Madonna - La Isla Bonita (Official Video)

You're watching the official music video for "La Isla Bonita" from Madonna's album 'True Blue' released on Sire Records in 1986. Buy/Stream the 'True Blue' album here: https://apple.co/3jNvGXO Listen to Madonna’s latest release here: https://Madonna.lnk.to/latest Subscribe to the Madonna Channel! https://Madonna.lnk.to/YouTubeID​ Check out the Official Madonna YouTube Playlists… The Complete Madonna Videography https://Madonna.lnk.to/Videography​ Live Performances https://Madonna.lnk.to/LiveYT​ MDNA Skin https://Madonna.lnk.to/MDNAskinYT​ Help Us Give Back… Raising Malawi http://www.raisingmalawi.org/​ The Ray of Light Foundation http://www.rayoflight.org/​ Stay in touch with Madonna… http://madonna.com​   / madonna​     / madonna​     / madonna​   http://www.madonna.com/newsletter​ The Madonna Channel is the official YouTube home for Madonna. As the best-selling female recording artist of all time, Madonna continues to leave an indelible mark on the world through her art, music, activism and humanitarian leadership. Madonna consistently pushes boundaries, spurs conversations and unites us all through her revolutionary work. Subscribe for the latest videos, music, news and updates. Enjoy Madonna’s groundbreaking music videos, live performances, humorous videos and more. Lyrics: ¿Cómo puede ser verdad? [English translation: "How could it be true?"] Last night I dreamt of San Pedro Just like I'd never gone, I knew the song A young girl with eyes like the desert It all seems like yesterday, not far away Tropical the island breeze All of nature wild and free This is where I long to be La isla bonita ["The beautiful island"] And when the samba played The sun would set so high Ring through my ears and sting my eyes Your Spanish lullaby I fell in love with San Pedro Warm wind carried on the sea, he called to me Te dijo te amo ["He told you, 'I love you.'"] I prayed that the days would last They went so fast Tropical the island breeze All of nature wild and free This is where I long to be La isla bonita And when the samba played The sun would set so high Ring through my ears and sting my eyes Your Spanish lullaby I want to be where the sun warms the sky When it's time for siesta you can watch them go by Beautiful faces, no cares in this world Where a girl loves a boy, and a boy loves a girl Last night I dreamt of San Pedro It all seems like yesterday, not far away Tropical the island breeze All of nature wild and free This is where I long to be La isla bonita And when the samba played The sun would set so high Ring through my ears and sting my eyes Your Spanish lullaby Tropical the island breeze All of nature wild and free This is where I long to be La isla bonita And when the samba played The sun would set so high Ring through my ears and sting my eyes Your Spanish lullaby Te dijo te amo El dijo que te ama ["He said he loves you"] La isla bonita Your Spanish lullaby

20th Century Traditional Filipino Composer: Week 1 Lesson 1 in Music 10

Niccolò Jommelli

by Georg Predota

“The music is beautiful, but too clever and old fashioned for the theatre”

Niccolò Jommelli

The above quote originates in a letter from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to his father Leopold. Mozart was in Naples in 1770 and had just seen a performance of Armida abbandonata, judging it beautiful but rather old fashioned. Mozart’s opinion notwithstanding, Jommelli was considered one of the leading operatic composers in Europe in his day.

Born in Naples, Niccolò Jommelli (1714-1774) composed roughly 80 operas and a substantial corpus of church music. He worked in Rome, Bologna, and Venice, and visited Vienna to strike up a friendship with the librettist Metastasio. Appointed Kapellmeister to the Duke of Württemberg, he spent over 15 years in Stuttgart before returning to Naples. 

Legacy and Beginnings

An important transitional figure, Jommelli was anticipating the mid-18th-century operatic reforms, gradually abandoning da capo arias and introducing dramatic recitative. According to scholars, his greatest achievements represent “a combination of German complexity, French decorative elements and Italian brio, welded together by an extraordinary gift for dramatic effectiveness.”

Jommelli came from a wealthy merchant family, and having shown early talent for music, began his training under Canon Muzzillo, director of music at the local cathedral. After further studies at the Naples Conservatory, Jommelli began his public career with two comic operas for Naples in 1737 and 1738. A contemporary composer exclaimed, “this young man will claim the astonishment and admiration of all Europe.” 

Early Successes

Teatro italiano. Metatasio . Didone abbandonata, drammi di P.

The resounding success of his first serious opera Il Ricimero, staged in Rome in 1740, brought him to the attention of the seriously wealthy and influential patron, Cardinal Henry Benedict, Duke of York. An early enthusiast wrote, “This young man promises to go far and to equal before long all that was ever done by the great masters. He has strength as well as taste and delicacy; he possesses a basic understanding of harmony, which he displays with astonishing richness.”

But, what really impressed audiences was Jommelli’s handling of the obbligato recitative. At the Conservatory, Jommelli had been a student of Johann Hasse, a composer who experimented with motivic orchestral writing to create an intensified emotional effect at theatrical movement. Jommelli took that idea on board and “the force of the declamation, the variety of the harmony and the sublimity of the accompaniment created a sense of drama greater than the best French recitative and the most beautiful of Italian melody.” 

Bologna and Venice

Didone abbandonata’s libretto

After the success of his first opera for Rome, Jommelli moved to Bologna to work with famed librettist Pietro Metastasio on a production of Ezio, and took lessons with “Padre” Martini. For roughly two years, Jommelli wrote operas for a variety of northern Italian cities, including Vencie, Turin, Ferrara, and Padua. He also wrote two widely performed oratorios, Isacco figura del Redentore and La Betulia liberata.

Around 1743, Jommelli received, on Hasse’s recommendation, his first permanent position in Venice. He was appointed musical director of the Ospedale degli Incurabile, one of the city’s conservatories for girls. He composed music for church services and sacred works for women’s voices in a great variety of movement types, keys, choruses, arias and ensembles. 

Rome

In addition, he continued to compose for the theatre, with the characteristics of his mature style emerging. According to scholars, elements of that style include “the incursion of declamatory elements in the aria, audacious harmonic effects, abundant modulations, chromaticism, and the exploration of orchestral resources such as the use of the second violin as an independent textural element, the occasional independent viola parts, the abundant dynamic indications and the development of the crescendo effect.”

Jommelli departed for Rome around 1747 and was soon employed at the Papal Chapel. In this position, he composed a prodigious amount of liturgical music, including sacred works for soloists and chorus in the concertato style. He also received commissions to write a number of cantatas and theatrical pieces for special occasions, and he took advantage of several opportunities to write comic opera.

Vienna

In Rome, Jommelli met Cardinal Albani, which secured him a commission in Vienna. He probably stayed for a year and a half, and his operas were considered “unrivalled in their ability to seize the heart of the listener with delicate and sensitive melodies.” In fact, the early Viennese symphonists, among them Dittersdorf and Wagenseil, later acknowledged Jommelli’s influence on the formation of their symphonic style.

Jommelli returned to Rome and had a demanding schedule of opera composition. Over the next four years, he secured commissions from Rome, Spoleto, Milan, Piacenza and Turin. His “concern for the musical realisation of textual imagery found expression not only in a subtly responsive vocal line but also in orchestral word-painting, in sensitive textural variation suited to the changing moods of the poetry, and in programmatic effects.” 

Stuttgart

Niccolò Jommelli’s autograph

By 1753, Jommelli was at the height of his fame. He had already received offers for positions in Mannheim and Lisbon, but he was hired by the Duke of Württemberg to join the court in Stuttgart. Italian opera was well established, and by 1754, he assumed the duties of Kapellmeister at the Stuttgart court. Stuttgart had spared no expense to attract the best instrumentalists, singers, dancers, and designers.

Jommelli quickly understood the dramatic possibilities of the orchestra, and he built one of the finest ensembles in Europe. In his operas, he radically departed from the traditional succession of recitatives and exit arias. Librettos were based on mythology rather than historical subjects, and the librettos freely “combined obbligato recitative, aria, ensemble, chorus and programmatic orchestral music in dramatic scene complexes and spectacular, French-inspired finales.” 

Historical Position

The Stuttgart operas of Jommelli secured his position as one of the reformers of 18th-century opera. He used music to express the poetry, moving away from the da capo aria as a vehicle of vocal virtuosity. Instruments are used in recitative to interpret the words, and the lines between recitative and aria continue to blur. Equally important, the orchestra is used to advance the dramatic argument.

Jommelli was greatly appreciated by German critics, but Italian voices were less enthusiastic. Once Jommelli returned to Naples in 1768, opera buffa had become extremely popular and Jommelli’s opera seria were not well received. Jommelli suffered a stroke in 1771 and was partially paralysed. He continued to work until his death on 25 August 1774. 

Recognition

Immediately after his death, Jommelli was regarded as one of the greatest composers of his time. As the music journalist and philosopher Schubert wrote, “If richness of thought, glittering fantasy, inexhaustible melody, heavenly harmony, deep understanding of all instruments, and particularly the full magical strength of the human voice—if great art affects entirely each chord of the human heart, if all these—yet combined with the sharpest understanding of musical poetry—constitute a musical genius, then in Jommelli Europe has lost its greatest composer.”

Unique Concertos

By Georg Predota, Interlude

Works by Milhaud, Fleck, Van de Vate, O’Boyle, and Adams

Darius Milhaud: Concerto for Percussion and Small Orchestra

Darius Milhaud

Darius Milhaud writes, “I have always been very interested in percussion problems. In the Choéphores and in L’homme et son désir I used massive percussion. After the audition of Choéphores in Brussels, an excellent kettledrummer, Theo Coutelier, who had a percussion class in Schaerbeek near Brussels, asked me if I would like to write a concerto for a single percussion performer. The idea appealed to me, and this is how I came to compose the concerto. The school at Schaerbeek had only a few orchestral musicians, two flutes, two clarinets, one trumpet, one trombone, and strings.” Composed in Paris between 1929 and 1930, “jazz was enjoying a decisive influence on my musical composition. I wanted to avoid at all cost the thought that anyone might think of this work in a jazz way. I therefore stressed the rough and dramatic part of the piece. This was also why I did not write a cadence and always refused that anyone adds one.”

Milhaud’s Concerto for Percussion and Small Orchestra is a benchmark in the world of percussion. It is the first of its kind to utilize a multi-percussion setup that includes over twenty wood, metal, and membrane instruments performed by one player. Eager to avoid any references to the newly popular jazz genre, Milhaud dabbled in polytonality. If you listen carefully, you can hear the tonalities of C major, A minor, A major, and C-sharp minor sounding simultaneously. The concerto is cast in two sections titled “rude et dramatique”, and “modere.” The first features bi-tonal harmonies in the orchestra, while the second explores much more lyrical regions. The concert premiered at the Palais des Beaux-Arts in Brussels in 1930. 

Béla Fleck: Juno Concerto

Béla Fleck

Béla Anton Leoš Fleck, born in New York City in 1958, was named after his father’s favorite composers: Bartók, Webern, and Janáček. He played guitar in High School and took an interest in the French horn. However, when his grandfather brought home a secondhand banjo, it became an overwhelming obsession. The modern banjo—a stringed instrument with a thin membrane stretched over a circular resonator—is thought to have been derived from instruments used in the Caribbean and brought there from West Africa. Early instruments had a varying number of strings and used a gourd body and a wooden stick neck. The banjo is often associated with folk and country music, and it “occupied a central place in African-American traditional music and the folk culture of the rural South.” Fleck was always drawn to the instrument’s Bluegrass roots, and he became the world’s leading exponent of the banjo. In the process, Fleck has won at least 14 Grammy awards and produced an award-winning documentary exploring the banjo’s African roots.

A critic wrote, “Béla Fleck has taken banjo playing to some very unlikely places—not just bluegrass and country and “newgrass,” but also into jazz and the classical concerto.” To be sure, Fleck’s artistic pursuits have explored an astonishing variety of musical styles and traditions. And that includes the use of the banjo as a solo instrument together with a symphony orchestra. The “Juno Concerto” is actually Fleck’s second banjo concerto, and it was specifically written for his young son. The work unfolds in the customary 3 movements and features many elements expected in a concerto, including a number of dazzling cadenzas. A critic wrote, “the grandiose interplay between banjo and orchestra makes you wonder why banjos and orchestras aren’t sharing stages all the time.” 

Nancy Van de Vate: Harp Concerto

Nancy Van de Vate

In the early 1970s, American composer Nancy Van de Vate explored the reasons why compositions by women simply did not appear on records. Among the reasons she cited were “a lack of university teaching positions held by or available to women, the lack of sufficient numbers of performances of their works, and the lack of commissions and prizes awarded to women.” In order to improve the situation, Van de Vate founded the “International League of Women Composers” to create and expand opportunities for women composers of music. That organization grew rapidly, and it evolved into the “International Alliance for Women in Music.” It currently “represents a diverse spectrum of creative specialization across genres within the music field and include composers, orchestrators, sound ecologists, performers, conductors, interdisciplinary artists, recording engineers, producers, musicologists, music librarians, theorists, writers, publishers, historian, and educators.”

Nancy Van de Vate also discovered that conventional titles like symphony, sonata, and concerto drew more attention in composition competitions requiring anonymous submissions. Judges and panelists were influenced by the titles ascribed to particular works, and many of her own compositions, therefore, use traditional titles. Her large orchestral works, however, have very descriptive titles such as “Journeys,” “Dark Nebulae,” and “Chernobyl.” Her Harp Concerto dates from 1996 and was first performed on 21 June 1998 with the Moravian Philharmonic in Olomouc. The harp, it seems, was rediscovered in the 20th century, and together with Ginastera, Glière, Jongen, Milhaud, Jolivet, Rautavaara, Rodrigo, and Villa-Lobos, Van de Vate contributed to a growing repertoire for that instrument in the concerto genre. 

Sean O’Boyle/William Barton: Concerto for Didgeridoo

Australian didgeridoos

The didgeridoo, called by different names in various cultures, is a wooden drone pipe played with varying techniques in a number of Australian Aboriginal cultures. While the historical origin of the instrument is uncertain, Aboriginal mythology ascribed it to the power of creating dreams. The instrument is generally fashioned from the termite-hollowed trunks or branches of a number of trees. The sound of the didgeridoo is considered the voice of the ancestral spirit of that tree, and it is always stored upright to keep the ancestral spirit safe. The didgeridoo can produce a blown fundamental pitch “and several harmonics above the fundamental.” Basically, a performer does not blow air into the instrument. The distinctive buzzing tone is produced by the continual buzzing of the lips, with the shape of the mouth, tongue, cheeks, chin, and teeth influencing the tone quality. Didgeridoo performers have perfected the technique of circular breathing, “in which the player reserves small amounts of air in the cheeks or mouth while blowing. This allows the player to snatch frequent small breaths through the nose while simultaneously continuing the drone pitch by expelling the reserved air.”

William Barton © Keith Saunders

The buzzing sound of the didgeridoo has become an easily recognizable icon of Aboriginal Australia. Contemporary bands and culturally hybrid world music groups have adopted that colorful instrument, and a number of Australian composers have used the instrument in chamber works. In addition, the legendary player William Barton collaborated with Sean O’Boyle to bring the didgeridoo into the concert hall. The work showcases the incredible expressive power of the instrument, and Barton writes, “The didgeridoo is a language. It is a speaking language. And like any language, it’s something that you’ve got to learn over many months and many years. It’s got to be a part of you and what you do.” 

John Adams: Concerto for Electric Violin and Orchestra

Walt Disney Concert Hall

To celebrate the opening of Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles in 2002, then LA Phil’s music director Esa-Pekka Salonen approached John Adams for a work to inaugurate the venue. When Adams looked at the artist’s rendition of the unfinished building, he was struck “by the sweeping, silver-toned clouds and sails of its exterior, and its warm and inviting public spaces.” In his composition, Adams wanted to “reflect the experience of those who, like me, were not born here and for whom the arrival on this side of the continent had both a spiritual and physical impact.” Originally, Adams was looking to incorporate a spoken part for the narrator, and searching for a suitable California-based text, discovered Jack Kerouac’s novel Big Sur. That novel celebrates the California spirit, and Adams “realized that what I had to say was something that could only be expressed in music.”

John Adams and Tracy Silverman

During the genesis of his Concerto for Electric Violin and Orchestra, Adams heard violinist Tracy Silverman perform in a jazz club. “When I heard Tracy play,” he writes, “I was reminded that in almost all cultures other than the European classical one, the real meaning of the music is in between the notes. The slide, the portamento, and the “blue note” all are essential to the emotional expression… Tracy’s manner of playing was a fusion of styles that showed a deep knowledge of a variety of musical traditions.” After collaborating with Silverman, Adams wrote a part for electric violin “that evokes the feeling of free improvisation while the utmost detail is paid to both solo and instrumental parts, all written out in precise notation.” For Adams, The Dharma at Big Sur expresses the “so-called shock of recognition, when one reaches the edge of the continental land mass… For a newcomer, the first exposure produces a visceral effect of great emotional complexity. I wanted to compose a piece that embodied the feeling of being on the West Coast, literally standing on the precipice overlooking the geographic shelf with the ocean extending far out into the horizon.”

The Orchestra in a Box: The Accordion

by Maureen Buja, Interlude

The accordion works on a bellows system. As the instrument is pulled apart and pushed together, air is forced passed reeds held in a frame. Other instruments like this include the concertina, the harmonica, and the bandoneon. The keyboards on both sides of the instrument each have a different function. The right side, the diskant, is for melody, and the left side buttons provide the accompaniment function. The playing mechanism can be either like a piano keyboard (piano accordion) or with buttons (button accordion). For both piano and button accordions, the left side is the same.

Piano Accordion (Startone 72 MKII)

The button accordion.

Chromatic Button Accordion (Hohner Mattia IV)

The instrument is held by two straps around the shoulders and is played in front of the body. For most accordions, the same pitch is played when you open or close the bellows, but some instruments will play different notes depending on the direction of the bellows’ motion.

The accordion is a 19th-century instrument invented in Germany by Christian Friedrich Ludwig Buschmann around 1822.

Christian Friedrich Ludwig Buschmann

From Germany, the instrument went to Russia, with the earliest known ones being made in the 1830s. By the late 1840s, two Russian manufacturers were producing some 10,000 instruments a year. By 1828, the instrument was in England and in New York by the mid-1840s.

For classical music, it wasn’t until the 1960s that works for accordion and orchestra were being written, and Poland has been a particular center for this genre.

Bronisław Kazimierz Przybylski’s Concerto polacco was completed in 1973 and is one of the most popular of the accordion concertos. 

In Denmark, the composer Per Nørgård has been an important contributor to the genre. His 1964 work, Introduction and Toccata, developed from a first version in 1952 that accordionists agreed as being unplayable on current instruments. The 1964 revision captured the idiosyncratic methods needed for performances. 

Maltese composer Charles Camilleri (1931–2009) was also an accordion virtuoso and international performer. His 1968 Concerto for Accordion and String Orchestra was originally intended as a didactic work for his students. The work includes both classical forms (a first movement sonata-allegro) and local references (the main subject of the first movement is close to a Maltese traditional melody). The final movement was intended to be not only a brilliant finish but also a nod to the 12-music of the time. 

Finnish composer Erkki-Sven Tüür (b. 1959) had to be urged for five years to consider the accordion as a solo instrument for a concerto. He had to change his thinking of the instrument as purely for folk dances to something that had an orchestral connection. In its upper register, the accordion can sound like the wind instruments, and in its middle register, is closer to the strings and the composer used these sounds in different combinations. 

For many people, it was the Tango Nuevo of Astor Piazzolla that brought the accordion (or in Piazzolla’s case, the bandoneon) to the performing stage.

The bandoneon is a middle instrument between the hand-sized concertina and a full accordion. It is named for its inventor, Heinrich Band, who intended it for religious or popular music accompaniment. It made its way to Argentina around 1870, where it became one of the distinctive sounds of tango music.

Astor Piazzolla

His Concerto for Bandoneon, Percussion, and String Orchestra of 1979 is very different from the European concertos we’ve heard above—it immediately incorporates the rhythm of tango and its melancholic alternation between major and minor, expressive solo lines and other emotive details.

The accordion has long been associated with France, be it from French accordionists on street corners or the accordionist Yvette Horner, who played her accordion along the route of the Tour du France in the 1950s and 1960s (and who was caricatured in Les Triplettes de Belleville).

Yvette Horner

A new work in the French tradition is Thibault Perrine’s Capriccio for Accordion and Orchestra. The work makes reference to the former music activities on the Place de la Bastille where musicians from the Auvergne encountered accordionists coming up from Italy. Together, they created a new dance music known as the musette and Perrine makes that the center of his work. 

The lack of repertoire has made transcriptions central to the performance of classical music by accordionists. Satie’s Gnossienne No. 1, originally for piano, takes on a different life with accordion, vocals, trombone, and three melodicas (another free-reed instrument that mixes the harmonica with a keyboard).

Melodica

Or some Bach for accordion and saxophone.

And Rameau keyboard music arranged for accordion.

Japanese accordionist Mie Miki has been very active in bringing not only Baroque keyboard music to the accordion but also vocal music, such as this Dowland work, arranged for viola and accordion.

As a new instrument to the classical stage, the accordion has had to fight for recognition as a serious instrument. Its versatility in sound, melding with elements of the orchestra, has been a benefit, and as composers begin to understand how many ways it can contribute to the orchestral sound world, its repertoire will grow. Rethink the accordion – it’s more than polkas and popular music. It has become a real voice of serious music.

Felicità - Karolina Protsenko & Daniele Vitale Sax | Behind The Scenes

296,066 views Apr 27, 2024 #karolinaprotsenko #violin #girl

Karolina Protsenko violinist & Daniele Vitale Sax are going to make a music video "Felicità" together. Karolina Protsenko is talking about happiness. She plays on violin Felicita (originally by Al Bano & Romina Power. I hope you like it.

A Powerful Documentary Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness

by Janet Horvath

A very special documentary entitled Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness illustrates the power of music to transform people of all cultures. The film received an award at the 59th Golden Prague International Festival and is being screened worldwide at film festivals around the world. 

I had a chance to have an in-depth conversation with the producer and director of Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness, Maciej Pawelczyk of Inbornmedia, a TV production company. They produce more than 100 hours of TV content and independent documentaries per year and sell to companies in the UK, Europe, Asia, and the U.S.

We’ll begin by setting the tone with Chopin‘s Prelude in A Minor, Op. 28, No. 2.

Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness © IMDb

What a moving and provocative film! Tell us how you chose the three settings and the three musicians to feature.

Thank you, Janet. As a creative film producer, I feel flattered. We sought locations not only symbolic but also steeped in the sorrows and shadows of history’s darkest chapters, which would resonate powerfully with Chopin’s music within our film. We aimed to juxtapose the evil aura of these places with the sublime beauty of Chopin’s compositions and to explore the transformative potential of music. Since it is a Polish-Korean co-production, the film naturally led us to locations in Poland and South Korea.

In Poland, setting the bar very high, we chose the Nazi German Death Camp Auschwitz. This site arguably represents the bleakest moment in human history and the epicenter of mass atrocities during World War II. Heavy with unspeakable horrors, it evokes intense emotions. We chose Leszek Możdżer, a celebrated Polish jazz pianist whose unique persona and metaphysical engagement with music promised to counterbalance the oppressive and sinister atmosphere of Auschwitz, anticipating an extraordinary, hopeful musical experience.

Seungilgyo Bridge

We considered what story to unfold in South Korea and chose the Seungilgyo Bridge as our stage, at the border alongside the authoritarian regime of North Korea. The construction of the remarkable site began under North Korean control but was completed by the South. Our Korean co-producers from Play Button Media brought Jae-Yeon Won on board, a distinguished South Korean classical pianist, who performed on the bridge that symbolizes a nation’s torn past and its resilient spirit.

Finally, our third protagonist represents multiple cultural narratives. Fares Marek Basmadji, born in Aleppo, Syria, to a Syrian father and a Polish mother, later becoming a resident of Great Britain, personifies this synthesis. Given the ongoing conflict in Aleppo, we arranged for his appearance to be in Lebanon, a refuge for countless Syrian refugees. Beirut is close to the port where a devastating explosion recently occurred. The location is a poignant reminder of the enduring human spirit amidst chaos and despair.

As you can see, each musician and each setting were meticulously chosen to reflect our film’s core theme: the enduring power of music to heal and uplift, even amid history’s most painful scars.

One of the prominent pieces, Etude Op. 10 No. 3 in E Major called the “Tristesse,” is slow and cantabile with a stunning melody—at times optimistic, tender, and nostalgic. I think the poetic nature of the piece allows the audience to be contemplative.

The result exceeded my expectations. This project was not merely about organizing concerts; it explored how spaces imbued with powerful histories interact and reverberate through music. The juxtaposition of Chopin’s passionate music with the intense energy of the chosen locations created an almost tangible atmosphere, deeply resonating with the audience.

It must have presented tremendous logistical concerns.

Navigating the concerts in Korea and Lebanon posed challenges, but the most daunting was playing a concert in Auschwitz, Poland. I was quite terrified. How would it play out? There, the air is heavy with the memories of over a million souls lost, making it the most earth-shattering cemetery in the world. Engaging with an audience so deeply intertwined with these past atrocities required delicacy and reverence. One of the attendees, Elżbieta Ficowska, was saved due to the initiative and bravery of Irena Sendler, who hid the six-month-old child in a wooden box, placed her on a wagon full of bricks, and transported her from the Jewish ghetto to safety. This, of course, brought enormous depth to our film.

In Beirut, the presence of Syrian audience members, including those who had fled the devastation of their homeland, lent an additional layer of complexity. For Fares, the pianist, performing there was not only an artistic endeavor but also a personal journey into the heart of his country’s suffering. The proximity of the concert stage to the site of the recent port explosion added a raw, immediate context. I can’t forget a deeply touching moment when a woman, who was perched high above the concert looking down from a window, became visibly moved by the performance. The tears of onlookers and the silent grief of the city were palpable.

In Korea, the Seungilgyo Bridge represents a poignant symbol for the listeners. A listener reflected upon his grandfather who perished in the Korean War, the bridge symbolizing the huge toll of the conflict. For another attendee, a defector from North Korea, its spans signify the bittersweet embodiment of his journey from oppression to freedom. The bridge is a powerful metaphor for their experiences—not only a physical crossing but an emotional and historical one. It’s a poignant and daily reminder of a divided homeland, highlighting the stark contrast between the suffocating control of the regime and the liberating embrace of their new lives.

I witnessed a kaleidoscope of emotions during these concerts. The director, Joanna Kaczmarek, and I were able to capture this emotional tapestry on the screen. The synthesis of Chopin’s music with the intensity of the locations created an unforgettable journey—I still have tears in my eyes when I watch the final scene!

There’s a lovely image of the grand piano on an otherwise empty stage with empty seats behind it. We hear the Korean protagonist play the Chopin Concerto No. 1 in E minor Op. 11 with a group of string players. How did you decide how much of the individual performers’ histories to depict and their personal connection to the sites within the larger conflict of the actual locations?

Maciej Pawelczyk

Creating a harmonious balance posed a considerable challenge. We chose Polish jazz pianist Leszek Możdżer not because of any historical ties to the extermination camp but because of his captivating personality and metaphysical approach to music. His segment had to transcend conventional storytelling. The omnipresent shadow of Auschwitz, the factory of death, called for a weighty meditation on the battle between good and evil. Music here, we felt, needed to act as a cosmic and crushing force so deep that it would dominate the story.

Our Korean protagonist is from Paju, just 30 kilometers from the North Korean border. He passes by the barbed wire daily, and it stirs deep reactions in him. It’s a stark reminder of one of the world’s most oppressive regimes, where freedom of expression is perilously curtailed.

The most intimately woven narrative, however, emerged in the poignant tale of Fares, who was driven by two deeply significant motives. First, a desire to reconnect with his fellow Syrians displaced by the war, and second, by performing one final concert to bring closure to his musical journey.

As a documentary producer, when I see we’ve genuinely made an impact on the protagonists, I am gratified. This was the case here. Fares decided to wear a traditional Syrian costume. Once a source of shame, the garment symbolized his journey and transformation, his deeper understanding and empathy towards others, free from the shackles of prejudice and stereotypes. At the same time, we set Fares’ personal story against the backdrop of the Syrian war. The conflict has displaced millions of Syrians, who fled to Lebanon, a country beleaguered by a severe economic crisis. The interplay between Fares’ individual experience and the larger context revealed the goal of our film: to weave the personal narratives with the historical and social conflicts of the locations and to create a rich, multifaceted story.

You describe how one’s work “is never done” when playing music. As a musician, I know that musical interpretations are not only a reflection of the growth the musician has experienced up to the time of performance and the inspiration the musician feels in the moment but also in the resonance achieved in and from the audience. The actor describes this eloquently. How did you decide to depict the final scenes and the resonance with the three audiences?

As a creative producer, I fully identify with Fares when he says that an artist’s work is never finished. The multitude of interpretations of a piece, a film, or a painting is evidence of maturity. A film can be improved infinitely, but deadlines must be met. Ultimately, a musician needs to perform a piece; a filmmaker needs to release a film.

We tried to illustrate the effect of Chopin’s music in several ways— the reactions of the audience: tears, contemplation, reflection, and silence; their individual observations, what they felt while listening to the piano in places marked by pain. Depicting the musicians’ reactions was critical, too, especially Fares, who seemed to channel each note emotionally. The final device we used was to interweave the entire performance with symbolic images— shots of the Auschwitz, Birkenau concentration and extermination camp, views of refugees from a camp in Beirut and the destroyed port, and landscapes of South Korea near the border with North Korea. Our goal was to create a mix of extreme emotions compressed into the final climactic scene of the film.

From the beginning, you juxtapose serene and idyllic nature scenes with urban scenes, vistas, and art with barbed wire and destruction. Can you describe how you chose the visual cues?

Maciej Pawelczyk during the shooting of the documentary

You have discerned our narrative mechanism! The most potent artistic expression lies in contrasts, hence our decision to juxtapose such polarizing images. Isn’t this the same in music? For instance, the enchanting landscapes of a town where a barefoot Polish composer wanders through the forest are set against the harrowing extremity of Auschwitz; the captivating mountainous vistas around Seungil Bridge, are contrasted with the barbed wire beyond which lies the cruel ‘state of darkness,’ North Korea; or the splendid city of Beirut, juxtaposed with the aftermath of a port explosion and the plight of Syrian refugees.

You feature both auditory and visual metaphors, such as barbed wire and railroad tracks. Later in the film, there are several shots where these images become ubiquitous, and we cannot pinpoint where they are located.

Indeed, barbed wire is a recurring motif—barbed wire symbolizes enslavement, of course.

It appears in the refugee camp in Lebanon, in Auschwitz, and on the border of the two Koreas.

In North Korea, barbed wire symbolizes not just the physical confinement of almost 26 million people but a broader spectrum of state control, oppression, and isolation, both from the outside world and within its borders. The importance of this symbol is even more significant since some 5 million soldiers and civilians died in the Korean War, which led to the division of the country.

In the context of Syrian refugees residing in Lebanon, barbed wire marks the boundaries of refugee camps or enclosures where Syrian refugees live and represents the displacement these individuals have experienced after being forced to leave their homeland due to war and conflict caused by Bashar al-Assad. Over 12 million Syrians remain forcibly displaced from their homes, including an estimated 1.5 million who fled to Lebanon, a country of only 7 million.

The railway tracks in Auschwitz stand as a stark emblem of destruction, deeply linked to the camp’s dark history. These tracks saw the arrival of 1.3 million individuals to Auschwitz. Notably, in just 5 years, 1.1 million were Jewish, with 960,000 succumbing within the camp’s confines and 200,000 others perished, mainly non-Jewish Poles, individuals with mental disabilities, Roma, homosexuals, and Soviet POWs.

These haunting symbols are a stark reminder of the dire outcomes that can emerge when authoritarian regimes rise to power. Our film stands as a manifesto against all forms of physical and mental subjugation of people.

There are several times in the movie when the piano music of Chopin returns. I felt myself calm. The Scherzo in C-sharp, composed in 1838 minor Op. 39, is featured prominently. The piece, composed in an abandoned monastery in Spain, is a terse, heroic, and grand work. It vacillates between the mysterious with lovely high fleeting passages, then moves to aggressive octave passages.

All three musicians had something to give to bring calm or healing to the lives of their audience members. But you also use disturbing sounds and silence very effectively.

I took a creative part in deciding the direction of the film’s musical arrangements; indeed, Frédéric Chopin’s music does not dominate the film as you can’t tell a story on one level of emotion. Dynamics are the basis of narrative, and if we played Chopin’s music continuously, its power would be less weighty.

And that is the same in music. What would an interpretation be like all in monotone without contrasting dynamics?

We keep viewers in suspense, waiting for the climax at the film’s end, when the Chopin compositions dominate and bring utter relief. Disturbing sounds within the film only intensify this effect, causing a dissonance between the state of exaltation and the darkness associated with places of evil.

I found it particularly effective that the three performances are aligned. Would you comment on what your intention was for the viewers?

Our film is not only a concert but a cinematic endeavor carefully crafted to captivate, enchant, and grip the viewers. In weaving the performances of our three pianists together, we hoped to harness a profound synergy. Channeling Chopin’s music and the all-encompassing benevolence of the sounds into a decisive moment is akin to what would happen if we focused sunlight through a magnifying glass. This confluence of energies could not have been achieved by showcasing each performance separately.

I think in a world where understanding and harmony between cultures should be paramount, particularly in these times fraught with uncertainties and conflicts, the film is a testament to the unifying power of music. The three threads – Arabic, Jewish, and Korean – intertwined artistically that converge in a climactic final scene shows we are one, bound together by the universal language of music and its ability to bridge the divides of our human experience. I hope our film highlights that.

The emotions raised are powerful. Do you think the three musicians achieved their goals? What did these experiences do for them?

This is a good question because we spoke with the film’s protagonists after we concluded the film. One thing is sure: for everyone, it was an unprecedented, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

For Fares Marek Basmadji, the concert met expectations and allowed him, in a sense, to get in touch with a part of himself. He told us that he couldn’t stop thinking about the people he met there and that the experience gave him a broader perspective on life.

Jae-Yeon Won mentioned that before the film his knowledge of the Korean War was only through books and movies. He fell in love with Chopin’s unique harmonies and bel canto style, but on the bridge, he experienced an inexplicable shuddering. It reinforced Jae-Yeon’s belief that Chopin’s music can be a powerful tool to reach and soothe those suffering from trauma.

Leszek Możdżer, was always confident about the outcome of our musical experiment. We accomplished our mission, a sentiment underscored by his quote, “I am not afraid of darkness,” which inspired the film’s title.

Were there any unexpected outcomes?

As a producer based in Poland, I couldn’t have imagined that the Syrian crisis and the brutal Russian attack on Ukraine would echo so poignantly in my backyard. The parallels between the Syrian and Ukrainian situations have become strikingly clear, especially as I witness the influx of Ukrainian refugees seeking refuge in Poland.

I think the enduring strife in the Middle East makes this film even more timely. The two narratives, the Arabic and the Jewish are woven together and culminate in an emblematic union.

The Seungilgyo Bridge divide continues to resonate powerfully. The escalating tensions at the Korean border, the advancements in lethal technologies, and the strengthening bonds among authoritarian regimes are distressing reminders of today’s reality.

You have a passion to highlight political divisions and tumult. Tell us about your other projects.

Authoritarian governments often start by subtly eroding freedoms gradually, imperceptibly, by creating false narratives and even fake foes through propaganda. This underscores the importance of vigilant media coverage, which I try to promote as a producer.

In our international documentary television series “Auschwitz in 33 Objects,” we present the history of the concentration and extermination camp unconventionally through objects discovered in the camp that belonged to the victims. We are just completing the “Dictator’s Hideouts” series, which explores the bunkers of European dictators and the unique paranoia of each dictator. Isn’t it essential to draw lessons from the past?

Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness, is available on IMDb. A final quote from the documentary is, I think, apt.
“Music is a kind of language that is very close to God.”