As Dieter Ertel’s brief introduction
stresses, the tragic circumstances
surrounding an artist’s life can influence
our perception of his work. I remain
one of the hard-hearted few who try
to keep my reactions to Kathleen Ferrier’s
“Das Lied von der Erde” separate from
the Kleenex-inducing factor of her
mortal illness. I try not to bandy
around phrases such as “those whom
the gods loved” whenever I hear records
by Lipatti or Cantelli. That said,
there is no doubt that it is a
moving tribute to the human spirit
under duress to see Ferenc Fricsay
rehearsing Smetana’s “Vltava” (here
given its German name “Die Moldau”)
with a boyish enthusiasm combined
with natural leadership and musical
authority, and to know that he was
already terminally ill and also in
great pain.
Though
firmly in control, Fricsay – whose precision was sometimes
likened to that of Toscanini – never raises his voice if
not in natural excitement at the music itself. He is unfailingly
courteous towards his players and has seemingly endless reserves
of patience. The 40-odd minutes of rehearsal only cover about
half the piece – up to end of the peasants’ wedding and then
the last minute or so. Even these parts seem to be edited,
suggesting that about two hours would have been needed to
prepare the entire work. So at this rate, for a concert containing
seventy or so minutes of music he would have required four
or five three-hour rehearsals.
Some questions arise spontaneously.
This programme was quite deliberately
prepared for television - at one point
Fricsay actually says he is explaining
something for the benefit of listeners,
since the orchestra will know it already.
So did he always have such a generous
allowance of rehearsal time, and if
not, how did he manage? While German
orchestras are known to thrive on
extended rehearsals, how did London
orchestras react to him? Maybe he
didn’t often conduct in London but
his last public appearance was for
the London première of Kodály’s symphony
with the LPO. Was he always so courteous
and patient when the rehearsal was
not being filmed? It would be interesting
to know if anything survives, even
just a few minutes, of a “real” Fricsay
rehearsal. The fascinating thing is
that, at the end of the day, when
the actual performance comes, it’s
a shade faster than at the rehearsals,
so all the detail falls into place.
Setting
aside the tragic overtones, what we have here is a document
showing a thorough and likeable conductor with a clear-cut
but not especially expressive, batonless, beat who produces
a brisk, energetic if somewhat unyielding performance of
Smetana’s popular tone-poem. The Toscanini recording, by
the way, is 30 seconds longer, 11:07, while a typical Kubelik
performance (I have the Boston one) comes in at 11:49. Some
of Fricsay’s recordings – the Verdi Requiem for example – tell
us there was more to the story so, tantalizingly, this film
is only half successful in its declared aim of telling us “who
Ferenc Fricsay was”. Still, it helps to build up the picture
and I must say that, while I would always prefer the Kubelik
style in this piece, I appreciated Fricsay’s interpretation
- which I might otherwise have dismissed as hurried, even
insensitive - the better for having heard him explain why
he feels it this way.
Not
long ago I was writing about the wonky picture and poor sound
of an Italian television recording of Michelangeli from the
early 1960s. The present film shows that television technology
in general was still fairly primitive at that time, not just
at the RAI. Quite honestly, both as picture and as sound,
this is no advance on the best pre-war Hollywood film productions.
But it’s all we’ve got.
Christopher
Howell
Rehearsal
extracts [41:20] and performance [10:37] with introduction
[02:38] by Dieter Ertel 
[c.55:00] 
