Salzburg Festival (7) - Les Contes d’Hoffmann, 24 August 2024

Grosses Festspielhaus

Hoffmann – Benjamin Bernheim
Stella, Olympia, Antonia, Giulietta – Kathryn Lewek
Lindorf, Coppélius, Dr Miracle, Dapertutto – Christian Van Horn
Muse, Nicklausse – Kate Lindsey
Andrés, Cochenille, Frantz, Pitichanaccio – Marc Mauillon
Mother’s Voice – Géraldine Chauvet
Spalanzani – Michael Laurenz
Crespel, Meister Luther – Jérôme Varnier
Hermann, Peter Schlémil – Philippe-Nicholas Martin
Nathanaël – Paco García
Wilhelm – Yevheniy Kapitula

Director – Mariame Clément
Designs – Julia Hansen
Lighting – Paule Constable
Video – Étienne Guiol, Wilfrid Haberey
Choreography – Gail Skrela
Dramaturgy – Christian Arseni

 Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera (chorus director: Alan Woodbridge)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Marc Minkowski (conductor)

Images: SF/Monika Rittershaus

Tales of Hoffmann, Offenbach’s unfinished, arguably unfinishable opéra fantastique, inevitably poses questions concerning performing versions and choices, in its subject matter going further in blurring boundaries between artist, character, and audience, just as many German Romantics, ETA Hoffmann himself included, had done. That is part of its enduring interest, as is Offenbach’s final, spirited approach to the ‘serious’ world of opera from his ‘home’ world of operetta. It is more complicated than that; it always is. And so on… It would be less odd than impossible not to confront such questions, whatever role(s) one might play oneself in a performance—and again, that certainly includes the audience. Here, the supporting programme materials are in many ways impressive: interviews with director Mariame Clément and, to a lesser extent, conductor Marc Minkowski make important points, as does Heather Hadlock’s essay. The problem – and here responsibility lies with the first two – is that so little of that comes across in performance. 

Perhaps I only have myself to blame; I was given a copy of the programme beforehand, but only read it afterwards. I might well have made more of Clément’s production had things been otherwise, though I cannot imagine I would have of Minkowski’s lifeless conducting. I know, moreover, that it is often too easy a retort to say ‘I should not have to read the programme to make sense of a production’. Indeed, but because I did not, it does not necessarily follow that I was not at fault in failing to pick up on what was there. Hand on heart, though, I am not sure it would have made that much difference, in what continues to strike me as a confused and confusing way of presenting ideas that are either mostly straightforward, indeed downright obvious, or not really there at all. Programme essays and interviews can be very good things; I have written a few myself, after all. They are not, however, substitutes for staging. If the director’s role involves anything at all, recognition of and response to that truism is surely part of it. 

Clément depicts Hoffmann as a film-maker: fair enough, though the constant obeisance other art forms must make to film and television has begun to wear thin by now. It is a strange teleology that has everything lead towards film, not least for a theatre director, yet to many it seems beyond question. To be fair, even Adorno fell prey to it at times. Surely the world of live performance is in many ways more interesting, more human, or at least differently so. It is not clear – like much else we see – where that leaves the work’s own, more interesting framing device of a performance of Don Giovanni. Is that also a film, or has Hoffmann moved to theatre? Does it matter? 

Hoffmann (Benjamin Bernheim), Nicklausse (Kate Lindsey), Mother (Géraldine Charvet)

Let us skip over the compendium of clichés that has led us there, including the inevitable Prologue shopping trolley. A couple of dustbins, from one of which the Muse emerges, does not alas suggest a move towards the endgame, let alone Endgame. As we move from the works canteen to the three central acts, we quickly realise that what we are seeing is what Hoffmann has bade his current cast watch on a television somewhere nearby: a conspectus of his career to date, moving from a tacky science fiction B-movie in which Olympia stands with a raygun that might have been a child’s toy – if there were such things as Z-movies, this might be one – through a more expensive, ‘period’ musical drama for Antonia, with an apt if banal nod to the ghostly; to a Giulietta act in which your guess will almost certainly be better than mine. Actors step in and out of character, inviting us to partake in the less-than-breathtaking insight that they are people too and, like Hoffmann, bring parts of themselves to their work. 

Quite why one should care about any of these people or their roles I do not know. The voice of Antonia’s mother from beyond is simply another singer standing there singing a part. Perhaps that is the point, but the lack of emotional involvement or engagement, alongside the insistence, albeit more thoroughly pursued in the programme than on stage, that the characters are mere projections of Hoffmann’s ego, has one continue to wonder whether there is any point in performing this work at all. The overriding note, ultimately, is of tedium, which again, if it is the point – I doubt it – is not enough to justify the experience. 

It might and should have been lifted by the musical performances, yet, despite good and, in some cases, outstanding singing, Minkowski’s grey, sub-Kapellmeister-ish meanderings accomplished nothing here. Basic competence in coordinating pit and stage, especially when it came to a chorus estimable in itself yet left cruelly exposed, eluded the conductor, let alone any sense of colour, irony, or drama, let alone lightness. The Vienna Philharmonic struggled through and sometimes shone; one can hardly blame the players for imparting a sense that their hearts were either not in it or at least not in alignment with what was going on elsewhere. That the Barcarolle passed for vanishingly little was a remarkable achievement, but hardly one to hymn. Minkowski received a good number of boos: an uncivilised practice in which I should never partake, yet if it were not quite deserved, it was perhaps understandable. 

If the orchestra and chorus deserved better, so did the soloists. Benjamin Bernheim, as tireless as he was stylish, made for an ideal Hoffmann. With apparent – doubtless only apparent – lack of effort, he had us believe in him despite enveloping disarray. That he was onstage even more than only added to his commitment and achievement. The same should be said of Kathryn Lewek in her multiple roles, as impressive in coloratura, of which there is much, as in more impassioned romantic feeling; that she had in addition to step in and out of ‘character’ again seemed only to inspire her. Christian Van Horn’s Lindorf cast due shadow over the action. Kate Lindsey’s Nicklausse proved as triumphant a success and as true a spur to emotional engagement, as any portrayal I have heard from this ever-impressive artist Other roles, including Geraldine Chauvet’s rich-toned Mother’s Voice (here, also actorly presence) and the several assumed with great spirit by Marc Mauillon, were all well taken. The team of Salzburg extras did what was asked of them well too. As for the rest, back to the drawing-board, I fear.

Idomeneo, Royal Opera, 19 November 2014

Royal Opera House

 

 

Idomeneo – Matthew Polenzani

Idamante – Franco Fagioli

Ilia – Sophie Bevan

Elettra – Malin Byström

Arbace – Stanislas de Barbeyrac

High Priest – Krystian Adam

Voice of Neptune – Graeme Broadbent

 

 

Martin Kušej (director)

Annette Murschetz (set designs)

Heide Kastler (costumes)

Reinhard Traub (lighting)

Leah Hausman (dramaturgy)

 

 

Royal Opera Chorus

Orchestra of the Royal Opera House

Marc Minkowski (conductor)

 

Image: ROH/Catherine Ashmore

 

Poor Idomeneo! Katie Mitchell more or less destroyed this magnificent yet fragile opera when she staged it for ENO. Here, when the Royal Opera at last returned to it, the musical performances proved sadly lacking, from the top down – or, better, from the pit upwards. The Orchestra of the Royal Opera House deserved much, much better; so of course did Mozart. Save for some bizarrely out-of-tune trumpets, the fault lay not with the players, who indeed seemed anxious to mitigate the worst of Marc Minkowski’s incompetence. When permitted to play, the strings sounded warm and variegated and the woodwind often beautiful indeed – if hardly what one would have expected under Sir Colin Davis. But Minkowski seemed concerned not only to hurl every ‘early musicke’ cliché in the would-be treatise at Mozart but also to withdraw it not very long later. And so, the Overture opened in all-too-predictably driven fashion before suddenly being pulled around in sub-Harnoncourt, even Rattle-like, fashion. The strings were left alone for a while then suddenly prevailed upon to withdraw vibrato, especially at the beginning of the second act, and still more grievously during the atrociously-conducted ballet music. It quickly became apparent that Minkowski had no sense whatsoever of harmonic rhythm; may God, Neptune, or Anyone Else preserve us from inflicting his jejune flailing around upon the symphonic Mozart. (Doubtless he already has; in which case, we should protect ourselves from having to hear it.) Whatever possessed Covent Garden to entrust this work to him? As for the nonsensical exhibitionism to be heard from the fortepianist...
 

Then there was the casting. Franco Fagioli’s Idamante offered some of the worst singing I have ever heard on this hallowed stage. If incomprehensible – in what language was he singing?! – out-of-tune squawking were your thing, you would have been fine; the rest of us were left wondering why on earth a female soprano, a mezzo, or a tenor had not been engaged. (That was not the only questionable textual decision to have been made.)  Malin Byström certainly seemed to possess dramatic conviction; it is a pity she showed herself more or less incapable of holding a musical line. I am all for ‘big’ voices in Mozart, but they should at the very least be able to sing in tune. Sophie Bevan offered some beautiful moments as Ilia, though she too proved surprisingly thick with her vibrato at times, especially during the first act. Matthew Polenzani was a decent enough Idomeneo when he didn’t confuse Mozart’s style with that of Puccini. (Listen to Francisco Araiza for an object lesson here.) Although a little wayward, Krystian Adam’s reading as the High Priest seemed dramatically justified in the context of the production. Stainslas de Barbeyrac’s Arbace generally impressed, although some strange vocal colourings left me wondering quite why so many had been singing his praises quite so ardently. Sadly, and much to my surprise, the chorus was too often all over the place – and not just in terms of where it was asked to stand. What is usually a great strength of Royal Opera productions proved decidedly ragged.
 

Martin Kušej’s staging, on the other hand, proved a more genuinely provocative experience, certainly superior to Mitchell’s in every respect. (That, I admit, would hardly have been an onerous challenge.) A certain sort of opera-goer disdains challenge and questioning, whether to himself or to the work. So much the worse for him – or her. There were irritants, including the well-nigh unforgivable inclusion of rain (visual and sounding) during the Overture and again later in the first act. But I really cannot imagine how anyone could reasonably object to an era ravaged by war looking like – well, an era ravaged by war. Likewise, surely anyone sentient would at least question claims of enlightened absolutism, even if some might think the militaristic regime of Idomeneo goes a little ‘too far’. (I certainly do not think so.) More fundamentally, though,  Kušej’s’s concept of an island in thrall to a manufactured cult of Neptune works very well – and genuinely has one think, should one be so inclined, about issues of individual and mass agency. If Idomeneo and, at the end, Idamante is not in control, then who is? How might the wrath of the crowd be harnessed, and by whom? How does our lot compare with theirs? If not so well thought-through as, say, Hans Neuenfels’s now-classic staging of Lohengrin, some of the same ‘experimental’ questions presented themselves. The stasis of the final ballet scenes – leaving aside Minkowski’s miserable effort – might initially seem perverse, and in some senses it is, but a series of tableaux presenting ‘where we are now’, and suggesting that it equates to ‘where we were before’ actually turns out to possess considerable dramatic power. A rethinking of some elements – even just that horrible rain – would strengthen an interesting production, which was apparently booed by the usual suspects on opening night. Alas, a far more desperate need would remain for a different conductor and cast – but that can and should be arranged.