Images: Bernd Uhlig Rocco (Matti Salminen) and Marzelline (Evelin Novak) |
Schillertheater
Don Fernando – Roman Trekel
Don Pizarro – Falk StruckmannFlorestan – Andreas Schager
Leonore – Camilla Nylund
Rocco – Matti SalminenMarzelline – Evelin Novak
Jaquino – Florian Hoffmann
Derek Gimpel (assistant director)
Hans Schavernoch (set designs)
Yan Tax (costumes)
Olaf Freese (lighting)
Berlin State Opera Chorus (chorus master: Martin Wright)
Staatskapelle Berlin
Daniel Barenboim (conductor)
What to do with Fidelio? It seems to be a question exercising
everyone staging – and performing – it, which, in one, very obvious sense, is
fair enough, even a necessity. On the other hand, the desire to ‘do’ something
with it, whether musically, scenically, or both, will sometimes lead us down decidedly
peculiar alleys. I have been sent down stranger, far less convincing ways than
that of Harry Kupfer. Indeed a signal strength of his new production for the
Berlin State Opera is that it seems to suggest – or at least can be understood
to do so – that the desire to do things different musically, the jadedness that
gave birth to the fashion-victim wing of ‘authenticity’ can be at least as
injurious to Beethoven as Mahler’s ‘tradition’ as Schlamperei. Both the comfortable, too-smoothly-connected Beethoven
of regular, all-too-regular performances at the Musikverein – seen at beginning
and end, in a strangely convincing trompe
l’œil backdrop – and a reductive, anti-metaphysical, post-Stravinskian inability
to cope with him, his music, and his message, to connect anything, be it phrase
or idea, with anything else, stand accused. Or at least they did for me. Kupfer
is not always the most open of directors, but here, I think he offers the potential
for different readings, according to one’s own needs as well as inclinations.
Whether that has come at the expense of the directoral boldness we know from
the Kupfer of old, whether there is a tiredness, as well as an accusation of
tiredness, remains an awkward, nagging doubt.
Kupfer, aided by Hans
Schavernoch’s excellent designs, presents a Beethoven hemmed in by routine. His
bust stands on the piano; that is what busts, especially of Beethoven, do. Performance
directions, director’s notes, multilingual key words drive us up the walls. The
day-to-day routine of an opera house or concert hall, even when well run, well
thought through – having studied, for instance, at some of Kupfer’s notes for
his Dresden Moses und Aron, I can
attest that he thinks, certainly thought, things through – can militate against
great artistry. No one, I am sure, would claim otherwise. Such, in a sense, is
the world of the first scene of Fidelio,
of Jacquino and Marzelline, or Rocco’s ‘gold’ aria. It would be an odd thing if
the most memorable thing about a Fidelio were the ironing, but ironing is
necessary, as are the non-heroic characters in general. Does it seep through
too much, though? Are the prisoners as imprisoned by their Peters scores –
which, mysteriously, they rarely if ever open, although I think Jacquino does
his – as by something more objectively brutal? Is that an important question to
ask, or is it gravely insulting to those who actually are physically
imprisoned? Kupfer seems to invite us to ask such questions; I have thought a
good deal about them since, and am still doing so.
Don Pizarro (Falk Struckmann), Leonore, and Florestan (Andreas Schager) |
There are big moments, of
course. They still shine through. Is the director perhaps telling us to
simplify, to focus upon them? He might be, but I am not entirely sure. Perhaps
that is as it should be. At any rate, the events in the dungeon retain a straightforward
power of their own, as surely they must. Or must they? I know that many in the
audience felt too much left to their own devices, and wonder whether some on
stage did too. I am far from unsympathetic to them, yet at the same time, the
contrast between the ambiguity of direction (and even, if non-direction it
were, of non-direction) and the certainty of the musical performance was not,
for me, entirely unproductive.
For it was ultimately the
contribution, unsurprisingly, of the Staatskapelle Berlin and Daniel Barenboim
that made this Fidelio – well, Fidelio. That is not intended as any
disrespect to the generally excellent singers, but Fidelio begins and ends with its symphonism – even when, perhaps
even particularly when, it is aspirant symphonism. The oddity of opening with
the second Leonore Overture aside –
was even Barenboim joining in the game of ‘difference’? – not a foot was put wrong.
That is not enough, of course: not nearly enough. More to the point,
everything, even if there were multiple alternatives, felt right, felt
necessary. Hearing the work from beginning to end, Barenboim built it
intriguingly from Klemperian foundations to a blazing, almost incredibly
Furtwänglerian final chorus. (The interplay between those two tendencies,
living influences, has recently been a particular theme in his conducting
of Beethoven symphonies.) The orchestra, as transparent as it was weighty,
as dramatically incisive as it was metaphysically wise, stood quite beyond the
realm of the quotidian. It played with greater ‘tradition’ than the
unforgettable West-Eastern
Divan under Barenboim, but this was a tradition, unlike that of some, that
was constantly rethought, recreated. Much the same could, and should, be said
of the magnificent choral singing. Barenboim’s Fidelio is not the same as it was, nor should it be. Is it better?
Who cares? It is what it is now, and it is something special indeed.
Andreas Schager’s Florestan was
also special. Too few singers who essay the role can actually sing it.
Unsurprisingly, there was no such problem in Schager’s case: he is unquestionably
the finest Heldentenor, as
conventionally understood, of our time. (Jonas
Kaufmann, a superlative exponent of the role, is something quite different
again.) There was an appealing, rather straightforward sincerity to his
portrayal, which is arguably just what it needs. And in a dialectical situation
such as set up by Kupfer, straightforwardness will never ‘just’ be
straightforwardness. Camilla Nylund’s Leonore was very similar. The
near-impossible things Beethoven asks of her held no (vocal) fear. They were
never despatched routinely, though; they mattered. The trajectory traced by Matti
Salminen’s Rocco, from (relative) darkness to light, was very much that of the
work; it moved immensely, the artistry undeniable, yet worn (in a different
sense) lightly. Evelin Novak and Florian Hoffmann shone, in their own ways, as
the ‘other’ couple, capable of excellent things indeed vocally, content in
their non-heroic station dramatically. If Roman Trekel’s Don Fernando were a
little dry, that should not be exaggerated. And if Falk Struckmann’s Don
Pizarro could not quite create the malevolence the role seems to require, very
few assumptions do. (In fact, do any?)
To return to where we began,
then: what to do with Fidelio? The answer
may seem obvious, but it is not trite, for Beethoven can never be trite. Whilst
Guantánamo Bay remains open, whilst Palestine, Tibet, so many other parts of
the world remain under brutal occupation, whilst, above all, Aleppo remains
under siege, do we not know actually know very well what it is about? Are we
not hiding, imprisoning ourselves and others, if we fail to acknowledge that, to
let Beethoven’s music inspire us, and to let performances such as these do
likewise? We need Beethoven most when he seems furthest from us. A
Calixto Bieito will always be able to make us think differently, to reconsider
a work such as this – or rather, this work, for there is not really any other
work like it. Kupfer does, too, I think, if less clearly. However, a
straightforward presentation, performed with burning conviction, may be all it
needs. There is no harm, however, in pausing from time to time to question such
apparent certainty. Does Fidelio mean
Fidelio?