Prinzregententheater
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| Images: Wilfried Hösl |
Claudio –
Gianluca Buratto
Agrippina –
Alice Coote
Nerone –
Franco Fagioli
Poppea –
Elsa Benoît
Ottone –
Iestyn Davies
Pallante –
Andrea Mastroni
Narciso –
Eric Jurenas
Lesbo –
Markus Suihkonen
Barrie Kosky
(director)
Rebecca
Ringst (set designs)
Klaus Bruns
(costumes)
Joachim
Klein (lighting)
Nikolaus
Stenitzer (dramaturgy)
Bavarian
State Orchestra
Ivor Bolton
(conductor)
And still
they come. The opera world’s obsession with Handel’s operas shows no sign of
abating. The Bavarian State Opera has, since Peter Jonas’s Intendancy, stood at
the forefront of Handel staging; this new production of Agrippina was dedicated to him. As ever, I was pleased to see one
of these operas for the first time in the theatre – how could I not be pleased
to see almost anything in Munich’s wonderful Prinzregententheater – but again,
as ever, I was left unable ever quite to put to one side the dramaturgical difficulties/problems/flaws/inadequacies.
(Call them what you will.)
That Agrippina tells us next to nothing about
ancient Rome is neither here nor there. One might say the same of La clemenza di Tito (in whichever
version one cares to take it). It benefits also, I think, from being one of
Handel’s earliest works. The freshness of his Italian writing is often very
much apparent, even though some of the music he recycles – his own, that is,
though Reinhard Keiser puts in guest ‘borrowed’ appearances too – perhaps
breathes more easily in its earlier manifestations. There is certainly wit in
Cardinal Vincenzo Grimani’s libretto; that seems to have appealed to Barrie
Kosky, who somewhat oddly speculates in the programme on the cardinal’s sexual
orientation on the basis of in-jokes, as he sees them. Again, that is really
neither here nor there, but Kosky, for all the intelligence with which he
writes otherwise in that programme, seems unable or at least unwilling to
prevent himself from inflicting acts of arbitrary silliness. They do little to
clarify or to further the action, and serve instead to suggest that it is not
to be taken seriously. (If not, then what is the point at all? It is certainly
not an intrinsically amusing work.) Silly dancing, that plague of so much
vaguely ‘modern’ opera staging, recurs with wearying regularity; likewise
gratuitous over-acting, which serves, it seems, only to dare one ‘humourlessly’
to decry it. As for the bizarre transformation at one point of Agrippina into nightclub singer, the less said the better.
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| Agrippina (Alice Coote) |
There is,
moreover, little or no sense of what might actually be at stake in the plot,
most notably the very real danger in which Ottone, fallen foul of imperial
favour, finds himself. The work’s dramaturgical difficulties are thus
heightened rather than addressed, let alone resolved. Deferring an interval
until the middle of the second act does not really help. The three-act
structure is clear and meaningful; there is no obvious reason to present us
with one-and-a-half acts at a time, other perhaps than cost-cutting. The
descent of Juno to bless the final arrangement is – somewhat oddly, given the
length of the evening – omitted. So too is the ballet that would follow;
instead, we have an aria from L’Allegro,
Il Penseroso ed Il Moderato. That
all does no harm, I suppose; presumably divine intervention stood at odds with
whatever the production’s prevailing sensibility of the production is held to
be. (Apart from vaguely modernised silliness, I remain at a loss.) Its
inclusion might well, though, have offered opportunity for more of a critical,
reflective stance than ever emerges.
Ivor Bolton’s
tempi were sensible enough, at least for a while. It was not long, though,
before one realised that the conductor had little or no sense of harmonic
rhythm, and was simply treating the score as recitative-aria-recitative-aria, ad infinitum. Given some arbitrary pulling
around of certain numbers, others remaining unpleasantly hard-driven, the work’s
longueurs were again heightened rather than addressed. Orchestral playing was
generally excellent, the Bavarian State Orchestra’s woodwind especially
delectable. If strings would have benefited from warmer tone at time, that was
clearly a consequence of Bolton’s allegedly ‘period’ style. Continuo exhibitionism
was largely absent, for which, in the present climate, we should all be
grateful, even though what remained was often somewhat staid.
There was
much to admire in the singing, save for Franco Fagioli’s dreadful squawkathon
as Nerone. His bizarre facial expressions were certainly matched by grotesque
vocal production. Why anyone should wish to experience either is quite beyond
me. The best that could be said was that his display was less atrocious than as
Covent
Garden’s Idamante a few years ago; at least he sang a few more of the right
notes in Munich. Alice Coote offered a generous, beautifully shaded performance
in the title role, coloratura a dramatic tool, rather than, as in Fagioli’s
case, a mere object of (fallible) display. Elsa Benoît’s Poppea proved finely
contrasted in tendency – Kosky’s more girlish conception of her was perhaps a
little much – but possessing many of the same musical virtues. Oddly, the one
aria in which accuracy of intonation left much to be desired was the one
vigorously applauded by a sadly undiscerning audience. (It lapped up Fagioli
too.) Iestyn Davies put Fagioli to shame in his unfailingly musical performance
as Ottone. ‘Ti vuo’ giusta e non pietosa,’ which here came immediately before the
interval, offered all the musical sensitivity and verbal acuity so
conspicuously absent chez Nerone.
There were otherwise no weak links, Gianluca Buratto’s Claudio perhaps
especially impressive in his matching of style and temperament.
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| Claudio (Gianluca Buratto) and Elsa Benoît |
Ultimately, though, none of the problems seemingly inherent in performance of Handelian opera seria were solved; a good few were not even acknowledged. Handel is unquestionably a fine composer. Is it too much, though, to ask that we look more to the music – and indeed to the musical dramas – in which he stands at his greatest? Most of the oratorios – pretty much any of them, other than Messiah – remain bizarrely neglected. They offer thoughtful singers, as well as audiences, considerably greater nourishment, on the whole. And can we not at least rid ourselves of this fad with vocal exhibitionism, especially when it fails so manifestly even on its own terms? There is room for Handel and Gluck; a surfeit of the former, however, tends only to have one longing for the ‘noble simplicity’ of the latter.
