Salzburg Festival (7) - Three Sisters, 24 August 2025

Felsenreitschule

Irina – Dennis Orellana
Masha – Cameron Shahbazi
Natasha – Kangmin Justin Kim
Tuzenbach – Mikołaj Trąbka
Vershinin – Ivan Ludlow
Andrei – Jacques Imbrailo
Kulygin – Andrei Valentiy
Anfisa – Aleksander Teliga
Solyony – Anthony Robin Schneider
Doctor – Jörg Schneider
Rode – Seiyoung Kim
Fedotik – Kristofer Lundin
Mother – Eva Christine Just
Protopopov – Henry Diaz
Girl – Johanna Lehfeldt

Director – Evgeny Titov
Set designs – Rufus Didwiszus
Costumes – Emma Ryott
Lighting – Urs Schönebaum
Sound design – Paul Jeukendrup
Dramaturgy – Christian Arseni  

Klangforum Wien

Maxime Pascal, Alphonse Cemin (conductors)

Images: © SF/Monika Rittershaus
Masha (Cameron Shahbazi), Solyony (Anthony Robin Schneider), Vershinin (Ivan Ludlow)

Chekhov operas are distinctly thin on the ground. I am not sure that is a bad thing. Adaptations that end up being little more – at least dramatically – than abridgements with music are rarely the most convincing of operas. There are splendid cases of plays more or less set to music and thereby transformed, but they are not especially common—and with good reason. Whatever one might say of Pelléas et Mélisande, it is an exceedingly uncommon work (with apologies to Mr Kipling). Some transformations much more than that, of course, yet remain strangely misunderstood. I cannot help but think, one year on from his death, of Alexander Goehr’s Brechtian reworking of King Lear, Promised End. Yet cases in which a work is truly rethought as a musical drama are fewer than one might hope for. Peter Eötvös’s first opera Three Sisters (Три сестры/Tri Sestry) triumphantly succeeds in that respect and in others, not only ‘in itself’ as a work but also in this estimable Salzburg production, a fine cast and Klangforum Wien conducted by Maxime Pascal (and Alphonse Cemin offstage) and directed by Evgeny Titov. 

I was interested to learn after the event that librettist and dramaturge Claus H. Henneberg had initially presented Eötvös with ‘a pared-down version … able to offer us an overview of the play’s dense content in just a few dozen pages’. It was, Eötvös went on, ‘a respectable piece of work. But as I read it, I realised that this was absolutely not the kind of thing I wanted. His endeavours to abridge Chekhov’s play had robbed it of all his drama. The subtle tensions between its characters had been completely lost. The drama had become empty.’ To the great credit of both composer and librettist, they started again, Henneberg affording Eötvös ‘complete freedom to change any aspect of his libretto at my own discretion, even if it meant writing a completely new text for the work I wanted to compose.’ That is what happened with ‘an utterly different approach’ that instead focused on different ‘sequences’ of events in the play, organised around three of the characters, Irina, Andrei, and Masha. It worked – and works – both as a drama in itself and indeed as a metadrama on the original Three Sisters, without ever falling into the trap of mostly being the latter. How so? Partly through skilful re-adaptation by Henneberg; partly through the drama’s coming into being as a musical drama, music integral to the text just as it would be in Mozart, Wagner, Debussy, Berg, or any other opera composer worthy of the name; and partly, of course, through staging and performance. Ultimately faithful to Chekhov through infidelity, the adaptation presents human relationships, missed opportunities, their detail, and their sadness, reimagined with great power and humanity, in and through the bleakness. 

Olga (Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen), Masha, Irina (Dennis Orellana)

Indeed, the opening Prologue impressed upon us not only the bleakness – though it did, in ineffably ‘Russian’ sound – but also the way suffering becomes memory, as the three sisters (not, be it noted, identical to the persons of the ensuing three Sequences) imagined themselves about, once more, to start again. There was an unmistakeably – if impossible to define – ‘Russian’ sound, both from the musicians in the pit and from the offstage orchestra. It complemented, was complemented by, and seemed almost to be in a state of co-creation with the memories turned to Felsenreitschule stone of Rufus Didwiszus’s set designs, as well as what we heard. And in one important sense, despite it all, this was a starting point, for the opera, as we moved first to Irina, the Baron, the fire and so on, leaving that first sequence with the Baron’s death—thus returning us to where we started, undermining it, and preparing the way for a different sequence. Triangular relationships – for Eötvös, the ‘primary construct’ for play and opera alike’ – characterise what we see and hear, transforming before us, but also offering a foundation for the composer’s dramaturgically generative use of triadic harmonies, ‘constantly changing … internal structure’. A post-Webern world of intervallic construction, even constructivism, merges with a sort of modern (in some ways, even pre-modern) world of Affekt, whilst instrumentation mirrors and contributes to characterisation: Olga ‘represented’ – to use Eötvös’s own term – by flute, Irina by oboe, Masha by clarinet, and Andrei by bassoon; likewise their spouses, in variants of those instrumental timbres, Natasha, for instance by saxophone, related to, yet perhaps mocking or holding in outrage Andrei’s essence. ‘Representation’ is not a static matter, of course; one follows their instrumental lines just as one does their words, vocal lines, and gestures. That is the performing text—and it is far from a reduction. 

The element of Japanese theatre often strong in Eötvös’s music, overtly dramatic or otherwise, is also pervasive here, not least in the use of male singers for all parts. Eötvös settled on the idea having originally intended to cast conventionally, then deciding to have all roles sung by women, an option rejected since he thought it would ‘come across as fetishism’. Here, the very different vocal qualities of the different counter-tenors, nonetheless retaining adherence to a certain vocal type that can suggest abstraction, felt as if it were performing a role not entirely dissimilar to use of masks. (Eötvös wrote the three sisters’ parts so they could be sung by men or women, but had his preference for male singers confirmed by experience.) Titov’s staging took a different route, rubble and memory all around, highly ‘dramatic’ in a more conventional Western sense, yet also alert to moments of humour, crisis, and much else. Indeed, homing in on the expressive and dramatic content of particular aspects of the sequences fulfilled a quasi-musical role of its own. There was something deeply moving, for instance, to Andrei’s difficult emergence from his fat suit, like a butterfly from its (in this case cruelly imposed) chrysalis, albeit shorn of hope at either end. Olga’s celebrated observation that her brother had grown fat and slothful had marked him until now (in his sequence, if not previously). Was this now an opportunity for him to sing or at least to lament freely? Yes and no. He was naked, literally and figuratively, onstage; inevitably, though, it changed nothing. We could not be in the business of happy endings. 

Kulygin (Andri Valentiy), Vershinin, Irina, Masha,
Tuzenbach (Mikołaj Trąbka), Doctor (Jörg Schneider)

None of this would have amounted to much without a set of excellent, often outstanding musical – and acted – performances. Klangforum Wien, with its two conductors, led us into a musical labyrinth that, whilst hardly Boulezian, certainly showed many points of contact, following the mini-series ‘À Pierre’, which had finished the afternoon prior to this performance. Pascal’s timing, whether of moments, sections, or the greater span of the constructed drama, had a sense of ‘rightness’ to it: both in itself and in combination with Titov’s staging. Balance, atmosphere, momentum, and magical moments of reflection all contributed to the greater whole. 

As our first ‘featured’ sister, Irina, Dennis Orellana offered a deeply sympathetic, emotionally complex reading, setting the stall, as it were, for further explorations and in fine counterpoint with Mikołaj Trąbka’s ardent Baron Tuzenbach. Cameron Shahbazi’s alluring, compelling Masha – neither quite drag-like or entirely un-drag-like – and the poignantly wise (if only up to a point) Olga of Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen were equally well drawn, both in themselves and in the constantly shifting ‘triangles’ of the work. Kangmin Justin Kim’s increasingly outrageous Natasha, at one point pulling her lover Protopopov (Henry Diaz) along with a leash, was perhaps all the more monstrous, all the more hateful than in Chekhov. Jacques Imbrailo’s Andrei both deserved better and yet did not, given a reading that helped explain, rather than simply depict, his personal tragedy. Aleksander Teliga made an outsize impression as the Prozorovs’ old nurse. Ivan Ludlow’s Vershinin did much to convey a hinterland that in context could often only be suggested. All contributed to the success of a production which deserves to be seen elsewhere. Let us hope other houses will take it up, thereby proving more than a melancholic memory.

This image: © SF/Marco Borrelli

Salzburg Festival (5) - Concertgebouw/Mäkelä: Schubert-Berio and Mahler, 21 August 2025

Grosses Festspielhaus

Schubert-Berio: Rendering
Mahler: Symphony no.5

Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra
Klaus Mäkelä (conductor)

Images: © SF/Marco Borrelli

Klaus Mäkelä’s multiple orchestral appointments have ignited animated discussion among those preoccupied with such matters. Never having heard him before, I was curious to hear which was (more justified): the sky-high praise or, well, the opposite. On this basis, I am afraid to say the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra does not appear to have chosen well for its artistic partner and chief conductor designate. Not only were Mäkela’s readings of two symphonic works half-baked at (very) best; his flattening effect on the orchestral sound, robbing it of so much of what should have one reaching for superlatives, suggests still more serious problems ahead. A single concert can only give an impression, but it was saddening, even maddening simply to have to wait for the end. Herbert von Karajan would have said he needed a few years away in Ulm, away from the spotlight. There seems, alas, little prospect of that, so Mäkelä’s orchestras will have to work with what they have. I wish them luck. 

Berio’s Rendering showed little at length, other than that Mäkelä’s apparent lack of feeling for either Berio or Schubert, on whose symphonic fragments the work is founded. The first movement opened freshly enough with commendable precision, yet also presented a stiffness that did not augur well. As Schubert ceded to Berio, the latter’s timbral and harmonic invasions were well handled, suggestive of uncertainty and unease, the orchestra’s long pedigree in music written for it evident. The music sounded more and more faceless, though, as time went on. Grave trombones made their presence keenly, magically felt in their big ‘moment’, but this was at best a collection of moments, with mere ‘filling’ in between. The opening of the second movement promised something more, Mäkelä largely letting the music take its course, the orchestra well balanced and pointed. But again, it lost its way—and not in the way Berio intended. A gorgeous oboe solo and, in general, gorgeous wind playing offered some compensation. This, though, was a listless affair that seemed as though it would never end. Strangely thin string sound marked the onset of the finale; it seemed intentional, thoughI could not tell you why. It moved more or less as it ‘should’, albeit without any ear for harmony. Vaguely Mahlerian counterpoint suggested a connection with what was to come, but it was not enough. By the end, it felt as if an hour had passed rather than just over thirty minutes. 

Mahler’s Fifth Symphony is an extremely difficult piece to bring off. I have heard more than a few conductors come unstuck in it; this was to be no exception. Mäkelä again presented a succession of episodes that not only had little connection with one another; they even lacked sharp characterisation on their own terms. The orchestra, steeped in this music since the composer himself, played well enough, but there is only so much one can do in Mahler with such rudderless direction. At first, it sounded as though we might have Mahler as Shostakovich: not the way I hear the music, but a point of view, even a guiding principle, at least. Mäkelä soon began to mould the first movement a bit too obviously and, more to the point, incoherently: unconnected, so far as I could hear, either to what had passed or to what was to come. The storm, when it came, was merely petulant. Tempo changes in general were arbitrary; long passages seemed pretty much to grind to a halt. Very much in the line of his Schubert-Berio, there was little to no sense of harmony, let alone harmonic motion. 

The second movement proceeded similarly, in fits and starts, however admirable the playing in itself. It either felt too fast or too slow; not that there is a ‘correct answer’ for tempo matters, but tempo relationships made no sense, still less relation of tempo to other aspects of the score. Balance was often so askew as to sound uninterestingly bizarre. ‘Much the same’ would, I am afraid, be the verdict for an increasingly laboured attempt at the third movement too. The ‘Adagietto’ fared better, at least begin with. If on the moulded side, it held together for quite a while, with genuinely fascinating echoes of Wagner’s string writing, prior to the masturbatory meal Mäkelä made of the close. The disconnected string of aural images, for want of a better phrase, that made up the finale simply had me long for the concert to be over. Eventually it was, in a performance that lasted about 74 minutes. Again, it felt not far off twice that. What a contrast with this same orchestra, almost exactly two years ago, in Mahler’s Seventh Symphony under Iván Fischer. A depressing evening, all the more so since it was acclaimed by the audience to the rafters.

 

Salzburg Festival (3) - Le Balcon/Pascal: Nono, Boulez, and Stockhausen, 19 August 2025

Grosser Saal, Mozarteum

Nono: A Pierre. Dell’azzurro silenzio, inquietum
Boulez: sur Incises
Stockhausen: Klavierstück XIV – ‘Geburtstag-Formel’
Boulez: …explosante-fixe…

Julie Brunet-Jailly (flute)

Alphonse Cemin (piano)

Augustin Muller (IRCAM electronics)

Sylvain Cadars (IRCAM sound diffusion)

Le Balcon

Maxime Pascal (conductor)

Images: © SF/Marco Borrelli

Pierre Boulez’s broader musical-cultural legacy lies everywhere, both in what he achieved and what, sadly, he did not. Quite rightly, in this centenary year we are taking time to focus more specifically on his musical works. From his 1960 Salzburg debut (Stockhausen, Webern, and Boulez, in the presence of Herbert von Karajan), the Festival has long experienced and participated in both—and especially from 1992, at the invitation of Gerard Mortier and Hans Landesmann. I shall rue till my dying day having passed up the opportunity to hear his Moses und Aron, on my first, student visit. It was inevitable, given the choice of one opera, that I would opt for Mozart, yet nevertheless… Here, in any case, the Festival’s centenary tribute will focus on both strands, or rather on three or more, the third being the presence and influence even in non-presence of electronics both in his music and in that broader legacy, exemplified by IRCAM and represented here by Augustin Muller and Sylvain Cadars. 

The mini-series ‘A Pierre’ opened with this concert, which in turn opened in pleasing symmetry with Luigi Nono’s sixtieth birthday tribute for his colleague, A Pierre. Dell Azzurro silenzio, inquietum, for contrabass flute, contrabass clarinet, and live electronics. One instrument entered, then the other: were they playing together or separately? Had they merged? One asked that even before the advent of electronics, or was it? Differences were almost, yet never quite, imperceptible, a message dell-ascolto from the somewhat non-Boulezian world of Prometeo. One was drawn in to listen, in harmony, in polyphony, ever transforming, ever deeper. I could have sworn at one point I heard voices – as in vocal music – and perhaps, in a way, I did. The role of electronics was ‘for’ Pierre, at least, as the Venetian waves lapped and almost Mahlerian vistas opened up before our ears. 

It is an obvious point, but I do not think it had quite registered with me, at least experientially, quite how much difference the performing space would make to a performance of sur Incises. My ears, doubtless my eyes, associate it above all with Berlin’s Pierre Boulez Saal, where I have heard Daniel Barenboim conduct it more than once (including the hall’s opening concert) with his own created Boulez Ensemble. In a more conventional smallish hall, not in the round, lines seemed more obviously to lead from the conductor—and, in a sense, seated not far behind Maxime Pascal, from the ensemble too—with clear consequences for experience of many aspects of the work ‘itself’. Whether it was that, or the performances of Le Balcon and Pascal—it may have been both—that made the opening section sound quite so Debussyan, I am not sure. It came as a subsequent shock to my ears to hear quite so many floating roots, if you will, in Scriabin in the writing for pianos of the following section. Perhaps it was simply me; never underestimate the role of your own preoccupations or chance connections. However strictly organised, listening as well as composition and performance will break free. When rhythm took its place as first among equals, Stravinsky came most forcefully to mind and, a little more surprisingly, Prokofiev, although then I remember hearing Boulez express admiration for the piano writing in the composer’s concertos. These where ghosts, though, rather than definite influences, and soon one felt—at least I did—fully immersed, albeit actively immersed as, I flattered myself, a participant, enticed and welcomed by performers and work alike. What also struck me was the liminal passages in which not only classic parameters but time and music seemed stretched, even bent: Debussy again, perhaps, even Chopin. Resonance, in more than one sense, played its part too. Waves of a different kind were felt, not only heard, sound and music moving through space as well as time, as Gurnemanz might (not) have put it. 

Following some much needed fresh air, we returned to the hall (the same hall that hosted Boulez’s 1960 debut) for Stockhausen’s contribution to that same 1985 Baden-Baden birthday tribute: Klavierstück XIV, later to be heard as part of the composer’s Montag (for various reasons, a work Boulez was unlikely ever to have conducted). My heart went out to Alphonse Cemin when, just before he was about to begin, a lengthy telephonic intervention rang out. Such was its length that, at least for the audience, it became quite amusing. Was it Karlheinz himself, attempting to dial in from Sirius? When Cemin, a worthy successor to Pierre-Laurent Aimard, gave his fine performance, we were immediately in a different world from anything heard in the first half, though the whimsy of that introduction perhaps persisted a little in his verbal contributions. Here, unquestionably, was a miniature drama, though not only that, and in its ‘birthday formula’ mode, an intriguing set-up for Boulez’s own …explosante-fixe…, founded as it is on what has reasonably been considered a compositional ‘kit’. It was also music unquestionably ‘for’ the piano and to be enjoyed as such by performer and listeners alike in something not so very distant from what we know as music theatre. 

And so, to …explosante-fixe…, which I had not heard live for a little while: the last time, I think, ten years ago for Boulez’s 90^th anniversary, at the Proms. Julie Brunet-Jailly was joined by fellow, ‘shadow’ flautists and other members of Le Balcon in the fullest ensemble of the evening, as well of course as our friends from IRCAM and Pascal. It worked very differently, perhaps better, in the space than sur Incises; or maybe it was more that my ears had adjusted. The immediacy, even straightforward volume, nonetheless took a little getting used to, though only a little. The alchemy of sound in space proved quite magical, even seductive, as if presaging Boulez’s own, later Szymanowskian enchantment. Here was not only a labyrinth, but something between riot and delirium within a labyrinth that was always transforming before our ears: itself somewhere between Pli and pli and the orchestral Notations, which, I suppose, is where the work lies in Boulez’s œuvre. The bending of time I had felt in sur Incises continued, here in a world of very different, dazzling, (quasi-)orchestral fantasy that it was difficult not to think almost classically ‘French’. (Perhaps the presence of French performers contributed to that.) Dimming the lights for passages of ‘pure’ electronics was a theatrical touch, yet a winning one: in highlighting the organ pipes at the back of the stage, it almost suggested a role for that instrument, though alas not. I certainly heard things I could not recall from previous encounters: unexpected guests from The Rite of Spring, the sage’s procession turned post-Sixties psychedelic (or was that Messiaenic)? There was a sense, I fancied, of an almost Bachian mirroring and inversion in the electronics: not necessarily literally, but a quality felt or imagined. Other aspects comfortably, yet never too comfortably returned: those trills and tremolos, for instance. And I realised, only at the close, one thing that made this a relatively unusual soundworld for Boulez ensemble music. Obvious when you think about it: no percussion. So long as we continue to listen, we shall never cease to learn—even the most basic of things.

 

Salzburg Festival (2) - One Morning Turns Into An Eternity, 18 August 2025

Felsenreitschule

Schoenberg: Erwartung, op.17
Webern: Five Orchestral Pieces, op.10
Mahler: Das Lied von der Erde: ‘Der Abschied’

Director – Peter Sellars
Costumes – Camille Assaf
Set designs – George Tsypin
Lighting – James F. Ingalls
Dramaturgy – Antonio Cuenca Ruiz

Aušrinė Stundytė (soprano)

Fleur Barron (contralto)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Esa-Pekka Salonen (conductor)

Image: Ruth Walz
Aušrinė Stundytė

'At a time when violence seems ubiquitous and the future uncertain, Peter Sellars argues that the extremes and intensity of Erwartung are not expressionist exaggerations, but instead reflect the actual experience of existential wounds. Rather than viewing the work as a portrait of a disorientated woman, the director approaches Schoenberg’s masterpiece as a lyrical poem expressing doubt, heartbreak, and hope in the face of despair.' 

My heart sank on reading these words on the Salzburg Festival website a couple of days ago. Not that I in any sense mind a production transforming, questioning, or pretty much anyth-ing a work, so long as it works, but rather that my experience of Peter Sellars’s brand of interventionism has, at least for the best part of two decades, not been entirely positive. The celebrated Harlem Don Giovanni still packs a punch; the other instalments of that 1980s Da Ponte trilogy retain their devotees. Last year’s Salzburg Gambler did no harm, if only because it worked well enough even if one missed – which I largely did – the concept. There is no need to rehearse other experiences; one should give something new a chance, or simply stay away.

Perhaps unwisely, I read Sellars’s programme synopsis immediately prior to the performance. It was of the variety, as for The Gambler last summer, in which the director outlines his vision of the work rather than the work ‘itself’: no bad thing, one might say, if one is trying to establish what the former might be (or have been). Again, I cannot say it inspired ‘hope in the face of [not quite] despair’ and it certainly coloured my initial impressions. To cut a long story short, Sellars has decided to present Erwartung as presenting a woman in search of her probably unfaithful lover, whose child she is bearing and who ‘she has reason to believe … has died under torture’, both of them being ‘part of a resistance movement’. There is much more of it, but actually I discovered – at least to me – that it did not really matter. I am not sure how much of it one would glean without reading the synopsis: the broad setting, probably, given an introduction in which two men with tablets show the woman and forest ‘trees’ that have something of surveillance towers – or is it the other way around? – to them. Beyond that, though, what one actually sees can pretty much be the basis for a more faithful – for me, more interesting – or indeed any other reading of the work. If that sort of realism helps the director, perhaps helps inspire the Woman’s movements, and so on, that need not worry us unduly. 

Whether such ‘working’ would be better left unsaid is a question one might ask, but one is not obliged to take it on board, and for the most part it does not get in the way. The stagecraft is well wrought, to my mind more in sympathy with the work. How much was Sellars and how much Aušrinė Stundytė I do not – need not – know. A boulder on which she rests for a while connected with other stagings, actual or in our minds’ eyes, including that of the recently departed Robert Wilson for Jessye Norman here in Salzburg, that bench a permanent fixture in the foyer. Lighting, shadows, and the Felsenreitschule backdrop suggest and create: for instance, crucifix shadows that might threaten or console, according to taste or situation. 

Image: Monika Rittershaus
Peter Sellars

Once past initial slight irritation, then, I found myself able to concentrate on the performance—and excellent it was too. Stundytė fully inhabited the role: Schoenberg’s and, I imagine, Sellars’s too. A true stage animal, she is – and was – a singing actress in the very best sense: not a euphemism for someone who convinces on stage but cannot sing, but rather one who uses her outstanding lyrical art to truly dramatic ends. Without undue pedantry, every move, every gesture contributed to a greater whole, whilst crucially – for this piece, perhaps, above all – giving the impression of spontaneity, of conception in the moment. Not that there was any shortage of vocal shading, of telling phrasing, of much else in more ‘purely’ musical categories, but the distinction was false and indeed never occurred. 

Guided, inspired by, and in dialogue with Esa-Pekka Salonen and the Vienna Philharmonic, as musically all-encompassing a performance of Erwartung as I can recall emerged. Every orchestral flash and flicker, every transformation of timbre and harmony, every imperceptible – in some cases, well-nigh unanalysable – connection between snatches of melody to create musicodramatic form before our ears: these and much more reminded us why this is and always will be a work that presents far more than we can ever grasp in a single experience, why it will always remain one of Schoenberg’s and indeed the Western tradition’s most radical, most extraordinary works. Rarely have I felt so strongly, immediately, and unquestionably the truth of Schoenberg’s 1929 explanation: ‘the aim is to represent in slow motion everything that occurs during a single second of maximum spiritual excitement, stretching it out to half an hour.’ And yet, still it was too much to handle. The ‘resistance movement’ scenario: well, who cared, or even noticed? 

Image: Ruth Walz
Fleur Barron

And so the musical drama continued, distinct yet related, through the Webern op.10 Zwischenspiel, moments and connections of inscrutable, undeniable magic, now all too brief, yet more evidently sufficient, even (relatively) comprehensible. These were exquisite jewels, on the face of it, yet jewels that – crucially for Webern in particular – were in truth developed and developing organisms, not objects. One naturally heard what Schoenberg, Webern, and Mahler, as we moved to ‘Der Abschied’ from Das Lied von der Erde held in common, as well as what distinguished them. How much of that was conscious in Salonen’s performance, again, I do not and cannot know. There was certainly no sense of imposing anything on the music (however loaded such categories may be in an art that remains one of performance, never mere execution). There is a great deal of art in concealing art, yet Salonen and the orchestra, throughout on exquisite, burningly committed form, gave one the (flattering) impression one was discovering for oneself rather than being unduly led.  Equally apparent were Schoenbergian motivic snatches, burned in Webernian purgatory, and deftly turned into deceptive Mahlerian chinoiserie, and a broadening of time, the ‘single second’ of the ‘morning’ cited in Marie Pappenheim’s libretto transformed into a window on Mahler’s ‘eternity’. 

I had skipped over Sellars’s Mahler synopsis more quickly, so much so that it left little mark on my experience. In some senses, it seemed closer to the text; at least, it was saying farewell (to a friend) rather than doing something else completely. It remained specific, realistic, and (for better or worse) couched in what seems to me a rather dated sense of therapeutic self-realisation. But we all come to things from different standpoints and experiences; it doubtless helped him – presumably others, too – and it did not get in the way for me. There were again magical images, such as that of silhouetted flautist Karlheinz Schütz far above, birdsong beckoning Fleur Barron – and/or her friend – to the beyond. Barron’s own performance was, as you would expect, less agitated, yet an eminently worthy complement. Imbued with vocal and quasi-instrumental wisdom, it lived and breathed and brought to its culmination a related, liminal world of words, music, image, and gesture that, whatever the words in the programme, never confused sentiment and sentimentality.

Salzburg Festival (1): ORF SO/Metzmacher - Henze, 18 July 2025

Felsenreitschule

Images: © SF/Marco Borrelli

  

Das Floss der Medusa

La Mort – Kathrin Zukowski
Jean-Charles – Georg Nigl
Charon – Udo Samel

Bavarian Radio Chorus (chorus director: Max Hanft)

WRD Radio Chorus (chorus directors: Paul Krämer, Alexander Lüken)

Salzburg Festival and Theatre Children’s Choir (chorus directors: Regina Sgier, Wolfgang Götz)

ORF Vienna Radio Symphony Orchestra

Ingo Metzmacher (conductor)

Hans Werner Henze’s oratorio The Raft of the Medusa has long been as celebrated for its abortive Hamburg premiere at the close of 1968, disrupted by riot police acting with as much justice as they do on Berlin streets and elsewhere today in pursuit of anti-genocide protestors. In rehearsals, the RIAS Chamber Choir, flown in from West Berlin to boost local forces, had been deliberately uncooperative, disdaining Henze’s politics. Hamburg waited for a new millennium finally to make amends, although the final rehearsal had been recorded, so it was broadcast instead. Even Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, according to Henze’s autobiography Bohemian Fifths, took out his fury at the composer rather than those actually responsible, whilst poor Ernst Schnabel, the librettist and former controller of North German Radio, responsible for recording that rehearsal and thus tempering further disaster, found himself ‘thrown through a plate-glass door by a representative of the forces of law and order and … briefly locked up in a cell for opposing the state’s authorities.’ It is a story worthy of staging or perhaps a film, and is told a little more fully in my review of the Komische Oper Berlin’s Tempelhof staging in 2023 and considerably more so in Bohemian Fifths. But whilst it is unavoidably part of what the work has now become, it is salutary to hear it more or less for itself, not least at the opening of this year’s Salzburg Festival with a considerable part of the local haute bourgeoisie in attendance—part of it at least, it seems, never happier than when being lectured on its depravity by an artist of the left. Indeed, unavoidable as reception becomes in this context, it put me in mind of the success of The Bassarids the first time around, in what was then Herbert von Karajan’s citadel, for its 1966 premiere: both in itself and because it proved a crucial station on the path to the more obvious political commitment of The Raft of the Medusa. Almost thirty years later, Henze would recoil from the prospect of having become a ‘world success’. What would that mean, he asked mischievously? Becoming a Leonard Bernstein? 

If it were merely a lecture, merely agitprop, The Raft of the Medusa would doubtless be of historical interest, but not so much else. Here, in outstanding performances from all concerned, it showed beyond doubt that it is far more than that: of its time, no doubt, but equally of ours, message as well as material as urgent as ever. The vast forces were superbly marshalled by Ingo Metzmacher; in a work such as this, there is a great deal of ‘crowd control’, but it was never only that, any more than in a fine performance of the larger symphonies of Mahler. Indeed, from its entry, the ORF orchestra played this with the familiarity and commitment one might expect from the greatest of ensembles in such repertoire—and Henze’s Mahlerian heritage was clear from reinvention of his predecessor’s division of the greater whole into finely tuned (in every sense) ensembles. The ship’s negative roll call sounded as if a bitterly ironic Wunderhorn reveille. 

The Choir of the Living was drawn from the Bavarian Radio Chorus, the Choir of the Dead from the WDR Radio Chorus. Make of that what you will; nothing ideally, for all choral singing, the Salzburg children’s choir certainly included, was excellent. The latter’s apparent childlike simplicity – far more difficult than it might sound, when set against orchestral slithering – was both exquisite and disconcerting. Without retrospectively wishing to dismiss the Komische Oper’s undeniable achievement at Tempelhof, this showed beyond doubt that, whilst good staging will do an oratorio no harm, an oratorio need not be staged and will probably work best without. The visual element of choral singers moving from left, the ‘Side of the Living’, to right, the ‘Side of the Dead’, in front of which initially La Mort stands alone, but to which she will soon recruit, is more than enough: starkly powerful without distraction from words and music, enabling the chorus to assume its true and indeed traditional vocation. ‘We speak with two voices,’ as Charon, spoken by Udo Samel, informed us in the Prologue: that of ‘Madame: La Mort,’ the chillingly seductive, strikingly clear Kathrin Zukowski, and that of Jean-Charles, ‘the mulatto from Djefara in French service, whom you will remember from Géricault’s painting’, less played than inhabited by a well-nigh possessed – and very un-Fischer-Dieskau – Georg Nigl. 

Henze’s use of ‘African’ percussion might raise eyebrows now, but it is unquestionably well meant and certainly atmospheric. It reminded us not only of the world beyond European shores, but of oppression both more specific and more general as truth, reality, and delirium closed in: a colonial oppression to which open resistance would break out in the drum-beat of the closing orchestral section. Ominous, fatal (this year’s Overture Spirituelle theme is ‘Fatum’), and a cry of solidarity, it grew to a climax, as if to incite through the implicit call of ‘Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh’, then Wozzeck-like, stopped: over to us. So far, so good, and that final message was overwhelming. Yet what happened to lead us there was just as important and involving. This was a tale of humanity, but also of class struggle, in which ‘lesser’ ranks were heartlessly betrayed – ‘we for whom there was no room in the longboat’ – yet those who survived ‘returned to the world again, eager to overthrow it’. Contest between Jean-Charles and La Mort was unequal, yet real; this was no foregone conclusion, save when it had happened. ORF wind beguiled and disturbed, in context perhaps – and recalling the actual premiere took place in Vienna – an ambivalent homage to Henze’s beloved Mozart. Ghosts of Berg, Stravinsky, and Schoenberg were also present in the harmonies – Wozzeck surely a case of more or less direct allusion – but so, I think, was Dallapiccola’s Il prigioniero. Haunted above all by Bach, here was a secular, revolutionary passion: like Bach’s, both a work of mourning and yet imbued with some redemptive hope. Raising of the giant score at the end suggested where, aesthetically at least, some form of redemption might lie. If Berg's Violin Concerto, 'to the memory of an angel', echoed in harmony as well as violin solo, then here lay other angels, waiting to rise or even risen.

Surtitles came and went in what I assume was a technical malfunction rather than arbitrary selectivity. That was doubtless something of a pity for an international audience – probably less international than in August – although the vivid, visceral nature of communication in person was more than ample compensation. Bar a slight slip, unless I were mistaken, in Charon’s opening narration, and overmiking of Samel’s spoken contributions – at least we could readily discern every word – I am not sure I can find another cavil. This was an outstanding opening, then, to this year’s Salzburg Festival: as fine a Henze performance as I have heard, its 2018 revival of The Bassarids included, and unquestionably the most moving.

I shall return to Salzburg in mid-August to review several more performances. This, however, will take some matching. For those who missed it, cameras were present. There will also be two Munich performances next February in Henze’s centenary year, from the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra, Simon Rattle, Anna Prohaska, John Tomlinson, and Nigl once more, conducted by longstanding advocate Simon Rattle. Now, let us remember the rafts and ‘small boats’ upon the treacherous seas, and the bodies and souls of those who cling to them.

Salzburg Festival (10) - BPO/Petrenko: Smetana, 26 August 2024

Grosses Festspielhaus

Má vlast

Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra

Kirill Petrenko (conductor)

Images: SF/Marco Borrelli

This might have been less a case of taking coals to Newcastle than of bringing them back to double the journey, given I have spent most of the past year in Berlin. I was unable, though, to attend any of the subscription concerts earlier in the year when the Berlin Philharmonic and Kirill Petrenko played Smetana’s Má vlast, so this Salzburg Festival offered me a welcome second chance in this, the composer’s bicentenary year. If there were times when I could not help but wonder what, say, the Czech Philharmonic might have sounded like in this music, the BPO and Petrenko gave committed, accomplished performances. There might well have been an extra tang of ‘authenticity’, given that orchestra’s unusual success in resisting international homogenisation, but no more than Janáček or Elgar does Smetana deserve to be reduced to the status of a national dish. 

There was certainly nothing culinary to what we heard. Each of the six symphonic poems had its own narrative and contributed to a greater narrative. Petrenko proved a purposeful yet flexible guide. The bardic harps of ‘Vyšehrad’ offered a magical ‘once upon a time’ opening, following woodwind just as impressive. It really felt like the introduction to a series, and at times seemed even to anticipate the world of Das klagende Lied (which, after all, Mahler had begun before Smetana completed his work, let alone before its first performance). Yet that was only a hint; Smetana took a different, more Lisztian route, not least in the fugato, whose string playing was quite beyond reproach. ‘Vltava’ will doubtless always be the most celebrated of the six; it gains much from being heard in context. Here, it received an alert, colourful, directed performance, tinged with an unspoken sadness that was never permitted to overwhelm. There were occasions when I wondered whether it might have been a little less ‘beautiful’ or at least more vigorous, but I am nitpicking. 

Following a few rounds of audience coughing, ‘Šarka’ emerged in almost operatic fashion, as if the opening to a new act. It proved full of surprises, even when one ‘knew’, testament to the freshness of the performance, all the way to a fiery conclusion (a massacre according to the composer’s programme). The opening to ‘From Bohemia’s Fields and Forests’ seemed to steal from still farther into the future: Mahler again, and even Janáček. These were certainly, though, Bohemian rather than Moravian lands into which the music headed. Again, there was a proper sense both of a new chapter and also of connection. String counterpoint once more was brilliantly despatched—and with a ghostly flavour at the close. 

An eloquent reading of ‘Tábor’ again often put me in mind of Liszt, both in rhetoric and narrative. It had me think how welcome it would be to hear some of his symphonic poems from these same forces: maybe, dare one hope, even a complete series.’Blaník’ felt like the finale—and definitely a finale in context rather than something drafted to do service as such. Tonal and dramatic expectancy were properly heightened and fulfilled. Here was another Lisztian battle, but with jubilation that was very much Smetana’s (Czech) own. It may not be the ‘Ode to Joy’ or Die Meistersinger, but what is? An important nineteenth-century voice was given his due.

Salzburg Festival (9) - The Gambler, 25 August 2024

Felsenreitschule

General – Peixin Chen
Polina – Asmik Grigorian
Alexey Ivanovitch – Sean Panikkar
Babulenka – Violeta Urmana
Marquis – Juan Francisco Gatell
Blanche – Nicole Chirka
Mr Astley – Michael Arivony
Prince Nilski – Zhengi Bai
Baron Würmerhelm – Ilia Kazakov
Potapytch – Joseph Parrish
Casino Director – Armand Rabot
First Croupier – Samuel Stopford
Second Croupier – Michael Dimovski
Fat Englishman – Jasurbek Khaydarov
Tall Englishman – Vladyslav Buialskyi
So-So Lady – Seray Pinar
Pale Lady – Lilit Davtyan
Revered Lady – Cassandra Doyle
Doubtful Old Lady – Zole Reams
Passionate Gambler – Santiago Sánchez
Sickly Gambler – Tae Hwan Yun
Hump-backed Gambler – Aaron-Casey Gould
Unsuccessful Gambler – Navasard Hakobyan
Old Gambler – Amin Ahangaran
Six Gamblers – Slaven Abazovic, Konrad Huber, Juraj Kuchar, Jarosłav Pehal, Wataru Sano, Oleg Zalytskiy

Director – Peter Sellars
Set designs – George Tsypin
Costumes – Camille Assaf
Lighting – James F. Ingalls
Dramaturgy – Antonio Cuenca Ruiz

Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera Chorus (chorus director: Pawel Markowicz)

Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra

Timur Zangiev (conductor)

Images: SF/Ruth Walz

This new production by Peter Sellars of The Gambler had four important things in common with Mariame Clément’s Tales of Hoffmann, which I saw in Salzburg the previous evening. It imposed a fashionable concept on a work that might or might not have proved receptive to it, had it been pursued more coherently; the concept was at least on one level something to which it would be difficult for a thinking twenty-first-century person to object; it took reading of a programme note to discover fully what that concept had been; and finally, upon that discovery, I was left certain that the work’s own ideas were rather more interesting and fruitful than what had been imposed upon them. There were also, however, at least two important differences. Sellars’s production worked much better as a relatively ‘straight’ reading of the work, in which one could either ignore or remain in ignorance of the rest. And musically, whilst both productions had excellent casts, this one was well conducted. It made, then, for a far more satisfying night in the theatre. 

This was, I think, the third production of The Gambler I had seen, following stagings in Berlin (Dmitri Tcherniakov, 2008) and London (Richard Jones, 2010), and certainly the first in a while. The Felsenreitschule stage imposes certain constraints, though doubtless also offers certain opportunities to a director. One is unlikely to be able to do much in the way of scene-changes mid-act. In this case, since the opera was given without an interval, one is unlikely to be able to do much in that respect at all. Sellars and his team responded inventively, though, with a little help from the resources a Salzburg Festival production will have at its disposal. Spinning tops suspended from the ceiling, poised for action – I initially thought of a Russian opera from an earlier generation, Boris Godunov’s heir at play in the study – descended when required to form a casino of roulette tables. Green moss suggested both a park and a sense of decay and time running out. The rest could be understood pretty much on its own terms. 

At least I thought it could, notwithstanding irritating, capitalised anachronisms in the surtitles. ‘DADDY’, ‘ACTIVIST’, ‘CAPITAL’, and so on seemed little more than minor distractions. Prokofiev and indeed Dostoevsky still for the most part shone through. The presentation of Polina as an ‘activist’ was half-hearted enough that for the most part I missed it. Her clothes seemed a bit odd, her behaviour too, but neither of those things is especially unusual in such stagings. Brief portrayal of sadomasochistic activity between her and Mr Astley – I later learned he had been a ‘British venture capitalist’ – intrigued. Yet since nothing more happened in that respect, it was soon forgotten, until she eloped with him at the close. Presumably he had co-opted her, as venture capitalists do. Ultimately, then, Sellars’s concept seemed to be anticapitalist-cum-environmentalist, yet also to an extent a critique of that world of protest, Alexey hardly turning out to be a role model. It was difficult not to feel that Dostoevsky’s existentialism – Prokofiev’s too – was not more fitting, more interesting. Yet, since this mysterious world of ‘sole traders’ had barely impinged on my consciousness during the performance, it did not much matter either. I had witnessed obsession, social climbing, self-destruction, and the rest, and it had largely made sense. Sellars’s Personenregie, then, had worked well, whatever one thought (or noticed) of his concept. 

That was doubtless also testimony to the strength of the cast. I have never seen or heard a performance in which Sean Panikkar has failed to excel, and this was no exception. He truly inhabited as actor as well as singer the role of Alexey, providing the focus of the work and duly engaging our sympathies. Asmik Grigorian, here far more at home than in Strauss’s Four Last Songs the previous morning, sang gorgeously as a wilful, spirited, and ultimately enigmatic Polina. Peixin Chen’s stentorian General also offered a fascinating character study in personal weakness, not necessarily the easiest combination to bring off. Juan Francisco’s wheedling Marquis, Michael Arivony’s clever, apparently trustworthy Mr Astley, Nicole Chirka’s alluring yet shallow Blanche, and others all offered sharp characterisation. Perhaps needless to say, Violeta Urmana’s Babulenka stole the show; it is in the nature of work and role, yet hers was nonetheless a towering performance, rich-toned, impulsive, and finely characterised.    

It was doubtless no coincidence that, at the point of her arrival, the general temperature of the musical performance shot upwards. Again, that is in the nature of the work, but it seemed also to act as a spur to Timur Zangiev and the Vienna Philharmonic in the pit. A greater sharpness was to be heard, Prokofiev’s motor rhythms acquiring greater force, achieving greater impact. There was also, though, an ineffably human tenderness not only to be perceived, but to be moved by. Prokofiev’s lyricism proved the increasingly prominent obverse of the existential-dramatic coin.

Salzburg Festival (8) - Mozarteum Orchestra/Emelyanchev: Mozart, 25 August 2024

Grosser Saal, Mozarteum

Serenade in D major, KV 239, ‘Serenata notturna’
Quintet for piano, oboe, clarinet, horn, and bassoon in E-flat major, KV 452
Symphony no.38 in D major, KV 504, ‘Prague’

Isabelle Unterer (oboe)

Bernhard Mitmesser (clarinet)

Àlvaro Canales Albert (bassoon)

Paul Pitzek (horn)

Salzburg Mozarteum Orchestra

Maxim Emelyanchev (fortepiano, conductor)

Image: SF/Marco Borrelli

Making his debut with the Salzburg Mozarteum Orchestra, Maxim Emelyanchev offered three works by Mozart, each in three movements, appearing as conductor from the harpsichord, fortepianist, and conductor without keyboard. Not everyone can offer such versatility, nor indeed would wish to, but the results were generally enjoyable, although the combination of period piano and modern wind instruments in the E-flat Quintet, KV 452, proved ill-advised. Adding further complication to a slightly confusing postmodern mélange, Emelyanchev offered various performing styles within the concert, moving from a more ‘period’ approach in the Serenata notturna to a more ‘traditional’ Prague Symphony, the intervening Quintet at times strangely improvisatory. Much of the audience seemed to love it; the orchestra seemed enthused too. It at least offered something for all the family. 

The March that opens the serenade was certainly martial, though it lost something in the longer line and was arguably more unrelentingly four-square than it need have been. Some of the colours were a delight, string pizzicato offering only one such example, though the sheer aggression of tutti passages, especially those with timpani, seemed to me out of keeping. A rigorous, bracing minuet was given cultivated contrast in the sweet-toned trio, which relaxed without actual relaxation of tempo. The finale similarly offered excellent playing, the brief central ‘Adagio’ section at least avoiding undue astringency, and the final ‘Allegro’ a fine sense of release. 

Following a self-absorbed piano lead-in, the first movement of the Quintet set the scene, both for good and less good, for what would follow. It emerged as ‘interesting’ rather than great music, the lack of harmonic rhythm a serious problem, and strange balance helping neither underpowered keyboard, sometimes compelled to forcing of tone to be heard, nor wind who, in such company and despite excellent playing, tended to sound overly bright. The ‘Larghetto’ was at least more long-breathed, but likewise suffered from the lack of a fundamental pulse. Maybe it was a case of my ears having adjusted, but the third movement proved the most convincing of the three, a concerto finale in not-so-miniature, harmony and counterpoint allied to more purposeful direction.    

Returning to D major, the Prague Symphony received what was in many ways a surprisingly unmannered performance, mutual sympathy rewarded in both directions. Natural brass (horns and trumpets) were used, which contributed to the overall sense of pick-and-mix, especially in combination with noticeably more modern-sounding timpani than had been employed for the Serenata notturna, but a few rasping noises aside, they did not distract. A broad introduction – certainly when compared with performers coming from a similar standpoint – set the scene for a first movement with a considerably stronger sense of harmonic rhythm than anything heard previously. Emelyanchev’s tendency to wave his arms around too much might visually irritate, but it did not necessarily transfer into what we heard. When he slowed in preparation for the second group, it was an ‘interventionist’ moment no one listening could have missed, but it made sense, irrespective of whether one happened to approve. Doing precisely the same thing for the repeat arguably detracted from the effect, but even Daniel Barenboim has been known to repeat a little too obviously an agogic adjustment or tempo variation, so I think we can readily forgive that. 

The Andante flowed nicely without being fashionably harried and/or divested of its profound, emotional content. Indeed, its darkness came to the surface with apparent naturalness, as opposed to being imposed from without. Again, that can only be the case through harmony, which, if it not key to Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven, it is not key to anyone at all. (The number of fashionable conductors today who fail to appreciate that is, sadly, at an all-time high.) Woodwind once more shone, but in an unassuming – one might say quintessentially Bohemian – way, as if inheriting the mantle of the players for whom the work was written. The finale was taken fast, very fast: to my ears, too fast, more Prestissimo rather than Presto, as if the point were to take it as fast as possible. It is not a matter of speed as such, but rather of giving the music space to breathe; Mozart rarely if ever calls for speed in the way that Haydn (or Mendelssohn) does. A strong sense of harmonic rhythm was here diminished, although the music was not arbitrarily pulled around as some might. The Mozarteum Orchestra’s playing was excellent throughout.

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.