Call him Smitty. Alex Ross shows once again how it is done in this fine review from the New Yorker. His disappointment in one work and pleasure in another are palpable. But I come not to praise Alex, but to quote him. Among the felicitous turns of phrase, delicious puns, and just plain old damn good sentences are:
hypnotically wayward narratives that reel from antic joy to frozen despair
. . . his 1998 maiden effort, “Little Women,”
The orchestral writing is often little more—or nothing less—than a play of light around the voices.
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