Festival d’Aix-en-Provence (5) - L’Erismena, 15 July 2017

Images: Festival d’Aix-en-Provence 2017 © Pascal Victor / artcompress

Théâtre du Jeu de Paume

Erismena – Francesca Aspromonte

Idraspe – Carlo Vistoli

Aldimira – Susanna Hurrell

Orimeneo – Jakub Józef Orliński

Erimante – Alexander Miminoshvili

Flerida – Lea Desandre

Argippo – Andrea Bonsignore

Alcesta – Stuart Jackson

Clerio Moro – Tai Oney

Diarte – Jonathan Abernethy

Jean Bellorini (director, lighting, set designs)

Véronique Chazal (set designs)

Macha Makeïeff (costumes)

Cappella Mediterranea

Leonardo García Alarcón (conductor)

Whose first thought when Cavalli is mentioned is anything other than Raymond Leppard? Certainly not mine. Whilst many, indeed pretty much all, such associations will be simplifications of varying degrees of grossness, and some bizarrely, often chauvinistically, incorrect – Bernstein and Mahler, for instance – Leppard’s role in the rediscovery and revival of Cavalli’s operas can hardly be gainsaid. What I should have given to hear one of his imaginative, luscious realisations in the flesh. Much has changed in the meantime, of course: save for the very occasional actual ‘reorchestration’, it has long been a capital offence to perform seventeenth-century music on modern instruments. I suppose we should be grateful that the fatwas of ‘authenticity’ have extended less frequently towards staging, although the vaguely ‘stylish’ mishmash that often results tends at best to be a mixed blessing.

What we saw and heard here was much in that line, and proved enjoyable enough in its way, although I could not help but wish that something more daring had been attempted. The theatre itself, the Théâtre du Jeu de Paume, is a delight. However modernist one’s view of other matters may be, the growth of opera houses into outsize monsters should surely be deplored by all. Presumably someone will object that it is an eighteenth-century theatre; in which case, kindly get thee to seventeenth-century Venice and leave the rest of us in peace. Leonardo García Alarcón and his small, yet far from shy, Capella Mediterranea played in the accustomed ‘we’re Mediterranean and thus “sensual”’ style, or alternatively, ‘sex please, we’re not Christopher Hogwood’ – which is certainly preferable to, well, Christopher Hogwood and other puritans. It is, though, all a bit predictable after a while, not nearly so ‘interesting’ or indeed ‘sensual’ as it thinks it is – or, indeed, as audiences in thrall to ‘authenticity’ have been trained to believe it is. Have a ‘colourful’ continuo group, turn as much as you can into dance music, accompany that with a good deal of silly dancing on stage, hint at largely spurious parallels to other traditions, be they folk, jazz, anything other than the dread ‘symphonic’, and you are ‘counter-culturally’ away.

It is a business, of course, and it has succeeded greatly in those terms, not least by its ruthless suppression of the ‘competition’. And unlike those frankly unlistenable-to Northern European puritan forerunners – the Leonhardts, Goebels, Hogwoods, et al. – it is in many respects welcoming. Perhaps it is too much so, or at least too complacent in its remarkably non-reflective conception of history. (Nikolaus Harnoncourt was an exception in that latter respect; his greatest problem was a peculiar inability to phrase.) There is more, though, to ‘Mediterranean’ culture, and indeed there is more to Cavalli, than that. Moreover, violin intonation was sometimes little short of excruciating, although no one else seemed to mind.

Whatever one’s thoughts on the orchestra and conducting (how ‘inauthentic’!) though, the singing was excellent. A young cast, with acting abilities largely to match, held the drama, such as it is, in its hands and projected it with the vocal excellence that has long been the trump card of so much of the ‘early music’ movement. If I were compelled to single out one soloist, I should unhesitatingly opt for the bright, clear, and yes, sensual countertenor of Jakub Józef Orliński; it was a great pity he did not have more to sing. But this was a true company achievement. Orliński’s countertenor companions, Carlo Vistoli and Tai Oney also greatly impressed, each voice and character ‘naturally’ differentiated from the others. So too did Susanna Hurrell’s Aldimira and Stuart Jackson’s properly outrageous nurse-in-drag, Alcesto. There is a good deal of ensemble writing here, yet I cannot recall a single case of problematical balance.

Jean Bellorini’s staging falls into the aforementioned stylish-‘modern’ category. No particular point of view or framing seems apparent. Clothes are ‘modern’ and a good deal of attention is productively paid to movement and interaction. Again, though, I could not help but think that something a little more than having light bulbs  disintegrate at critical moments might have been done with the opera. For it is, frankly, difficult to care too much about the characters and their fate; this is neither Monteverdi nor top-drawer Cavalli. There is probably too much silliness; Leppard, anything but humourless, nevertheless remarked upon an all too easy tendency towards disguise and cross-dressing for the sake of it in a good number of Cavalli works. Indeed, Leppard was actually highly selective concerning those he selected for editing and performance. We, however live, for better or worse, in an age of completism. Not that that problem arose here; this is an opera eminently worth performing. Perhaps, though, at some stage, it might be done in a realisation and staging a little more interested in stretching our eyes, ears, and minds.

Il trittico, Royal Opera, 29 February 2016

Royal Opera House

Il trittico

Michele – Lucio Gallo

Giorgetta – Patricia Racette
Luigi – Carl Tanner
Tinca – Carlo Bosi
Talpa – Jeremy White
Frugola – Irina Mishura
Song Seller – David Junghoon Kim
Lovers – Lauren Fagan, Luis Gomes

Suor Angelica

Suor Angelica – Ermonela Jaho

Suor Dolcina – Elizabeth Key
Monitress – Elena Zilio
Suor Genovieffa – Lauren Fagan
Suor Osmina – Eryl Royle
Mistress of the Novices – Elizabeth Zikora
Abbess – Irina Mishura
Princess Zia – Anna Larsson
Novice – Katy Batho
Nursing Sister – Jennifer Davis
Alms Sisters – Emily Edmonds, Renata Skarelyte
Nuns – Tamsin Coombs, Kiera Lyness, Anne Osborne, Amy Catt, Cari Searle

Gianni Schicchi

Gianni Schicchi – Lucio Gallo

Lauretta – Susanna Hurrell
Zita – Elena Zilio
Rinuccio – Paolo Fanale
Gherardo – Carlo Bosi
Nella – Rebecca Evans
Gherardino – Gabriele Montano
Betto di Signa – Jeremy White
Simone – Gwynne Howell
Marco – David Kempster
La Ciesca – Marie McLaughlin
Maestro Spinelloccio – Matteo Peirone
Ser Amantio di Nicolao – Tziano Bracci
Pinellino – Simon Wilding
Guccio – David Shipley
Buoso Donati – Peter Curtis

Richard Jones (director)

Sarah Fahie (revival director, Il tabarro and Suor Angelica)
Benjamin Davis (revival director, Gianni Schicchi)
Ultz (set designs, Il tabarro)
John Macfarlane (set designs, Gianni Schicchi)
Miriam Buether (set designs, Suor Angelica)
Nicky Gillibrand (costumes)
Mimi Jordan Sherin (lighting, revived D.M. Wood)
Sarah Fahie (movement)

Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)

Orchestra of the Royal Opera House

Nicola Luisotti (conductor)

 

Until last summer, when I saw Opera Holland Park’s excellent production, I had never seen Il trittico as a whole in the theatre, something I had been intending to remedy for a while. Such was perhaps easier said than done, given that complete performances, whilst probably less rare than at one time they had become, are less frequent than one might expect. (Alexandra Wilson’s programme note was interesting on that subject.) At any rate, I wanted to wait for the right occasion, and OHP has a very good track record in Puccini. Now I have seen another, which seemed to me almost, yet perhaps not quite, as successful, but which should surely disappoint no one. That quite a few friends – I learned this only afterwards, so it did not colour my expectations – had been disappointed on the first night, especially in vocal terms, I find surprising; I have no reason to doubt them or their judgement, but can only say that, going on the second night, my experience was different; it was, after all, a different performance, and such is the magic – and indeed the frustration – of a performing art. Even the weakest of the three operas, considered purely vocally, was only comparatively so.

 

I will admit to a little disappointment that Richard Jones seems to have made little, if any, effort to unite the three operas. Three is no iron-clad rule which says one must, of course, but surely it would be interesting at least to make the attempt when the director is common to all three. It is, after all, perfectly clear how different they are on the surface; what, however, if one digs a little deeper? Yes, one can – and should – do one that oneself, but to say there is no need for a director to do so comes close to saying that there is no need for a director, at least in the strong sense, at all. Ably revived – with the caveat that I had only seen the Gianni Schicchi before, when it was paired with L’Heure espagnole – by Sarah Fahie and Benjamin Davis, there was, however to these stagings no doubt concerning the Personenregie nor the general sense of theatre. Jones treats Il tabarro as one would usually expect it to be seen, in naturalistic fashion. If I am honest, I was relieved to be spared his usual visual trademarks – no flock wallpaper, thank goodness! – and being set when and where it ‘should’ be makes a good deal of sense. (Not, I hasten to add that it must be, and if one were seeing the opera all the time, one might think differently.) It is atmospheric, though, and the designs – surely that is crucial, if one is going to be naturalistic – convince in a realistic fashion. There is perhaps more than a hint of Zola, or at least that this is recognisably of Zola’s world. The barge convinces as a barge, as do Ultz’s handsome street designs and Nicky Gillibrand’s costume designs. Paris, the very particular Paris of these workers by the Seine, emerges as perhaps the central ‘character’, and that is surely a good thing.

I am less sure about the children’s hospital ward setting of Suor Angelica; it feels a little contrived throughout, and especially at the end. Indeed, substituting for the nun’s vision a child running forward to hug her comes across, whatever the intention, as kitsch sentimentality, which is the last thing Puccini needs. Anti-clericalism is one thing, Puccini’s thing, although ultimately not a very interesting thing; this, for me, is another, something which seemed unable to take religion seriously at all and which was therefore to be found lacking. A full-on, atheistic attack – admittedly, of the post-Voltairean variety, and yes I know Voltaire himself was a deist, rather than the silly contemporary nonsense of Dawkins et al. – might be interesting; this is not it. Within these confines – and admitting, again, the excellence, on their own terms of the designs, this time by Miriam Buether – the story is told well enough, at least until the end.

Gianni Schicchi is, as one would hope, full of life, well observed, and certainly seems to respond to the music. Presumably Sarah Fahie’s movement coordination deserves credit there. It might not dig so deep as Calixto Bieito’s production for the Komische Oper,Berlin, despite their surface similarity, and of course the latter’s brilliant pairing with Bluebeard’s Castle – now there is an example of someone pursuing a compelling line through two operas – renders the comparison problematical. Having seen Bieito, I found this a little too obvious in its ‘zaniness’, a little lacking in a sense of what the work might mean. There is little, nevertheless, that should really trouble anyone, save for those ultra-reactionaries who object to the business of updating ‘on principle’. How I wish, though, that the audience could have been at least a little more quiet! Its incessant laughter was disruptive and wearying. (Is the opera really so funny that people cannot control themselves?) Applause following ‘O mio babbino caro’ suggested as strongly as audible sighs when that aria began that the perpetrators had little sense of irony, nor of the audible and visual (cinematic still) inverted commas around it. Whatever they were doing, they were certainly not applauding ironically, with a sense of the metatheatrical.

The real continuity came from Nicola Luisotti’s excellent conducting of the orchestra. To begin with, I wondered whether the orchestral sound in Il tabarro were a little too pastel of shade. However, it increasingly drew me in rhythmically, and soon I noticed and responded to the close connection with harmonic rhythm. Colour and its variation, rhythm and its variation, harmony and its variation: these and their interconnection progressed as if the score were plotting the course of the River Seine itself. That, arguably, is very much part of what it is doing. I was able to hear to an unusual degree the opera as a masterly symphonic poem with voices. That certain rhythmic figures and their development found their way into Suor Angelica was even more striking. Musical differences asserted themselves too, of course, but the sense of unity and diversity missing from the staging was undeniable in the pit. Gianni Schicchi’s scherzo-like writing thrilled as it should: with the quickfire alternation and sheer variety of character-voices above, I felt again that the truest action was in the symphonic poem so brilliantly played. Luisotti was economical with climaxes; however, my doubts as to whether he was perhaps being a little too parsimonious were readily assuaged by his long-term strategy, ably put into practice by the Covent Garden orchestra, sounding as Puccini players to the manner born.

 

Vocally, this felt somewhat like a ‘company’ night. The Royal Opera may not really possess a company in the old-fashioned sense; more is the pity. Nevertheless, there was considerable strength in depth and a true sense of cooperation, both between singers and between them and the production. Il tabarro, as I said, was somewhat less impressive in straightforward vocal terms, although Lucio Gallo’s relative dourness was surely part of his portrayal of Michele. Carl Tanner’s Luigi and Patricia Racette’s Giorgetta had impressive moments, although they were not so sustained as one might have wished. Irina Mishura was an arrestingly spirited Frugola. Ermonela Jaho’s Suor Angelica was properly sympathetic, indeed heart-rending; if her vocal strength is not sustained equally throughout her range, then that is the case with a good many singers. One employs what one has, and this she did very well; there was no doubting her honesty of portrayal and her commitment. Lauren Fagan’s moment as Suor Genovieffa, admitting her desire once again to hold a lamb, was touching indeed. Anna Larsson gave a remarkable performance as Princess Zia, her cold dignity scene-stealing; what a splendid contrast with the Wagner and Mahler in which I have most often heard her! Elena Zilio shone both as the Monitress and still more as Zita, the focal point – arguably more so than Gianni Schicchi himself – of activity in the final opera. Her stage and vocal presence were as one. Gallo’s more energetic – how could it not be? – performance as Schicchi clearly sprang from the words with, dare I say it, a native Italian ease. Gwynne Howell showed that he still very much has ‘it’ as Simone. Susanna Hurrell and Paolo Fanale offered youthful, fresh-tone relief as Lauretta and Rinuccio. As elsewhere, though, everyone contributed to the evening’s success. This was a properly human comedy.

 

Pelléas et Mélisande (arr. Annelies van Parys), English Touring Opera, 1 October 2015

Britten Theatre, Royal College of Music

Arkel – Michael Druiett

Geneviève – Helen Johnson
Golaud – Stephan Loges
Pelléas – Jonathan McGovern
Yniold – Lauren Zolezzi
Mélisande – Susanna Hurrell 

Oliver Townsend (designs)

Mark Howland (lighting)
Bernadette Iglich (movement)
Zakk Hein (video)
James Conway (director)

Orchestra of English Touring Opera

Jonathan Berman (conductor)

 

In a better world, or even the same world with better audiences, the proportion of performances given by our opera houses of Pelléas et Mélisande and La traviata would at the very least be reversed. As it is, we find ourselves forced to make a virtue out of the relative rarity of performances of a work all consider to be a towering masterpiece. We are grateful when they come, and perhaps treasure them all the more. We are, or at least should be, especially grateful when a touring company with financial resources far more limited than our great opera houses, stages Pelléas, all the more so when it does so with such success. Once again, then: hats off to English Touring Opera!

 

Debussy’s opera is given in an arrangement for chamber ensemble by Annelies van Parys. One could, if one wished, spend the time wishing that one had the Berlin Philharmonic and Karajan, but that would seem a pointless pursuit. What strikes, with respect to a sound that is decidedly un-Karajan-like, although no closer, say, to Abbado, Boulez, or, for that matter, Désormière, is how much it convinces on its own terms. Balances are different, and perhaps not always at their optimum, wind instruments inevitably coming more to the fore without the cushion of massed strings. By the same token, however, solo strings sometimes evoke the Debussy of his chamber music, not least the String Quartet. One hears lines differently and yet, at some level, the same. Malevolence still stretches its fungal tentacles; elegance that is never ‘just’ elegance remains (as so often, when speaking about this work, one is tempted to lapse into French, and say demeure instead).

Two scenes are omitted entirely: a pity, perhaps, although I missed them far less than I should have imagined. Director James Conway takes the radical step of reintroducing words in spoken form at the end of the first ‘act’ (part way through the third). Golaud’s warning to Pelléas in some ways chills all the more for being spoken. Perhaps that is founded on the knowledge of what we ‘should’ be hearing, perhaps not, but I found it an elegant and dramatic solution.

In such circumstances, it is very difficult, perhaps impossible, to distinguish too strongly between instrumentation and performance. However, the playing of the Orchestra of English Touring Opera seemed to me throughout as alert and as sensitive as anyone could reasonably have expected, perhaps more so. What was being asked of these solo musicians was no mean task, and they played with the excellence we have come to expect. Jonathan Berman’s conducting was another strength. If I say that, for the most part, I barely noticed it, I do not mean that negatively. The ebb and flow of Debussy’s score rather seemed – and ‘seemed’ is surely the operative word here – to take care of themselves, with only occasional awkward corners, which may well be smoothed as the run progresses. One would not expect such a performance to be a ‘conductor’s performance’ as from those great names of the past I mentioned earlier; this was more a matter of subtly enabling and, yes, leading a company effort. In that and much else, it proved a great success.

Conway’s production emphasises, especially in the designs of Oliver Townsend and lighting of Mark Howland, the suffocation of the fin-de-siècle environment from which Pelléas springs. Light use of video (Zakk Hein) enhances rather than distracts. Characteristic wallpaper and costumes remind us that the castle here is as important a ‘character’ as it would be some years later in Bluebeard’s Castle, an opera which owes much to Debussy’s example. Longing for escape in nature and, perhaps, Tristan-esque oblivion may be vain but it is no more real for that. It is striking how much can be done with a single set and clever, well-achieved shifts of lighting: what will clearly be a necessity for touring here takes on unifying, escape-denying, imaginative virtue of its own. There seems, moreover, a hint at least of the road to the Poe opera Debussy would never complete.

I really have nothing but praise for the singing. The cast worked very well together, more than the sum of its parts, which in itself was considerable. At chronological extremes, Michael Druiett and Lauren Zolezzi convinced as ancient Arkel and young Yniold. Arkel’s ambiguity – what really is the nature of his fondness for Mélisande? Is that even the right question to ask – came through very strongly; so too did the boyishness of Zolezzi’s portrayal. Geneviève’s letter-reading generally makes a fine impression; that is no reason not to praise it again when it does, as it did with Helen Johnson. Susanna Hurrell’s Mélisande seemed to hark back in its light, bright quality to early assumptions; she achieved, for me, just the right balance between what might be self-assertion and discomfiting willingness – inability to do anything else? – to act as a blank canvas for male projections. In her first scene, I thought of Kundry; later, I found myself thinking of Lulu. Jonathan McGovern’s Pelléas initially came across with striking, almost but not quite child-like naïveté, and developed into something that was perhaps no more grown-up, but equally striking in its self-absorption: more pathological than one often sees, and all the more intriguing for it. The wounded masculinity of Stephan Loges’s powerfully-sung Golaud, quite contrasting in timbre, was a singular dramatic achievement both in its vocal essence and its dramatic consequences.  ‘Perhaps no events that are pointless occur,’ Arkel says. If a production has succeeded, one’s reply will most likely be ‘perhaps’. And indeed it was.

Pelléas et Mélisande will be performed again in London on 3 October, and will travel to Buxton, Malvern, Durham, Harrogate, Cambridge, Bath, Snape, and Exeter. For more details from ETO, click here.