I can’t imagine any pianophile not drooling over the prospect of seeing two of the past century’s greatest players in action, so familiar from their recordings of this time (mid-1960s) but seldom glimpsed on film. To experience Janis (b1928) in two live concerto performances is, perhaps, particularly valuable given the tragic course of his career. A pupil of Josef and Rosina Lhévinne, Adele Marcus, Samuel Chotzinoff and, most famously, Horowitz (who came close to ruining Janis), he lost all feeling in the fifth finger of his left hand when, aged 16, he accidentally thrust his hand through a glass door. From the 1970s he gallantly fought the onset of psoriatic arthritis, had to abandon the piano in 1991 after an operation which left his right thumb shortened and then, bravely, made a comeback in 1998. In these performances from French television he is at the top of his game in repertoire with which he was closely associated.

Janis is one of those highly watchable pianists: his hand movements are almost recklessly cavalier, his body rarely motionless – a complete contrast to Horowitz – with, all the while, a penetrating concentration on the keyboard. He swallows the Prokofiev whole. Here and in the Rachmaninov, all problems have been solved long ago and those familiar with his high-octane concerto recordings, whether with Munch, Reiner or Dorati, will not be disappointed. The recorded orchestral sound in both works is, inevitably, on the thin side and, though the piano comes off remarkably well in balance and tonal quality, there is some lack of visual synchronisation. It’s a minor distraction but a distraction nevertheless.

Julius Katchen (1926-69) died from cancer at the age of 42 just three years after these Brahms performances. They were filmed in Paris, where he spent much of his adult life, and before he had completed his famed recordings of the complete solo works of Brahms. Katchen’s brisk, energetic style was especially suited to the earlier opus numbers and the two outer movements and Scherzo of the Sonata positively sizzle in his almost improvisatory account. Not always noted for his introspective playing, Katchen is here genuinely affecting in the expressive slow movement. The two Hungarian Dances (with Katchen’s own embellishments?) teeter near parody at times but this larger-than-life and still-missed artist is clearly enjoying himself.

The DVD’s insert contains merely the chapter listings and timings (the Brahms items appear in the wrong order). An electronic booklet can be accessed from the DVD. Here you’ll find an excellent essay by Jeremy Siepmann as well as archive photographs.