Beethoven must have derived great inspiration from these intensely dramatic minor-key sonatas, and Brendel's playing emphasizes this very point. At the beginning of the A minor I almost wondered whether I was listening to Glenn Gould, so measured and weighty is the first theme, so extreme the contrast with clipped staccatos later on, so obtrusive the groaning. The first movement is indeed marked maestoso, and there are authentic fortissimo and pianissimo markings (rare enough in Mozart to invite some special response from the performer). Nor do I feel squeamish about the full resources of the modern piano being used. But as an exasperated listening companion remarked, has Brendel ever tried actually listening to it that way? What ultimately wears the listener's patience is not so much the interpretation, which has undeniable grandeur, but the persistent hardening of tone in crescendos; and I winced (out loud, I confess, during the slow movement of K457) at some of the accents.
Brendel fans will probably disagree, pointing instead to the subtleties of his part-playing, the many textual niceties, the laudable inclusion of all repeats, the unmistakable sense of conviction holding things together. Certainly there should be room in the catalogue for readings of such strong individuality. Comparison with Andras Schiff (a six-LP boxed set of the complete sonatas on Decca D222D6, 11/81) reveals markedly superior pianism, but also a degree of preciousness, of which Brendel could never be accused. I just feel that Brendel in this mood makes the music sound less like great Mozart than rather thin Beethoven.'