Vienna State Opera
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| Images: Wiener Staatsoper / Michael Pöhn |
Floria Tosca – Martina Serafin
Mario Cavaradossi – Roberto
Alagna
Baron Scarpia – Michael Volle
Cesare Angelotti – Ryan Speedo
Green
Sacristan – Alfred Šramek
Spoletta – Benedikt Kobel
Sciarrone – Hans Peter Kammerer
Gaoler – Il Hong
Shepherd Boy – Bernhard
Sengstschmid
Margarethe Wallmann (director)
Nicola Benois (revival director)
Vienna State Opera Chorus (chorus master: Martin Schebesta)
Orchestra of the Vienna State Opera
Dan Ettinger (conductor)
Tosca is pretty much indestructible, although
that does not necessarily prevent opera houses from doing their worst to prove me wrong. Where
are the Bieitos, the Konwitschnys, the Herheims, the Katy Mitchells, indeed
anyone who might think Puccini and indeed his audiences merit something other
than condescension? The Berlin State Opera recently signalled the prospect of
something a little more interesting with a new production, conducted by Daniel
Barenboim (his first Puccini!), directed by Alvis Hermanis, a director with a
mixed record, at best, but at least not renowned for pandering to ‘subscription’
tastes. Whether the staging succeeded, I do not know; given Hermanis’s
recent pronouncements, I am unlikely ever to find out. Alas, Dominique
Meyer decided, rather than to present a new production at the Vienna State
Opera, to reproduce the disintegrating sets and costumes of its existing – I am
tempted to say, ‘prehistoric’ – production.
That, alas, is precisely what
it looks like. Indeed, before I was informed by a friend
of Meyer’s strange decision, my thought had been that the sets and costumes
reminded me of the horrible if understandable restoration of Dresden’s
Frauenkirche. (How much more powerful it was when a pile of rubble: an
encounter, from my first visit to that city, I will never forget!) Indeed, what
the action, if one can call it that, looked and felt like was really rather
curious: some people attempting, without much support, less to ape the manners
of the 1950s than to have rediscovered an abandoned set from that period, trying to do something, anything, but not too much, within its confines. Margarethe
Wallmann’s production, to our eyes, seems strange, not in an intriguing way, but
because the years have hollowed it out of what one presumes once to have been
its content. Doubtless a revival director does what she can, and can hardly be
held responsible, but a piece of theatre this is not.
The answer one often hears to
such complaints is that great artists can breathe new life into anything.
Perhaps, although I think even Herbert von Karajan and Renata Tebaldi, who
featured in its 1957 premiere, might have had difficulty here in 2015. This, at
any rate, was not a vintage night in performing terms. Dan Ettinger’s
conducting was at best plodding, although there were occasional hints form the
orchestra – some gorgeous cello playing in particular – that these were players
who might, under a conductor such as Daniele Gatti, produce something
world-beating. For the most part, Ettinger seemed content to ‘accompany’: a
very odd idea for one of the most symphonic of opera composers. When he did try
something, it seemed to be merely to repeat a phrase slower and louder than the
last time. This score usually flies by; here, one might have thought it a
misfire on the composer’s part.
There was better news from the
singers – at least until the end (on which more shortly). Martina Serafin is
not possessed of the most refulgent of voices, but she did a good deal with
what she had, and for the most part proved attentive towards words as well as music.
‘Vissi d’arte’ was, alas, plagued by poor intonation. Roberto Alagna suffered
similarly when he first came on stage, but his performance improved
dramatically – in more than one sense – thereafter. Indeed, as always, he threw
his all into what he was doing, vocally and otherwise. His big aria was beautifully sung, without a hint of playing to the
gallery. (Alas, the gallery still responded, holding up what action the production
permitted.) Michael Volle seemed strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, out of
sorts. He is a great artist, but this is perhaps not his role, or at least this
is not his production. His Italian was such that even I found it too Teutonic,
and, although he offered greater malice and menace in the second act, the
first-act Scarpia seemed oddly avuncular. Ryan Speedo Green was an energetic, dark-voiced
Angelotti; I should like to hear more from him.
Despite my reservations, I was
a little surprised when no one came to receive applause. Eventually, a member
of staff came forward to make an announcement. Serafin had fallen awkwardly
when making her leap from the ramparts and was unable to return onstage. After
that, although the rest of the cast then took their curtain calls, the evening
fizzled out, a state of affairs which, alas, did not seem at odds with the staging.
I do not doubt that, in 1957, when Wallmann’s production, if we can still call
it that, was first seen, with Karajan and Tebaldi, there might have been much to
enjoy scenically, as well as musically. Now, however, it would surely be kinder
to Wallmann, to Puccini, to the singers, to the audience, to grant it an
honourable retirement. As another, supremely theatrical composer, alongside Schoenberg
(later) surely the most beneficial influence upon Puccini, once put it: ‘Kinder,
macht neues!’
