Lulu (Brenda Rae) and Dr Schön (James Morris) Images: Catherine Ashmore |
(sung in English)
Lulu – Brenda Rae
Countess Geschwitz – Sarah
ConnollyDresser, Schoolboy Waiter – Clare Presland
Painter, Second Client – Michael Colvin
Dr Schön, Jack the Ripper – James Morris
Alwa – Nicky Spence
Schigolch – Willard White
Animal Tamer, Athlete – David Soar
Prince, Manservant, Marquis – Jeffrey Lloyd-Roberts
Theatre Director, Banker – Graeme Danby
Fifteen-year old girl – Sarah Labiner
Girl’s Mother – Rebecca de Pont Davies
Artist – Sarah Champion
Journalist – Geoffrey Dolton
Dr Goll, Police Commissioner, First Client – Rolf Higgins
Servant – Paul Sheehan
Solo performers – Joanna Dudley, Andrea Fabi
William Kentridge (director)
Luc de Wit (associate director)Sabine Theunissen (set designs)
Greta Goiris (costumes)
Urs Schönebaum (lighting)
Catherine Meyburgh, Kim Gunning (video)
ENO’s new Lulu proved another triumph for the company: just what ENO should
be doing; just, indeed, what ENO is for. Will the cabal of management
consultants and the Arts Council – or, as it insists on calling itself, sans
article, ‘Arts Council England’ – listen? No, of course not. Their priorities,
as they have shown time and time again, and with increasing vindictiveness, are
quite different. Whoever met a neo-liberal artist or, indeed a neo-liberal art
lover? (How I wish the translation had not left ‘Jungfrau’, or ‘Virgin’,
tactfully in the German original…) One might, I suppose, quibble, whether ENO
needed a new production; Richard Jones’s excellent staging might well have
received another outing. (It should certainly have been staged more regularly
than it was, but that, I suspect is more a comment on opera audiences than on
artistic design.) But ENO did not mount this by itself; it performed us ‘citizens
of the world’ a signal service by granting us the opportunity to see this
much-discussed William Kentridge production, already seen in New York and
Amsterdam. To say we should only have one, is akin to saying that because we
have heard Daniel Barenboim play Beethoven, we have no need to hear Maurizio
Pollini. It is the language of enemies of art, of accountancy; worse still, it
is the language of those journalists determined never to miss an opportunity to
find fault.
Joanna Dudley, Lulu, and Schigolch (Willard White) |
I shall admit to having been
puzzled by some of the discussion I overheard. More than once I heard people
complaining about there having been too much going on, even ‘sensory overload’.
Have such people, I wonder, ever seen a Stefan Herheim production? More to the
point, did they not think of how visual layering, the interaction between
layers, between the visual and the aural, might actually be the point, a point
very much in keeping with the work? What I saw was actually a relatively
conventional, but highly theatrical telling of the story, enhanced, questioned,
developed by an extension of its painterly imagery both in expressionistic
drawings and film – an exhibition of Kentridge’s art may be seen presently at
Whitechapel – and in the alluring yet sometimes ironic commentary, still very
much in allusive ‘period’ style, by the silent artists, Joanna Dudley and
Andrea Fabi. It was not remotely too much; indeed, like Berg’s score, it left
me wanting more. This blackest of comedies gained in darkness – this was the
night following the US election, something readily observable on almost every
face in the house – and in sophistication of comedic response. I began to think
of Berg’s musico-dramatic roots in Mozart and Wagner, in particular, and also
of what he had in common with Strauss, another heir to that exalted pair, yet
one far too little thought of has having much in common with the more overtly ‘progressive’,
yet perhaps equally ‘nostalgic’, Berg.
Mark Wigglesworth’s conducting
of the score, superlatively played by the ENO Orchestra was, of course, crucial
in that respect. As Boulez, at work on the three-act premiere, once observed, ‘It
is not so much the use of symmetry as the exploiting of multiple musical forms
that is one of the most complex and attractive features’ of the music. Rather
it in the confrontation between what Boulez broadly considered to be
characteristic Mozartian number opera and the continuous – to which, I might
add, increasingly symphonic – forms of Wagner that Lulu, in a different, or at least more complicated, less overt, way
than Wozzeck will best find its
performative voice. For Boulez, ‘The great advance from Wozzeck to Lulu lies in
the fact that, although the scenes are still separated by interludes, there is
now no “passage” between them.’ He found himself, unsurprisingly, especially
attracted by the ‘fusion between continuity and formal separateness’. That, I
think, was very much what we heard, and perhaps also what we saw, or at least
what was suggested by what we saw, here. An especially fine woodwind section
could not help but bring Mozart to mind: not just the Mozart of Così fan tutte but the composer of the
wind serenades too. It was not for nothing that, in one of his final recordings,
Boulez returned to Berg’s Chamber Concerto, coupling it with the Gran partita, KV 361. Melodies,
harmonies, audibly generated before our ears by Berg’s endlessly fascinating
compositional processes, and yet audibly as ‘free’ as they were ‘determined’, tantalised,
instructed, informed, criticised, rather as the drawings, films, words, actions
did before our eyes. This was no mere mirroring; it was mutual enhancement and
elucidation, a new path through the Bergian labyrinth.
An excellent cast was necessary
too, of course, and an excellent cast we had. Brenda Rae, who so greatly
impressed me in the Bavarian
State Opera’s Schweigsame Frau –
now there is an interesting Strauss-Berg comparison to consider – shone at
least as brightly as Lulu. The canvas on which we more or less uneasily project
our fantasies of Lulu was no more empty than the changing visual decoration of
the set, but, amidst, or perhaps beneath, the despatch of the coloratura and
the seduction of the more conventional melodic line, there was a fine balance struck
between nihilism and defiant character. Sarah Connolly’s Geschwitz certainly
had the latter in spades; if I have seen and heard a stronger, more compassionate
performance from her, I cannot recall it (which seems unlikely). If James
Morris’s Dr Schön was at times a little stiff, there was certainly authority to
be felt there, and his way with the words was especially admirable. Nicky
Spence’s Alva struck another fine balance, in this case between the ardent and
the cowardly; again, an admirable way with words and music projected ambiguity
without easy, or perhaps any, answers. Willard White’s Schigolch was less
caricatured, less repellent than one often experiences; such ambiguity was also
decidedly a gain. There were no weak links, and a host of splendid character
performances, artists such as Michael Colvin and Sarah Labiner particularly
catching my ear. At least as impressive, though, was the ensemble work. In the Paris
Scene, one might almost have thought this a crack new music ensemble, such was
the clarity and confidence with which the lines were projected and with which
they were interacted. It might almost have been a rehearsal for, or a response
to, Strauss’s homage to his adored Così
in Capriccio.