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Rating: Pogorelich in Terni: Sometimes They Come Back
'Sometimes They Come Back', the title of a famous book by Stephen King: 'Ivo Pogorelich', one of the most debated pianists of recent years, has returned, always distinguished by an 'alleged' originality of programs and interpretations perfected to the extreme in their sound aspect. And he returned almost with the intention of reinforcing this image of his, because he is a 'Pogorelich more Pogorelich than himself', the forced caricature of the charming pianist I listened to as a young girl and who sincerely encouraged my piano studies. Not that he played differently back then, always with 'alleged' originality, and great attention in pursuing an elegant and refined sound but also nuanced, marked, vigorous and powerful, rich, but back then, captivated and subdued by the presence of this pianist, young, handsome, and... kind... like a hero from a dime novel, and above all, still ignorant of the piano repertoire, Pogorelich's choices seemed to me real conveyors of an emotional message and artistic content, capable of making me resonate within my deepest chords. Fortunately, one grows up: yesterday, it was only a boring, unbearable torment.
Growing up is a fortune; if it weren't, I would never have been able to know the beauty and complexity of 'op.111' by 'Beethoven', his last 'Sonata', one that, with its overwhelming and almost 'philosophical' content, pushes the form-container to its limits until it breaks it definitively, and yet last night it was 'disclosed', vulgarized in an interpretation that has nothing refined or expressive, but only distorted in sound, structure, and coherence, lost in excessively slow or fast tempos. A masterpiece turned into a fashion parade of bright colors. Nor would I have been able to be moved by listening and playing the 'II Intermezzo of op.118' by 'Brahms, music of the Ineffable that Pogorelich had the audacity not to interpret according to his own vision, his own feeling, his personal experience, but to reinterpret, almost rewrite according to a nonexistent logic, robbing a composer of Brahms' caliber, trivializing him with sugary taste.
I hoped for a better 'Skjabin': I heard a 'IV Sonata' characterized, as it is, by push, impetus like a cavalcade, offered to the audience like a Belgian chocolate, not to mention the 'II Sonata' of 'Rachmaninov, more interesting than all the previous 'Beethoven', where the only thing that emerged clearly was a sonic imbalance between 'non-existent and thundering', no line, no theme, just deliberately confused cascades of notes. And I will remain silent about his 'Für Elise'.
Why deliberately want to be original, deforming the text, distilling or diluting it, inserting tasteless pauses that break the phrasing? Is this expressive research? Or rather the exact opposite? There are pianists who are not very generous and engaging or deliberately so, who do not like to indulge themselves, but at least play something that, even remotely, approaches Music; Pogorelich does 'too much', emphasizes, highlights and the Music remains only as an incommunicative sonic shell, made for himself and for an audience that adores him, to whom playing a tear-jerking 'Für Elise' is enough to satisfy and be satisfied with their inner idea of Music, assuming he has one.
vera mazzotta
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