I believe many, like myself, might have returned to Tchaikovsky
                in later life to rediscover and appreciate his music that much
                more after first encountering him in our youth. Those first experiences
                were when his melodies appealed immediately to our relatively
                untrained ears and when the passions of the music seemed to relate
                to our more raw, more immature emotions. Afterwards we moved
                on to discover what we may have thought, then, to be more sophisticated,
                more challenging material. Christopher Nupen says something similar,
                in his introductory notes to his films: “… in my
                infinite stupidity I looked down my nose at the music of Pyotr
                Ilyich Tchaikovsky, thus alienating myself from his magic ...
                it was fashionable at the time … to be superior about Tchaikovsky’s
                music … The pendulum, thank heavens, has begun to swing
                again …” 
                
                Nupen’s films encourage us to look afresh at Tchaikovsky’s
                tormented life. Through an unerringly apposite selection of readings
                from Tchaikovsky’s letters and other writings his commentary
                sharply focuses on the composer’s tormented life, his loneliness,
                guilt and anguish and his feelings of alienation due to his homosexuality.
                In the first film, 
Tchaikovsky’s Women, Nupen covers
                Tchaikovsky’s heightened sensitivity and his fraught relationships
                with women beginning with his close, obsessive attachment to
                his mother. This includes the famous story of how, when he was
                a small boy, he clung to the wheels of his mother’s carriage
                when she left him at his boarding school. Nupen, aided by Ashkenazy’s
                sympathetic, emotionally-charged performances of well chosen
                excerpts from Tchaikovsky’s 
The Storm, 
Romeo
                and Juliet and 
Francesca da Rimini, demonstrate how
                the composer so closely empathized with the plight and anguish
                of his heroines: Katerina, Juliet and Francesca respectively.
                Cynthia Harvey, in dance, exquisitely expresses the anguish of
                Katerina, Juliet and 
Swan Lake’s Odette. Clara Bartha
                sings Donna Anna, another suffering female, in Mozart’s 
Don
                Giovanni, a work that had a profound influence on Tchaikovsky.
                The visuals in this first film are appropriately close and darkly
                lit. 
                
                
Tchaikovsky’s Women, climaxes with the composer’s
                ill-fated marriage to Antonia Milyukova - how it was precipitated
                by the strange coincidence of Milyukova’s pleading love
                letters with the simultaneous composition of his opera 
Eugene
                Onegin and most particularly ‘Tatiana’s Letter
                Scene’ in which the young heroine confesses her love for
                Onegin. Soprano, Helen Field, nicely demonstrates Tatiana’s
                shy passion yet inescapable compulsion. 
                
                The second film, 
Fate, begins where 
Tchaikovsky’s
                Women ends. After the trauma of his marriage, another woman
                entered his life. Nupen shows how Nadezhda von Meck became, in
                effect, a surrogate mother. Strangely, they never met but shared
                a growing intimacy in their correspondence. Her patronage relieved
                him from financial worries and allowed him to concentrate on
                composition. Interestingly Nupen illuminates something of von
                Meck’s background in that she felt guilty about an affair
                she had had; an affair which she felt contributed to her husband’s
                death. The visuals in this second film are more restrictive concentrating
                on portraits of the composer ageing through to 1893, the year
                of his death, manuscripts and scores. There’s also extensive
                film of Ashkenazy conducting excerpts from Symphonies 4, ‘Manfred’,
                5 and 6. Nupen underlines how Tchaikovsky became increasingly
                preoccupied with the idea of a malignant fate stalking his life.
                More positively he thought much of his 4
th Symphony,
                about Fate, declaring it to be for himself and von Meck. But
                then he disparaged his 5
th Symphony, claiming it to
                be far inferior to his 4
th. Nupen suggests, quite
                reasonably, that Tchaikovsky was drawn to the concept of Byron’s 
Manfred because
                of its connotations of forbidden love: incest in Byron’s
                case and homosexuality in Tchaikovsky’s. 
Manfred is
                epitomized by a dark and anguished theme and it is interesting
                that, once again, Tchaikovsky reserves his most sympathetic and
                appealing music for Byron’s misused heroine, Astarte. Most
                anguished of all is the story of the difficult development of
                the 6
th ‘Pathétique’ Symphony which
                at length Tchaikovsky recognized to be his masterpiece. It was
                to contain the frankest of his self-portraits and it was not
                a little to do with an acceptance of his fate and the imminence
                of death - a fate that was awaiting him just around the corner. 
                
                Revelatory films focusing exclusively on torment with no relief
                to include coverage of the lighter works such as 
Capriccio
                Italien, Souvenir de Florence, Mozartiana or the 
Rococo
                Variations. 
                
                A frank and harrowing portrait of a misunderstood and, still,
                a too little appreciated genius.
                
                
Ian Lace