Chopin
A Film by Angelo Bozzolini
TV Format 16:9 NTSC
Sound PCM Stereo
Subtitles: English, German, French
Region Code 0 (worldwide).
EUROARTS DVD 2058848 [57:00]
This is part of a series of composer biographies on DVD released
by Euroarts. Angelo Bozzolini has been responsible for two previous issues:
Mendelssohn and Liszt. I have to admit I always rather wince when some people
- in Bozzolini’s case he also took care of the screenplay and interview
text – start carrying on as if they were film directors by emblazoning
‘A Film by ...' on the box cover.
The biography makes a straightforward story over-complicated. It depends largely
on letters, using them as an autobiographical device to chart the narrative
of Chopin’s life. The means by which they’re declaimed is via
the famous daguerreotype of Chopin, which is made to move and talk, cartoon
style, to give us Chopin-as-narrator, as it were. The same happens when George
Sand hoves into view and her picture starts talking too, though separately
– and not very well, as it happens. Watching this bizarre medium is,
after a while, almost enjoyable, though not necessarily for the right reasons.
This is an Italian documentary so the primary language is Italian, but confusingly
all manner of contemporary musicians, interviewed for the project, speak a
Babel-full of languages, some unexpectedly so. Barenboim chips in in Italian,
Charles Rosen and Ashkenazy speak English, Poles speak French, and so on.
This has the unsettling effect of adding to the confusion given the probable
necessity for the subtitles. There are interviews with Martha Argerich, and
a detour (to no great biographical purpose, alas) to meet Alfred Cortot’s
son, Jean; academics – mainly Polish, some speaking Polish, some French,
and some English - advance the musicological case. Bobby McFerrin turns up
to whistle the one piece of Chopin he knows, and it’s fortunate he doesn’t
know more.
You will have to forget a linear narrative, and will have to follow the chapter
headings to get some idea of the digressive nature of this immensely frustrating
piece of work: Ahead of time, The Beginnings, Conducting Chopin, National
Idol, Rubato and so on. You can tell even from this sample that the conflation
of biography and interpretation leads to many a trek across interpretative
country, and one needs to be forcefully helicoptered back to one’s path
every so often.
Yes, it’s good to see a folk band, and it’s interesting to have
a detour to the Chopin Competition of 1955 – but it is still a detour.
Some of the academics interviewed talk a lot of thoughtful sense. I suppose
it’s valuable to hear a lot about Mazurkas, and their special character
and rhythm but surely not to the extent of bloating this segment to the detriment
of the narrative as a whole. It’s like going to a museum to stare enraptured
at its windows.
Did I learn much? Did I laugh? Did I cry? No. yes, no, in that order. I laughed
when Barenboim said of a time when he was conducting in Italy; ‘thank
God we were in a country that understands rubato – not like Germany
or England.’ Nothing like sucking up to your interlocutor.
If you can cope with cartoon daguerreotypes, and with up-hill-and-possibly-down-dale
sequenced narratives you may enjoy some of the more rewarding moments here:
there are a few.
Jonathan Woolf
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