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This is a most
satisfying release that gives lie to the common supposition that
Giulini’s post-Philharmonia years were a period of unmitigated
decline. Under his direction the Chicago Symphony’s trademark
brilliance, nurtured by Reiner and Solti, is muted and made more
humane. This is not to say that these performances lack sparkle—on
the contrary, the Stravinsky items are triumphs of orchestral
virtuosity. But there certainly is a warmth of sonority that Solti,
for example, never cultivated.
Giulini excels in repertoire that demands philosophical depth, which
perhaps explains why so much of his discography centers on
composers’ valedictory symphonies. Not surprisingly, then, it is his
1969 Brahms Fourth Symphony which proves to be the most remarkable
item here. It is the richest, most spacious reading of this work
I’ve heard, though without any of the lethargy that plagued
Giulini’s later years. The opening movement unfolds with a sense of
organic inevitability—the Chicago players never sacrificing rhythmic
precision for warmth of expression—and ends in a coda only
Furtwangler and Carlos Kleiber have made more thrilling. The
phrasing Giulini manages to elicit from the strings in the second
movement is a minor miracle. The scherzo, though a little
heavy-footed, certainly does not lack grandeur. The finale is hardly
as annihilating as Furtwangler’s, but what it lacks in seething
tension it makes up for in nobility of line—the slow middle section
is especially memorable in this regard. Its companion, the 1976
Bruckner Ninth Symphony is tremendously accomplished as a
performance, but Giulini does not cohere the work’s architecture
quite as well as he did in his later Deutsche Grammophon recording.
That said, there are moments in this performance—the arrival of the
recapitulation in the first movement, for example—which negate all
criticism.
Giulini does not do so
well in repertoire that demands rhythmic alertness and a sense of
youthful exuberance. Thus the much-praised 1971 Beethoven Seventh
Symphony proves to be less than the sum of its parts. It is
magisterial rather in the manner of Klemperer and certainly boasts
moments of great intensity (the allegretto’s fugato, for one), but
ultimately misses that vein of feverish exaltation so conspicuous in
the readings of this symphony’s greatest proponents. Giulini’s
finale, for example, is too big-boned to be really exhilarating.
Similarly, the Mahler First Symphony (1971) strikes one as
altogether too reverential: the climaxes are thrilling and the
orchestral playing beyond reproach, but the youthful freshness of
the work proves elusive.
Perhaps the most consistently pleasing items in this series are
those showpieces in which color and brilliance are of paramount
concern. Stravinsky’s Firebird and Petrushka suites
are given performances of tremendous panache which showcase
Giulini’s considerable abilities as a colorist. The selections from
Berlioz’ Romeo et Juliette fail to be incendiary after the
manner of Mitropoulos (in his astonishing New York Philharmonic
recording on the ‘Great Conductors of the Twentieth Century’ label)
but are of unimpeachable taste. There is not the slightest hint of
frenzy in Giulini’s opening fugato: here the Montagues and Capulets,
seated atop well-fed stallions, have assembled to conduct
territorial negotiations. The Reine Mab scherzo is delightfully
puckish, and the sweep of the love music beyond reproach.
All in all, this is a worthy tribute to one of the century’s most
fascinating musicians. The Brahms Fourth is a top recommendation,
alongside Carlos Kleiber’s Vienna Philharmonic recording, and the
Bruckner, Stravinsky, and Berlioz items are well worth acquiring.
The Beethoven and Mahler will be of prime value to Giulini fans, but
they certainly cannot be dismissed easily.
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12.12.1998 © Chia Han-Leon
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