Prinzregententheater
Arkel – Alastair Miles
Geneviève – Okka von der
Damerau
Pelléas – Elliot Madore
Golaud – Markus Eiche
Mélisande – Elena Tsallagova
Yniold – Hanno Eilers
Doctor – Peter Lobert
Shepherd – Evgeny Kachurovsky
Christiane Pohle (director)
Maria-Alice Bahra (set designs)
Sara Kittelmann (costumes)
Malte Ubenauf (assistant
director)
Benedikt Zehm (lighting)
Bavarian State Opera Chorus
(chorus master: Sören Eckhoff)
Bavarian State Orchestra
Constantinos Carydis
(conductor)
So this was it, the Pelléas which had apparently repelled
critics and other members of the audience on the opening night. Perhaps that
had been exaggeration; I avoided reading anything substantive – and still have
yet to do so. I could not for the life of me understand what the problem might
have been. What I saw was a thoughtful, highly accomplished, post-Beckettian
staging of, well, perhaps the most Beckettian of operas. I could certainly
understand that some people might not have liked it, but not only did the terms
in which it had apparently been criticised seem almost incredibly extravagant;
I could not help but think that those who would not have liked it would in any
case not much have liked Pelléas et
Mélisande itself. (And besides, there is a world of difference between not ‘liking’
something and thinking it worthless – or at least there should be; it took me
two or three years to ‘like’ Elektra,
something for which I hold the Solti recording largely responsible, but it
never occurred to me that the work was not a masterpiece.)
Christiane Pohle’s
provocative – in the best sense – new staging takes place, like the opera, in
what we might call, with slight trepidation, lest we be consigned to Pseud’s
Corner, a liminal zone, located at the intersection of the meaningful and
meaningless. (For anyone interested in vaguely modern drama, which seems,
sadly, to exclude vast swathes of opera audiences, the claim should not seem
too outlandish.) What could be more instantly evocative of contemporary – to us,
at least – anomie and ennui than a ‘stylish’, soulless hotel reception? Staff
and guests continue their work, or whatever it is they do, sometimes stepping
into ‘character’, sometimes remaining ‘background’. Just as they might in a
royal household, one might add. Much is absurd, or so it seems to onlookers,
yet it absorbs, even if it does not fulfil. Sometimes it seems to intersect
more obviously with the drama, Debussy’s drama, than others, but even when it
appears to be dissociated, it somehow focuses one’s attention upon what is ‘happening’,
or as so often in this opera, what is not. Spectators on the one hand remain
just that, yet on the other are drawn in. We cannot quite say how or why, just
as the characters cannot, when indeed they can say anything at all. Questions
are posed, occasionally answered, more often provoking another, seemingly
unrelated question, or stillness and silence. I have not seen a staging that
more closely corresponds to the singularity of Debussy’s drama, and yet which
also retains its distance, seemingly – wisely – saying, if this is not for you,
then Pelléas, the score and libretto,
the memories you might have: they remain intact. This is, or could be
understood to be, metatheatricality in a sense both old and intriguingly new;
Pohl’s production allows one to take what one will, if only one is prepared to
think or even just to experience. Sadly, some, perhaps influenced by what ‘opinion-formers’
had told them, elected to laugh (derisively, at least so it seemed) or even
noisily to walk out. If they wished to leave, they might at least have had the
decency to wait until the interval.
For some reason, or none, I
had it in my head that Philippe Jordan was conducting. I mention that, since I
initially assumed that Jordan’s Wagnerian experience might be the reason for
the orchestra sounding more than usually Wagnerian. It transpired that
Constantinos Carydis was in fact the conductor, yet the echt-Wagnerian sound of the Bavarian State Orchestra persisted. It
was, moreover, not just the sound, but the motivic texture that so strongly
recalled Parsifal, Tristan, and, to a lesser extent, even
the later Ring operas. What often
sounds closer to vague similarity here edged closer at times even to
plagiarism. But, as Stravinsky noted, lesser artists borrow, whilst great
artists steal. There are, of course, all manner of ways to play Pelléas, and doubtless this was shaped
in good part by the orchestra’s heritage, but this was fruitful and, again, in
the best sense provocative. It could not have been much further distant from Esa-Pekka
Salonen’s recent, magnificent Philharmonia concert performance, but had its
own, different validity. Carydis judged well the ebb and flow and at times
brought the score closer to conventional operatic drama than one often hears.
Hearing the orchestra given its head thrilled as it disconcerted, not least in
combination with what one saw. There is of course more Wagner in Debussy than
Debussy allowed, just as there is more Wagner in Beckett than Beckett allowed.
Escape is not an option – or rather it is doomed to fail, if sometimes to fail
better.
Vocal performances were
generally excellent, as were the singers’ responses to Pohl’s often difficult demands.
(At least I assume they were hers: this did not seem improvised.) Elliot Madore
and Elena Tsallagova offered a truly disconcerting – that word again – pair of
lovers, their childishness (weird smiles) married to, indeed productive of,
erotic frissons, almost as much as their command of the vocal lines. Madore’s
relatively dark tone contrasted intriguingly with Tsallagova’s bright, almost
doll-like delivery; both performances contributed to, rather than merely
reflecting, our understanding. Markus Eiche’s Golaud seemed initially a little
too gruff, and his French was not always quite what it might have been, but his
portrayal grew in stature, truly moving by the end. Perhaps that had always
been the plan; it certainly made me think. Alastair Miles’s Arkel properly
bewildered. (Is that not what more or less everything in this opera should?)
Was he victim or in some sense initiator? He refused the either/or, and
delivered his text with an understanding that seemed at times almost to pass
all understanding. Okka von der Damerau’s Geneviève commanded the stage in a
similar yet different way – again, as befits the character. Her vocal shading was
not the least of the performance’s pleasures, even if we did not hear so much
from her as we might have wished. Young Hanno Eilers was quite the best boy Yniold
I have heard; one could often have taken dictation from him, verbally or
musically. Still more to the point, his fear made perhaps the most powerful
dramatic impression of all. A pointless question, arguably like any relating to
this ‘pointless’ opera, but it was difficult not to ask: what does Fate hold in
store for him?
Was I perhaps more receptive
than I might have been, on account of prior reception? I do not, cannot know;
perhaps I was, but that, like so many questions in this opera, is really one
for a psychoanalyst. But I do not think I was entirely guilty of finding things
that were not there; or, if I was, I was guilty in the productive spirit in
which work, production, and performances were also guilty. For this, in the
well worn cliché, was more than the sum of its parts, ‘intentionally’ or
otherwise, so long as one agreed to be one of those parts. I have not stopped
thinking about what I saw and heard; sadly, many seem never to have started.
