CD: Various artists: The John Dowland Collection

"To be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart." - Daniel Patrick Moynihan

It's been said that composer and lutenist John Dowland was Irish. I don't have the last word on Dowland's ethnicity, but he was, like Moynihan, a Catholic, and knew more than a bit about heartbreak, judging by his compositions.

I have to confess that when I faced the blog last week, I didn't have the heart for anything beyond a Shakespearean comedy or two. Perhaps Preston Sturges and Woody Allen have already said it all on the use of laughter as a weapon against despair, so I'll just leave it at that.

But in honor of Shakespeare's birthday and the continuing observances in DC, I had no choice but to return to his contemporary Dowland and the attendant themes of melancholy, mortality, and tears.

Then again, to return to Dowland has its rewards. On an overloaded shelf in my apartment is a stack of Dorian CDs, a fair number of which deal with English, Irish, and Scottish music. I went rooting around tonight and found various Dowland tracks lurking there among the Dorians, delicious collections from yesteryear featuring early music ensembles, lutenists, bright-voiced sopranos. Good CDs, better memories.

Which brings me to this particularly interesting collection from Deutsche Grammophon. It's not a label I'd particularly associate with early music, and yet here's a new two-CD disc set of Dowland works performed by an array of artists, most associated with an early music repertoire. Imagine, if you will, a collection with not one but two countertenors, Grayston Burgess and the great Andreas Scholl.

The tenor Nigel Rogers performs on three well-chosen selections ("I Saw My Lady Weep," "Shall I Sue," and "Me, Me, and None but Me"), which, if anything, left me wanting more.

Also appearing are Emma Kirkby (with the Consort of Musicke) and two other sopranos, the decidedly versatile Barbara Bonney and Anne Sofie von Otter. Bonney's radiant voice and sweet tone are especially pleasing here, given the tender melancholy of the lyrics. As always, I enjoyed the darker shadings of von Otter's voice and marveled at the breadth of her repertoire.

Ms. von Otter's fellow Scandinavian Goran Sollscher, who has recorded material extending from the Renaissance to Lennon and McCartney, provides brief but winning guitar transcriptions of Dowland lute pieces ("The Shoemaker's Wife," "A Piece without a Title," etc.). I enjoyed the way these instrumentals were interspersed with the solo vocals and ensemble work.

That said, I went back to guitarist Julian Bream's acclaimed recording of Benjamin Britten's Nocturnal (based on Dowland's "Come, Heavy Sleep") and searched again for another angle on the composer. I'm still searching, and it will no doubt take more interpretations before I'm finished.

Then again, the John Dowland who composed these melancholy themes also gave us "Fine Knacks for Ladies," heard on the collection disc in a charming performance by the Consort of Musicke. That's a song to bring a smile to the lips, and it's worth having more than one version of it (I certainly do).

Dowland is not done with us yet, either. Film composer Patrick Doyle appropriated "Weep You No More, Sad Fountains" for an arrangement in the 1995 film Sense and Sensibility, and of course Sting, as I mentioned in a previous blog entry, recorded his own Dowland album, Songs from the Labyrinth, on Deutsche Grammophon as well.

Perhaps withe Dowland, as with Shakespeare, we always await the next performance.

DVDs:

• Much Ado About Nothing (1993)


• A Midsummer Night's Dream (1999)

When I was perhaps 10 or 11, I saw my first Shakespeare on film, Peter Hall's 1968 treatment of A Midsummer Night's Dream, and some three or four years later I dug my parents' copy of As You Like It out of the study and read the play for English class. In both cases I was completely beguiled by the themes and characters, and if the language and cultural references gave me problems, well, there were always the notes within the Folger editions.

If Shakespeare was fun to me then -- and he was -- I still never could have envisioned the innovative productions of future films, nor a time when Shakespeare on demand, courtesy of DVDs and video, would be the rule. It is in that spirit that I offer up two decidedly escapist selections for these dreary spring days.

Kenneth Branagh's Much Ado About Nothing spent the summer of 1993 at the Avalon Theatre in DC, and more than once I dropped in to relive each moment, from its pastoral prologue to the joyous dance that concludes the play. Besides, Much Ado's love stories, which encompass everything from a comic battle of the sexes to truly dangerous jealousy, are universal and timeless.

Branagh has an unqualified success in moving the story from Sicily to Tuscany and employing the 15th century Villa Vignamaggio for the exteriors. The unabashedly romantic setting, with its lush countryside, lantern-lit courtyards, miniature chapel, and serene gardens, is one of the joys of the film.

As for the play itself, Branagh has kept the essentials of plot and characterization, but trimmed the dialogue considerably, to the point where Imelda Staunton (Margaret) is left with fewer lines than Keanu Reeves (Don John) -- something of a sacrilege, dramatically speaking. And Michael Keaton, playing the goofball constable Dogberry, growls his lines in a fashion which better suits The Pirates of the Caribbean and not Shakespeare's wacky malapropisms.

But I seem to recall Branagh was less interested in malapropisms than he was in the lifeblood of the story, and in that the casting played no small role. Emma Thompson, a wonderful comedienne and dramatic actress, is a fiery Beatrice and worthy foil to Branagh's motormouthed Benedick. It's when the play threatens to veer off into tragedy, however, that these two actors get some of their finest moments and let their characters' inherent vulnerability and tenderness come forth.

Denzel Washington's performance as Don Pedro is another of the film's chief pleasures. I've seen several actors play the part on stage, and it's easy for Don Pedro to get lost among the hammier, sillier, and less virtuous characters clamoring for our attention. Thanks to the intimacy of close-ups, and Mr. Washington's skillful underplaying, the prince is fleshed-out character. Watch, for example, how he and Thompson play the encounter in which the prince calls Beatrice's bluff by proposing marriage. This can be a throwaway scene in the theater, but here it has real tenderness.

Kate Beckinsale, perhaps 19 or 20 when the movie was made, provides a nice turn as Hero, Beatrice's more unassuming cousin. In some productions, Hero can come off as something of a passive little prude, but here Branagh makes her a younger counterpart to Shakespeare's resilient and forgiving heroines of the darker comedies -- Helen and Hermione, for example.

Patrick Doyle, composer of the already classic score to Henry V, is of course on this Branagh project as well. Here he gives us a traditional overture and then reworks the melodies throughout the movie -- for dances, for love scenes, for marches. It's an infectious score and one I never tire of.

Michael Hoffman's A Midsummer Night's Dream also relies on music to set the mood -- a drinking song to convey the liveliness of an Italian town square, an instrumental intermezzo for a love scene in the fairy kingdom. The expected Mendelssohn excerpts are used rather sparingly -- the "Wedding March," the overture -- and the real surprise is the insertion of familiar passages from Italian opera, notably from L'elisir d'amore, Cavalleria Rusticana, and even La Traviata.

Like Branagh, Hoffman dabbles with the story's setting, moving things from ancient Athens to 19th century Italy (again!) while keeping the basic plot: runaway lovers and an amateur theatrical troupe encounter supernatural beings on one extremely strange night in the forest. As in Much Ado, order is restored and love emerges triumphant, but not without many headaches in between.

The casting is all over the place, with Stanley Tucci, as the prankster Puck, playing sidekick to the otherworldly Rupert Everett, and Calista Flockhart, of all people, cast as Helena, one of the quartet of bickering lovers.

"Wait a minute," you say. "Ally McBeal does Shakespeare? Pull the other one."

Hear me out. Helena, one of the great passive-aggressive nightmares of the English language stage, is actually a pretty apt choice for Flockhart, who seems to be having fun laying various neuroses bare for the audience.

Puck can be a difficult role to cast. I was very taken with Ian Holm's rather demonic version in the 1968 film, while Mickey Rooney's performance in the 1935 movie made me wish there had been Ritalin (or at least a tranquilizer gun) on the set during filming. Tucci, on the other hand, displays considerable warmth; his Puck is fun-loving but not mean-spirited, and is just as likely to screw up as to pull off a prank.

Adding to the fun is the dynamite ensemble work of Kevin Kline, Roger Rees, Sam Rockwell, Bill Irwin, Gregory Jbara, and Max Wright as the amateur players who hope to impress the local duke (David Strathairn) with their production of Pyramus and Thisbe -- starring the hapless Rockwell in a drag turn straight out of Monty Python.

Rees in particular is pitch-perfect as the director, Peter Quince, all anxiety and good intentions as he tries to avert disaster as the play goes forward. But it's Kevin Kline who provides the most memorable performance of the film. His Nick Bottom, an ordinary man with more enthusiasm than acting talent, is all thwarted dreams and dashed hopes. Therefore it's especially poignant when, through mishaps, magic, and a bit of luck, he experiences the two most extraordinary nights of his life, along with a sort of triumph.

As it happens, both films showcase actors who are by no means strangers to DC area theater audiences. A Midsummer Night's Dream features Kline, Rees, Irwin, and of course Anna Friel (Wedekind's Lulu), and Branagh casts actor/director Richard Clifford as Conrade in Much Ado About Nothing. Indeed, Clifford has worked in four Branagh adaptations of Shakespeare, including the upcoming As You Like It.

CDs:

• Malcolm Sargent/Pro Arte Orchestra: Gilbert & Sullivan: Favorite Overtures (Seraphim)


• Various artists. The Ultimate Gilbert & Sullivan Collection (Decca)

What's wrong with this picture?

On a deliciously mild January 4th, 2007, on the first day of the 110th Congress, I went up to Capitol Hill for a reception and found several trees already in bloom -- this while Union Station was still sporting its Christmas wreaths.

Flash-forward to Saturday, April 7th, the day before Easter. I get up to find the dogwoods in bloom -- and a dusting of snow over everything. Welcome to a topsy-turvy world.

Some years back, Mike Leigh used that title, Topsy-Turvy, for his one of his films, a memorable depiction of the partnership of librettist W.S. Gilbert and the composer Arthur Sullivan, the team who delighted audiences with an array of singing sailors, pirates, lovers, and misanthropes. The movie, a retelling of the creative process behind The Mikado, was poignant, lyrical, quirky, and often very funny, and like their well-loved works, it was rooted in the Victorian era.

A hundred years after that partnership, more than 50 years into the reign of another queen, Gilbert and Sullivan are still with us. The other week I had the pleasure of attending a performance of The Pirates of Penzance at Blair High School. It was genuinely mind-boggling to consider that kids born in the last decade of the previous century could get into Victorian entertainment, but get into it they did, with impressive results.

A charismatic Pirate King? Check.

Mabel played by a sweet little comedienne with a dazzling voice? Check.

And perhaps best of all, a droll major-general who has a way with a patter song? Check, and they tell me the boy who sang the part was only a sophomore! Well, he certainly stopped the show with his rapid-fire rendition of "I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General."

Of course, this being the DC area, it was duly updated with topical lyrics that had Major-General Stanley boasting that he could name the only Republican in Takoma Park and indeed was responsible for key policies in No Child Left Behind. This, of course, brought down the house.

Updating G&S is can be something of a game for political junkies who want to indulge their inner Mark Russell. I once went to a local production of Iolanthe which featured references to Oliver North and Whitewater. If that sounds goofy, it has nothing on Iolanthe itself, which blurs the lines between Fairyland and Parliament.

Then again, in W.S. Gilbert's librettos, everybody took it on the chin -- liberals, conservatives, the police, the military, the legal system. The first G&S production I saw, for example, Princess Ida, covered everything from evolution to radical feminism to cross-dressing.

Yes, I know that W.S. Gilbert sometimes cranked out material that sets off the Don Imus-O-Meter for the Racially Offensive. Modern productions take an axe, if you will, to the politically incorrect verses of Ko-Ko's famous list song in The Mikado, leaving in the best parts of one of the great musical rants of all time. Of course, like the gang at Blair High School, you can always spice things up by adding your own verses.

But of course you also should not overlook Sullivan's music, which has insinuated its way into both British and American culture, to the point where we can scarcely imagine a musical theater (and comedy) without it. Raise your hand if you remember Tom Lehrer's recital of the elements to the tune of a patter song, or the various send-ups of G&S that made their way into the TV variety shows of yesteryear.

But in case you missed all that, or would like to start over again, the CDs listed above will jog your memory and/or intrigue you enough to round up tickets for the next Washington Savoyards production.

If you want to acquaint yourself with G&S's best-known works, the 29 tracks on The Ultimate Gilbert and Sullivan Collection are very heavy on the Big Three, namely, HMS Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance, and The Mikado. Patience, The Gondoliers, and The Sorcerer receive just one track apiece.

Here the male singers have pride of place, in that introductory patter songs, choruses, bass-baritone solos, and the like form the bulk of the performances. There is some sprightly ensemble work, as well as romantic solos, but the ladies are generally underrepresented. Since Sullivan wrote delicious material for the female voice, perhaps a follow-up set is in order.

The 11 tracks on the very listenable overture disc include the expected material from Pinafore, Pirates, and Mikado, then throw in tantalizing treats from Iolanthe, The Yeomen of the Guard, even Princess Ida. Listen to these overtures if you want a better sense of the legacy of Arthur Sullivan -- a must for anyone who values the musical theater. He wrote bold choruses and deft ensemble material (Check out the selections from The Mikado on the Decca disc), but also poignant and graceful melodies.

Some years back, I went to a Washington Savoyards production of The Yeoman of the Guard down at Duke Ellington High School. On the way out, two little girls were skipping as they sang Elsie and Jack Point's closing song. That's Gilbert and Sullivan for you.

CDs:

• Christopher Hogwood/The Academy of Ancient Music with the Choir of Christ Church Cathedral, Oxford : Handel: The Messiah (1754 version)


• Colin Davis/The London Symphony Orchestra and Chorus: Handel: The Messiah

This week I have been reading (or, in truth, re-reading) Your God Is Too Small, J.B. Phillips's examination of false conceptions of God and where they come from. To some extent it's a trip down Neurosis Lane, but that cool, scholarly Anglican tone Phillips adopts makes it manageable for me this Holy Week and will be, perhaps, a source of balance the other 51 weeks of the year.

In this rather spiritually intense time, with Passover upon us and Lent drawing to its conclusion, choral works are presented once more in the houses of worship, the concert halls, and perhaps what portion of the airwaves is left to classical music. The chances are good that at some moment in the coming week or so you'll encounter a solo or a chorus from Handel's Messiah. But even that seemingly ubiquitous and familiar work is no more a static thing than is the human brain's concept of God.

More years ago than I'd care to admit, at just this season of the year, I found myself in Dublin, bunking in a downright Dickensian youth hostel in a city that gave little hint of the economic boom far in the future . On my to-do list was a visit to St. Michan's Church, where I joined the other tourists, including two small and apparently fearless Irish kids, on a trip into its famous crypt containing the mummified remains of a nun, a Crusader, and other permanent residents.

But quite apart from these ghoulish goings-on, our guide filled us in on St. Michan's place in musical history, given that it contains an 18th century organ on which George Frideric Handel played. And whether Handel actually composed parts of his most famous oratorio at St. Michan's or merely used it as a practice site -- and there are conflicting accounts -- Dublin itself nevertheless had its role in the story of The Messiah and indeed was the site of the premiere.

The Dublin version was hardly the last incarnation (if I may use that term) of The Messiah. This work has been reshaped and reworked, with both shrinking and expanding choruses and orchestras over the years, to both glorious and cringe-worthy effect.

Which brings us to our dilemma of the week: If you can only buy one complete version of The Messiah, how do you decide among the array of recordings? As it happens, there are two interesting interpretations floating about Olsson's these days, both worthy of a look, though different in approach:

• Colin Davis's recording with the LSO, where the soloists are Heather Harper, Helen Watts, John Shirley-Quirk, and John Wakefield.


• Christopher Hogwood's seminal recording with the Academy of Ancient Music, in which Judith Nelson, Emma Kirkby, Carolyn Watkinson, Paul Elliott, and David Thomas take the solos.

Davis's recording dates from the 1960s, and when it was reissued in the 1990s, it received a well-deserved radio broadcast on WETA. It remains fresh, vibrant, one of the most solid performances of Handel's Messiah you're likely to find.

Davis opts for a modern orchestra, which provides a beauteous setting for the soloists and mixed choir, never overwhelming the listener. It is reverent, measured, gracious.

Hogwood, on the other hand, uses the 1754 version of the work, employs a period ensemble and the all-male choir of adults and young boys, producing a more intimate and historically accurate effect. I should note as well that a bass solo, "But who may abide," is here sung by a soprano!

So which should you choose?

I must admit I greatly prefer Davis's adult sopranos to the trebles in the Hogwood recording. While that's very much rooted in my preference for the richer sound of the adult female voice, I would submit that with "The Hallelujah Chorus," it makes a great deal of difference, particularly in terms of dramatic power and balance.

But if I enjoy the mixed chorus on the Davis recording, I find the soloists on Hogwood's recording particularly affecting. Emma Kirkby, best known for her lengthy and distinguished career in early music, shines here, and I was delighted with the tone and delivery of the primary soprano soloist, Judith Nelson. Our tenor and bass, Elliott and Thomas, are no less deserving of praise.

Both recordings provide ample drama and energy, to say nothing of sufficient reverence and emotion. I must confess to a decided affection for the Davis recording, but the Hogwood CD is such a shining accomplishment that I can scarcely dismiss it.

Besides, as a friend of mine said when confronted with two equally tempting choices, "Can't we have both?"