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RECITAL REVIEW
February 6, 2003
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By Anatole Leikin
Radu Lupu is universally praised for his understated lyricism and restrained expression. While listening to his recital last Thursday at Herbst Theater, I began to wonder: at what point does "understated" become "sedated" and "restrained" lapse into "torpid"?
The program opened with Beethoven's Piano Sonata Op. 109.
From a bizarre mishmash of genres in the first movement to an abrupt ending in mid-sentence in the finale, this Sonata can easily be placed among Beethoven's most eccentric works. Here complexity painfully coexists with utmost simplicity, sophistication with naiveté, fortitude with indecision. All these clashing extremes are highlighted in the score by a meticulously indicated dynamic extravaganza: hyperventilating crescendos coming to unanticipated crashes, nerve-wrecking shifts back and forth between intensely loud and barely audible, and unexpected sforzandos in most inappropriate places.
As long as a pianist does not shrink from carrying out even the most seemingly inexplicable dynamic markings, this masterpiece transcends from its tortured minutiae into a realm well beyond the ordinary human experience. If, on the other hand, a pianist shaves off the extremes and resorts to temperance, then, instead of divine madness, all we hear is a loose collection of trite sequences and pointless arpeggios interspersed with occasional sweet moments. The latter was exactly the reading that Lupu offered. Casually positioned in his trademark regular chair, comfortably leaning against the backrest, the pianist smoothed over all of the Sonata's sharp angles and jagged edges, as if he was embarrassed to appear unduly indiscrete or, God forbid, too emotional.
It is not that Lupu is incapable of expressive, involved playing. His restraints are apparently self-imposed, for whatever reason. This became obvious in Debussy's Preludes from Book 1. While the first piece, “Danseuses de Delphes,” still continued in the somnambulistic vein of the preceding finale of Op. 109, the pianist suddenly went through a miraculous transformation in “Voiles.” He stunned the audience with resplendent streams of sound, glittery octave flashes, sonorous bass lines — and a genuine excitement! The wonderment continued through the remaining preludes. I have rarely heard such a profusion of color and expression in the Preludes. There were gentle, luminescent gleams of sound broken by precipitous explosions in “Le vent dans la plaine,” lovely bittersweet poetry in “Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir,” puckishly festive exuberance in “Les collines d'Anacapri,” frozen, mesmerizing stupefaction in “Des pas sur la neige.” The last Prelude, “Ce qu'a vu le vent d'Ouest,” amply demonstrated that Lupu is eminently capable of producing earth-shattering contrasts that were so wanting in Op. 109. The way those menacing frontal assaults of crescendos instantly dissipated into softest possible pianissimos was uncanny. After the intermission, however, Lupu returned on stage as his other, stiffly reserved persona. With the detached air of a casual observer, he coldly dissected Schubert's Sonata in A major, D. 959. All the textural layers were clearly delineated, and the hierarchy between the primary and the secondary strata was masterfully maintained at all times. Unfortunately, such precision in controlling the texture was coupled with a mechanical rigidity of tempo, which entirely purged his performance of any personal involvement. The only sign of Lupu's active participation in the process was his singing during the most lyrical episodes. The sonata was so subdued that all of its four movements — Allegro, Andantino, Allegro vivace, and Allegretto — seemed to proceed in exactly the same character and exactly the same tempo. The unannounced encore, “Moment musical” Op. 94 No. 1, sounded just like the fifth movement of the Sonata, distinct in its key but not in its mood or tempo. Only once Lupu snapped out of his trance in the Schubert, when plaintive recitative phrases in the middle of the slow movement were interrupted by furious chords. That, and six of Debussy's Preludes, made the evening truly worthwhile. It also made me wish that Lupu would end his self-imposed emotional exile and become the galvanizing, sensational artist he can assuredly be.
(Anatole Leikin's articles have appeared in various musicological journals and essay collections; he has also recorded piano music of Chopin and Scriabin. Professor Leikin currently serves as an editor for The Complete Chopin - A New Critical Edition (Peters Edition London) and chairs the Music Department at University of California, Santa Cruz.)
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Radu Lupu