Pierre Boulez at Hertz Hall, Berkeley

PIERRE BOULEZ IS only one of many enthusiasms I lost track of over the years. In the late 1950s and throughout most of the 1960s I kept up with these enthusiasms as well as one could in Berkeley, with little budget for concerts and recordings and none at all for travel. The local radio station KPFA was a considerable help, with occasional recordings of live performances from European festivals. I recall a performance of Structures, Book II at UC Berkeley, given by the visiting duo Karl and Margaret Kohn, sometime in the early 1960s; and I've already written here about the Le Marteau sans maître given there in 1962 by a group conducted by Gerhard Samuel, with an unforgettable performance by soprano Anna Carol Dudley.

Among the recordings on my shelves in those days there was only the first piano sonata and, even more resistant, a European festival performance of Pli selon pli, on badly recorded tapes made from radio broadcasts on a second-hand Viking reel-to-reel machine. Then there was an LP of the Sonatine for flute: but it never interested me as much.

And then, when I moved from programming music at KPFA to the visual arts (among other things) at KQED — television naturally preferring to look at things, not merely listen — the musical modernists moved toward the periphery of my activities. At the same time, the unpredictability and freshness that had characterized open-form or aleatoric music through the early 1960s — and even Boulez, rigorous as he was, managed to create music that sounded free and impetuous, whatever the actual process was he used to make it — that freshness seemed to harden into procedure-ridden complexities. Then too, Boulez had become a conductor as well as a composer (and an ardent revolutionary); this suggested he had come to some kind of compromise with the industry. I buried myself in Duchamp.

Last month we noticed a Boulez concert coming up, though, and yesterday we drove down to Berkeley to hear two pieces new to me: Anthèmes 2 (1997) and Dérive 2 (1988, 2006). The performances were lively and subtle and, according to a fellow I spoke to after the concert, quite accurate, and we were glad we'd made the trip.

The music was given in Hertz Hall, a wood-panelled room seating just under seven hundred in a shoebox configuration. I always like to sit centered in the last row in this hall, and bought our tickets forgetting that surround-sound electronics were likely to be involved. Sure enough, Anthèmes 2 requires it: two small speakers were in the corners behind the stage; three were spaced along each side wall, and another was say five feet over my head on the wall directly behind me.

Anthèmes 2 is written for solo violin with an electronic accompaniment involving live processing of the instrument: frequency shifting, harmonizing, ring modulation, reverberation, and apparently some sampled sounds, triggered by the sounds of the live violin. In the event, even to my seat, all this seemed to work very well: though the hall is sizable enough to make the sounds from the loudspeakers seem to be more a framing element, or a commentary on the solo violin, than an intimately responsive co-musician.

This, of course, may well be Boulez's intention. He has always been fond of layers, commentaries, paraphrases, doubles. In fact I always think of his composition (and his composer's statements, quite provocative in the old days) as bivalent, as German as French, as “poetic” as mathematical. Graeme Jennings gave a marvelous performance: his technical mastery was evident (he was with the Arditti Quartet for ten years), but so was the lyrical element; he shaped the music, making supple lines, articulating the intellectual component of the score with an almost narrative kind of phrasing. Anthèmes 2 emerged almost silky and feminine, as one used to say; there's little irony in the piece, but considerable delicacy, urgent though it sometimes is.

Dérive 2 was another matter: no electronics at all; long; kaleidoscopic in its treatment of the ensemble resources. Violin, viola, cello, French horn, bassoon, clarinet, and English horn ranged in a shallow arc in front of the conductor. To his right, behind the woodwinds, a marimba and a vibraphone. To his left, beyond the strings, a harp and a piano. In a single movement, spanning perhaps forty minutes, Boulez combines the sonorities of these instruments fascinatingly, grouping and regrouping them into sub-units, allowing solo instruments to come forward out of the texture, then drop back into it.

Strings play as a unit, for example, perhaps contrasting with the winds; then the cello, horn, and bassoon become a unit, playing against comments in the upper strings and woodwinds. The percussion instruments often function as an aural frame around the inner group; just as often, they serve as an aural binder, when the entire 11-person ensemble functions as a small Mahler orchestra.

My attention was constantly engaged. You never know how Boulez chooses his next note, dynamic, sonority; but it always sounds correctly chosen. There's nothing, to me, as entrancing as the completely “meaningless” logic of a beautifully constructed musical composition, especially when argued, or stated, with both well-grounded personal expression, engaging the audience, and faithful attention to the composer's directions. The result is an event of great artistic impact, human in its expression, orderly in its presentation, aware of its historical precedents, committed to the unique curve of its own logic.

Where Anthèmes 2 seemed Gallic, I thought I heard almost deliberate references to German repertory in Dérive 2: the Schoenberg Wind Quintet; Berg's Chamber Concerto. In the end, though, I think Boulez inherits, finally, a historical position last left off by Debussy. After all these years, music like this no longer sounds Modernist: it's classical: balanced, intelligent, thoughtful. It's sumptuous, of course: but it's above all resolved. David Milnes conducted; the Eco Ensemble responded, every member impressive: Hrabba Arladottir, violin; Kyle Bruckmann, oboe; Leighton Fong, cello; Christopher Froh, percussion; David Granger, bassoon; Peter Josheff, clarinet; Dan Levitan, harp; Loren Mach, percussion; Ellen Ruth Rose, viola; Alicia Telford, horn; Ann Yi, piano. I would drive down tonight to hear it a second time.

Composer Portrait: Pierre Boulez. Graeme Jennings; David Milnes, Eco Ensemble; Hertz Hall, UC Berkeley, March 14, 2011.

Skews

I AM NOT WRITING the blog I want to write: a report on the three nights of performances by the Merce Cunningham Dance Company we saw last week in Berkeley. That blog is well begun, but needs more time.

In the meantime, I am listening to the first act of Philip Glass's opera Orphée. The CDs arrived the other day, but I haven't had a chance to put them on. And sliding the CD into the Mac — for I have no other functioning CD player these days — I look at my desktop photo once again, a photo I took last May in Siracusa, during a holiday in Sicily.

The photo always looks just a little odd to me, because I know it has been altered. The original was has been skewed, using the open-source software Gimp, to correct for the faulty perspective caused by low camera angle. In the original the walls left and right leaned away from the center as they went up. You can best see the inadequacy of the technique by looking at the fifth column from the left, the one whose rectangular base is clearly evident: it bows a bit, halfway up, to the right.

I look on the hard drive in vain for the original photo: I must not have saved it. It's permanently altered — a phrase whose absurdity is difficult to deal with. But then I remember a discussion I had with a fellow in a photography shop years ago in Berkeley, when I asked him something about Lindsey's photos, made with the then-new ”panorama“ option on her very early-generation digital Elph camera. ”They're just cropped that way,“ he said, ”they're not really panoramas, it's an optical illusion.“

”But isn't that what all photographs are, when you think about it,“ I replied, ”just optical illusions?“ He didn't seem to understand, or want to understand, or want to think about it.

That photo up there — perhaps because of the artificial skewing, it looks like a stage-set: forced perspective. I think too of certain Vermeer paintings, but that may be not so much because of perspective as because of the stillness: the few people, arrested in the action of motion; the hard edges of the stucco walls against the softer sky; the empty expanse of pavement.

The photo strikes my eyes, and through them my mind, much the way the CD strikes my ears, and through them my mind. There's something so vulnerably and pathetically two-dimensional about all this, when we all know Orpheus and Sicily are four-dimensional at the least. Width, height, depth, time: and then the extensions of those four dimensions: Embrace, Aspiration, Resonance, and Change. The photo recalls the experience to me, of course; I feel again the sun, the moving air, the hunger and thirst, the gratitude at simply being there: impressions no one else can have save perhaps Lindsey, who was at my side at the time.

Perhaps the cast of this Portland Opera recording of Orphée can have a similar rush of recollection when listening to these CDs. I hope so. They worked very hard, and did a fine job. But a recording is not an opera, as a photograph is not a city. Something has been skewed. Perhaps it is only the skews that remain, that ”mean“ anything; perhaps these skews are what Epicurus had in mind when proposing his clinamen.

Two operas: Orphée; Nixon in China

MY POSITION ON THE MUSIC of Philip Glass is odd: when I'm not actively hearing it I tend to reject interest in it on grounds of principle; when I am actively hearing it I find it almost always beautiful, often compelling, sometimes memorable. (Those last two words aren't meant to diminish the music: memorability is, to me, these days, a very rare commodity.)

Simply thinking about the Violin Concerto, for example, which I haven't heard in years, I fault it for repetitiousness, blandness, and a curious fault I'll simply call, for the moment, of-interest-only-for-itself, nonextensibility. It's not as bad as what I think of as the music of Arvo Pärt or the recent Witold Górecki, but it's in that direction. But then quickly I recall the physical effect of actually hearing the Philip Glass Violin Concerto, whether live or via recording, and I remember the overwhelming feeling of happiness I had in the event, the curious attentiveness to its sounds and procedures.

"Curious" attentiveness, because one's at the same moment in a sort of mesmerized state, floating along in complete acceptance of only the sensory impressions provided by the hearing, yet one's aware of each detail, the attack, swell, release of each note, the interplay between solo and background, the grain of the piece.

I've met Glass on a few occasions, once or twice to interview him, and always found him immensely likable. Attractive, informed, intelligent, and receptive; very much aware of his own importance (given the context of the meeting, which after all was a conversation directed to himself and his work), yet interested also in others. He has never impressed me as a man or a composer abnormally fixated on ego.

I've seen, let's see, three or four of his operas: Einstein on the Beach twice — I remember John Cage sitting behind me at one performance — Satyagraha; a reduced but very effective version of Akhnaten; The Photographer; perhaps another somewhere along the way. They were all quite different from one another, putting the lie to the canard that all Glass is interchangeable. (People do fixate on what he refers to, in his book Music by Philip Glass, as the "highly logical arithmetic system I later began to call 'additive process,' a cornerstone technique that has served me well…" (op. cit., p. 8)).

Yesterday I extended the run by one: the Ensemble Parallèle was presenting Glass's opera Orphée (1993) in San Francisco, and at nearly the last minute we decided to go. This isn't that easy a decision: lower-priced (I will not say "cheap") sections were sold out, so we spent nearly $130 for our dress circle seats; and then there's the drive down and back, 130 miles (funny the duplicated number) and six bucks bridge toll; and of course the six hours or so out of one's diminishing stock of time. But an opera unseen is an opportunity not to miss, with certain exceptions (anything by Wagner, for example): and my grandson has been raving about Orphée, and I'd never even heard a recording.

I'd been warned away from the opera, when it was first composed, by negative reviews, of all things. They are indeed insidious, negative reviews, affecting even a seasoned [retired] reviewer like me. As I [call] recall they focussed on the exceptional conception of the opera: Glass worked not from a conventionally written libretto but from the soundtrack of a film, Jean Cocteau's 1950 Orphée. My memory of the Jean Cocteau film is blurred by the passage of, let's see, probably half a century. Black-and-white; motorcycles; Jean Marais. Surrealist, or striving for. Stilted, a bit.

The film itself has many detractors. (Here's one, which I link to for two reasons: an excellent example of bashing-masquerading-as-criticism; also a reasonably accurate job of reporting the content.) Most of those I've encountered make the same mistake, reacting against Cocteau's film as not being what they think it ought, or in come some cases was intended, to be. And, of course, there's the usual Anglo-Germano-American prejudice against that part of the French sensibility that I find pensive, subtle, fond, or tender; which France-detractors dislike as wooden, vapid, silly, or weak.

Philip Glass began his career in Paris. I think of him, the day after seeing Orphée, as essentially a French composer; certainly, if an American one, French-trained. He studied, after all, with both Nadia Boulanger and Darius Milhaud. Jean-Louis Barrault and Madeleine Renaud were as important early impressions on him as were Brecht or Beckett, and film and live theater as important, apparently, as music.

SEEING ORPHEE YESTERDAY in San Francisco's Herbst Theater I was struck first of all by two things: the enterprise with which the production transferred the implications of Cocteau's screenplay from the movie screen to the stage, and the serene beauty of the score. The opera opens in a Paris café, staged in this production outside the proscenium, the orchestra at stage level, to music dominated by ragtime piano; soon afterward the orchestra, playing all the time, descends noiselessly to pit level while the action is transferred to the stage. Visually and aurally, it's as if the audience is being drawn into the action, through the looking-glass the scrim curtain had constituted: and the score smoothly moves from café-music to the opera house, with references — I swear I heard them — to Gluck's classical setting of the Orpheus myth.

From then on, the score underlies, supports, propels the narrative. As Cocteau does not merely adapt or re-present the familiar Greek myth — Monteverdi and Gluck have satisfied that operatic imperative for all time, I think — but instead poetically transforms it to reveal the mythic component of the Eternals of love, death, and poetry as they stand in our own time, so Glass transforms the sensibility of Gluck's classical score, through his "additive process," to connect to our more motor-needy time. The ancient Greeks did not differentiate "composer" and "poet," to be one was to be the other. (This is why the Orpheus legend is uniquely foundational to opera, which itself, at best, makes no such distinction.)

Glass even refers to Gluck in his orchestration: the empty treble of the flute contrasts with the darkly complex trombone and bassoon, and the harp, perhaps consciously representing Orpheus's lyre, plays nearly throughout Orphée. His French prosody seems to me right on the mark. I heard complaints, after the performance, that the opera lacks tunes; I thought it very lyrical, Cocteau's sometimes inconsequential-seeming lines often brought out with just the right degree of irony or pithiness to reveal his poetics of the everyday — a Surrealist thumbprint.

I've only seen one other production of Ensemble parallèle, the premiere of the "final version" of Lou Harrison's Young Caesar (2007). It was effective, but virtually unstaged, produced in concert form. This was a tremendous advance on that production, transforming Herbst Theater into what really seemed an opera house. Brian Staufenbiel's direction mediated nicely between the Cocteau film and the Herbst stage, among Dave Dunning's resourceful set, dramatically lit by Matthew Antaky.

Nicole Paiement conducted with great attention and energy, getting a lot out of the fourteen-piece ensemble and ably cuing the singers. Marnie Breckenridge was a superb (Death) Princess; Eugene Brancoveaunu rather a bland Orphée. John Duykers made an interesting chauffeur Heurtebise; Thomas Glenn an attractive Cégeste; Philip Skinner an imposing Judge; Susannah Biller a retiring, timid Eurydice.

These principals, the lesser roles, even the mute circus artists brought in to replace the menacing motorcyclists who harvest for Death in the original film, all took their parts in perfect relation to one another and to the Cocteau-Glass opera, I thought. There was something almost literary about the effect, so well did it enter the mind, develop, and broaden. Glass's music is certainly the sustenance of the entire thing: but musical interpretation and theatrical production were detailed, evocative, and beautifully balanced, leaving memories that continue to deepen in meaning.

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IF PHILIP GLASS'S SENSIBILITY nearly always strikes me as French-oriented, John Adams's looks sideways toward Germany. One of his early orchestral successes was called Harmonielehre: neither Schoenberg nor Wagner is ever really far from his orientation as composer. The Death of Klinghoffer makes me think, don't ask me why, of Parsifal; A Flowering Tree, Die Entführing aus dem Serail; Doctor Atomic, a mature Lohengrin.

A couple of weeks ago we watched the delayed in-theater "simulcast" of the Metropolitan Opera's long-delayed production of Adams's first opera, Nixon in China. The opera impressed me tremendously when I saw its premiere in Houston, nearly 24 years ago, especially for the humane, sympathetic, poignant view it develops of the Nixons, Mao, and Chou En-lai.

You could argue that the creative team of Nixon in China — Adams, librettist Alice Goodman, and producer Peter Sellars — do, in their opera, for the factual event of Nixon's visit to China in 1972, what Cocteau did for the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. They revisit the original events, studying closely the factual record, the personalities and mannerisms of the principals, and simultaneously recount the story while revealing deeper insights, freely allowing specific depiction to engender broader allusive meaning.

This has caused a certain amount of complaint, of course. Last month Max Frankel, formerly executive editor of the New York Times, wrote an op-ed piece in that newspaper, warning

that when living reality is so blatantly harnessed to bait the audience with familiarity and to create a heightened sense of excitement, it risks being constrained by that same reality from reaching true depths of drama and character.

That may be true in general, but I think Nixon in China achieves those depths: perhaps precisely because, unlike Frankel, I am not distracted from the poetic and philosophical achievement of the opera by the literal and realpolitical specificities of the events that inspired it. Frankel seems to complain (and others have too) that only the first act is really about real events, that "Act II catapults from the real to the surreal," then "takes a final turn, in Act III, to the psychological." But this is precisely the genius of the opera: it lifts the audience from an engaging, often bantering, anecdotal presentation of the Nixon visit, ending with the round of toasts at the welcoming banquet, to the retrospective, greatly broadened contemplation of large issues in the third-act nocturne, anchored though it is occasionally by Nixon's recollections of mundane hamburger-turning on a Pacific island during WWII, or the Maos' aging fox-trot that hauntingly underscores the final minutes.

(There is of course the matter of the big second-act ballet, the lynchpin of the opera, where Mark Morris's choreography draws Kissinger and Pat Nixon into a portrayal of the Chinese ballet The Red Detachment of Women — another example in this opera of one event, or work, engendering another. Watching the Met's performance made me think of Holden Caulfield's complaint, in The Catcher in the Rye, about the acting style of Lunt and Fontanne: very good, but too good, virtuosity distracting one's attention from the event.)

Where Glass seems drawn to individual expressive poetics, narrowing the focus from Greek myth to an individual poet's anguish, the Nixon team responds to a transcendental meditation on the generalized human condition, as revealed through individual stories. Surely no two couples could have been more different than the Nixons and the Maos: but the third act of Nixon in China exists precisely to contradict this.

Neither composer reaches for the kind of operatic tunefulness of Verdi and Puccini, of course. But where Glass seems to ground his score on a French tradition, the French baroque opera never far from his declamation even though he begins with café-style ragtime, Adams looks back to the American big-band sound for his score, though the third act fox-trot reminds me of Hindemith's and Stravinsky's view of "jazz" more than that of, say, Jimmy Lunceford. (Glass scores for a fifteen-piece ensemble, though he allows for multiple strings. Adams requires a bigger orchestra: 2-2-3-0, 4 saxophones 0-3-3-0, percussion, two keyboards, 6-6-4-4-4.) And where the vocal lines in Orphée are chiefly quiet, a kind of lyric sung recitative, those of Nixon in China are frequently urgent and declamatory.

The passage of time enhances memories of past performances, and I thought the Metropolitan cast a level below the Houston one — except for the Nixons. James Maddalena sang the title role in both productions; if anything, he's deepened in the interval; his portrayal was completely satisfying. And Janis Kelly was as sympathetic, occasionally funny, finally rather moving as Carolann Page had been in Houston: it's a difficult role dramatically, a rewarding one musically.

Otherwise I thought there were problems with the casting. Russell Braun was not as deep or convincing a Chou as Sanford Sylvan had been; Robert Brubaker by no means as persuasive a Mao as John Duykers; Richard Paul Fink less subtly malevolent a Kissinger as was Thomas Hammons. Kathleen Kim did a fine job of the shrewish Chiang Ch'ing, "Madame Mao," though; and the three "Maoettes," Ginger Costa-Jackson, Teresa S. Herold, and Tamara Mumford, did well as sinister backups to their boss.

The orchestra sounded fine, and Adams conducted a more expansive performance than I recall having heard in Houston, where John DeMain presided. I thought the staged production suffered quite a bit from the film-projected-into-theater format. There are so many problems with the concept it's hard to know where to start, but let's begin with the sound source: it's all over the place. I'm used to the orchestral sound being in the pit, the vocal sound on the stage; here, everything was everywhere, and the aural scale was off.

Then there's the close-ups. You can imagine how many problems they occasion. The cinematic direction was pretty good, I'm sure, but I'm used to steering my own eyes around the stage, not having them guided by someone else.

Worst of all, I thought, were the intermission features. Thomas Hampson, I think it was, interviewed a number of the singers, Adams, and Peter Sellars. Questions veered from inane to inconsequential and were largely a waste of time. Particularly Adams's time: he was interviewed just before going to the pit to begin the third act; when we last saw him he was looking around for a place to set his hand-held microphone down on his way to work.

Still, Nixon in China has moved to the Metropolitan Opera. One of the intermission questions had to do with its place in the repertory: Janis Kelly was sure it belonged. Adams is one of the great opera composers of the Twentieth Century, she said, up there with Berg and Strauss. I'm sure I don't know: only history will be able to make that judgement. I do think it a fine, strong, ultimately moving work of art. We'll know more about its historical position when it's moved away from Peter Sellars, I think, not that I have anything but profound respect for his intelligence and humanity in this production.

Philip Glass: Orphée, chamber opera in two acts for ensemble and soloists, 1993.
  recording: Ann Manson, Portland Opera (Orange Mountain; UPC 801837006827)
Philip Glass: Music by Philip Glass (New York: Harper & Row, 1987)
Jean Cocteau: Orphée (Andre Paulve Film and Films du Palais Royal, 1950; The Criterion Collection, 2000 [DVD]

John Adams: Nixon in China, opera in three acts
  recordings: Original cast; Edo de Waart, Orchestra of St. Luke's (Elektra);
    Orth, Kanyova, Hammons, Heller, Opera Colorado Chorus, Colorado Symphony, Alsop (Naxos)
John Adams: Hallelujah Junction: Composing an American Life (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008)

…reading…

Spoon Fed (Riverhead Books, 2010), by Kim Severson: enjoyable. A breezy memoir in nine chapters, each centered on one or another well-known cook, all women, who helped the author with one or another insight in overcoming various personal hangups and getting on to maturity, it falls into the tell-all inspirational category. I've known four of these illustrious women well enough (Marion Cunningham, Alice Waters, Ruth Reichl, Edna Lewis) to recognize descriptions and dialogue as perfectly accurate: Severson's a good reporter. (She was a food writer at the San Francisco Chronicle before joining the New York Times, at first and for years writing about food, more recently serving as Bureau Chief in Atlanta.)

Writing away from interviews originally written for the Times, Severson writes about her own life as an adolescent misfit, an alcoholic, a Lesbian; a daughter, wife, and mother; a journalist who worked her way from Anchorage to San Francisco to New York. She cites these eight cooks — the other four being Leah Chase, Marcella Hazan, Rachael Ray, and her mother, Anne Zappa Severson — as having helped her cope with her problems, offering (sometimes without even realizing it) life lessons. Bottom line: things are as they are; play the hand you're dealt as well as you can; stay the course; look out for others.

Journey into Islam: The Crisis of Globalization (Brookings Institution Press, 2007), by Akbar Ahmed, is an introduction, primarily no doubt for Americans, into the three major strains of Islam (mystical, fundamentalist, and open, to generalize; approximating, I think, Sufi, Shia, and Sunni) as they currently respond to an increasingly globalized world. The "journey" of the title refers to travels this anthropologist made with a team of students — young men and women, some Muslim, some not — to the centers of these three branches and to mosques and mudrassas from Damascus to Jakarta.

I wish I'd found this book more readable. It's repetitive, sometimes unclear. The idea is fascinating: an extremely knowledgable man (Ahmed has been, among other things, the Pakistani Ambassador to the United Nations) leads his young students on a long journey in Muslim lands, visiting schools and homes, discussing contemporary issues frankly with students, imams, people in the street, government officials. Much of the description is lively and fascinating, and the difficulties faced by these various Islamic responses to globalism are sympathetically drawn.

But the author is often too self-congratulatingly present, and his students, though frequently mentioned, never really revealed in their own responses. Geert Mak's fine In Europe (see my entry of three years ago here) came too often to mind as an invidious comparison: I kept wishing Ahmed were as invisibly yet intelligently present in his similar survey.

Tintin and the Secret of Literature (Counterpoint, 2008), by Tom McCarthy: An absolutely fascinating discussion of the internationally popular series, applying contemporary literary criticism techniques, finding implications in the artistic and intellectual content of writers extending from Poe and Baudelaire to Sciascia, with Raymond Roussel always lurking just offstage. To be read and re-read.

Such were my quick comments on finishing the book, a month or so ago, as I added them to the Librarything page on the book, where three or four other reviews had variously irritated me. (Two examples: "I'm torn with this book… his references are somewhat out there…" and "…a fairly perceptive enumeration of some of the things that make Tintin special mixed with an embarrassingly bad attempt at showing off the author's knowledge of French literary criticism.") A better, more extensive, more professional review by Matt Bowman can be found here at The Quarterly Conversation, a website I'll likely return to.

Frankenstein (New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, n.d.), by Mary Shelley: A great book, for the story, for the writing, for the extensive meaning. Subtle allegory. Beautiful and faithful descriptions of the settings — the description of the Mont Blanc glacier over Chamonix is riveting, haunting. The ironic first-person narrative is wrapped in an intriguing flashback, beautifully establishing the early 19th-century cosmology. In this edition, irritating footnotes and endnotes distract from the reading; but the central idea of the book, of course — whether man should attempt to create life, and whether, if he succeeds, his ambition is likely to overwhelm him — is as relevant now as it was two centuries ago. Perhaps more so.

Jane Eyre (Random House, 1943), by Charlotte Brontë. A fine, literate novel, straightahead, marred perhaps by a few coincidences, but ironic in its first-person narrative, nicely phrased, peopled with interesting and memorably delineated characters. Quote: ”Well, propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.“

Wuthering Heights (e-book), by Emily Brontë. Yes, early last month I went on from Frankenstein and Jane Eyre to this. I'd read Jane Eyre in the edition that had long been on my mother's bookshelf; a Random House publication from 1943, it came with Wuthering Heights as a companion volume, both illustrated with scary Expressionist wood-engravings by Fritz Eichenberg. Alas, I couldn't easily get that edition of Wuthering Heights, so read it as an e-book on my iPad. I found it heavier going than its sister, less straightforward and clear, but deeper and more resonant. I'd love to sit down with Edgar Allan Poe and discuss this book. Come to think of it, what did Henry James think of it? (Ah: he dismissed it as "a crude and morbid story." But what did he really think of it?)

The Genuine Article: Chekhov's Seagull in Mill Valley

SLAVIC LANGUAGES LACK the definite article, as anyone with a Czech in the family can attest. So Libby Appel's version of Anton Chekhov's least-performed major play, now running at Marin Theatre, is called simply Seagull, promoting that bird from what's too easily little more than shtick to pervasive metaphor. It's clear in any case, of course, that Seagull stands for Konstantin Gavrilovich, the male lead; Kostya (as he's nicknamed) shoots the damned thing in the first act, then shoots himself in the last. (Oh. Spoiler. Sorry. I assumed you already knew.)

Seagull also stands for a force of Nature, like the lake brooding in the backdrop of the stage; the lake visible through the makeshift stage set up outside Sorin's country estate for the production of Kostya's play, an experiment in "new forms" and abstraction. Unlike Chekhov's other three major plays, in many ways more finished perhaps because less ambitious, The Seagull — sorry; I'm so used to using the article — is among other things a play about theater: about acting and actors, certainly; about writers, yes; but also about itself. I always think of Chekhov as the first truly modern playwright: this first play of his Big Four features recursion among its fingerprints; it's what Francis Ponge calls a momon, a work about itself. Chekhov himself is all over the cast list, from the young visionary writer Kostya to the successful hack writer Trigorin to the country doctor Yevgeny Sergeyevich, whose objectivity and practical acceptance of the conditions of life, while bordering on cynicism, brings a gentle note of reality to the proceedings.

There's so much to think about here. The histrionic women in this cast — three of them, of course, stage ladies seem generally to come in threes — drink and flail and wheedle and dictate. In this version, some lines have been restored giving even Polina Andreyevna her measure of desperation, so there are four failing ladies. Four of the men, too, portray various kinds of ineptitude. It's a human comedy; another aspect of Chekhov's modernity is the source he provides such diverse followers as Pirandello, Beckett, and Federico Fellini. Throwaway jokes collide with terror, cruelty, and anguish.

Marin Theatre's production is worth seeing. (It runs through Feb. 27.) Apart from the servant class, who in any event have little material to work with, the casting, and the individual roles, are quite well played; and the more difficult the role, the better the performance seems to be. John Tufts was remarkably strong as Kostya; Tess Malis Kincaid every bit as resourceful and commanding as his mother, the actress Irina; Christine Albright and Lis Sklar memorable (and very different) as the young women Nina and Marya; Craig Marker made a sympathetic character out of the weak, amoral Trigorin; Howard Swain was the well-detailed doctor Yevgeny. Smaller roles were just as well portrayed: Peter Ruocco, Richard Farrell, Julia Brothers, Michael Ray Wisely.

Jason Minadakis directed carefully and effectively, though curtains seemed mistimed and curtain lines sometimes tossed off too lightly. The large cast was well distributed onstage; even in large ensembles there never seemed to be a dead area. Robert Mark Morgan's scenic design caught the accelerating ennui and oppression of the play nicely, and Chris Houston's music — an onstage piano is used to very good effect — was atmospheric without being distracting.

The translation is by Libby Appel, who relied on a literal translation by Allison Horsely. Oddly anachronistic vernacular sometimes distracts — phrases like "desk job" and "will do" don't seem to me to belong in Chekhov's world. But this adaptation is strong, passionate, energetic, and detailed.

Anton Chekhov: Seagull continues through Feb. 27 at Marin Theatre Company, 397 Miller Avenue, Mill Valley; tel. 415.388.5208