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Brahms, Sibelius, & More with the Juilliard Orchestra

Details: Parent Category: Film and the Arts; Category: Reviews; Published on Wednesday, 29 April 2026 14:34; Written by Jack Angstreich

Photo by Claudio Papapietro, courtesy of Juilliard.

At Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall, on the night of Friday, April 24th, I had the privilege to attend a superb concert featuring the precocious musicians of the Juilliard Orchestra, under the expert direction of David Robertson.

The event started splendidly with a marvelous reading of the outstanding Johannes Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major, Op. 83, from 1881, impressively played by a remarkable soloist, Angeline Ma. The initial, Allegro non troppo movement begins soulfully and then dramatically while a passionate Romanticism pervades it, even in its quieter, more reflective interludes; it finishes triumphantly. The ensuing Allegro appassionato—which functions as a scherzo—has a somewhat stormy quality for some of its length but there are more subdued passages; a statelier, more affirmative section precedes a recapitulation of the original material before the movement concludes emphatically. The Andante that follows opens tenderly and gracefully, culminating in a serene, rather meditative episode, but the movement becomes more turbulent at times as it unfolds; the inaugural melody returns in an extended, irenic dénouement that ends gently. The Allegretto grazioso finale is enchanting and joyful with a waltz-like character and ludic measures; it closes happily.

The second half of the event was comparable in power, starting with an admirable realization of the extraordinary, unorthodox Symphony No. 7 in C Major, Op. 105, of Jean Sibelius, from 1924. Also exciting was the last work on the program, a sterling account of John Adams’s enthralling Doctor Atomic Symphony from 2007, based on his eponymous opera about J. Robert Oppenheimer and Los Alamos. The first movement, titled The Laboratory, begins portentously and a strong sense of disquiet is sustained throughout it. The next movement, Panic, is unsettled in mood too as well as propulsive and suspenseful—it is very reminiscent of the music of Igor Stravinsky, particularly of a score like The Rite of Spring. About a part of the final movement, Trinity, the composer has written:

It is a setting (here intoned by the solo trumpet) of the famous John Donne sonnet, “Batter my heart, three-person'd God.” Oppenheimer's deep ambivalence about the weapon he has brought into the world finds voice in the poet's anguished cry of remorse over the loss of his soul.

This movement is mysterious and more amorphous in structure but also agitated; it concludes forcefully.

The artists deservedly received a standing ovation.

Broadway Play Review—“Dog Day Afternoon”

Details: Parent Category: Film and the Arts; Category: Reviews; Published on Tuesday, 28 April 2026 21:16; Written by Kevin Filipski

Dog Day Afternoon

Written by Stephen Adly Guirgis

Directed by Rupert Goold

Performances through June 28, 2026

August Wilson Theatre, 245 West 52nd Street, New York, NY

dogdayafternoon.com

John Ortiz (center) in Dog Day Afternoon (photo: Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman)

There are several problems with the stage adaptation of Dog Day Afternoon, the classic 1975 film directed by Sidney Lumet with Al Pacino as bungling bank robber Sonny centering a richly and blackly comic portrait of New York in 1972. The biggest flaw is that the flavorful New York atmosphere of which Lumet was a master is almost completely missing.

Of course, that’s because the stage cannot replicate what Lumet could show: a Brooklyn neighborhood where dozens of police and reporters—including news helicopters—and hundreds of locals showed up. In the film, the crowd is another character, hooting and hollering, at first cheering on Sonny—who exhorts them to yell “Attica!” to mock the police (mere months after prisoners there were killed during rioting)—before turning on him as the day drags on and it comes out that he needs money for his partner Leon’s gender-reassignment surgery. The “Attica” moment becomes the big first-act finale, with the audience taking over as the Brooklyn crowd while Sonny yells out those three syllables, which isn’t a very compelling replacement.

Otherwise, the play is well-staged by Rupert Goold on David Korins’ terrific set of the bank’s interior and exterior, which swings adroitly back and forth depending on wherever we are in the scene. But aside from sound effects that blast “New York” to the audience, the authenticity of early ’70s Brooklyn is absent. Stephen Adly Guirgis has written plays that drip with the exciting if sordid atmosphere of New York City that’s not usually captured elsewhere, like his Pulitzer Prize-winning Between Riverside and Crazy, so he might have seemed a logical choice for Dog Day.

His dialogue has the usual rat-a-tat of the city; even though large chunks come from Frank Pierson’s Oscar-winning screenplay, lots of other dialogue is new to the show. Guirgis even invents an amusing scene of a TV reporter talking to a gay-rights advocate after the disclosure of Sonny’s and Leon’s relationship, but this seems shoehorned in. But perhaps a few more such moments would have better taken the pulse of snarky local press coverage and local people’s reactions.

Guirgis too often coasts, though, as cheap humor prevails over incisive dialogue. Even outing Sonny to the others in the bank is played for laughs, which seems rather ironic in this context. Guirgis even changes the name of the cop in charge from Moretti (played so memorably by Charles Durning in the movie) to Fucco, which occasions repetitive mispronunciations of his name as Fucko. It’s to John Ortiz’s credit that, as Fucco, he gives the most sympathetic and well-rounded portrayal in the show.

Lumet also had Al Pacino, John Cazale and Chris Sarandon to further make this tragicomic tale riveting and unforgettable. Onstage, Jon Bernthal tries so hard not to act like Pacino that he ends up doing it anyway as Sonny; as his partner in crime Sal, Ebon Moss-Bachrach is as effectively low-key as Cazale was, but in his own sardonic way. As head teller Colleen, Jessica Hecht is not as irritatingly mannered as she usually is, but I would have liked to have seen what Andrea Syglowski—a trenchant actress who plays one of the tellers—could have done with that part. Esteban Andres Cruz doesn’t have a chance to make Leon as believable in his brief appearance as Sarandon did in the film, since—again—Guirgis plays Leon’s stay at Bellevue for easy yucks. And the phone call between Leon and Sonny (one of the highlights of the film) doesn’t have the same heartbreaking weight.

It might seem unfair to compare the play to the film, but this production keeps inviting it, mostly to its detriment. The stage version even uses a snippet of Elton John’s “Amoreena,” a rollicking deep cut from Tumbleweed Connection that’s played over the film’s opening credits, to begin act two. My most pressing thought after seeing this was, now that three 1975 best picture Oscar nominees have had stage adaptations (also One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Jaws, by way of The Shark Is Broken), when will we get to see Nashville and Barry Lyndon onstage?

Book Reviews—Wings, Scorsese, Miyazaki, Hirschfeld's Sondheim

Details: Parent Category: Film and the Arts; Category: Reviews; Published on Saturday, 25 April 2026 21:41; Written by Kevin Filipski

Wings—The Story of a Band on the Run

(Liveright)

As part of Paul McCartney’s ongoing Wings reclamation project—which began with the music compilation and documentary Wingspan back in 2002 and continues this year with the release of the Amazon Prime documentary Man on the Run—this first-person account chronicles Paul’s entire ’70s trajectory, from leaving the Beatles and releasing two initially derided but now beloved albums, McCartney and Ram, before he and Linda embarked on putting together a new band with—aside from ever-loyal Denny Laine—a revolving cast of drummers and lead guitarists.

Editor Ted Widmer judiciously compiled new and archival interviews with Paul, Linda, Denny, other band members, the McCartneys’ children, Paul’s brother Mike, and others like Dustin Hoffman—who relates the famous anecdote of Paul whipping out an acoustic guitar and conjuring up “Picasso’s Last Words (Drink to Me)” right in front of the actor—to present a thorough decade-long history of Wings. After Paul’s 1979 Japanese drug bust came the unceremonious dissolution of one of the biggest hitmaking groups of the decade and led to Paul’s resurgence as a formidable solo artist and as a keeper of the Beatles’—and, of course, Wings’—flame.

Martin Scorsese—The Iconic Filmmaker and His Work

(White Lion)

Now six decades into a career that still continues to surprise, director Martin Scorsese has been tagged with the label as a maker of mainly gangster pictures, since GoodFellas looms so large in his oeuvre. But, as Ian Nathan’s closely argued appreciation of his more than two dozen films (so far—he’s currently making What Happens at Night, once again starring his favorite late-career actor, Leonardo DiCaprio) adroitly demonstrates, there’s much more to Scorsese than that.

After all, he’s adapted novels by Edith Wharton (The Age of Innocence), Nikos Kazantzakis (The Last Temptation of Christ) and Dennis Lehane (Shutter Island), along with creating music documentaries about the Band, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, and George Harrison. Then there’s that startling character study, the underappreciated The King of Comedy, which may well be his most enduring film. OK sure, for every Mean Streets, Taxi Driver or Raging Bull, there are busts like New York New York, Cape Fear or Bringing Out the Dead, but Nathan skillfully chronicles Scorsese’s wide-ranging oeuvre as unique in American movies, with plentiful color images from the films underscoring his points.

The Worlds of Hayao Miyazaki

(Frances Lincoln)

Japanese animation master Hayao Miyazaki has made a dozen features over 45 years, and his elegantly artful onscreen stories are simultaneous mythic and humane, starting with his feature debut, 1979’s The Castle of Cagliostro, and continuing with his international breakthrough, 1988’s Princess Mononoke, all the way up to his—supposedly—final feature, 2023’s The Boy and the Heron. This beautifully designed volume, which includes a plethora of color film stills alongside Miyazaki’s own sketches for projects made and unmade, thematically groups the auteur’s subjects by section.

Nicolas Rapold’s text nicely weaves the many threads of Miyazaki’s influences and inspirations (as the subtitle makes clear) and the sheer beauty of the filmmaker’s fantastical imagery—often centering on anthropomorphic creatures who befriend intelligent but lonely young children—is what is most memorable in a splendid career that’s filled with highlights like the wrenchingly autobiographical The Wind Rises (2013).

Hirschfeld’s Sondheim

(Abrams Comic Arts)

Last fall, Strokes of Genius, a superb exhibition of caricatures by the great Al Hirschfeld, was on display last September at the Oak Room in Manhattan’s fabled Algonquin Hotel. The small exhibit was populated by classic Hirschfeld sketches of entertainment legends from Louis Armstrong to Aerosmith. Also included were several of his drawings that were the highlights of so many Sunday New York Times’ Arts and Leisure sections, including several works illustrating shows by Stephen Sondheim.

This slim but elegant volume (the first of what is purported to be many “poster books” of Hirschfeld drawings) collects more than 50 sketches of Sondheim’s Broadway triumphs (and misfires), including those that were part of the exhibit: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, Sunday in the Park With George, Passion, and Putting It Together. More than two dozen images that take up entire pages can be removed from the book as ready-made frameable prints. David Leopold, creative director of the Al Hirschfeld Foundation, has written a nicely focused commentary on the drawings and shows; the book’s introduction is by none other than Sondheim veteran Bernadette Peters and the foreword is by theater reviewer Ben Brantley.

A new exhibition, Hirschfeld's Icons, which features his indelible caricatures of superstars from Liza Minnelli to the Beatles, will be on view at the Algonquin Hotel April 28 to May 8.

Domingo Hindoyan Makes Debut Performance With New York Philharmonic at Lincoln Center

Details: Parent Category: Film and the Arts; Category: Reviews; Published on Friday, 24 April 2026 14:10; Written by Jack Angstreich

Photo by Chris Lee

At Lincoln Center’s excellent David Geffen Hall, on the night of Saturday, April 18th, I had the privilege to attend a wonderful concert presented by the New York Philharmonic, under the admirable direction of Domingo Hindoyan, in his debut performances with this ensemble.

The event started splendidly with a sterling realization of the New York premiere of Allison Loggins-Hull’s compelling Can You See? from 2023. The composer has provided this comment on the work:

Can You See? was originally a small chamber ensemble piece commissioned by the New Jersey Symphony. For that commission, the ask was to create an arrangement of The Star-Spangled Banner with a mournful or somber approach that honors lives lost, while also pointing to what the role and responsibility of the living is.

For this larger iteration, arranged for full symphony orchestra, the material is given a curious, yet hopeful treatment. Voices from the original version are orchestrated to achieve a designed delay effect, creating a dreamy soundscape while posing questions relating to the meaning of The Star-Spangled Banner and the complicated history of the United States.

Melodic material from The Star-Spangled Banner is used throughout the work, often stretched out and surrounded by tension and revolving colors. The strings create a soundworld that is cloudy, uncertain, and bleary, questioning if the core meaning of the anthem is in focus. Rhythmic elements evoke a forward-moving motion, while textures and harmonic language nod to the scope and diversity of American music and people.

The glamorous Loggins-Hull was present to receive the audience’s acclaim.

A skilled soloist, Karen Gomyo, then enter the stage to laudably play Jean Sibelius’s extraordinary Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D minor, Op. 47, which underwent a final revision in 1905. The eminent critic, Donald Francis Tovey, in an interesting program note on the piece, said this:

In the easier and looser concerto forms invented by Mendelssohn and Schumann I have not met with a more original, a more masterly, and a more exhilarating work than the Sibelius Violin Concerto. As with all Sibelius's more important works, its outlines are huge and simple; and if a timely glance at an atlas had not reminded me that Finland is mostly flat and water-logged with lakes, I should doubtless have said that “his forms are hewn out of the rocks of his native and Nordic mountains.” The composer to whose style the word “lapidary” (lapidarisch) was first applied by the orthodoxy of the 'nineties is Bruckner; and if the best work of Sibelius suggests anything else in music, it suggests a Bruckner gifted with an easy mastery and the spirit of a Polar explorer.

The complex, initial Allegro moderato begins rather lugubriously but builds to a more passionate, Romantic statement but then becomes more turbulent and dramatic, especially in its imposing, central cadenza; as the movement develops, the symphonic scoring familiar from many of the composer’s other orchestral works becomes dominant—after an energetic episode, it ends forcefully. The ensuing Adagio di molto is more lyrical in inspiration and this movement too acquires an increasing emotional intensity, attaining a powerful climax before concluding quietly. The finale, marked Allegro, ma non tanto, is livelier and more dance-like—this movement is the most ebullient of the three and it closes affirmatively. Enthusiastic applause elicited a welcome encore from the violinist: Astor Piazzolla's Tango Etude No. 3.

The second half of the evening proved even stronger with a superb account of Antonín Dvořák’s magnificent Symphony No. 7 in D minor, Op. 70, which was completed in 1885. Tovey intriguingly wrote this about the composition:

I have no hesitation in setting Dvořák's Symphony, along with the C-major Symphony of Schubert and the four symphonies of Brahms, as among the greatest and purest examples in this art-form since Beethoven. There should be no difficulty at this time of day in recognizing its greatness. It has none of the weaknesses of form which so often spoil Dvořák's best work, except for a certain stiffness of movement in the finale, a stiffness which is not beyond concealing by means of such freedom of tempo as the composer would certainly approve. There were three obstacles to the appreciation of this symphony when it was published in 1885. First, it is powerfully tragic. Secondly, the orthodox critics and the average musician were, as always with new works, very anxious to prove that they were right and the composer was wrong, whenever the composer produced a long sentence which could not be easily phrased at sight. … The third obstacle to the understanding of this symphony is intellectually trivial, but practically the most serious of all. The general effect of its climaxes is somewhat shrill. … His scores are almost as full of difficult problems of balance as Beethoven's. … These great works of the middle of Dvořák's career demand and repay the study one expects to give to the most difficult classical masterpieces; but the composer has acquired the reputation of being masterly only in a few popular works of a somewhat lower order. It is time that this injustice should be rectified.

The Allegro maestoso, first movement opens suspensefully and solemnly but a sunnier strain emerges and the music subsequently projects a more confident posture although it ultimately finishes seriously, if softly. The Poco adagio that follows is more song-like and purely melodious but with moments of contrast and it eventually achieves a more noble and patently optimistic expression; the movement ends gently and serenely. The next, Vivace movement—it functions as a scherzo—is joyful and enchanting, even exuberant and it concludes rapidly and dynamically, but the middle, Trio section—marked Poco meno mosso—has an almost pastoral quality. The Allegro finale has a more tempestuous character—although there are more subdued, even tentative, passages—and it has a stunning close.

The artists were justly rewarded with a standing ovation.

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