Many consider Dmitri Shostakovich the greatest composer of the 20th century. Born September 25, 1906, he might not have lived past his teens if he hadn't been talented. During the famines of the Revolutionary period in Russia, Alexander Glazunov, director of the Petrograd (later Leningrad) Conservatory, arranged for the poor and malnourished Shostakovich's food ration to be increased. Shostakovich's Symphony No. 1, his graduation exercise for Maximilian Steinberg's composition course at the Conservatory, was completed in 1925 at age 19 and was an immediate success worldwide. He was The Party's poster boy; his Second and Third Symphonies unabashedly subtitled, respectively, "To October". (celebrating the Revolution) and "The First of May". (International Workers' Day).
His highly emotional harmonic language is simultaneously tough yet communicative, but his expansion of Mahlerian symphonic structure, dissonances, sardonic irony, and dark moods eventually clashed with the conservative edicts of Communist Party officials. In 1936 he was viciously denounced by Pravda...
His highly emotional harmonic language is simultaneously tough yet communicative, but his expansion of Mahlerian symphonic structure, dissonances, sardonic irony, and dark moods eventually clashed with the conservative edicts of Communist Party officials. In 1936 he was viciously denounced by Pravda...
- 9/26/2016
- by SteveHoltje
- www.culturecatch.com
7th Art Releasing
One of the many insightful observers in this documentary notes that every Soviet citizen led a double life, moving between duty-bound nationalism and private outrage. Composer Aram Khachaturian is a prime example of that balancing act: Emotionally battered by the fickleness of the Stalinist machine, he flourished creatively. To construct this portrait of a leading light of modern Russian culture, filmmaker Peter Rosen, a vet of classical-music videos, makes good use of a wealth of archival material. Opening Nov. 7 in Los Angeles through 7th Art Releasing, "Khachaturian" is a must for music and history buffs and could find a wider art house audience.
At one moment a favorite of Stalin's, at the next condemned for the sin of formalism, Georgian-born Khachaturian (1903-78) was, along with his friends Prokofiev and Shostakovich, among the most revered and denigrated composers of the Soviet era. The documentary opens with footage from his funeral, narrated in the sardonic voice of the deceased (Eric Bogosian). Initially off-putting, this first-person narration, which scripters Bill Van Horn and Solomon Volkov based on the artist's letters and speeches, gradually finds a poetic groove.
But the story is best told by the talking heads Rosen filmed in Russia and Armenia, especially the musicians, composers and dancers who were Khachaturian's contemporaries. Among them is Tikhon Khrennikov, the man who dutifully, if brokenheartedly, followed Party instructions to denounce his friend as a maker of "anti-people" art. (Now 90, the composer is still well-connected in Kremlin circles.) Khachaturian was devastated but persevered. Eventually rescued from official disfavor, he was a privileged citizen who traveled extensively. Much to the benefit of the filmmakers, cameras followed him everywhere, and pristine negatives survive in Moscow archives.
In crafting his stirring melodies, Khachaturian drew upon his Armenian heritage -- specifically, its folk songs -- and found inspiration in American jazz. "Sabre Dance" may have become a kitsch staple of plate-spinning and magic acts, but the docu succeeds in conveying the power and beauty of his compositions. Rosen lets the music speak for itself in several extended vintage clips -- notably an impassioned performance of the Cello Rhapsody and an eloquent pas de deux from the ballet "Spartacus". Clearer identification of dates and venues of the performances would be helpful, but that's the only glaring deficiency in this absorbing exploration of the resilience of the artistic spirit.
One of the many insightful observers in this documentary notes that every Soviet citizen led a double life, moving between duty-bound nationalism and private outrage. Composer Aram Khachaturian is a prime example of that balancing act: Emotionally battered by the fickleness of the Stalinist machine, he flourished creatively. To construct this portrait of a leading light of modern Russian culture, filmmaker Peter Rosen, a vet of classical-music videos, makes good use of a wealth of archival material. Opening Nov. 7 in Los Angeles through 7th Art Releasing, "Khachaturian" is a must for music and history buffs and could find a wider art house audience.
At one moment a favorite of Stalin's, at the next condemned for the sin of formalism, Georgian-born Khachaturian (1903-78) was, along with his friends Prokofiev and Shostakovich, among the most revered and denigrated composers of the Soviet era. The documentary opens with footage from his funeral, narrated in the sardonic voice of the deceased (Eric Bogosian). Initially off-putting, this first-person narration, which scripters Bill Van Horn and Solomon Volkov based on the artist's letters and speeches, gradually finds a poetic groove.
But the story is best told by the talking heads Rosen filmed in Russia and Armenia, especially the musicians, composers and dancers who were Khachaturian's contemporaries. Among them is Tikhon Khrennikov, the man who dutifully, if brokenheartedly, followed Party instructions to denounce his friend as a maker of "anti-people" art. (Now 90, the composer is still well-connected in Kremlin circles.) Khachaturian was devastated but persevered. Eventually rescued from official disfavor, he was a privileged citizen who traveled extensively. Much to the benefit of the filmmakers, cameras followed him everywhere, and pristine negatives survive in Moscow archives.
In crafting his stirring melodies, Khachaturian drew upon his Armenian heritage -- specifically, its folk songs -- and found inspiration in American jazz. "Sabre Dance" may have become a kitsch staple of plate-spinning and magic acts, but the docu succeeds in conveying the power and beauty of his compositions. Rosen lets the music speak for itself in several extended vintage clips -- notably an impassioned performance of the Cello Rhapsody and an eloquent pas de deux from the ballet "Spartacus". Clearer identification of dates and venues of the performances would be helpful, but that's the only glaring deficiency in this absorbing exploration of the resilience of the artistic spirit.
- 10/21/2003
- The Hollywood Reporter - Movie News
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