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Rating: In recent years, there has been an effort, or at least an attempt, to rehabilitate all sorts of things: from the "valiant patriots" of the Republic of Salò to the Italian band Cugini di Campagna, from Bettino Craxi as a "persecuted exile" to trash films by Alvaro Vitali, without considering that "trash" ultimately means nothing more than "garbage", and no matter how chicly it might be pronounced, the substance remains exactly that.
Who knows if there will be space for the rehabilitation of Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky by those qualified as experts in a field as vast, misunderstood, and mystified as classical music. As for simple enthusiasts like me, the rehabilitation happened long ago, or rather there was never a need for it. Tchaikovsky has practically always been a reliable and inexhaustible source of imaginative and inspired melodies, from the desperately sad ones in his symphonies to the naively magical ones in his ballets. Certainly, one cannot expect the same sincere passion from those lisping and know-it-all speakers on Radio Tre, who seem placed there to drive away anyone with the slightest curiosity about classical music. They will undoubtedly prefer to offer to fellow initiates like themselves the usual inextricable and unlistenable twentieth-century dodecaphony, or the usual minor comic opera, little or never performed even at the time it was written, all naturally accompanied by the usual abstruse language. As long as there are "cultural operators" of this sort, the risk of getting to know Tchaikovsky through this route is almost nonexistent: at most, one might encounter some obscure fragment of his operatic works, but the "popular" symphonies, not to mention the pyrotechnic concerts, will be carefully avoided.
Yet it is precisely in the symphonies, and particularly in the last three (the Fourth, the Fifth, and the famous Sixth, known as the "Pathétique"), where the Russian composer reveals himself as not only an indefatigable creator of motives but also a first-rate orchestrator, with original timbral solutions so incredibly modern at times that they partially anticipate the rich "chromaticism" of impressionists like Ravel. It is precisely this aspect that forms the basis of Tchaikovsky's ruthless and unfair self-criticism concerning Symphony No. 5 in E minor Op. 64, perhaps not the most known but surely the most intensely suffered in this imagined trilogy. As usual, Tchaikovsky writes to his great friend, confidant, and mentor Nadezhda Von Meck, saying among other things: "...I am convinced that it (the Fifth) is a failure. In this work, there is something unpleasant, certain diversity of colors, a certain insincerity, a certain artifice..." Particularly striking is the reference to the diversity of colors, labeled as if it were a flaw, while instead it is an integral part of the charm of this tormented composition, which, despite the self-dismissal and the non-triumphant premieres, would soon become a stable part of concert programs, where it can still be found today, though less frequently than the "Pathétique".
The aforementioned diversity of colors is the mirror of the wavering variety of moods that the Fifth Symphony expresses, a variety that in turn reflects the tortuous and unstable personality of Tchaikovsky, with his tendency, as a genuine depressive, to swing instantly from the deepest despair to frenetic surges of exaltation or unexpected oases of serene bliss. Although the dominant note is melancholy, the theme that opens the symphony, forming its leitmotif, may appear as a voice from beyond the grave, exhaled from the darkest and most spectral register imaginable for a clarinet at the start of the first movement, but also as a nervous and decisive march toward its destiny, punctuated by a brass fanfare in the final movement. Indeed, the true "engine" of the Symphony is the struggle between man and fate, as inferred from Tchaikovsky's own notes (I cite for instance the one associated with the beginning of the first movement: "Introduction. Complete resignation to Fate or, which is the same, to the inscrutable decrees of Providence..." Some might observe that this is nothing new: a certain Beethoven had already expressed the eternal struggle against destiny in symphonic form, and what symphonies they were... things like the Fifth and the Ninth! Only that in his case, regardless of the final triumph, the struggle itself had the characteristics of a titanic enterprise, driven by exceptional tension. With Tchaikovsky, none of this: his is the tangled and discontinuous struggle of a fragile man against life's adversities, with its inevitable setbacks, marked by the inconsolable outbursts of brass in the second movement, and its fleeting illusions, like the tender waltz of the third.
Given the extreme richness and complexity of the motives, it is worthwhile to view the four movements somewhat in broad strokes, starting with the first ("Andante. Allegro con anima"), of which I have already mentioned the chilling introduction. What follows is like a sort of slow and gradual revival of the "patient" Tchaikovsky from the initial mindset, close to catatonia. Soon the rhythm takes on the characteristics of an "Allegro", a term in this case as ambiguous as ever. There is no lack of vitality, but it is born of desperation, finding its outlet in repeated outbursts of timpani and trumpets, alternating with large-scale melodies entrusted to the strings.
The second movement ("Andante cantabile with some license") is one of the most divinely inspired pages not only of late Romanticism but of classical music in general. The initial horn solo presents with all its delicate transparency a motif so pure and simple it can be grasped on first hearing, on which the oboe discreetly grafts a second equally moving theme, evoking sweet distant memories. The subsequent developments and intertwinings of these two themes offer infinite melodic combinations; as if this were not enough, the orchestra joins with all its might, and soon even in this slow movement there are the furious outbursts of trumpets and timpani that punctuate almost the entire symphony.
A little apart is the third movement ("Valse. Allegro moderato"), a true waltz, no less enchanting than those well-known Tchaikovsky ballet pieces (Swan Lake, The Nutcracker). It is that precious oasis of peace occasionally granted even to the most fragile and hypersensitive characters; naturally, it is ephemeral, which is why this is by far the shortest movement.
With the "Finale. Andante maestoso. Allegro vivace", the tragic theme reappears that opens the Symphony, though in a distinctly more sustained manner. Abrupt and almost unexpected enters then the tempestuous "Allegro vivace", almost a semblance of triumph, yet contrasted by the relentless return of the initial theme, which, however distorted and deformed by the momentum the Symphony has now gained, seems determined to cling to the author like a curse to the very end. Indeed, it is still present in the finale, leaving a shadow of doubt about the outcome of the furious struggle against adversity, but not about the fact that the admittedly fragile Tchaikovsky, in this battle, gave everything he could.
I realize this review is taking on, to use a symphonic comparison, "Mahlerian" proportions, so I will conclude by recommending an interpretation by the Philadelphia Orchestra conducted by Riccardo Muti, as passionate and intense as a Symphony of this kind demands.
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