NEVER GONNA SNOW AGAIN - Everybody loves Zhenia . . . and so do I

There is no denying that movies have always played an enormous part in my life. Hell, my life IS a movie (aren't all of ours?). I like to think I keep up with the latest and best, even (or especially) if they're not the biggest grossing, blockbuster megahits, but when a film by a director I love, making the types of movies I adore, goes five years without my even hearing of it . .  . I am humbled like ya read about. And so it was when Małgorzata Szumowska (with co-director Michel Englert)  of Elles . . . In the Name of the Father, and The Other Lamb popped up as a recommendation I was excited - and then saw its release date - 2025, and could only ask, how the hell did this happen?  

Enough about me. 

While considering the possibility that most of my friends would probably hate this movie (hate's a strong word, but sadly probably accurate. Maybe not. I hope not) Never Gonna Snow Again, is the type of film that within the first seven minutes I knew was going on my All Time Favorites List. 

It's been called uncategorizable - which is, of course, my favorite genre. An oddly perfect blend of hypnotic art film, surrealist drama, magical realism, painting arms-length psychological portraits of its characters, in a beautifully darkly comic, homogenized society that appears sterile on the outside, but really is a jumbled, gooey mess inside. The name of recent film legend David Lynch pops up  in a number of other reviews, and while I wanted to resist doing so here, I can't. Lynch's influence - intentionally or not - can be felt in numerous scenes and sequences, motifs and effects, even as Szumowska stays faithful to her own style.  Have no fear, the director is not copying Lynch, but one feels that a school perhaps is more formally developing here.  I'm all for it.  Oh, and while never preachy (the opposite of it in fact) there's also not the so subtle message about climate change, nuclear disasters, and such. Yeah. 

During a hypnotic opening sequence we watch Zhenia, a young masseur, wandering the woods carrying his massage table, as he crosses from his native Ukraine into Poland to begin a new life. At immigration headquarters, Zehnia seems to bypass the teeming crowds proceeding directly in the office of the ancient, powdery looking, skeptical head office. We learn Zhenhia was born on April 26, 1979, in Chernobyl - seven years to the day before the disaster. This detail is the key to Zhenia's story. To his personality. To his gifts. A man of few words, his answers to the officer are vague, and when asked, "What languages do you speak," he offers only a confident,"all of them."  It is during this interview we first witness Zhehnia's gift (and no, I'm not going to spoil it) and the story proper (such as it is) begins . . . to the glorious strains of Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2. Yeah. It's that kind of movie. 

We don't know how long Zhehnia has been in Poland, but clearly long enough to haved establishd a career as a well-loved, highly sought masseur in a gated community of prejudiced, uptight, upper-middle class families. These wonderful folk exist miserably in their godawful, near identical cookie cutter McMansions of gleaming white. To indicate the pretentiousness of its residents, Szumowska employs a brilliant motif; the doorbells of each home. Whenever Zhenia presses one of them, classical melodies chime away, each more nearly unrecognizable than the last: there is the aforementioned Shostakovich Waltz, the opening of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusic, and so on. 

Zhenhia's clientele have lonely, messy lives, each with a great, desperate need he alone can heal. The lonely alcoholic wife of an uncaring business man (with such annoying children); the terminal cancer patient and  his wife who've tried every possible cure who now place their last hopes into Zhenhia's beautiful, magical hands; the lonely, the dramatic, melodramatic drunk whose pathetic life revolves round her trio of beloved, but gassy bulldogs; the angry widow whose only joy stems from attempts to humiliate Zhenhia (who is, by the way, impossible to humiliate).  I can't not mention one of the hateful children in particular; a dead-eyed MDMA-making teen genius with secrets of his own. 

Szumowska's narrative, like her camera, flows dreamlike through the film's episodic vignettes, a blurry past, and shadowy forests, all which further establish Zhenia's otherness.  As so many Poles see Ukrainians only as interlopers, undesirables, and cheap labor, it's fascinating to see this young charismatic character cross that line into a not-quite Messiah-like presence makes him stand apart both from other Ukrainians and the Poles. You're not like the others seems to be the consensus by all. It is not mere coincidence Zhenia is a massage therapist; with his unusual gifts, and ease of manipulation of mind and body, there is a delicious paradox at work within the man himself.

As Zhenhia we are treated to an absolutely brilliant, screen consuming performance by Ukranian/British actor Alec Utgoff. Some may remember the actor from the hit Netflix series Stranger Things, and more recently Arkady Pashkin in a handful of episodes of Slow Horses.  In Snow, however, Utgoff shows his chops to devastating effect and it's impossible not to succomb to the magic that he infuses into Zhenhia.  It truly is a performance of magic. Sadly, despite rave reviews, the film (not surprisingly) tanked at the box office sending Utgoff back to much smaller roles in film and TV series. His performance here shows he can carry the weight of a big film on his shoulders and I can only join others moved by his Zhenia in the hopes of that happening soon. 

Never Gonna Snow Again is not a movie for everyone;  its narrative moves slowly, without a lot of dialogue and everything is revealed in almost voyeuristic glimpses. Watching it was like staring intently at a great painting of, say, Hieronymus Bosch. At first glimpse it's difficult for the eye to take in everything before it, confusing even, but . . . the longer you stare, the more amazing it appears as it unfolds. And, oh my, is this movie amazing.

A Spectacular Die Tote Stadt From Frozen Boston

Erich Korngold's Die Tote Stadt is one of the best known underperformed operas in the repertoire. More popular in Europe than the U.S. Die Tote Stadt made a rare appearance last night at Symphony Hall in a blazing debut at by the Boston Symphony Orchestra and Boston Lyric  Opera, and the packed house the braved  the single digits temperatures were rewarded with the type of unique warmth only great art can provide.

I had been looking forward to the pairing of Christine Goerke and Brandon Jovanovich in this opera, so naturally disappointed when the tenor had to bow out shortly before due to illness. I'd heard, and very much liked British tenor, David Butt Philip  a number of recorded performances, but hearing him live for the first time was one of those unexpected pleasures you dream about. From his entrance through the moving finale, Mr. Philip's voice shone with a heldentenor ringing brilliance, but also possessed a delicious warmth that had me - literally - on the edge of my seat. Rare is the last minute replacement who can create so vivid and haunting a character as Paul, but we heard and saw just that last night . 

His work clearly was inspired by his "other half" in this tale, soprano, Christine Goerke whose performance was simply (or not so simply) magnificent. Marietta is a complex character offering vocal and dramatic challenges, but Goerke's performance while gloriously natural and spontaneous, also revealed - and revelled in - the preternatural world of Paul's deceased wife, Marie.  Goerke's Marietta also brought out the darker moments chillingly, responding brilliantly to both the real and dream worlds inhabited by Paul. 

Korngold gives Paul and Marietta a diverse range of scenarios from flirtatious and playful (though playful is not an adjective that remotely describes Paul) to ecstasies both passionate and dangerous. Ms. Goerke and Mr. Butt Phillips electrified the audience throughout.

Karen Cargill was luxury casting as Briggita, proving the adage, "there are no small parts."  She was joined by the elegant Frank of Elliot Magore, whose beautiful voice was, unfortunately at times drowned by the enthusiasm of Maestro Nelsons and the band. The excellent company comprising Marietta's theatrical troupe featured vivid, energetic performances from Amber Monroe, Elisa Sunshine, Neal Ferreira, and Joshua Sanders that brought the troupe to life.  

Korngold's score is a miracle of sound and effects making huge demands on a huge orchestra. The complexities of sound which shift between scenes of realism bending to trancelike delirium are ever breathtaking offering both sheer excitement and breathtaking pathos. It's nearly impossible to consider Die Tote Stadt premiered (simultaneously, in two cities) when the composer was but 23 years old. He'd begun working on it at age 19, but had to stop after, you know, being drafted to fight in WWI. 

Andris Nelsons chose Korngold's opera as one of the works to celebrate his tenth anniversary with the company, and we can only say thank you, Maestro!  It was absolutely clear how much Nelsons adores this work as he lavished every moment of it with passion that could sometimes overwhelm the singers. Indeed, there were several moments my ear strained to make sure I was hearing them.  How fortunate we were to be blessed with a cast where, aside from those few times, were able to ride on that enormous cloud of sound. Adding to the gorgeous aural tapestry were the beautiful contributions of the joined choruses from Tanglewood Festival and Boston Lyric Opera Choruses, and the always delightful boys from St. Paul's School Choir.    

At its heart, Die Tote Stadt is ultimately a tale of loss and acceptance, and while its score is a circus of sound, running the gamut from the carnival-like to hauntingly melancholic, the libretto (written by Korngold and his father, collectively under the pseudonym "Paul Schott")  provides the composer a text that allows its characters - and us - to explore how death, loss, grief and acceptance affects each of our lives. That's a lot to ask from an opera, but the young Korngold delivered. Big time. 

At its conclusion there were few dry eyes around me, as the spell remained unbroken of what we'd all just witnessed, blessed with what felt like an eternity of silence before an ovation of madness ensued. Yeah , it was one of THOSE nights. 

Spyres Shines in Vienna's Austere But Perfect Palestrina

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Hans Pfitzner's Palestrina has never taken hold in the repertoire of any house. Arguments can be (and are) made it doesn't warrant being produced, and yet I can only argue that each time I hear it - and both productions I've seen (alas, only on video) Pfitzner's score sublimates my spirit and reaches beyond my understanding into something I feel . . . . something I can barely identify.

Vienna's revival which aired last night goes beyond even that. Having spent the last few days with Parsifal, Die Frau Ohne Schatten, and now, Palestrina, I feel I've somehow tuned into some level of highest, holiest German art.  I'm not complaining.

While the score continues to mostly gather dust, Christian Thielemann has championed Palestrina, spurred on by a critic who called it a nationalist piece of crap . . . a shitty piece.  This prompting the then young Thielemann to schedule for his first new production when he took over .Staatstheater Nürnberg in the 1980's.  He went on to lead performances elsewhere including London, Berlin, and now Vienna. From the first note to last, it is immediately apparent how dearly he loves this score, and he infuses that love and excitement throughout his cast, the orchestra and ultimately and the entire audience.  I can hardly recall a more rapturous ovation to the close of a first act than what I witnessed from the Viennese for this Palestrina. It was stupendous, really.  

The production by the late Herbert Wernicke is (from what I understand) being seen for the first time in 25 years - since it's 1999 premiere. Interestingly enough, Wernicke, also directed the Met's current Die Frau Ohne Schatten, dying in 2002, only months after its rapturous reception in New York.  His is a deceptive fairly bare bones looking set. In fact, when the curtain rose I thought for a moment the nearly bare stage was the actual stage of the Staatsoper. But looks are deceiving, and Wernicke's updated retelling of the great composer's tale takes place on the stage of a modern concert hall complee with risers for singers and musicians. There is also a composition desk where Palestrina spends almost all of his onstage time. 

It may look dull, but there are countless moments that bring Pfitzner's rapturous score to light and life.  The long sequence ending the first act, is sheer magic. As in the darkness, Palestrina listens to the masters, composing - inspired without even looking at his manuscript, then three angels appear, along with the spirit of his dead wife, as the rear wall opens to reveal a chorus of angels singing his mass before disappearing, leaving Palestrina at his desk in a rapturous awe. The effect is overwhelming, the pit raising the decibel level with its mighty orchestral heft and bells and drums. A truly spectacular gooseflesh inducing finale.

The second act can be overwhelming in a different way, as we prepare for the Council of Trent, with Bishops, Archbishops, Cardinals, politicians, royal agents, and servants argue politics, religion, the decision of Palestrina's fate for refusing to cooperate,with Rome, and more. It's all capped by the rising of the organ's pipe organs revealing the entry of the Council, more arguing, then an outbreak of violence, gunfire and confusion. Lots of things come to mind here: the end of Act Two of Der Rosenkavalier, Meistersinger's riot, and toss in some Carmina Burana.  

The final act returns us to the home of Palestrina, now old and weary (achieved not by makeup or wigs, but solely by movement) where for years he's been under house arrest. His son, Ighino, however has surreptitiously given this father's score of the mass to church authorities, and its eventual performance pleased Pope Pius IV, who appears unexpectedly to invite the aged composer spend the rest of his days leading the Sistine Chapel Choir.

Palestrina's nemesis, Cardinal Borromeo who had him imprisoned, realizes his greatness begs forgiveness, as voices from outside are heard praising Palestrina, the saviour of music.As all depart (in this staging) Ighino begins to play the organ as Palestrina lifts his baton toward the heavens and the opera closes on a single organ note.  It's kind of breathtaking. 

Palestrina requires an enormous cast - 42 roles in all, and Vienna did an outstanding job with nary a weak link among them.  In one of the greatest examples of luxury casting I've ever seen, Günther Groissböck appeared, magnificently, as Pope Pius IV for all of his three minutes. The man of the night, however, was, beyond any doubt, Michael Spyres who, as Palestrina, easily gives one of the best performances I've heard from him. The voice is big, warm, bright and cuts easily through Pfitzner's dense orchestration and choral forces with astonishing clarity and beauty. While the end was indeed moving, I still get the shivers thinking of what he did both musically and dramatically at the end of the first. 

In a cast of marvelous singers, I must also mention Michael Nagy,  Wolfgang Koch, and especially soprano Kathrin Zukowski, whose touching presence and gleaming voice made something very special of Ighino

The Viennese went gaga at the end of each act, with especially rapturous ovations for Mister Spyres and Maestro Thielemann. 

Palestrina is one of those big 20th century operas, like Messiaen's Saint François d'Assise, Enescu's Œdipe, or Szymanowsk's Krol Roger that could work spectacularly with the Met's resources, but none of whic will likely (or most likely) never be seen there just seems to be no audience for these works in New York.  That's not just a pity, it's a tragedy.  

But this Palestrina is a cause for celebration, so get to Vienna while you can folks, 'cause this is nothing but glorious. 

Pablo Larrain's MARIA: Great Callas' Ghost

Pablo Larrain's latest film, Maria,  begins at the very end of the sad life of legendary soprano, Maria Callas.  Through the long shot  of a camera we see Maria's doctor, butler, medics, and the police waiting for her body to be taken away.  All seem as if in prayer, as an actual prayer - or rather an operatic one - Desdemona's Ave Maria from Verdi's Otello - begins. I couldn't help but immediately think of one of Callas' most celebrated roles, Violetta, in Franco Zeffirelli's production for her of La Traviata. Both open with the heroine's death, then shifts between from past to present, as though in flashbacks. In Maria, it often happens without warning.  It felt - to me - a very Callas-like thing for Larrain to do, but I've not heard anyone else mention this, so perhaps I'm looking too deeply.  That's how I think. Sue me.  

Admittedly, being obsessed with this artist since boyhood, and having seen every bio documentary, read the conservatory programs from her Athens' girlhood, own the entire Juilliard masterclass collection, and more, I was both excited - and anxious for the arrival of Larrain's movie. It did not disappoint. 

Many critics are calling it a slog . . . tedious . . . endless, yet, apart from a single scene which I might have shaved a minute from, I found its pacing perfect . . . all of a piece.  Yes, it moves slowly, gently . . . almost dreamlike at times, but never a slot but rather always with determined purpose and, as it progressed, much like that Zeffirelli Traviata, I felt Maria to be a sort of ghost story, the title character's death bookending her tragedy. 

For the literal minded, I can see this movie as being wildly problematic. There is a 1970's foreign film/art house quality which puts us at a distance.  We become observers, rather than participants.  It feels somehow un-American, a dangerous thing to say these days! All of this is helped along by Steven Knight who adds to an already remarkable catalog of scripts.  Knight provides cues and clues that serve like a metaphysical roadmap as to which direction Larrain should take the story, moving it - and us - through a haze of events both real and illusory.  Near the beginning La Callas commands: Come with me said the diva, and there was really no need to ask,''where?"  Some will perceive this as a sort of haughtiness, but I believe it's actually more of an instruction - a key for us to let go of reason. This is reinforced later when Maria explains, point blank, In opera, there IS no reason.  So . .. that's going to be a big problem for a lot of audiences, but that's actually okay because this is not a movie for them (or you, if you're reading this and feel the same).  

Larrain lavishes everything he has to make his film look and feel both beautiful and liberating, yet also almost uncomfortably stifling and distant. He uses lightness and dark like colors, right down to his shifts between black and white, faded/muted hues, and a dreamlike autumnal wash colliding simultaneously between the outside world of reality, and Maria's drug fueled hallucinatory realm. Through all of this, Larrain and his team provide, unwaveringly, stunning details, from knick knacks on shelves, to housemaid Bruna's flipping of an omelet, or Callas' hiding of pills in pockets, all the way down to her beloved poodles dancing on their hind legs impatiently awaiting their supper.

And then there's Paris.  Looking like Maria's personal dreamscape, with its boulevards and Trocadero Square filled with orchestras and choruses, these fantasy sequences culminate in one of the film's most emotionally beautiful moments. During a rainstorm we see and hear, along with Maria, the Humming Chorus from Madama Butterfly as a kimono-clad Maria joins them in a shower of tears and rain. It took my breath away.  

Cinematographer, Ed Lachman's work here is about as beautiful as it gets, and reflective of his achievements. Seamlessly, he blends 35, 16, and 8 mm film stock - both color and black and white - to serve up Larrain's and Knight's vision. They are like the Holy Trinity on this project.  

None of this comes alive, however, without actors and here, Larrain's insistence and vision of Angelina Jolie pays off handsomely. Criticism of Jolie's portrayal had me worried going in, but all that was laid to rest - almost immediately.  It didn't bother me that Jolie is not a Callas clone - in fact, I'm glad they didn't go the fake nose or padded stockings angle to create a Madame Tussauds figure, but rather get beneath the skin of this Maria.  And by this Maria, I don't mean the actual Callas because - well, that's pretty much impossible, isn't it?  That said, while Jolie - especially when viewed head on - may not strongly resemble the real Maria, there are moments when the tilt of the head, or a glimpse reflected in a mirror, feel as though the ghost of Maria is present. Crazy? Absolutely. But, that's also the beauty and the magic of cinema; anything and everything is possible.  

There were a thousand versions of Maria in real life and now, dead for half a century, we have even more; more stories, more versions of them, more . . . everything. That girl from New York, Maria Anna Cecilia Sofia Kalogeropoúlos, turned into Maria Callas, and that Maria Callas has, in death, moved into another realm entirely: the mythological. 

Ms. Jolie's Maria is a magnificent creature. Proud, vain, broken, needy, and haunted.  The actor straddles both worlds - real and imagined - with a purposefully increasing difficulty before ultimately not seeming to care which one she's in. It is an almost soul searing thing watching someone giving up. Jolie reflects this in her gestures, her hands, her sad, beautiful face, and we hear it in her words.  At one point she tells someone, someone very important to her, I don't even know if you're real.  Suddenly, neither do we. From the film's earliest moments I sensed in Jolie a kinship and admiration for the woman she's portraying.  She believes in her, speaks like her, and ultimately moves through each scene like the ghost that this Maria is.

Supporting roles, too, are beautifully done, with Kodi Smit-McPhee  as Mandrax, the mysterious documentarian, Haluk Bilginer's oily, near grotesque Onassis, and Stephen Ashfield's supportive, if mildly pushy Jeffrey Tate. Pride of place however, goes to Pierfrancesco Favino's Ferruccio and Alba Rohrwacher's Bruna, Maria's butler and housemaid. Along with Maria, this trio have formed a comfortable, small misfit family.  The love between them can be sensed - even when Maria's seeming annoyance with them is on display. Those moments are beautiful, and provide the movie's (I almost said opera's) warmest and most amusing scenes.  

Since we are dealing strictly with the final week of Maria's life, much of the story is revealed through flashbacks of Maria's youth in Athens, her triumphs at La Scala, the re-imagined (and historically inaccurate) beginning of her affair with Onassis, and a private meeting with JFK. The musical excerpts are fairly glorious . . . until they progressively become sadder and more painful, on the ears yes, but even more so in the heart. 

I've always obsessed with the artistry of Callas, and hungry for everything I can find about her, on her . . . all of it.  But, I also firmly believe that, like all historical figures, their life stories cannot adequately be told in a so-called biopic. If we truly want to know them - at least as best as we are able, it is through documentaries, biographies, research, those who ay have known them, and yet, even those give only incomplete portraits.  But a film, a biopic is always going to be filtered through the lens of the artist making it - which then reflects only his or her  truth.  It is through taking the time to listen and explore the actual work of the artist we get to know what's most important about them. This is not to say that is all they were, for everything they went through personally and professionally is what delivered them to us in the first place. But we can't ever really know that.  Not really.     

So, with its imagined narrative Larrain's Maria does not even qualify as a biopic in any sense. It is more of a tone-poem for the senses where instead of facts or history, we enter a version - a vision, or a reverie if you will, based on the imagined final days of a legend . . . of this mythological Maria everyone thinks they know, but none of us do. Or can.  

Many lines remain with me, but none felt more true than Maria's admission  to Mandrake, I am afraid audiences expect miracles, and I no longer can perform miracles.  

If you can succumb to Mr. Larrain's style . . . the gift he and his formidable company of artists have created, and wrapped so beautifully for us, you may be moved just as much as I was. Am.