Prokofiev and Shostakovich – like Haydn and Mozart, and Bruckner and Mahler before them – seem destined to ever be thought of as a stylistic dyad, their profound differences notwithstanding. Perhaps no two works of theirs are as divergent and as revealing of their creative outlooks than their respective Third Piano Concerto and Tenth Symphony, programmed last night by the Los Angeles Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl.
The former exudes the swagger, athleticism and self-confidence that characterized Prokofiev at his peak; traits that survived bowed, but unvanquished even in the works he produced in his last years, compromised as they were by political pressures and failing health.
All that sadness was still a long way off at the time Prokofiev composed his Piano Concerto no. 3 in C major. No sooner had principal clarinetist Boris Allakhverdyan ended his dreamy opening solo did pianist Denis Kozhukhin come bounding in with the energy and artistry of an Olympic gold medalist. He hammered and chiseled his way through the concerto like a machine, or perhaps better still an “Iron Man”; fitting for a work composed on the cusp of Prokofiev’s “iron and steel” period. Kozhukhin dispensed with put-upon sentimentality and twee dynamic fiddling, his playing the unforced joy of the human body at the zenith of its abilities.
Guest conductor Ryan Bancroft did not provide much input in his partnership with Kozhukhin, who at moments, such as in the first movement’s coda or in much of the second's Theme with Variations, sounded eager to break free from the conductor’s orbit. This was a performance dominated by the soloist, which was no bad thing. Kozhukhin is a pianist with a lot to say and, more importantly, knows how to say it persuasively.
Shostakovich’s Symphony no. 10 in E minor, on the other hand, is to a great extent shaped by his extraordinary time and place. These did not dictate outcome, however. Artfully concealed are its expressions of unrequited love, as well as the unfinished violin sonata that was partially recycled in the symphony, laying the foundation of an opening movement that is a 20th-century descendent of its counterpart in Brahms’ Second Symphony.
These qualities were little apparent in Bancroft’s sluggish reading. Perhaps anxious to underline the symphony’s long-purported political subtext, he pulled and pushed at tempi in the Moderato, which at nearly 26 minutes was closer to a Largo in this performance. He might have pulled off this feat had he maintained the tension that sustains the movement, but his inattentiveness to gradations of volume and calibrations of climaxes further sapped it of its drive. As a result, this marvel of symmetry and organic thematic development fell apart into disjointed episodes that struggled to coalesce into a unified statement.
Bancroft’s interpretive haphazardness continued in the Scherzo, where he fashioned this apocalyptic cry into a kind of cranky Sabre Dance. Similar shortcomings marred the final two movements. Exaggerated portamenti in the strings and trombones, as well as a flubbed bassoon solo in the Allegretto were congruent with everything that had preceded it. When the finale whirled its way into its closing stretto – rhythmically four-square in this performance – one greeted it with relief: as much as for Shostakovich’s triumphant exorcising of the symphony’s darkness as for the fact that it signaled the end of the performance.
