June 9, 1840—Hungarian pianist Franz Liszt laid the groundwork for taking the Continent by storm in his advertisement for a new concert form he would try this night at London’s Hanover Rooms: the solo piano recital.
For the last several years, Liszt had soaked up literary as well as musical influences in an attempt to reshape the creative culture of his time. As a result, when he first tried to describe how he wanted to affect audiences, he chose a different metaphor in a letter to the Princess Belgiojoso of Italy:
“These tiresome musical soliloquies (I do not know what other name to give these inventions of mine) with which I contrive to gratify the Romans, and which I am quite capable of importing to Paris, so unbounded does my impudence become!”
It took another few years for Liszt to adopt a suggestion by music publisher Frederick Beale that they use the term “recital” instead. People reacted quizzically at first, but were soon won over by the skill and intensity with which the virtuoso Liszt played.
Very much included in his fan group were women. Woody Allen once joked that he didn’t believe in reincarnation, but if it existed he’d like to come back as Warren Beatty’s fingertips. He might have done better as Liszt’s—he’d have perhaps just as many women, but all sorts of musical performances and compositions to his credit, too.
In fact, the latter were part and parcel of the package that attracted women. “Before Liszt, pianists kept their hands close to the keyboard, playing from wrist and finger rather than arm or shoulder,” explained longtime New York Times music critic Harold C. Schonberg in The Lives of the Great Composers. “But not after Liszt. He established once and for all the genre of the bravura pianist, the pianist who would haughtily come out, cow the audience, lift hands high, and assault the instrument.”
Alfred Brendel, no mean pianist himself, explained that as part of his act, Liszt would plunge into the audience between recitals to mingle with the audience. This, I suggest, was an opportunity for him to press the flesh—literally.
If Liszt were paying attention from the stage, he probably already had a good idea who would warm to him. He would negligently whip off his silk handkerchiefs and velvet gloves. This would send the females in the audience into such fits that they’d fight each other over these accessories. They probably would have thrown their undergarments at him, too, the way they did a century and a quarter later with the “Welsh Elvis,” Tom Jones--only, given the size of undergarments in the early Victorian period, it probably would have taken a fortnight to accomplish that feat.
Liszt stopped playing for money after 1847, spending nearly the last four decades of his life composing instead, for the most part. More bizarrely, he ended up taking Holy Orders and was known as Abbe Liszt in his last quarter-century.
Liszt’s life contains so much eccentricity, contradiction, passion, and incident that it has proven irresistible to Hollywood. Predictably, Tinseltown has never known to let well enough alone and has resorted to fictionalizing it.
I can still recall as a child watching a late-afternoon weekday movie series featuring Song Without End (1960), starring Dirk Bogarde as the Romantic idol. The Liszt lover in that biopic, Princess Carolyne Wittgenstein, was not an especially attractive woman. That, of course, would have been a complete non-starter at the box office, so Capucine had to be cast in the role.
But that was nothing compared with what Ken Russell did to the virtuoso’s career in Lisztomania. I never thought that anything could equal the over-the-top direction of his screen adaptation of Tommy, but reading about what he did with Liszt, I may have to revise that opinion.
Imagine this, faithful reader: Ringo Starr, as the pope. Wearing cowboy boots.
I’m not going to write any more on this topic because, after that last line, you won’t be able to remember anything I say, anyway.
For the last several years, Liszt had soaked up literary as well as musical influences in an attempt to reshape the creative culture of his time. As a result, when he first tried to describe how he wanted to affect audiences, he chose a different metaphor in a letter to the Princess Belgiojoso of Italy:
“These tiresome musical soliloquies (I do not know what other name to give these inventions of mine) with which I contrive to gratify the Romans, and which I am quite capable of importing to Paris, so unbounded does my impudence become!”
It took another few years for Liszt to adopt a suggestion by music publisher Frederick Beale that they use the term “recital” instead. People reacted quizzically at first, but were soon won over by the skill and intensity with which the virtuoso Liszt played.
Very much included in his fan group were women. Woody Allen once joked that he didn’t believe in reincarnation, but if it existed he’d like to come back as Warren Beatty’s fingertips. He might have done better as Liszt’s—he’d have perhaps just as many women, but all sorts of musical performances and compositions to his credit, too.
In fact, the latter were part and parcel of the package that attracted women. “Before Liszt, pianists kept their hands close to the keyboard, playing from wrist and finger rather than arm or shoulder,” explained longtime New York Times music critic Harold C. Schonberg in The Lives of the Great Composers. “But not after Liszt. He established once and for all the genre of the bravura pianist, the pianist who would haughtily come out, cow the audience, lift hands high, and assault the instrument.”
Alfred Brendel, no mean pianist himself, explained that as part of his act, Liszt would plunge into the audience between recitals to mingle with the audience. This, I suggest, was an opportunity for him to press the flesh—literally.
If Liszt were paying attention from the stage, he probably already had a good idea who would warm to him. He would negligently whip off his silk handkerchiefs and velvet gloves. This would send the females in the audience into such fits that they’d fight each other over these accessories. They probably would have thrown their undergarments at him, too, the way they did a century and a quarter later with the “Welsh Elvis,” Tom Jones--only, given the size of undergarments in the early Victorian period, it probably would have taken a fortnight to accomplish that feat.
Liszt stopped playing for money after 1847, spending nearly the last four decades of his life composing instead, for the most part. More bizarrely, he ended up taking Holy Orders and was known as Abbe Liszt in his last quarter-century.
Liszt’s life contains so much eccentricity, contradiction, passion, and incident that it has proven irresistible to Hollywood. Predictably, Tinseltown has never known to let well enough alone and has resorted to fictionalizing it.
I can still recall as a child watching a late-afternoon weekday movie series featuring Song Without End (1960), starring Dirk Bogarde as the Romantic idol. The Liszt lover in that biopic, Princess Carolyne Wittgenstein, was not an especially attractive woman. That, of course, would have been a complete non-starter at the box office, so Capucine had to be cast in the role.
But that was nothing compared with what Ken Russell did to the virtuoso’s career in Lisztomania. I never thought that anything could equal the over-the-top direction of his screen adaptation of Tommy, but reading about what he did with Liszt, I may have to revise that opinion.
Imagine this, faithful reader: Ringo Starr, as the pope. Wearing cowboy boots.
I’m not going to write any more on this topic because, after that last line, you won’t be able to remember anything I say, anyway.
"Ringo Starr, as the pope. Wearing cowboy boots."
ReplyDeleteAh, yes. My favorite of Russell's films, even exceeding Gothic; the place where the excesses and beauty finally make some sort of sense in themselves, instead of just being layered between too much text.
Time to update the Netflix queue again. (Sadly, while Costco features oodles of Eastwood boxes, the idea of Russell or Greenaway or Arcand getting such treatment seems sadly unlikely.)