Deutsche Oper, Berlin
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| Image: Bettina Stöß |
Hoffmann – Marc Laho
Stella, Olympia, Antonia,
Giulietta – Heather Engebretson
Lindorf, Coppélius, Miracle,
Dapertutto – Byung Gil Kim
Muse, Nicklausse – Irene Roberts
Andrès, Cochenille, Franz,
Pitichianaccio – Andrew Dickinson
Mother’s Voice – Ronnita Miller
Spalanzani – Jörg Schörner
Luther, Crespel – Andrew Harris
Hermann – Matthew Cossack
Schlemihl – Timothy Newton
Natanael – Ya-Chung Huang
Laurent Pelly (director)
Laurent Pelly (director)
Christian Räth (revival
director)
Chantal Thomas (designs)
Joël Adam (lighting)
Charles Carcopino (video)
Agathe Mélinand, Katharina Duda
(dramaturgy)
Chorus (chorus master: Jeremy Bines) of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin
Orchestra of the Deutsche Oper, Berlin
Daniel Carter (conductor)
It is a strange piece, The Tales of Hoffmann. I can only speak
from my own experience, but, irrespective of performance, irrespective of
production, irrespective of textual issues, it never quite seems to come off.
Perhaps it is that, as a friend said to me last night, it is too ambitious.
That seems to me a better emphasis than ‘problematical’, though arguably the
distinction in meaning is negligible. It also points, as that wise and learned friend
went on, to the opera’s charm: a more fragile and yes, perhaps, problematical beast,
given scale and forces, than the more intimate, often acutely satirical opéras bouffes with which Offenbach is more
naturally bien dans sa peau.
Something could – should – be done
with those and other tensions, with the work’s metatheatricality, with the
fantasy of a work that, after all, is designated an opéra fantastique. Laurent Pelly, alas, would not seem to be the
director for any of that. If there is nothing especially wrong with his
production, new last year, nor is there anything especially right with – or,
better, compelling to – it, either. There are handsome, if highly conservative,
set and costume designs (Chantal Thomas, with assistance from Jean-Jaques
Delmotte in the latter case), accomplished revival direction and Spielleitung (Christian Räth and
Eva-Maria Abelein), and that is about it. Of questions arising from writing an
opera based on a play about a writer we have nothing; of any subtexts, be they
political, aesthetic, sexual, anything at all, nothing; of a critical
standpoint, nothing; of anything approaching modern, let alone contemporary,
theatre nothing; and so on, and so forth. There was not even anything in the
way of spectacle; unless, out of desperation, you were to count a large video
projection of Antonia’s mother’s face, to accompany her voice from beyond. Were
this the nth revival, replete with a new lick of paint, of something
in the repertory for four or five decades, one might think something once present
had been lost; in this case, it is difficult to escape the conclusion that
Pelly had presented precious little to get one’s teeth into in the first place.
There is so much more potentially here – one need not look elsewhere – than is
acknowledged by so reactionary a standpoint. Just when I thought there might be
the glimmerings of a concept, however circumscribed, in the Olympia act, seeing
the mechanical doll’s visible stage apparatus, it turned out to be no such
thing: sometimes visible stage apparatus is just somewhat unfortunately visible
stage apparatus. One can recognise and celebrate the skilled work of all
involved backstage – true, valuable skills – while wishing it had been put in
the service of something more interesting. The version employed had its virtues and its problems; I shall leave them for another day.
If there was little in the way
of theatrical interest, however, there was much to admire musically. This was
the first time I had heard Daniel Carter conduct, but I hope it will not be the
last. If I say that his conducting did not attract attention to itself, I do
not intend to imply that it was dull, far from it; rather, there was a
rightness to his choices of tempo, of balance, and everything else that fed the
illusion was ‘simply’ hearing Offenbach. The Deutsche Oper’s orchestra and
chorus proved estimable partners in crime: incisive, fantastical, wry, full of
body as required. French vocal style seems a well-nigh impossible thing for
modern, international – even modern French – casts to bring off; or perhaps my
expectations are at fault. That said, there was an uncommonly high success rate
with the language: never something to be taken for granted. And if some singing
tended unduly towards the Italianate, it was not so difficult to enjoy it for
what it was. Marc Laho and Heather Engebretson worked tirelessly in the central
roles, both vividly communicative, the latter distinguishing and yet combining
the demands of her various characters with great success – and scoring higher
in the stylistic stakes than most. Byung Gil Kim’s bass-baritone proved a joy
from beginning to end; darkly suave, this is surely a Don Giovanni in the
making, perhaps already made. Moreover, I can imagine Boris Godunov knocking on
the door a few years down the line. Irene Roberts’s Muse and Nicklausse were
beautifully, honestly sung and acted throughout: another artist from whom I
hope to see and hear more. Andrew Dickinson and – offstage – Ronnita Miller
also shone; as, highly creditably, did the excellent tenor, Ya-Chung Huang in
the role of Natanael. There were no weak links, though; and, as so often, at
this house, a proper sense of company. If only there had been a production to
match.
