I went to an Antonioni retrospective at the Arsenal theater, which is on the bottom floor of the Filmhaus complex. Paris has about five of these types of cinemas showing classic films in their original versions. To my knowledge, Berlin lags in this regard, but what city wouldn’t by comparison?
To me, “retrospective” means “a look back,” but it hardly seems appropriate to suggest that most of us are revisiting these short films from the Italian master. We simply haven’t seen them before. “People of the Po Valley” (1943-1947), “Netezza Urbana” (1948), “Lies of Love” (1949), “Superstitions” (1949), “The Villa of Monsters” (1950), “Vertigine” (1950) -- any of these ring a bell? Of course not, and how impressive of the Arsenal to collect them for our delectation.
Of these “Lies of Love” (or “L’Amorosa Menzogna”) was supremely amusing. It depicts the phenomenon of low-brow “picture books” in Italian society. They’re like comic books with thought and speech balloons, but the images are of actors photographed in various poses. Antonioni takes us through the process in 11 hilarious minutes.
“Superstitions” -- also about 10 minutes in length -- was also worth the price of admission. We’re shown the cobweb of mythology and juju that grips small-town Italy. In one scene we see a grandmother drinking an infant’s urine in the belief that it will help her arthritis. I left the theater with a better feeling for the director. He’s an amusing smartass, and I came to understand the sensibility that led him to later create “L‘Avventura,” “La Notte,” “L'Eclisse“ and “Blow-Up.”
The audience was mostly people in their 20s -- heartening to see -- half of them drinking from bottles of beer. Berlin seems to have no laws governing the use or purchase of alcohol, save an age limit. People drink on the street, in the subway, in the cinema. Nobody’s obnoxious about it; it’s no more remarkable than carrying around a Snapple back home, and public drunkenness is rare.
The next morning, I rode/walked on a rainy pilgrimage to the Kulturforum to see the second-most-acclaimed orchestra in the world, and perhaps the best. The Berlin Philharmonic was playing a rare 11 a.m. concert and I was going to be there. I got to my seat 20 minutes early, my heart nearly beating out of my chest. You’re in Europe, I thought. You’re in Berlin. The Berlin Philharmonic is about to be at your feet. And it occurred to me that, you know, anything is possible if you just make it so. I remembered sitting at my computer on Halloween night, ready to pounce when the tickets went on sale. By the time I woke up the next morning, the show had sold out. This is truly one of Europe’s toughest tickets. Sitting on planes for 12 hours is excruciating, and this is the payoff.
The orchestra takes their seats and Mehta emerges from stage left. He’s in a good mood. We all are. If you’re ever to take in new information, embrace a cultural experience, read a book, watch a film, do it at 11 a.m. I’ve always believed this. By nightfall, the day’s thousand little injuries prevent you from fully appreciating whatever it is you’re about to absorb.
First up is Schubert’s Symphony No. 3, a young man’s symphony, played with more delicacy than I expected. It’s one of the first pieces I ever acquired when I started collecting classical music 25 years ago, and it still inspires. Any unpleasant chore is more gracefully endured by sticking this in your CD player.
Next was the manic suite from Bartok’s “The Miraculous Mandarin.” The orchestra’s size had nearly doubled during the brief interlude since the Schubert. More drums, horns, violins. The bass section has tripled. We now have a piano, cymbalists, a harp -- about 90 performers in all. The string section launches the work, a million killer bees buzzing inside my head. The brass section follows, roaring like a column of Panzer tanks. Now we’re getting somewhere. By the time the galloping finale arrives, we’re at a turbo-charged pitch. Mehta jumps for emphasis -- he's airborne! -- and the blaring conclusion is met with ear-popping shouts and applause. Mehta, ever the showman, trudges off stage, waits a long moment, returns, and the applause has not dimmed. He points to the brass section. He leaves again, comes back. And again. This goes on for awhile. The ovation is now nearly 4 minutes long, and the violinists are slapping their scores with their bows -- praise for Herr Conductor. It’s only halftime, and I feel like the Cleveland Browns have won the Super Bowl. Score: Human Race 1, Armies of Darkness 0.
Down in the foyer, I ask a bartender wearing a Santa hat for a beer. She hands me a Pilsner Urquell and a tulip-shaped glass. That’ll work.
The Beethoven Violin Concerto is next. Refreshingly, our virtuoso is not one of the flavor-of-the-day lions or lionesses of the classical scene, but his name is Leonidas -- Leonidas Kavakos, a tall guy, about 6-feet-4 with a thick beard, could use a haircut, in his early 40s with a hint of a paunch. He looks like the annoying guy at your work who always takes your parking space, not somebody who’s about to break your heart over and over again. He tears into these ascending and descending ladders like an angel on meth, and you’re reminded what excellence is: a limitless range of emotions, unbearable exquisiteness -- and no fuckups. It’s a mature work compared with the Schubert, and Kavakos is the right guy.
When it’s over, people start to exit, but our Greek friend isn’t done. He wants to give us a treat -- an unscheduled solo performance not on the program. Sounds like Paganini, I think. But no, it’s too achingly sublime. I may never know, but that’s part of the gift. A haiku written in sand.
I exit the hall in a daze, not quite speechless enough to ask an Asian guy to take my picture with the Kulturforum in the background. He snaps it, but not satisfied, wants to see the final result. “Allow me to confirm,” he says leaning forward while we look at the 2-inch-square image. “Perfect!” I say, and he beams. Pretty much sums up the day.
Feeling invincible, I stop at a casino a block away and sit at a roulette game. I pull the lever and win 8 euros (12 Yankee dollars). I love Berlin.
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