Coliseum
(sung in English)
Gabriel von Eisenstein – Tom Randle
Rosalinde – Julia Sporsén
Frank – Andrew Shore
Prince Orlofsky – Jennifer Holloway
Alfred – Edgaras Montvidas
Dr Falke – Richard Burkhard
Dr Blind – Simon Butteriss
Adele – Rhian Lois
Ida – Lydia Marchione
Frosch – Jan Pohl
Christopher Alden (director)
Allen Moyer (set designs)
Constance Hoffman (costumes)
Paul Palazzo (lighting)
Chorus of the English National Opera (chorus master: Martin Fitzpatrick)
Orchestra of the English National Opera
Eun Sun Kim (conductor)
Champagne is constantly
evoked in the libretto of Die Fledermaus,
an all-too-ready explanation for the events that have taken place or are to
follow. As Prince Orlofsky sings, ‘Champagner, König aller Weine! Hoch die
sprudelnde Majestät und ihre Untertanen!’ or, as Frank ruefully comments, ‘Der
verdammte Champagner!’ We could have done with a few more bubbles here, especially
following the interval.
The ultimate question, then,
is: what is it that falls a little flat? It is not always easy to put one’s
finger on it; by the same token, there are a good few things to admire, so it
is perhaps better to put off that question a little longer. As implied above,
the first act is on the whole rather fun and indeed much of the rest of the
production makes one think. (That is a red rag to the bull of a certain
self-satisfied variety of opera-goer, let alone operetta-goer, but who cares?)
Christopher Alden’s staging quite rightly does not take the easy road; if one
is going to plead the cause for the defence, especially in a case such as this,
then one needs to dig beneath the surface. The Overture presents both the
gigantic version of Eisenstein’s pocket watch, which will haunt the staging
throughout, and figures of bats themselves, before we see the bat. (Incidentally, should ENO not call the operetta, The Bat, rather than employing a German
title?) As the performance progresses, we realise that the surrealistic occurrences
may not be just that; Rosalinde’s marital bed, one of many handsome designs by
Allen Moyer, conjures up fantasies that prefigure Freud, but they are the stuff
of the drama itself, not something superimposed. Indeed, the blurring of
boundaries between what is ‘dreamed’ and what is ‘real’ is one of the strongest
features of Alden’s production. It takes us forward so that, in his words, ‘the
ponderous nineteenth-century Victorian bedroom of Act I cracks open to let the
fresh air of Act II’s 1920s-ish celebration of loosening up, freedom, and
creativity.’ Except, and I suspect this
may be where I part company from many others, the problem is not that the
production goes too far; I am not sure that it goes far enough. One does not
really feel what Alden describes. If there were an ‘orgy’, as I had heard it
described prior to the performance, then somehow my friend and I managed to
miss it. A little more abandon would not have gone amiss. ‘The reactionary
crackdown on subversive degeneracy in Act III’s prison’ likewise does not
really come off. Indeed, it seems tacked on, the Nazi thuggishness of Frosch an
all-too-easy card to play, a card which, moreover, seems uncertain as to
whether it be intended parodically. The alarming overacting of Jan Pohl in the
role would seem out of place on just about any stage, or indeed in a 1970s situation
comedy; but here, when more subtle expectations have originally been set up, it
seems all the more striking a misjudgement, presumably on Alden’s part.
I confess to initial scepticism
about the idea of Johann Strauss in English, but if translation must be done,
then Daniel Dooner and Stephen Lawless did a fine job indeed, a striking
contrast with the previous ENO effort for Fidelio (David Pountney). Whilst all was going well, there was genuine wit to be
savoured – and the later problems certainly did not lie with this accomplished
translation. Eun Sun Kim’s conducting of the score proved varied. It began in
mercilessly hard-driven fashion, but calmed down, and if sometimes it felt more
observed than felt from within, there were passages in which the rhythmic lilt
was winningly conveyed. For that, of course, the orchestra itself deserves
credit too. Yet one could never quite kid oneself that this was the ‘real thing’,
a slippery concept, and in repertoire such as this, dangerously amenable to all
manner of unpleasant, völkisch
interpretations. Perhaps, however, and this goes for the contribution of the
cast as well, performances will sound more at ease with themselves as the run
continues.
There was much to enjoy from
the cast, Tom Randle predictably subtle, no mere caricature, as Eisenstein, and
Julia Sporsén an attractively-voiced Rosalinde. Andrew Shore displayed
considerable comic as well as musical gifts as Frank. Jennifer Holloway offered
vocal depth as Orlofsky, though many of her words were quite incomprehensible,
partly no doubt a result of the thick, allegedly ‘Russian’ accent she was
obliged to adopt. I continue to find the idea
that ‘regional’ or ‘foreign’ accents are intrinsically hilarious at best
questionable, but it seems to have become a staple of such events, doubtless as
a substitute for genuine comedy. Likewise, if Edgaras Montvidas’s Alfred and
Rhian Lois’s Adele tilted too much towards such caricature – probably not their
fault at all, certainly jarring with the more interesting aspects of this
conflicted production – they offered considerable vocal rewards, as did Lydia
Marchione as Ida. Richard Burkhard’s Falke had some problematic moments
vocally; Simon Butteriss offered a Dr Blind as camp as (presumably) requested
by the director. Choral singing was generally of a high standard. It was,
though, that elusive sense of ‘company’ that was perhaps most lacking. Again,
that may rectify itself in subsequent performances.
I wonder, though, whether the
principal problem lies with the work itself. Of course, one does not expect it
to be Parsifal or Saint François d’Assise; even so, it remains
rather thin stuff: better than Lehár, no doubt, though otherwise, Offenbach’s wit,
style, and satire seem preferable in just about every respect, and perhaps
transfer better to a modern, international house. Granted, this is a very
difficult genre to get ‘right’; Elisabeth Schwarzkopf claimed to find it
trickier than opera. Is it really worth the trouble, though? Perhaps it is
better off left to the ‘traditional’ likes of the Volksoper, though Alden et al. certainly merit thanks for trying
something more provocative. Given ENO’s puzzling neglect of Richard Strauss – surely a work such as Intermezzo ought to be right up its
street – it would probably be better advised to transfer its allegiance to him
for the next few Strauss outings. Once a decade or two seems about right for
Johann.
