Prokofiev: A Biography in Three Movements

by Lawrence and Elizabeth Hanson

08-Jul-2002

reviewed by Andrew Grossman

Lawrence and Elizabeth Hanson's Prokofiev: A Biography in Three Movements must feature one of the most curious covers I can recall: below the title, in disconcertingly friendly letters, reads the caption, "The first biography of the great Russian composer to appear originally in English, unfettered by political dogma." Written in 1964, at the height of the Cold War, this was, for its time, an admirable enterprise, an assessment of Prokofiev's works as pure music. The authors, in their abundant yet exclusively musical criticisms of Prokofiev's work, do succeed in avoiding both the built-in obsequiousness of biographies and the strained, cryptic political metaphors that have characterized most contemporary writings on the victims of Stalin and Zhdanov. In light of the more recent biographies by Robinson, Gutman, and Jaffé, however, many of the Hansons' assertions now seem ill-informed, insufficiently intellectual, and occasionally embarrassing in their cavalier dismissal of some of the composer's greatest works. What the authors do have is an inviting, eminently readable manner most biographers lack, though their nearly novelistic style inevitably romanticizes Prokofiev's early years, sometimes echoing the pastoral raptures of the composer's own autobiography.

The Hansons are professional biographers, not musicologists, and their opinions depend too heavily on personal subjectivities they do not always deign to justify. For the Hansons, Prokofiev's masterpiece is the effortlessly cosmopolitan Cinderella; for them, Romeo and Juliet, for all of its finest qualities, is intrinsically flawed because, as we have heard so often from small-minded critics, Prokofiev was not preternaturally suited to expressing animal love and tragedy-the authors, too, seem to use the term "tragedy" only in the narrow sense of romanticism. But more importantly, we must really question whether the authors understand at all Prokofiev's most serious and cerebral ambitions: The Gambler, a work very close to Prokofiev's heart, is declared one of the "driest" opera scores ever composed and devoid of "musical interest," and The Fiery Angel is simply dismissed as "nonsense" (!), even though in 1964 it is unlikely that the authors could have heard satisfactory performances of either. Works which would have been difficult, if not impossible, to hear in 1964 -- such as The Second Symphony, The Symphonic Song, and The Ballade of the Boy Who Remained Unknown -- are avoided altogether. While one cannot blame the authors for the uncontrollable historical forces that stood in the way of appreciating these works, it is distressing that a major work such as the revised Fourth Symphony, Op. 112, is merely mentioned in passing, without an explanation of either the music or Prokofiev's intentions in revising it. At other times, their criticisms seem at once trivial and strange: they insist Betrothal in a Monastery is "scored too lightly," though I can think of no reason why this airy comic opera should be saddled with overstuffed, Straussian winds and brass.

Though advancing itself as a work "unfettered by dogma," the Hansons are themselves not above indulging in criticisms which, though not necessarily unjustified, are clearly colored by reactionary politics. Most obvious in this regard is their view of the ever-controversial Seventh Symphony, which the Soviet authorities -- suddenly and desperately wishing they had not pushed Prokofiev into an early grave -- championed as the height of his populist achievements. Reacting against this backpedaling of Soviet critics-in essence, reacting against what was already reactionary -- the Hansons declare the Seventh "naïve," an understandable judgment, but go on to add that it is derivatively French (as opposed to folklorishly Russian), and the work of "a very sick man." Oddly, however, they defend the equally naïve On Guard for Peace for its gestures of sincere pacifism -- perhaps if the Seventh Symphony had a narrative program and On Guard's fuller orchestration its naivete might also have been excused?

Seemingly afraid to dirty their hands, the Hansons' attitude towards Prokofiev's more difficult works is best represented by their indecisive, centrist commentary on The Third Symphony: "What the symphony does demonstrate convincingly, even if not to the taste of all, is the extension of the composer's range and ability." Of the Second Piano Concerto, they rhapsodize over the certain perfection of the second movement, but become downright sarcastic about the first: "...the sight of Prokofiev hammering out the first-movement cadenza was a thrill [to his Parisian audience]. If he had stood on his head while playing it they would have been even better pleased." Four decades later, when the Second Concerto has now overtaken the Third as a repertory staple, these comments can seem only unfortunate and probably somewhat timid. One pleasant surprise is that the Hansons hold the still-neglected Fourth and especially Fifth Piano Concerti as overlooked masterworks, hailing the Fourth's first movement as "one of the finest movements he was ever to write," and offering the whole of the Fifth as the "crown of Prokofiev's achievement" in piano music: "He has almost more themes than he knows what to do with, and one does not know which to admire more, the economy of statement or the prodigality of development." A small joy, too, is the authors' enthusiasm about the American Overture, Op. 42, which today remains more or less unperformed: "[This] is Prokofiev wearing his learning lightly, and suggests that when he wrote it he was at the top of his form."

In the absence of academic musicological criticism and innovative theories about the intention and structure of Prokofiev's music, the main attraction of this biography is its wealth of anecdotal material, including an unusually well-detailed account of Prokofiev's education at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, his infamous relationships with Liadov, Glazunov, and Rimsky-Korsakov, and his warm, life-long rapport with Gliere, his first tutor. The book's focus is disproportionately geared towards Prokofiev's youth and the development of his style and personality; his later years are glossed over, and minor works such as the Sonata for Unison Violins and The Meeting of the Volga and Don are just ignored, though in a footnote the authors confess that at the time of this writing much about Prokofiev's final years remained undisclosed. On the other hand, the authors provide a remarkably vivid and touching account of Prokofiev's late illnesses, here detailed more thoroughly than in, for example, Gutman's biography of the 1980's. To the contemporary reader, Prokofiev: A Biography in Three Movements is something of a nostalgic, often misleading journey into the Cold War zeitgeist, an acute reminder of how far we have come, and an equal reminder of how far we still have to go.

Jul/2002