC Symphony Orchestra / Jiři Bělohlávek (conductor). Barbican Hall, London. 21. 5.2008 (ED)


The indisposition of Piotr Anderszewski led to Ingrid Fliter taking to the stage to play Chopin’s second piano concerto in place of Szymanowski’s Symphonie concertante, which was originally advertised. The evening however retained a mixture of poetic lyricism and profundity with Suk’s Asrael Symphony forming the second half. Between them the two works displayed music’s ability to enchant and grapple with weighty philosophical questions.

Chopin’s second concerto is obviously a work for which Fliter feels an affinity, this performance being squeezed in between others in Dornbirn, Austria and Milan. Bělohlávek urged a rhythmically alert orchestral opening, to which Ingrid Fliter responded with a grand gesture, however as the movement went on her performance emphasised  the delicate internal passagework of the concerto in the crispness of her fingering and articulation more than the bold outward statements. She showed keen awareness of balance, and her approach played off well against the predominantly light yet broad-brushed approach from the orchestra. The middle-movement larghetto proved to be the emotional centre of the performance, even though initially it seemed as if the tempo might drag proceedings down somewhat. However intent on emphasising the dreamy quality within Chopin’s solo and orchestral writing Fliter and Bělohlávek were,  their restraint was broken by a delightfully nuanced bassoon solo. The final movement brought questions of tonal weight to mind about Fliter’s performance. Her left hand in particular shaded the reading less than is often the case, not that there is anything intrinsically wrong in this,  as it can, and did, lend a deftness to her poetic playing, even if it failed to fully register against Bělohlávek’s enthusiastically produced orchestral tuttis.

I have no qualms whatsoever about the performance of Josef Suk’s mighty Asrael Symphony. All too rarely performed, the work is a deeply personal family affair that grapples with mighty questions and poses substantial interpretational problems. Written in response to the sudden deaths of Suk’s father-in-law Antonin Dvořák and his daughter Otylka, aged just 27, its five movements traverse the issues of the fight between Life and Death, ponder  the meaning and implications of loss, reflect  on the hollowness of Death’s victory, remember  the beauty of those who have died, and conclude  with perhaps the greatest philosophical question of them all: what is the point of living? Of course, Suk used the process of writing to work through his feelings and arrive at his own conclusions. To experience the work can be cathartic, as its message is ultimately one of hope springing from the depths of despair.

Aside from these weighty questions the conductor has to balance form and structure to maintain the work’s cohesiveness. Conceived in two parts, the first three movements broadly stemmed from the aftermath of Dvořák’s death and the last two were scored after Otylka’s death. Bělohlávek secured all this with a sureness of grip that made the performance a fascinating experience, built fundamentally from an architectural overview: having a desolate scherzo at its centre, the movement is flanked by two slow movements, which in turn are buttressed by faster, more dramatic ones. Clearly the BBC forces had been put through their paces in rehearsal and responded with playing of forthright directness, as befits music that demands such emotion to be evident.

A few observations about the playing might suffice in drawing out its quality:  the opening movement’s infusion with the cold, dispassionate appearance of Death for example – brilliantly evoked by the hollowness of the cellos – before plunging headlong into an miasmic orchestral melée signifying the cruel wrenching of life from his victims. Here, as in the second movement, the Straussian influence on Suk’s orchestration – for which he was often vilified – was totally apparent. Indeed such opulence aids understanding of the programme behind the music,  to my way of thinking. With a solitary trumpet permeating much of the second movement’s texture, there was contrast aplenty to be had with the bitter-sweet tone of the violins, made all the more effective by judicious handling of both tempo and dynamic by Bělohlávek throughout the grim pizzicato fugato section. The vivace third movement emphasised the protracted and savage dance of death over life, taunting and haunting simultaneously in the use of woodwinds,  with each instrumental line twisting its predecessor ever more cruelly out of shape. Only the sweet Dvořákesque dance provided an intentional counterpoint. The tenderness of Suk’s portrait of Otylka which forms the fourth movement was given a reflective glow of fondness in the violin tone especially. The closing maelstrom of a movement was pitched into at a full and unrelenting pelt from the first timpani strokes. If the movement is purgative, it not so much heals the anguish caused by suffering but reconciles one with loss. Brooding basses and gloriously toned masses of blaring brass gave way to ethereal upper strings and that universal signifier of ultimate optimism, the C major chord, hushed and reverently played. Just as the music demonstrated events  that spurred on the making of Suk the composer, this scandalously ill-attended performance left no doubt that Bělohlávek and his forces can be musicians of the first rank when the occasion demands it of them.

The broadcast on Radio 3 (Friday 23 May 2008, 7.00pm) should not be missed.

Evan Dickerson

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