Holland Park Theatre
Mimì – Anna Patalong
Rodolfo – Shaun DixonMarcello – Andrew Finden
Musetta – Elin Pritchard
Schaunard – Frederick Long
Colline – John Savournin
Benoît – David Woloszko
Alcindoro – James Harrison
Parpignol – Michael Bradley
Customs Sergeant – Alistair Sutherland
Stephen Barlow (director)
Andrew D Edwards (set designsHoward Hudson (lighting)
Opera Holland Park Children’s
Chorus and Chorus (chorus masters: Scott Price and Richard Harker)
City of London SinfoniaMatthew Waldron (conductor)
Ever since a friend was
reported as having said he’would like something in return for modern-dress Shakespeare
(how quaint that term seems now, as if anyone would bat an eyelid!), namely an
Elizabethan-dress staging of Look Back in
Anger, I have been curious about the possibilities of ‘down-dating’, as I
suppose we might call it. Rarely, if ever, do we see it, though. Stephen Barlow’s
new production of La bohème does just
that, however, relocating the action to that very same period. Indeed, I notice
that the RSC’s Props Department is credited in the programme for ‘their
co-operation and contribution’. Andrew D Edwards’s designs look gorgeous: both
sets, making excellent use of the Holland Park stage and environment, and
costumes.
What are we to make of such a
move? Not having asked Barlow and that, perhaps, not being entirely the point
in any case, I shall, without implying ‘intention’, say a little about what I
made of it, or thought one might make of it. One could, I suppose, say that it
does not matter, say what ‘we’ often say about the time and period, that in
some respects, at least, it is the least interesting aspect of a production.
That, I think, would be a half-truth, but a half-truth nevertheless. I doubt
many of us would be complaining if an opera set in Tudor England were convincingly
updated to nineteenth-century France, and certainly not to the present day,
although we might well ask why, and with what success. Why there and then, in
that case? For me, the immediate resonance was with Shakespeare’s London.
Rodolfo, our poet, perhaps something of ‘Will’ about him: perhaps more Shakespeare in Love than Shakespeare ‘himself’,
but how much do we know of the latter anyway? A leather doublet becomes him, as
does distraction from his quill. Given not only the poetical but metatheatrical
concerns of the work, I wondered whether, following the first or even the
second act, we should discover that it had all, or partly, been a play within a
play, or some such device, but no – with the possible exception of the
decidedly, deliberately artificial device of casting snow upon the scene in the
third act. Perhaps that is the point, or at least could be made to be the
point: we are all metatheatrical now, we all create our own metatheatre, even
when something is apparently played ‘straight’. That, I think, is undeniable,
although I suspect the particular relocation is, at any rate, not entirely
arbitrary. Shakespeare’s London, or our creation of it, speaks to an English
audience as strongly as pretty much any other possibility.
Perhaps the justification is
that: we know it, or think we know it, and thus we find it easier to explore. I
have no problem in principle with exchanging Montmartre and a Southwark tavern.
It was all rather fun, and genuinely surprising. Other productions might delve
deeper – although, frankly, very few do. Not everything can be directed by
Stefan Herheim, whose Oslo staging is in a class of its own. This works well,
on its own terms. The enigmatic programme quotation from Two Gentleman of Verona – which I only saw afterwards – might speak
for itself, then, so long as we do not start silly gushing about alleged ‘timelessness’.
Nothing is timeless; nor is it helpful or interesting to consider it so. ‘Oh,
how this spring of love resembleth/The uncertain glory of an April day/Which
now shows all beauty of the Sun/And by and by a cloud takes all away.’ We are
free, then, to consider correspondences and connections insofar as we wish.
Having a young cast of such
considerable theatrical ability helps. Rarely has the sexual attraction between
Mimì and Rodolfo seemed so evident. Anna Patalong offers a beautifully sung,
clearly heartfelt performance. It would take a sterner heart than mine not to
root for her. Shaun Dixon sometimes sang out a little too much for my taste,
but the acoustic can be a tricky one. There was certainly no doubting his
commitment, nor his idiomatic command. Andrew Finden’s Marcello was
intelligent, thoughtful, impetuous: the quicksilver quality of his exchanges
with Elin Pricthard’s gloriously charismatic Musetta, every inch the self-conscious
stage queen, yet most genuine in concern and charity at the close, would have
been worth the price of admission alone. Frederick Long and John Savournin made
at least as much of Schaunard and Colline as any artists I can recall. The
sense of student camaraderie can rarely, if ever, have been so strong; nor can
the dangers of that play-acting which ultimately fails our tragic heroine.
David Woloszko’s Falstaff-like Benoît was not only an obvious comic turn, but
very well sung too, as indeed were all of the ‘smaller’ roles’.
The OHP Chorus and Children’s
Chorus were, quite simply, outstanding. Barlow’s work with them had clearly
been thoroughly internalised. They knew what they were supposed to do, and did
it, without ever seeming over-rehearsed. Vocally, one could hear every word,
and in a coherent musical whole too. Matthew Waldron’s conducting doubtless
helped greatly in that respect. There was never the slightest danger of
sentimentalisation, in a sharp-edged account, which kept the excellent City of
London Sinfonia on its toes throughout. I was surprised how little, if at all,
I missed a larger body of strings; in a fine performance, one’s ears (almost always)
adjust. It was not all so driven, though; where the music needed, wanted to
dance, it could do so happily, not least during Musetta’s second-act ‘show’.
There would be no harm in relaxing a little as the run progresses; by the same
token, however, there is nothing to complain about, and a great deal to savour,
here. OHP’s Puccini Midas touch works its magic once again.
