Sunday night, Moviemento Kino on Kottbusser Damm screened the film, We Want (u) to Know.

The film has only been shown a handful of times in Berlin theaters, which means if you want to see it, you have to keep your eyes open.

We Want (u) To Know is a participatory documentary film not originally for the Western world. Rather, the intended audience is Cambodian, and the film has been used over the last couple of years by NGO's and outreach programs to teach villagers about the Khmer Rouge regime and about the country's ongoing Khmer Rouge tribunal.

The Khmer Rouge (KR) was a communist organization lead by Pol Pot who wanted to make Cambodia completely self-sufficient by rebuilding the country from the ground up, starting at what they called "Year Zero." On April 17^th, 1975, the Khmer Rouge soldiers defeated the oppositional American-backed Lon Nol soldiers and fought their way into Phnom Penh. Within a number of hours, they emptied the capital and forced all its citizens into the countryside.

Survivors recount harrowing stories of patients being evacuated from hospitals, IV's still in their arms, children crying for their parents who had been lost in the commotion, and the frightening and mysterious KR pointing guns at anyone who asked questions.

The regime lasted just under four years, and it is has been estimated that some two million people were killed or died from starvation.

Thirty years after this traumatic event, the country is trying to heal, and the film We Want (u) To Know is one of the methods used to help survivors confront their past.

The directors, Ella Pugliese (Italy) and Nou Va (Cambodia) were attracted to the idea of using film as a method of healing due to its capacity to reach anyone, regardless of their ability to read or write, a common problem in rural Cambodian villages.

They approached the town of Thnol Lok, spent a few weeks getting to know the villagers, and once everyone felt comfortable, they handed the cameras over to them. To reduce the risk of reopening traumatic wounds, the directors and villagers worked closely with psychosocial counselors.

 

What followed was a series of amazing and shocking events. According to the filmmakers, the villagers were eager not only to talk about what had happened to them, but also to re-enact their sufferings. They wanted their traumas represented on-screen, as they happened. However, since the production company was low-budget and didn't have access to actors, the villagers acted out scenes themselves.

One of the most breathtaking moments of the entire film was a scene that told the story of an old woman who everyone called "Grandmother." During the KR regime, she was walking with her husband and two children when KR soldiers grabbed her husband and pulled him away from her.

She painfully remembered how she was pulling on her husband with one hand begging him not to go and holding onto her two young children with the other hand. The KR ordered her to stop, screaming, "Do all four of you want to be buried in one pit?" Her husband told her that he helped her bring the children into the world, and now it was her job to raise them. He was then taken away by the KR.

In the documentary, "Grandmother" directs the actors and yells their lines from beside the camera. She watches as two young men dressed as KR take away the man playing her husband, and she yells after them "No! Please don't take my husband away. No!"

It's horribly sad to watch, but afterwards, "Grandmother" told the cameras that doing the re-enactment made her happy, and more than anything, she was pleased to have someone acknowledge her story. Other survivors stated that once they had acted out their experience, they could "let it go."

The desire to tell one's story is a common theme in the film. Survivors express the need for younger generations to understand what they went through so that past mistakes would not be repeated.

"We did this to inform the young generation of Cambodians," villagers repeated over and over again. They also say the film made the younger generation finally believe their stories. As one of the participants says, "the young generation will not believe us unless we have evidence."

The screening was attended by the directors and a handful of young Cambodians who had flown into Berlin just hours before and was followed by an energized question-and-answer period.

Also present was the German lawyer, Silke Studzinsky, who has been actively involved in the genocide trials at the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC).

The court's aim is to try the topmost perpetrators of the genocide, and, to date, have only convicted one person, Kaing Guek Eav, or as more people know him, Comrade Duch, who was the head of the KR's prison camp S-21. In 2010, he was convicted of crimes against humanity, murder, and breaches of the Geneva Convention.

As a native New Yorker now living in Berlin, I am constantly amazed at how often these two cities are compared to each other.

From my perspective, apart from being big cities for their respective countries, they have little in common.

And one place where they differ most is in handicap access to public transportation. In this respect, New York is in the Stone Age and really should be ashamed of itself.

Berlin, on the other hand, has amazing access.

I am not physically handicapped, but my cousin, who is a life-long New Yorker, has trouble walking. He loves Berlin. In fact, I call him the Berlin freak in the family. He could easily drive a cab here, he knows most of the streets, but he doesn't want to visit the city now because of mobility issues. Yet he is way better off in the German capital than in NYC.

I wonder how he can get along in New York. He doesn't. He lives on Long Island and rarely comes in to the city.

No wonder. The Metropolitan Transit Authority, which operates New York's subway system, among other things, says there are 468 subway stations in the city of New York.

Of that, 89 are handicap accessible and in compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act rules.

That's right: 89 out of 468, or 19 percent. Not even one in five stations in the Big Apple is ADA compliant.

New York should learn from Berlin, which is light years ahead of the city.

A direct comparison is tough, because in Berlin, the system is run by two entities. The subway (UBahn) and buses are run by the BVG, the German acronym for the Berlin transport group. Die Bahn, the German federal railway, controls the S-Bahn, which runs trains through the city but also to outlying areas.

The BVG operates 173 subway stations of which 94 are handicap accessible – 85 with elevators and the nine remaining with ramps. There are also 106 stations with a system to help blind passengers.

There are 166 S-Bahn stations in Berlin and neighboring Brandenburg. Of that 143 are handicap accessible and 125 can be accessed by blind passengers. Railway authorities don't break out the Berlin-only figures.

So in the Berlin subway system, 54 percent of the stations are handicap accessible. And in the S-Bahn system, the figure is 86 percent.

And New York can't even make it to 20 percent?

I asked my other cousin about this. She's a lawyer for the MTA, but she doesn't work on ADA issues. But I thought she might know something.

She says it's because New York's system is so old.

I didn't buy that. Berlin's system is even older. The New York subway system started in 1904, two years after Berlin's system went online.

So I called the MTA's press office and got Charles Seaton on the line. He backed my cousin's argument.

"Our system is over 100 years old."

I told him Berlin's was older and they do way better on handicap access.

His excuse? It's expensive to remodel a station.

It was hard to pin the MTA down on just how much it costs to make a New York subway station ADA compatible. The first figure tossed out by Seaton was $20 million, but that was seen as too high by his colleague, Deidre Parker. She checked with the engineers at MTA but they refused to produce a figure.

The MTA remodels three to four stations a year and it adds ADA access when it does those, Seaton said.

Then, why, at 14^th Street, a major hub, are the L, Q, and R lines handicap accessible, but key lines like the 4,5, and 6 remain off-limits to those in a wheelchair?

Because the L, Q, and R were set for remodeling, but the 4, 5, and 6 were not, Seaton said.

His colleague Parker added, "The 4, 5, 6 part of the station cannot be made ADA accessible because it is technically infeasible." Overall, it's not easy to install an elevator in the New York subway system, she wrote in an email.

"There is a challenge of finding space for the elevator itself and a room to house the electronics, moving utilities, and acquiring property in stations that were built in the first half of the 20th Cent."

Back in Berlin, the BVG's Christina Albrecht deals with questions about handicap access, among other things. She's surprised that Berlin is ahead of New York when it comes to access.

"We're always told at how things are always so much better in the USA when it comes to handicap access," she said. Albrecht wasn't able to give me a per station figure but said installing an elevator costs €1.5 million at most, but planning and other costs raise those fees.

New York's handicap riders are out of luck if they think the city will take a lesson from Berlin. The Voluntary Compliance Agreement (VCA) with the Federal Transportation Authority (FTA) "requires that MTA NYCT (New York City Transit) completes 100 Accessible Key Stations by 2020," wrote MTA spokesperson Seaton in an email.

"There is no plan to expand the 100 Key Station Plan at this time."

Oh well. I guess that means one thing.

Cousin, you should visit me in Berlin. It's much easier to get around.

Berlin is best known for the electro scene, but if hip hop is your thing, (or even if it isn't but you want to take a creative leap) here is one of those hidden local gems where you can unleash your inner demons.

Little Stage on Jonasstrasse 1 in Neukoelln is a neighborhood music club where the next generation music scene is paying its dues.

You will find everything from new electronic rock, singer-songwriter, gypsy music to of course freestyle and new jazz.

It's the real deal- built, owned, and operated by Berliners and less obvious than the usual staples expats tend to find, like White Trash, Madame Claudes, and Schokoladen.

The club is lovingly decorated to offer musicians a decent stage with a rock-club ambiance. The owners used to build theater sets, so they knows how to create a vibe. I've performed there since they opened a few years back and seen them go through the growing pains.

The other day, I got a message on Facebook from Little Stage announcing that they are hosting a free open mike on Mondays for freestyle rap and cypher.

What is cypher? Free-styling (improvising your rap as you go but not in battle terms). You rap one after the other taking care not to break the flow-or cypher.

As a musician, I'm a big fan of jam sessions. I go to share an experience with new musical constellations and challenge my boundaries so that I grow artistically. For me, the fear of the unknown is an adrenalin rush.

Seeing the invite brought back memories. Two years ago was the first time I had ever free-styled. It took all my courage (or stupidity) to jump up on that stage in front of a room of 20-something hipsters from Neukoelln- they have so much edge, talent, and devotion to their craft.

I stood onstage while they watched me expectantly. No words came. Shell-shocked, I was in over my head and too embarrassed to give up and jump back off the stage. So, lo and behold, I opened my mouth and started some innocuous rhymes like "Cali and cool....making my own rules...not being no dude... " Anyway, some semblance of words took over.

Suddenly, this Spanish-looking kid flings himself on stage with gusto, grabs a mike and breaks into a ferocious stream of rhymes. I'm clueless as to what he's saying and unsure how to complement him, so I let out some half-hearted "ohhs" and "ahhs" in the background.

After the rap and applause, the guy looks at me and commands in German, "Now in Spanish."

"But..." I stutter, "I don't speak Spanish."

He ignores me, gives the DJ some hand signal, and the beat is on again. He's styling in Spanish...about a life of poverty and discrimination? Drug gangs? Fighting parents? Life in the Neukoelln hood?

I am racking my brain for Spanish words. What comes to mind is "Come va".... "Ole, ole"..... "vamos a la playa." (Yes, that means, "Let's go to the beach." Who raps about the beach???)

Luckily, all things come to an end. We smile to the audience and then clasp hands.

I whisper to him, "I don't speak Spanish!"

He looks at me and shrugs his shoulders, "Neither do I."

I am stunned. This kid's a genius. If I had a label, I'd sign him on the spot.

I probably made a fool of myself, but grandly so. I stretched my musical boundaries that evening. So whether you are a veteran or a newbie, bring your Beatbox performance, scratch action, freestyle rap and/or beats (on a usb stick or CD). It's hit or miss with the jam sessions- sometimes the place is packed and sometimes it's just a small crowd- just like a gig.

As for me, I'm still working on my Spanish.

It's official: new age dining trends have invaded the German capital.

Welcome Bilder Sauvage, where you can eat like a caveman but still look like a model. At least that's what the popular Paleo diet claims, the source and inspiration behind Sauvage's approach to cooking.

Like the majority of fad diets, the Paleo diet began in health-conscious semi-neurotic America. As the name suggests, it's based on what our hunter gatherer ancestors consumed.

It is doubtful, however, that gastronomic boredom, health concerns, or even body image were the reasons behind these cavemen's appetites. Rather, survival took precedence, paving the way for a diet high in proteins, grains, legumes, fruits, and nuts.

Like the once popular Atkin's diet, carbs are the arch enemy of the Paleo diet. Its followers pride themselves on the diet's gluten-free approach, claiming that it has allowed them to simplify their diets, eliminate processed junk, and increase their energy levels.

Although Sauvage is Paleo at its core (just look at the website and you'll see an apish face glaring back at you), it's not overzealous in its approach to manging like our wooly ancestors. It takes a more laissez-faire approach to the esoteric diet, using the Paleo foundation as a platform for creativity in the kitchen.

Culinary iterations include home-made gluten-free friendly crackers composed of carrot, hemp seed, and celery, which pair nicely with Sauvage's garlicky hummus and other vegetarian inspired dips, while main dishes tend to cater to carnivores.

My companion (a passionate vegetarian) and I both curious about Sauvage's Paleo delights kicked off our meal with a Paleo-Smörgåsbord - an appetizer plate composed of vegan-friendly dips, such as hummus, smokey baba ganoush, a whole clove of roasted garlic, and their house-made crackers. We ordered individual entrees. She opted for Bilder's vegetarian main dish, which is basically any of their listed entrees without meat, while I opted for the Argentine steak. Paired with one of Bilder's biodynamic French reds and a generous helping of leafy unctuous greens, I quickly consumed my iron quotient for the week.

And although it's doubtful that cavemen were cultivating their own vineyards or even brewing beer, Sauvage does boast a decent list of international and biodynamic varietals that pair nicely with its iron-rich, dense meal.

Located in Kreuzkoelln off Pfluegerstrasse, Sauvage is a nice respite from the trendy dining hotspots often found in Mitte and Prenzlauer Berg. The restaurant's stone-walled interior and easy-to-miss exterior exudes a cave-like quality, another nod to its founding fathers.

Its charm, however, is sincere, and its wait staff, despite the Friday night hustle and bustle, all manage to remain attentive, imparting their own knowledge and love for Sauvage's inventive Paleo-inspired dishes. They recommend wine pairings and deliver you a much needed finale of espresso to help you get home after the caveman binge.

Owned and operated by Boris and Rodrigo Leite, Paleo-converts and couple, originally from Belgium and Brazil, they both decided to share their love for the diet in May 2011 and open Sauvage.

Speaking with Boris, he explained their vision behind the restaurant.

"We are not crazy or extreme about being one hundred percent Paleo. We just want to cook food that is healthy and organic. We eat this normally and feel good as a result. It's about making the customers healthy and happy and having fun. So far, we have received good feedback. Plus, it's always packed!"

One of the only restaurants of its kind in Europe (one is rumored to appear in Copenhagen soon), Savage ushers in a new style of eating - one that has transcended Berlin's proudly expanding restaurant milieu and demonstrating the capital's growing appetite for cutting-edge gastronomic trends and culinary ingenuity.

At Sauvage, health is both a main concern, as well as an ingredient to success, provoking creativity when it comes to something as simple as a cracker. Without fail, the nascent restaurant will leave you energized and possibly reeking of garlic.

As the Italians say, "It is good for the heart," and Sauvage knows it.

So if you're curious as to what all this hype is about, desire a palate cleanse or energy boost, then head to Sauvage's candlelit den.

There are few things young Berliners like better than abandoned buildings.

The city might boast world-renowned museums, but many prefer their history uncurated. As the evenings warm up, those in the know are flocking to the deserted sanitarium in Beelitz, or the old Spreewald fairground.

The undisputed king of the ghostowns is Teufelsberg – West Berlin's Cold War listening station. After the fall of the Wall, operations started winding down, and the hilltop complex descended into abandonment after redevelopment plans fell through. Cluttered with broken glass and torn, flapping tarpaulin, the graffited remains have become such a hit in recent years that one seasoned adventurer now charges for tours.

This is all set to change. Following a hilltop meeting among the ruins, Berlin's state secretary for Urban Development, Ephraim Gothe, announced his support for a redevelopment project that will transform the derelict site into a luxury complex. The final proposal won't be public until the summer, but it's said to involve a hotel, a conference center, and a museum.

The news may be met with chagrin among armies of urban explorers, but it will be welcomed by the Field Station Berlin Veterans Group, which has lobbied since the 1990's for the preservation of the site as a historical artifact.

"It's a unique site," Bill Kouns says, "and we want people to know about the effect it had on this small piece of history."

I met Kouns, a former Teufelsberg agent, in the weeks before the plans were announced. Unlike the tourists lured by the eeriness of the site, Kouns is angry that the station has been allowed to decay.

"It's a shambles. It's an eyesore, and it's dangerous."

Kouns's commitment to the cause is clear. He arrives for the interview armed with a large, green folder. Almost overflowing, it's a painstakingly curated archive of newspaper articles, documents, and photos from his time working in the station.

It opens with a letter.

"Dear SP4 Kouns, on behalf of the Commander, staff, and members of Field Station Berlin, I welcome you to Berlin, the outpost of freedom."

It's a punchy opener and a vivid reminder of the daunting prospect that faced new recruits. More than 177 miles behind the Iron Curtain, the tiny island of West Berlin was surrounded on all sides by 250,000 Russian troops. Up on "The Hill," as the veterans call Teufelsberg, the station personnel were more exposed than most.

"We knew that if there was going to be a military conflict, the Russians would have had their sights on the Hill. Within minutes, it would have been blown to smithereens." And yet, he says, "you get used to it. You just don't think about it."

Of course, they had other things to occupy their attention. The Teufelsberg mission is still shrouded in secrecy, but it's generally agreed that the station was part of the ECHELON network that listened in to the Eastern Bloc. Kouns is reluctant to divulge any details, but he does concede that "it was a live mission. It wasn't practice. It was a live operation."

It all seems very dramatic – the Russians at the gate, the secret networks – yet the more Kouns talks, the more his experiences seem to diverge from the smoke-and-mirrors world conjured by cold war thrillers.

Their work might have been top-secret, he says, but it could also be plain dull. Sometimes they would "do push-ups on the floor to stay awake." It wasn't always sophisticated; as they took the bus up to their hilltop offices, new recruits would titter at the phallic-looking trio of towers, two bulbous stumps flanking the taller listening tower rising between them.

Strangest, though, is the way he talks of the enemy. Like the original ostalgie tourists, the Field Station personnel seem to have developed a curious fascination for their Soviet opponents.

Under the terms of shared military rule, Allied troops were allowed to visit East Berlin on the condition that they went in uniform. As he reminisces about his experiences, it seems more like a tourist excursion than a trip behind enemy lines.

"We just went to see what it was like," Kouns remembers "It was almost a make-believe world, all watchtowers and barbed wire."

While other soldiers would use their privileged exchange rate to buy whatever they could ("so-called plundering their shops", he says regretfully), he and his colleagues would bring back historical souvenirs.

"We'd get flags," he says, "or a poster of Gorbachev."

With Karl Marx memorabilia in their rooms, the staff of the Hill were scorned by the brawnier infantrymen.

"Oh, we were wimps to them," he says with a smile. "When they jogged around our barracks, they'd sing songs to make fun of us. They said we weren't real soldiers because we didn't use guns and had long hair."

It's a world away from John Le Carre, and all the more interesting for it. As we finish up interview, I feel myself coming round to Kouns's way of thinking. It's hard not to regret the passing of abandoned Teufelsberg, but it is easy to see why the veterans feel their experiences are worthy of official preservation.

For those who have run out of derelict buildings to explore, the museum on the Hill might just be worth a visit.

The score to Alan Berg's Lulu remains as elusive as the femme fatale herself.

Berg left the third act unfinished upon his death in 1935 after Nazi politics thwarted staging the work. He had devised a concert suite that was conducted by Erich Kleiber in Berlin the previous year.

Zurich Opera premiered an incomplete version of the opera in 1937, but it was not until 1979 that a reconstruction by Friedrich Cerha allowed for a full staging of the work in Paris.

A new version of the third act by Eberhard Kloke was unveiled in Copenhagen two seasons ago, yet Lulu has not been put to rest.

As the opening to this year's "Festtage" at the Staatsoper, Music Director Daniel Barenboim commissioned the conductor and composer, David Robert Coleman, to rework the final act for a premiere production by Andrea Breth, whose cuts to the opera made it legally impossible to use the Cerha reconstruction, which remains standard.

Breth excludes the Paris salon scene for her own dramaturgical purposes, instead skipping to the final London scene. She also cuts the animal tamer's prologue, which is set to 85 bars of musical material.

The bold artistic decision to add a cryptic text by Kierkegaard opened the production, seen at its March 31 premiere, on an inauspicious note as the actor Wolfgang Hübsch lay on his back in the likes of a beached whale at the front of the stage. The amplified recording of a woman's blood-curdling scream that ushered in the orchestra and returned at the end of the opera was an equally disturbing touch, most of all because Berg's opera is unsettling enough without such kitschy special effects.

Breth, who also staged a new Wozzeck for the Staatsoper last season, otherwise confines the plot line to a derelict warehouse with a pile of rusty cars on one side (sets designed by Erich Wonder). Most of the action takes place within an open, maze-like structure of metal rods, providing the audience with little context for the already estranged interactions between Berg's characters.

Lulu glitters in a silver sequin dress (costumes by Moidele Bickel) while more than one doppelganger appears haphazardly the background. At one point, a blond vixen is placed inside a trash bag and dumped from a wheelbarrow. The protagonist herself emerges armed with a crowbar, pressing down on Dr. Schön's neck at the end of the first act as if straight out of a cheap Hollywood movie ("Now-comes-the execution...").

 

The staging also veers toward the tirelessly abstract. When the painter takes his life in the first act after the taunting of Dr. Schön, he falls onto a pile of skinheads who have emerged as alter-egos to console him (no screams offstage when you expect to hear them). In the opening scene of the second act, the Countess sits in a dentist's chair and wraps her face in gauze while the others sing from within one of the beat-up abandoned cars—apparently the crash is imminent.

Berg's call for a film interlude to illustrate Lulu's imprisonment and liberation is replaced by a barely perceptible projection of her eyes onto the automobiles, and the opera ends in flames when Jack the Ripper pours gasoline over the anti-heroine, now a desperate prostitute, and hands her a match.

Despite the convoluted happenings onstage, the cast dispatched itself elegantly.

Mojca Erdmann was a lithe, kittenish Lulu, wielding an immaculate bell-like timbre and flexible coloratura throughout the role's dauntingly high range. Her performance was all the more impressive given that she was required to sing in a variety of compromising positions, at one point being draped over a man's shoulder.

Deborah Polaski was a commanding, rich-voiced Countess as she chased after Lulu, and Michael Volle brought a barrel-like, appropriately gruff baritone to the bullish Dr. Schön and Jack the Ripper.

Stephan Rügamer conveyed the angst of the painter against the emotionally vapid set and made a striking cameo appearance as the black-faced Negro with fluid dance movements in the third act. The tenor, Thomas Piffka, made for a clear-voiced Alwa, the enigmatic son of Dr. Schön, and Georg Nigl brought a dramatically nuanced bass to the role of the Athlete, showing equal stamina as he jumped around boxing in the background.

Anna Lapkovskaja was vocally elegant as the theater dresser and gymnast, her incessant cabaret-style moves aside. Jürgen Linn rounded out the cast well as the asthmatic Schigolch (who may also be Lulu's father).

Barenboim, conducting Lulu for the first time, led the Staatskapelle in a precise yet expressive account that breathed with the hysteria of Berg's twelve-tone score. His generous phrasing managed to stylishly incorporate Coleman's third act, which thins out the textures to a chamber orchestra including marimba, steel drums and cowbells as well as banjo (lifted from the jazz band in Berg's first act).

The contemporary sound world found better resonance with the set's metallic tones than anywhere else in the original score, yet this musical specimen—skillfully wrought as it is—may remain inextricably linked to Breth's, and not Coleman's, vision.

"Those new despots of the theatrical art...the stage producers," wrote Schönberg in 1965. Perhaps it would make sense to respect what Berg did leave behind.

The production runs through April 14th.

Blue and red silhouettes dance against the wall as La Monte Young, sitting cross-legged in a black cape-like garb and a tight-fitting cap, lifts an exposed arm to gesture the start of a new vocal raga.

He and his female companions chant in ancient Indian over an electronic drone and occasional tabla drumming. Listeners stretch out on the shaggy white carpet in front of them, some assuming meditative poses.

"The Dream House," a collaboration between Young, a founding figure of minimalist music, and lighting designer Marian Zazeela, made its European premiere at the Villa Elisabeth as part of Berlin's new music festival MärzMusik last week.

It's one of many events that scattered around the city from March 17-25 exploring the legacy of John Cage.

A concert at the Haus der Berliner Festspiele brought together all four founders of the Sonic Arts Union, created in 1966 as a platform for live electronic music theater. Alvin Lucier enacted his iconic "Music for Solo Performer" (1965), attaching small electrodes to his scalp and meditating to create alpha waves which were electronically engineered to set off wired percussion instruments scattered behind him like objets trouvés.

Cymbals, gongs, and bass drums started beating as if controlled by ghosts, while the alpha waves were streamed faintly through the speakers.

The concert also featured the world premiere of Lucier's "Slices" (2002/2012) for cello and pre-recorded orchestra, in which the soloist (Charles Curtis) bows a melody against a cluster of 53 tones that gradually dwindles to a tonal center.

David Behrman, along with fellow composer Gordon Mumma and two other performers, stood around a wired piano for his "Wave Train" (1967), which uses the reverberation of piano strings as feedback. His "Long Throw" (2007) for prepared piano, live electronic and two instruments—here trumpet and cello—featured dreamy atmospheric textures, jazz-inspired elements, and free minimalist melodies, the perfect late-night fare.

A portrait of American composer Annie Gosfield at the Berghain brought to light more recent developments in experimental electronica. Much like Behrman, her work is driven by an interest in the innovative possibilities for blending instrumentalism and originally-developed electronic sounds. Her "Luminous Reflection of Metallatic Direction" for cello and electronic, here in its world premiere, featured samples of interlocking industrial sounds that became uncannily lyrical against the scrubbing of an aluminum cello (Frances-Marie Uitti).

MärzMusik naturally featured straight orchestral music as well, delving into the works of German composer Wolfgang Rihm—whose 60^th birthday presented an occasion for presenters to contrast him with Cage.

 

A concert at the Philharmonie with the SWR Sinfonieorchester Baden-Baden und Freiburg under Lothar Zagrosek featured his "3. Doppelsang" (2004/7) for clarinet and viola, a dramatic work that unfolded in impetuous lyric dialogue and neo-Romantic harmonies, and "Magma" (1973), an explosive avant-garde mix of snapping strings, insistent pizzicatos, and crashing organ.

The program further included Morton Feldman's kaleidoscopic "Coptic Light," his last piece for orchestra and a masterpiece of polytonal textures that are uncharacteristic for the composer, and Christian Wolff's "John, David" for orchestra and percussionist (1998), respectively dedicated to John Cage and David Tudor (an important figure in promoting Cage's piano works at home and abroad). The first half was composed using the I-Ging (one of Cage's favorite methods), isolating the different sections of the orchestra between long silences; the second features unruly dialogue with the percussionist Robyn Schulkowsky.

While it was not uninteresting to hear Rihm's emotionally-driven, unequivocally European idiom alongside the more detached explorations of Wolff and Feldman, the festival's juxtaposition of Rihm with American experimentalism left more questions open than it addressed.

The program notes maintain that Cage and Rihm share in common the fact that they both rebelled against their teachers: the former by rejecting Arnold Schönberg's serialism in favor of radical experimentalism, the latter by departing from Karlheinz Stockhausen's proscribed conceptual development in favor of spontaneous, expressive structures.

Yet the contrast effectively skips a generation. Surely it would be worth mentioning that Cage's sound system was fundamentally a reaction to the European avant-garde, which found its most important continued expression in the Darmstadt School—championed by Stockhausen, Pierre Boulez, and Luigi Nono.

Rihm may reactionary in his own right, that this is surely not a defining quality of his music. Cage is mystifying enough without having to confront such double-negatives.

Whether one considers John Cage an inventor, a philosopher, or a composer of genius, his riotous theatrical concepts and graphic notations remain radical even today.

"I don't have any ideas. I don't have any tastes," the American composer famously said on German television after his last visit in 1990, just two years before his death.

"I'm just doing my work, so to speak, stupidly. And it turns out to be beautiful."

To mark the centennial of Cage's birth, Berlin's annual festival MärzMusik, is exploring his legacy under the rubric "Cage and Consequences."

The program, which opened March 17th and continues through March 25th, features figures such the vocalist-composer Joan La Barbara and members of the Sonic Arts Union, who were directly influenced by the composer, as well as representatives of a younger Cage-inspired generation.

In another twist, the festival is also thematicizing the polarity between Cage and Wolfgang Rihm, whose neo-Romantic idiom could not stand in starker contrast to the former's lawless experimentalism.

The festival opened at the Haus der Berliner Festspiele with La Barbara in a new production of Cage's "Songbooks," as combined with his "Concert for Piano and Orchestra," followed by the world premiere of La Barbara's "Persistence of Memory" for chamber ensemble and electronic. Her composition was performed to film designed by Aleksandar Kostic. Much in the spirit of Cage's collaborations with his partner, the choreographer Merce Cunningham, La Barbara wouldn't let Kostic hear the full score and only saw a pilot of the film in December.

As seen on March 17th, La Barbara conducted her Ne(x)tworks ensemble as she phonated subtly to sparse, undulating textures for piano and trombone before the entire ensemble was enmeshed in cacophony. The contrast of lyricism and noise gave way to a meditative drone, as if the instruments were simulating Indian classical music, while La Barbara broke out into throat singing. The music grew more nervous before a final passage evoked wind, storms, and hail. Kostic's slowly-moving psychedelic imagery enhanced the listening experience rather than distracting from it, as is the tendency of so much modern video.

The performance of "Songbooks," written in 1970 for voice, theater, and electronic, vividly captured the defiant humor, anarchistic leanings, and meandering philosophical inquiries that drove Cage's work. To be sure, this is not the easiest piece to follow, but it is hard to imagine a more authentic rendition.

 

French, English, German, and gibberish were uttered as ensemble members of Ne(xt)works and the Berlin-based Maulwerker engaged in happenings scattered simultaneously onstage and occasionally into the audience. La Barbara ascended above stage in a kimono-like robe as heavy, ecstatic breathing played through the sound system, only to descend reincarnated with a boar's head; drank water with a throat microphone; and walked in an insomniac daze into the audience.

The instrumentalists were trapped in their own world of experimental sound as much as they provided context for the events.

One leitmotif was a protagonist's chanting of the Thoreau maxim "The best form of government is no government at all" as he waved a flag emblazoned with an image of planet Earth. He ultimately met with skeptical laughter from an actress onstage who soon thereafter began talking to herself in a non-sensical stream of consciousness. Cagean maxims as communicated by La Barbara's electronically manipulated voice concluded the performance on slightly a more coherent note.

At the Konzerthaus, one of Cage's later and tamer works, "103 for Orchestra" (1991), was performed alongside his video "One" (1992). Both works were created through chance operations and do not entirely coincide. The score unfolds over exactly 90 minutes in a slowly-moving process that includes aleatoric solo passages, with the film consisting only of light and shadow imagery.

The Konzerthaus Orchestra, seen March 18th, spilled out onto the aisles and balconies of the dimly-lit concert hall. Smooth, quietly sustained textures are punctuated with the bursts and attacks of individual instruments before the orchestra returns to its gradually building, at times inert state. The occasional rumbling timpani add a primordial quality, as if the orchestra were reverting to a pre-historic age, with instruments fading in and out just like the light movement onscreen. While the effect is meditative and creates tremendous tension, it loses appeal into the final stretch.

Prior to the festival's official opening, the Radialsystem hosted the German premiere of "gefaltet," a choreographed concert by local icon Sasha Waltz and the Lachenmann protégé Marc Andre that was first unveiled in Salzburg last January. The title refers to a method in electronic music called "Faltung" by which sound impulses are responded to acoustically.

Waltz and Andre set out to create dialogue between music and dance, including works from the composer's "iv" (short for 'introvertiert') and "Klangruine" series. Adding another level of call and response, Andre's works are juxtaposed with piano and chamber works by W.A. Mozart (who would expect anything less from a work originally commissioned by the Stiftung Mozarteum).

Waltz brought an appropriately childish, naively Romantic touch to piano works such as Sonata in a-minor KV 310, featuring a playful male trio, and the Rondo KV 511 which was propelled in a duo of sweeping, interlocking movements across the stage (seen March 16). The musicians were also physically involved in the action. Violinist Carolin Widmann, appearing in an oversized caricature of a Rococo gown (costumes by Beate Borrmann), was at one point lifted mid-action by a troupe member of Sasha Waltz & Guests (Edivaldo Ernesto). The effect was optically comical yet her sound quality suffered slightly.

The sudden transitions into the existentially precarious sound worlds of Andre were quite dramatic, particularly when it was revealed in "Klangruine II" that the uppermost part of the keyboard was prepared. Alexander Lonquich hammered away against scraping strings and high-pitched squeals. At the climax, Widmann placed her violin on the ground as if it were a cello when Ernesto seized the bow between his toes, an amusing but profligate gesture.

Andre's music found a more powerful setting with the musicians offstage, such as in the barely audible, metallic textures of the string trio "iv 8" which featured Widmann miked in response to the remainder of the ensemble. Waltz's duet of subtly shifting movements created a compelling visual framework for the music, that is, until a male dancer appeared to have a simulated seizure onstage.

Just three short years ago, if you wanted to celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Berlin, you were faced with a few measly options: head to the closest Irish pub, throw on some green clothes, or grab a couple of Guinness at the store and enjoy them at home.

It wasn't until last year that Berlin finally got a St. Patrick's Day parade, and like everything else in this city, it's original, quirky, and growing.

It's hard to believe that it took Berlin this long to get a parade. It's especially confusing to those of us from North America; on March 17th, there's a parade or two in every major city. The day is a huge event.

New York boasts the largest St. Patrick's Day parade with over 150,000 participants and 3 million spectators. Everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's Day, everyone wears green, and everyone drinks a couple (or more) green beers.

So why did it take Berlin so long to get its own parade? It's not as though there aren't any Irish people here. The Irish Embassy in Berlin estimates the numbers are between 1,500 - 1,700 people, and they've noticed an influx of Irish immigration to the city, and to Germany in general, over the last couple of years.

The majority of the Irish move to southern Germany in search of work to escape the dire economic situation in Ireland, but many others head to Berlin, due to its artistic, independent, and alternative vibe.

The large number of Irish in the south partly explains why Munich has the largest St. Patrick's Day parade in Germany - and they say, one of the largest in Europe.

It started in 1996 and now has an average of 20,000 spectators. The parade has a more religious tone than here in Berlin. The day begins with an Irish mass, and the parade is ordained by a priest. Everything is wrapped up at 6 PM so as to not disturb the neighbors and interrupt the church services next door.

Last year, Dara Drea O'Neill and a small group of Irish entrepreneurs from Kleine Reise and Loftus Hall started the Deutsch-Irische Gesellschaft Berlin and decided it was time Berlin had its own parade and celebration.

O'Neill has been living in Berlin for five years and has witnessed more and more young Irish people moving to Berlin.

"Before now, there hasn't been a want or a need for an Irish community (in Berlin)," O'Neill says. "But now, we're the new generation of expats. The Irish economy is in ribbons (awful), and we have to stick together. We're stronger together."

Berlin's St. Patrick's Day parade is very different from its counterpart in Munich. O'Neill describes it as a day of Irish pride that's not associated with religion.

"It's a fresh take on the Irish parade," O'Neill says. It's relaxed, open to everyone, and still utilizes the fun Irish things that everyone has come to love, like dressing up like St. Patrick and hitting fake snakes over the head with a stick (legend has it that St. Patrick rid all the snakes from Ireland).

"This is my first year celebrating in Berlin, and I'm really looking forward to it," Irish expat, Emma Griffin, says. She's been in Berlin for almost a year now and would always celebrate the holiday back home in Ireland by wearing green and heading to the pub with friends.

When she was younger, she would attend mass in the morning. This year, Griffin will be heading to the parade.

"I love all things Irish," she says. "[and] St. Patrick's Day is a celebration of my Irish-ness."

Fellow NPR Berlin contributor and Irish expat, Jennifer Collins, watched the parade last year. When she arrived, she was told, unexpectedly, that she was the parade, and was handed some green material and Irish flags.

"I was a bit surprised, but I didn't mind. It was actually good craic (fun). Especially as when I was a kid, I always wanted to be in the parade."

Collins and the other spectators joined in with those dressed like St. Patrick and leprechauns and marched together from Spreewaldplatz into Görlitzer Park and back again.

It'll be the same idea this year, albeit a little bigger and better. O'Neill and the rest of the organizers will have costumes on hand. The Irish Ambassador will kick off the parade before everyone marches together down the same route as last year.

In the middle of Görlitzer Park, there will be a performance from The Berlin Pipe Band. From there, the party will head to Morena Bar for a free buffet-style feast of Irish cuisine consisting of beef stew (yes, there will be a vegetarian option), mashed potatoes, and tarts. For sports fans, the Ireland vs. England rugby game will be playing in the background. Musicians and dancers will also be on hand to ring in the evening and spread the Irish cheer. After everyone's had their fill, the party moves to Loftus Hall with some Irish DJ's performing and continues well into the night.

If the noise of the pub is too much, another option is to head out to any part of town with a view of the TV Tower and watch as it turns green at 6:45 PM as part of Tourism Ireland's Global Greening Initiative. It is one of the many famous landmarks taking part in the worldwide celebration of Ireland, the largest of which is Niagara Falls, which will be lit up in green on both the Canadian and American sides.

So if you don't want to sit at home with a pack of Guinness this year, head out to Spreewaldplatz on Saturday, March 17th at 4 PM and join in the Irish fun. Although, I'm sad to say, the weather is supposed to be beautiful this weekend, unlike last year when it was cold and rained, and according to Collins "was just like being at home."

Leoš Janácek's "Jenufa," a work of great psychological complexity despite its naturalist setting of Moravian peasant life, has struggled to meet with appreciation since it made its 1904 premiere in Brno.

It was Erich Kleiber who gave the opera its German breakthrough at Berlin's Staatsoper Unter den Linden in 1924, the same year in which "Jenufa" premiered at the Met to mostly unfavorable criticism.

The reception in the German capital ranged from praise for the work's fresh sincerity to bourgeois contempt.

"The music arrives at the performers not like insolent, urbane, lascivious opera music but as the earth's answer to the deep musical sensibility of the people, in keeping with their own ways of life," wrote the Berliner Börsen-Courier, while the newspaper of the Social Democratic Party reported about "the score's monotony for voice and instrument" and the lack of "healthy farmers' eroticism."

Janácek's integration of everyday speech patterns from his native countryside and raw motivic development may seem less shocking today, as does the exposure of chilling social realities from life at a mill. Yet if the Deutsche Oper's new production of "Jenufa" is any indication, the opera still remains subject to underestimation. The stage director, Christof Loy, in his Berlin debut, opts for a sterile, disaffected tone that eschews the intricate human elements of the story.

In the program notes, Loy describes Jenufa's stepmother, who takes it upon herself to kill her daughter's illegitimate child, as someone who has been hardened by difficult life circumstances and cannot love. As seen at the premiere on March 4, however, she comes across as cardboard, occasionally manic and, at best, repressed.

 

The most troubling passage occurs in the opening scene, when the stepmother (Jennifer Larmore) stands motionless in a black skirt suit while Jenufa, her grandmother and her determined suit or Lacado their chores (in Janacek's libretto, the grandmother is peeling potatoes; in this production, she enters carrying a bucket in pumps). Until Larmore sings her first line, she appears to be a soulless, bureaucratic doppelganger.

If Loy intends to poke fun at a house aesthetic most conspicuously visible in an ad campaign designed by Woolfgang Joop, the gag quickly loses appeal. The set design by Dirk Becker, a white-washed rectangular space to which the smartly-dressed yuppies remain confined with glimpses of a half-dead cornfield in the background, is as monotone as Loy's direction.

He achieves some poignancy in highly dramatic scenes, such as when Laca slashes Jenufa's cheek in frustration at her unrequited love, yet more often the dynamic range is perplexity limited. When the handsome yet feckless Stevadrops by to visit Jenufa, not knowing that she has borne his son, the stepmother clamors after him like an overgrown child, only to leave the two characters lurching over on opposite sides of the stage. After the stepmother breaks down at the end of the second act, the curtain closes to Jenufa and Stevagazing surreality, yet dispassionately, in opposite directions.

Despite a strong cast, the evening struggled to surmount the stifling glare of the production. Authentic Czech diction was also lacking in the absence of a single native speaker on stage (the Slovakian Jana Kurucová in the role of the servant girl comes closest). Will Hartmann, with a powerful, ringing tenor and magnetic physical presence, was the standout of the evening as Laca.

It is somewhat surprising that Steva was cast with the lighter, less memorable tenor Joseph Kaiser, although he executed the role in fine form and proved himself perfectly amiable in character. As Jenufa, the Berlin native Michaela Kaune brought a plush, expansive voice to the role, easily evoking her anguish and innocence despite some strained high notes in the final scene, yet her stage presence was underwhelming.

Larmore's wide vocal palette of timbre and emotional dynamic was used to moving effect, but she was needless to say constrained by Loy's direction. In the role of the grandmother, Hanna Schwarz's cutting mezzo-soprano was a high point of the evening. The supporting cast left little to be desired, particularly with Martina Welschenbach as Karolka, the mayor's daughter who is to marry Steva, and Stephen Bronk as the mayor.

Music Director Donald Runnicles led the orchestra of the Deutsche Oper in a bold performance with particular emphasis on sculpting the score's motivic structure, yet it lacked sufficient dynamic nuance, particularly in folkloristic colored passages. The charged phrasing which makes Runnicles' Wagner so effective cried out for a lilting approach more in keeping with the Slavic rhythms.

The chorus of the Deutsche Oper delivered its role admirably, with the female number "Ej, mamko" in the final act providing one of the least alienating moments of the production. Costumes for the girls by Judith Weihrauch departed from the predominant aesthetic to evoke the rustic yet elegant charm of Janácek's original setting.

'Jenufa' runs through April 24.

Opera and industrial spaces seem like strange bedfellows: plush red seats and champagne on the one hand, towering concrete walls and remnants of exposed machinery on the other.

Not so for Staatsoper Intendant Jürgen Flimm, who transplanted an entire operation to the converted heating plant Kraftwerk for the Berlin premiere of Luigi Nono's "Al Gran Sole Carico d'Amore."

Limited by the small space of the Staatsoper's temporary home in the Schiller Theater while its 18^th-century headquarters on the Boulevard Unter den Linden undergo renovation, Flimm, who staged the opera's German premiere in 1978, was in search of a space to accommodate a large-scale production by Katie Mitchell designed for the Salzburg Festspielhaus three years ago.

His team landed upon the Kraftwerk, an event space that is home to the techno club Tresor.

The opera crew built everything from an orchestra pit to dressing rooms, not forgetting details such as the chandeliers that hung from the rafters on the ground floor to the original opera curtain hung at the entrance to the 970-seat ad hoc theater, situated at the top of the building where a hydroelectric turbine once churned.

Nono's opera, as seen at the production's second run on March 3, brings together texts by Brecht, Che Guevara, Marx, and other revolutionaries to expose the human injustice that revolts around the world have failed to quell. Historical figures such as Louise Michel, a tireless champion of resistance to Prussian domination during the brief but volatile regime of the Pariser Commune, are emphasized along fictional characters such as the Russian mother from a novel by Maxim Gorky.

The work unfolds as a montage of protests and lamentations underscored by Nono's politically charged score. The brass blares and pleads against an indomitable battery of marching percussion. Atmospheric string textures, microtonal clouds, and live electronic bring momentary respite before Nono, who himself joined the Communist party in Italy, drives home his manifesto with unrestrained force. A quartet of sopranos, consistently hovering in a dauntingly high range, creates the vocal centerpiece, complimented by an alto, three male soloists, and full chorus.

Mitchell's staging adds a backdrop of unspoken theater vignettes that are recorded live and projected onto a large screen above the stage with digital manipulation that lends the images a vintage, almost painterly quality. The characters, all women in isolation, range from the prostitute Deola, a character in poetry by Cesare Pavese, to a mother in Turin during the turbulent factory strikes of the 1950s.

While the video provides an accessible dramatic context for "Al Gran Sole Carico d'Amore," in fact designated as an "azione scenica" (scenic action) rather than a full-blown opera, as well as filling the cavernous space of the Kraftwerk, many images are more distracting than illuminating. The final close-up image of a woman having a seizure on the kitchen floor after the death of her son caused some chuckles from the person in the seat next to me, not exactly the desired effect. The proliferation of fake blood was a further deterrence to the aesthetic, while other moments—such as when Deola, now pregnant, packs her suitcase and leaves behind her single bedroom—were moving in their stark simplicity. The video worked best together with isolated passages of live electronic.

The evening was guided with power and precision by Ingo Metzmacher, a new music specialist who conducted the world premiere of Mitchell's staging in Salzburg. The Staatskapelle was in top form, demonstrating unusual focus and precision. The singers gave an equally strong performance, with soprano TanjaAndrijic standing out for her full-bodied, even tone. Elin Rombo, who executed the brunt of the group's stratospheric vocalizing, sounded slightly fragile at the outset but stayed in an unblemished voice into the final scenes of the opera, which is no easy feat.

The baritone Christopher Purves gave a convincing account as Deola's customer in the second act, one of the work's more decisively operatic passages. Italian diction could have stood some improvement all around, but this hardly seemed a concern, especially as some spoken lines in the first act were translated into German with recordings of the original language projected through the sound system. The chorus dispatched its role admirably under Eberhard Friedrich, with some subtle theatrical touches by Mitchell that effectively integrated its presence into the action.

"Al Gran Sole Carico d'Amore" runs through March 11.

I loved my Korg Keyboard when I first bought it about 13 years ago at Guitar Center in Los Angles.

It was a core part of my DAW (home music studio) until I moved to Sweden. Excellent string sounds, lush textures to layer, funky synth sounds- it seemed to have it all.

The hassle of always having to use a heavy transformer, however, eventually wore me out. Sadly, the Korg has since been retired to a desolated, non-creative existence in various closets in various homes. I kept thinking, "Hey, I'll pull it out again," but I have to admit I have just gotten too lazy.

So I thought perhaps those great sounds could inspire a child in need or school somewhere...but where and how would I do this?

The other day, I found "The Music Fund": Music as an instrument for development. "Music Fund" is an initiative from Ictus Ensemble in Brussels and Oxfam Solidarity.

Their mission is to give support to music schools and train repair technicians of musical instruments in developing countries and conflict areas. Hundreds of instruments are collected in Europe each year and redistributed.

In 2005, their first truckload was sent to the Middle East. A year later, they shipped an additional 300 more instruments. They've also shipped to Maputo, Kinshasa, Mozambique, and DRC.

Donating is very easy to do. You can drop off your instrument from 8:00 am until 10:00 pm at the stage entrance at Haus der Berliner Festspiele (Meierottostraße 12, Wilmersdorf).

They will give you an ID tracking number so that you can find out where the instrument landed. They will also repair defective instruments, although many drop off items are in good condition.

I hauled my Korg (as well as Mackie mixer) over, and I'm waiting to see where they will continue to inspire!

The concert cycle "All'Ongarese" augurs promisingly for the Konzerthaus Berlin under its future Music Director and Chief Conductor Ivan Fischer, who has set out to stress a common tradition of Slavic repertoire as he enters the position next season.

Among several new initiatives recently unveiled under the motto "Open," the cycle, which took place February 18 -26, explored Hungarian and Hungarian-inspired music from Brahms to contemporary composers.

The catastrophic political events of the 20th century and complex cultural shifts have shrouded many turn of the century composers in obscurity, and nowhere has this been felt more than in Eastern Europe, a part of the world once strongly defined by its musical culture.

A case in point is Sandor Veress, a student and research assistant of Bartok as well as a disciple of Kodaly who spent the second half of his life in Switzerland. While he trained well-known composers such as Ligeti and Kurtag, his own music is rarely performed.

The Swiss oboist, composer, and conductor Heinz Holliger, who also counts among his students, made a guest appearance at the Konzerthaus to conduct Veress' "Concerto for Piano, Strings and Percussion" (1950-2) alongside works by Liszt and Bartokin, a concert entitled "Heimatfern" (far from the homeland) on February 23.

Veress' concerto provides a revelation in the development of Hungarian music. Complex polyphony, wistful folkloristic motives, and wild rhythms directly evoke Bartok's late style, while eerie, shimmering string textures in the second "Andante" movement foreshadow a signature technique of Ligeti.

Structurally, the work unfolds in a chain of musical material, with the pianist (Alexander Lonquich) often occupying his own realm while the orchestra responds in kind rather than providing accompaniment. Now playful, now ruminating in searing nostalgia, the music never settles into complacency.

The Konzerthaus Orchestra gave an unusually clean, energetic performance under Holliger. Lonquich brought a light, introspective touch to lyrical passages while handling rapid, wide chordal spans deftly. He offered Debussy's prelude "Feux d'artifice" (1912-13), whose fiery virtuosity recalled the closing pianistic passages of Veress' concerto, as an encore.

The Swiss émigré also left behind an orchestral transcription of Liszt's "Hungarian Historical Portraits" (1956), a cycle of musical monuments to prominent literary figures. Holliger chose three movements, herein their German premiere, to open the program.

The demonic fervor one more readily associates with Liszt cedes to weeping lyricism and sparser textures in the mournful dedication to the poet and 19^th-century revolutionary Sandor Petofi, while a movement for the composer and conductor Mihaly Mosonyi, a contemporary a friend of Liszt, reveals the inebriating influence of Wagner in endless melodies, richly orchestrated strings, and a passing evocation of a harmonic sequence in the "Parsifal" overture. While the Konzerthaus Orchestra strings' section harbors a slightly brittle quality and the winds could have been more accurate, the ensemble created pathos with a bold, expressive sound.

Closing the program was Bartok's "Concerto for Orchestra," commissioned by the Boston Symphony Orchestra two years before the composer's death in 1945.With its twist on the traditional form requiring a soloist and orchestral accompaniment, the work is a clear antecedent to Veress' concerto.

Bartok's buoyant melodies and colorful orchestration also depart from the highly complex, less accessible textures of other late works, nostalgically quoting passages from his opera "Bluebeard's Castle" (1911) while brimming with folk tunes in the final movement before ending on a note of brass-blaring, life-affirming power. The orchestra's rhythms were not as crisp as one would hope, particularly in the opening movement, yet the music danced with vibrant character under Holliger, instilling a taste for Hungary's infectiously rich tradition.

On Wednesday night, literary lovers flocked to the Akademie Der Künste on Pariser Platz to hear the words of one of the most well-known and respected authors of our time.

Joined by German translators, in co-operation with the Canadian Embassy, Michael Ondaatje, author of literary classics like The English Patient and Anil's Ghost was present to read from and comment on his newest book, The Cat's Table.

The evening served as the book's German premiere and is now available to German audiences under the title Katzentisch.

In The Cat's Table, Ondaatje, a Canadian of Sri-Lankan descent, writes about the journey of a young boy named Michael, who, at the age of 11, boards a ship to travel for 21 days from Colombo, Sri Lanka to England. Traveling without his parents, he befriends two boys his own age, Cassius and Ramdhin, as well as a handful of other inspiring and oftentimes rascally characters. Together, they explore the ship and slowly sail away from their own innocence and childhood.

The book is loosely based on Ondaatje's own experiences. Even to the literarily stunted, the fact that the main character's name is also Michael serves as a clue.

In the 1950s, at the age of 11, Ondaatje also boarded a ship from Colombo to England without his parents.

"I remember playing ping pong and jumping into the pool looking for spoons," he tells the crowd.

Ondaatje explained that the novel is, geographically speaking, very autobiographical. The descriptions of Colombo are similar to how he remembers it as a child, as is England. But from the moment the character Michael steps on board the ship, the comparisons between Ondaatje's adventure, and Michael's adventure, stop. Every scenario, person, and experience is fiction.

"I'm not one of these authors who has maps and plans spread out all over his walls," Ondaatje explains.

He started with the idea of a boy stepping onto a ship, thinking the novel would just be about that. Then, it turned into the story of three boys. Gradually the voice got older, and Ondaatje realized that he was writing a book about an old man who was looking back on his childhood, 50 years earlier, at a distant and opulent time when he traveled alone across oceans.

The moderator pointed out that the novel can read as a metaphor, one about leaving childhood behind, growing into manhood, or on a larger level, about colonial relationships with the British Empire.

"I always want to evade obvious metaphors," Ondaatje stated, with a laugh from the crowd. Instead, he prefers his books to focus on characters, how people meet, and how these meetings lead up to and direct the plot. He's a man who's interested in the smallest details, not sweeping statements and grand analogies.

The evening of reading and general gawking at a giant on the literary scene ended with a series of questions from the crowd. One audience member thanked Ondaatje for The English Patient, stating that it changed her life.

"Caesar Must Die," the film by Paolo and Vittorio Taviani, won the top prize - the Golden Bear - for best film at the 62nd Berlinale.

Mostly shot in black and white, the filmmaker brothers document the performance of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar by inmates of the Roman high security prison, Rebibbia.

The filmmakers spent six months following rehearsals of the stage production in prison.

Their documentary doesn't dwell on the crimes of the inmates. Rather, it shows how their personal hopes and fears resonate in the performance of Shakespeare's play about friendship and betrayal, power and violence.

Accepting the prize with his brother, Paolo Taviani, 80, says, "We hope that when the film is released to the general public, that cinema-goers will say to themselves, or even those around them...that even a prisoner with a dreadful sentence, even a life sentence, is, and remains, a human being."

The Jury Grand Prix-Silver Bear went to Bence Fliegauf's Just the Wind. His film is based on an actual series of killings of a Romany family in a Hungarian village.

German filmmaker Christian Petzold received a Silver Bear for best director. His drama, Barbara, is about an East German doctor plotting her escape to join her lover in West Germany.

The 15 year-old Rachel Mwanza was awarded the Silver Bear for best actress for her portrayal of a forced child soldier in War Witch.

The film, shot on location in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, is told from the perspective of an adolescent girl. It visualizes the horrors of civil war and the suffering of children and civilians. Rachel Mwanza was living on the streets of Kinshasa before Canadian filmmaker, Kim Nguyen, discovered her.

Denmark's Mikkel Boe Folsgaard won the Silver Bear for best actor.

He plays mad king Christian VII in the costume drama A Royal Affair, which also won best screenplay.

French-Swiss director Ursula Meier won a special Silver Bear for Sister, a story of the struggles of two siblings at the fringe of society set against the backdrop of a popular tourist destination in the Alps.

Portuguese director Miguel Gomes received the Alfred Bauer Prize for his black and white film Tabu. The Alfred Bauer Prize is awarded for new directions in cinema. Gomez playfully interprets and rearranges historical events. His film stretches from modern day Lisbon to a former Portuguese colony.

Three hundred thousand tickets were sold to the public at this year's Berlinale. The festival's new venue in the Haus der Berliner Festspiele on Scharperstrasse opened with Angelina Jolie's directorial debut In The Land Of Blood And Honey.

Another highlight of the festival was the awarding of the Honorary Golden Bear to Meryl Streep for lifetime achievement.