Last night, BBC2 ran an Amy Winehouse special commemorating twenty years of Back To Black. For the hour that was Amy Winehouse At The BBC I was captivated. She was such a talent with an incredible voice, yet what always stands out to me as she cuts deep into my insides is the rawness of emotion generated from her interpretations. Every twitch and intonation is delivered from the heart in one of the finer examples of an artist exposing themselves fully through their work. Love, passion, pain and pleasure ooze from her in ways that exposes her human frailties while elevating her into an ethereal realm most of us can barely imagine. That delight in living through song and music is clear, setting her up as a real star. A wunderkind.
McCullers has also created something beautiful and painful in this short work.
Frances is a talent. She has played the piano for years and should be destined for greatness. Her teacher, Mr Bilderbach, has a rich heritage in music and sets high standards for his pupils. Alongside his wife, a professional singer who had to give up her career because of her throat and now bakes to perfection, they nurture Frances as if she's their own. The trio have a settled routine. In spite of the pressure and intensity of the lessons, the adults treat her warmly and with great affection.
Not long before we meet, Frances has performed with another would-be star, a young violinist who has moved on to bigger and better things. Though it was a showcase for both musicians, reviews for Frances drew criticism, something that has weighed her down since.
As we watch the lesson and learn of her struggles, we realise that something has changed. Frances has lost the elements that shine in Amy Winehouse- the passion and love for the tunes she plays and the way she expresses herself in performance have disappeared.
All that effort and all that hope and it's all come to nought. It's a moment that must arrive for so many striving to rise to the top in their field; the sensitivity in creating the atmosphere for this particular collapse is utterly tender and somehow killing with kindness. The cosy becomes claustrophobic. The potential a burden. The musical notes rocks to beat herself up with.
It's hard to know where exactly the demise is rooted. Is it blossoming from the insecurities of the mid-teen years? Has the depth of expectation shot itself in the heart? Did she ever possess the talent required?
Wunderkind is a special story about a special character who doesn't need to be able to play the piano in order to seem extraordinary.
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