Dear readers, Here in New York, as is true across the world, fall means that the opera and ballet seasons have started. Time was, I saw everything; I’d get last-minute tickets and go by myself in a special pair of crepe-soled shoes. (And I can give a shoe no better a review than to say it saw me through the “Ring” cycle in the standing-room section.) Life has made all that culture trickier, so in addition to embracing livestreams, I find myself more grateful than ever for books that translate performance to the page. —Sadie “Diaghilev’s Empire: How the Ballets Russes Enthralled the World,” by Rupert ChristiansenNonfiction, 2022
The Russian impresario Serge Diaghilev did more than form a modernist ballet company: He single-handedly transformed a moribund, slightly déclassé entertainment that had devolved into a babyish repertoire performed for ogling lechers into a universally respected art form. The Ballets Russes combined classical rigor with the avant-garde, showcasing the electrifying music of composers like Stravinsky with Balanchine’s choreography, all brought to life by stars like Vaslav Nijinsky and Anna Pavlova. Picasso designed sets, Chanel contributed costumes, Russo-chic swept 1920s society. There is no more ardent fan than the ballet lover (Edward Gorey essentially planned his life around the New York City Ballet’s schedule), and Christiansen, the eminent British dance critic, is a true balletomane, which he defines as “a morbid affliction of which the chief symptom is the daily expense of an unconscionable amount of time watching, thinking or dreaming about classical dance and dancers.” The author’s erudition and passion are obvious, and he does full justice to the works he describes. However, you don’t need to know a chassé from a grande de jambe to enjoy this pacey, voicey, extremely gossipy history. Nijinsky disappointed people offstage with his “sullen, downbeat ordinariness.” Olga Spessivtseva — “a spindle-slender birdlike creature of raven-haired beauty who had been holed up destitute and tubercular in a garret in Riga” — was “one of those dancers who seemed almost pathologically self-involved.” Sex with Diaghilev was kind of like being with “a nice fat old lady.” Read if you like: “Nijinsky: A Life of Genius and Madness,” “The Red Shoes,” “The Lavender Leotard.” “A Song Begins,” by Mary BurchellFiction, 1965
There are many truly good novels about opera — “Bel Canto” and “Queen of the Night” are two; “Song of the Lark” is another — which makes sense, given the inherent, heightened melodrama of the form. A great writer can mine the spectacle for irony or pathos, playing with perceptions and clichés to tremendous effect. What I am about to describe is something completely different. Mary Burchell, real name Ida Cook, was a British writer who used her love of opera — and the proceeds from her many romance novels — as cover to help 29 Jews escape from Nazi Germany and smuggle out their valuables. She and her sister were honored by Yad Vashem in 1965, the same year she published “A Song Begins.” Although she wrote more than 100 romances, Burchell is best known for the “Warrender” saga, set in the world of grand opera. My favorite of the 13 books is probably “The Curtain Rises” (centered on “The Magic Flute”), although you have to give points to the sheer audacity of 1975’s “Unbidden Melody” (“Eugene Onegin”). Any true completist must start with “A Song Begins,” in which the aspiring soprano Anthea Benton encounters the mercurial, legendary conductor Oscar Warrander. It may not shock you that the enigmatic Warrander is a strict taskmaster who also turns out to be Anthea’s mystery benefactor, that they have clashes of wills or that a rather tepid romance ensues. What will come as a delightful surprise is the lack of condescension with which the author treats her readers — and how she unfussily communicates her true passion, classical music. We are told, within the first two pages, that Anthea has not merely a beautiful voice but those rarest of gifts, “a completely even scale and a natural placement.” When she has the opportunity to see Warrender conduct, “with that secure yet flexible beat of the baton he maintained the form and symmetry of the work, but with his left hand he translated into gesture for his orchestra every nuance of feeling he required of them.” When Anthea finally masters Desdemona’s death scene, we understand how far she has come in her training; Burchell has taught us. These books are fun, certainly. But what I enjoy as much as anything is a glimpse into a world where the consumption of all art was so un-self-conscious and matter-of-fact; and Burchell’s portraits of the fans — the music students and aspiring conductors and young buffs — are more indelible than the love stories. Read if you like: Classic Mills and Boon; “Otello.” We hope you’ve enjoyed this newsletter, which is made possible through subscriber support. Subscribe to The New York Times. Friendly reminder: Check your local library for books! Many libraries allow you to reserve copies online. Like this email? Sign-up here or forward it to your friends. Have a suggestion or two on how we can improve it? Let us know at books@nytimes.com. Plunge further into books at The New York Times or our reading recommendations.
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