Mahler's 'Resurrection'

James Levine’s decision to program Gustav Mahler’s colossal Symphony No. 2—commonly known as the “Resurrection” Symphony—as the first piece in Boston Symphony Orchestra (BSO)’s 2010-2011 season proper, however appropriate, is an audacious one. Levine has experienced a kind of resurrection of his own, returning to Symphony Hall after a battle with health problems, but Mahler’s second symphony is a consuming piece for all involved—especially for those immersed in an uninterrupted flux and flow of the almost mystical work of music-making. As its title suggests, the “Resurrection” Symphony demands from its players the ability to impart a sense of otherworldliness, and indeed, the sheer magnitude of the scoring itself pushes the bounds of traditional symphonic form. Mahler calls for a full orchestra (with extra players in each section; the woodwinds especially with each part doubled), a full choir, as well as an additional off-stage brass and percussion ensemble. On Friday, October 9 at Symphony Hall, the BSO took on this challenge with impressive spirit, and succeeded in bringing those present a thoroughly transcendental aesthetic experience.

The violins and violas heralded in the beginning of the first movement—originally conceived by Mahler as a lone standing symphonic poem called “Totenfeier,” or “Funeral Rites”—with an ominous, forceful tremolo. Mahler marked this movement to be played “Allegro maestoso,” which translates loosely to “gravely fast.” As it seems almost a contradictory instruction, various conductors have interpreted it to be wildly different tempos. When focused more on the “allegro,” the movement takes a pressing sense of urgency that emphasizes its violent mood. However, at such a tempo, the gravity of death that should so heavily drip from the movement is undercut by the agitated and hurried triplets and sixteenths played by the cellos and basses. The loss is equal when focusing more on “maestoso.” Levine admirably circumvented this problem by taking on a tempo that seems to perfectly balance urgency with gravity. The result, combined with the hauntingly sweet and delicate phrases occasionally played by the higher-pitched instruments, was a movement that captured the spectrum of nuanced and often contradictory emotions surrounding death.

This ability to balance between two extremes is what made the BSO’s performance so successful. The Andante movement started with gentle phrasing and subdued dynamics—stunningly soft for such a large orchestra—but the pastoral sounds suddenly gave way to darker tones, marked by sharply staccato string phrases. The tone shifted again, with the violins playing a pizzicato backdrop based on a major chord, creating a sound that can only be described as quaint. The movement continued on that way, weaving in and out of darkness and light; however, the BSO transitioned so effortlessly from one to the other that, rather than being presented as a change of mood through time, the movement was presented as one whole, bearing two moods in seeming opposition.

The BSO’s mastery of this binary did falter at times. Mahler’s “Resurrection” Symphony can be a bona fide technical nightmare for brass players. Not only is it one of the longest pieces in the repertoire, it also calls for fortissimos, often and for extended periods of time. Thus, the strain on a brass player’s embouchure is enormous, especially if they are maximizing their dynamic range all throughout the piece. It is more difficult to keep in tune as the piece progresses and it’s also more difficult to maintain tones without slipping into a different harmonic. “Urlicht,” the fourth movement, suffered most noticeably from this issue. The trumpets and the horns, who pick up immediately after the first mezzo-soprano solo, were conspicuously out of tune. The fourth movement is a particularly spiritual movement, evocative of an angel-boy mourning the newly dead, and it was regrettable that the jarring dissonance was enough to (at least temporarily) interrupt the celestial lull.

However, one can hardly blame the brass section for pushing themselves so hard through the piece; the small blips were well worth the surreal expanse of sound created through the rest. Particularly memorable was the middle of the fifth movement; a soft timpani solo slowly continued to crescendo until it was joined by the thundering boom of the brass section, and the impossible fortissimo was sustained brilliantly by the orchestra. One could swear to seeing the sound gradually filling up Symphony Hall, reaching the very crests of its domes, seeming to engulf all present.

The choral musicians involved did a no-less remarkable job. Soloists Layla Claire and Karen Cargill came through the backdrop of a full choir and orchestra with both power and elegance. Cargill, especially, gave a striking performance with her mezzo-soprano voice that was so rich and fluid that it was reminiscent of honey. The Tanglewood Festival Chorus, led by John Oliver, added a yet more sublime dimension to the BSO’s performance. They, like the BSO, almost uncannily maneuvered between extremes of dynamics and mood. At first, the choir sang in a higher register, barely audible and almost timid. But, as if embodying the determination of the human spirit to conquer death, they filled the hall with a sound as large as that of the full orchestra. As the vast “Resurrection” Symphony came to a close, the voices of the choir soared in a religious joy above the sustained chords of the orchestra. It was almost enough to make an atheist believe in the divine.

Mahler’s Symphony No. 2 is, in its very form, a piece that disregards traditional boundaries. It is also a piece whose theme deals strictly with overcoming the most universal of boundaries: death. To take this work on—let alone to do it justice—is almost itself a transcendental task. Yet the BSO did exactly that, and James Levine and company impressively imparted to those in Symphony Hall the beauty that lies beyond.

—Staff writer Susie Y. Kim can be reached at yedenkim@fas.harvard.edu.