This review was published quite some time ago, in The Wagner Journal, 4/2 (2010), pp.92-96, but I thought it might still be of interest...
Barry Emslie, Richard Wagner and the Centrality of Love (Boydell Press: Woodbridge,Suffolk, 2010). viii + 312pp. £50. ISBN: 978-1-843-83536-3
I enjoyed reading this book – an observation which may sound banal, but is no minor point. Books should be intended to be read, a point too often forgotten by their authors. That cannot be said of Barry Emslie, who writes engagingly, carrying one along with his way of thinking, and driving one to think for oneself. For instance, he writes amusingly of Kundry’s kiss, ‘The male is indeed fortunate if he not only doesn’t have to settle with the father before he usurps his place, but is also rewarded by a maternal kiss that is both a sensual pleasure and a religious benediction.’ (p. 238) A couple of sentences on, Emslie pithily dismisses ‘all decent and thereby false Wagnerites’. If only the opera houses of the world would unite and similarly lose their chains. The important point is that no one, but no one, will write a book on Wagner with which anyone, let alone everyone, else wholeheartedly agrees. One is bound, then, to be provoked: no bad thing. The question is, how? The greatest of Wagner’s critics, such as Nietzsche and Adorno, sometimes make one want to throw their books against the wall but also open up new possibilities, which, even if modified strenuously and severely, point toward a more sophisticated understanding of Wagner’s work. That is surely what anyone who cares about Wagner would wish to glean. And so, if I talk more in this review about that with which I take issue, it is partly because I have been positively provoked to take issue rather than negatively to discount.
I could not disagree more when Emslie calls the Ring ‘a mess’, except when he goes on to write of the ‘bad fit’ between its ‘sprawling story […] and Wagner’s compositional method’ (p. 55). Like George Bernard Shaw, Emslie sees incoherent collapse in Götterdämmerung, though he makes a more substantial case. It is perhaps not irrelevant to note here that the word ‘empirical’ arises too often, seemingly intended to signify a sort of common-sense (English?) corrective to German idealism rather than a highly ideological construct in its own right. Misunderstandings can follow. Emslie surely identifies Brünnhilde too closely with Wagner (p. 92); she is a character rather than a mouthpiece. He likewise misses the point of Brünnhilde’s refusal to return the ring to Waltraute (p. 91), though, in that she considers herself married and will therefore never give up her wedding ring, a point quite germane to Emslie’s broader concerns. However, if there is much to disagree with in the lengthy Ring chapter’s first part, ‘Contradiction, disorder and musical language’, I found that considerably more diverting than the concluding section on incest, which meanders somewhat, a little unclear as to its goal. Is incest quite so crucial to Wagner’s world-view as Emslie argues, both here and subsequently?
If Emslie cannot take this artistic ‘swindle’ as seriously as many of us, he clearly admires much of Wagner’s dramatic work: if not Götterdämmerung, then certainly Die Walküre, and still more Tristan, writing (p. 135), ‘When Marke sings of his love for Isolde […] anyone who is not deeply moved should never go anywhere near another performance of Tristan und Isolde again.’ Here Emslie valuably corrects a common misunderstanding of Stabreim, pointing (p. 155) to the importance of assonance as well as alliteration, and to the wider relationship with ‘sound effects in poetic language […] what the Germans tellingly call “the Lyric”’. Moreover, Emslie seems to stand in awe of Parsifal, rightly pointing to the importance of Christianity, which, given many commentators’ concerns, is more necessary than one might reasonably expect. It is, however, unfortunate that we should read ‘it is Easter’ (p. 242) for the third act, when of course it is Good Friday. Given Wagner’s concerns with the Cross, the Saviour, and whether the latter might be brought down from the former, the Church calendar is not unimportant.
But let us address the concern of the book’s title more directly: love as a ‘unifying concept’ (p. 2) in Wagner’s work, albeit ‘seen – prima facie – in the context of two separate and arguably opposed categories: the spiritual and the sensuous’ (p. 3). Tannhäuser is explored in this respect. Moving on to Wagner’s uncompleted dramatic project Jesus of Nazareth, Emslie makes the interesting point (p. 32) that, for Wagner, an attack upon private property must first be an attack upon marriage. In his conclusion, Emslie neatly encapsulates the unifying concept and some of its implications (p. 291): ‘Wagner’s agenda, especially in the music dramas, is to plant as deeply as possible a concept of heterosexual love that turns out to be the royal road to a complex nexus of virtues: discovery of the true self, knowledge at its deepest and most abstract, physical bliss, redemption from sin and suffering, and (ultimately) renunciation of the world.’ The problem for Emslie is that this necessarily involves love’s dialectical opposite: hate, which for Wagner, it is claimed, manifests itself especially in his anti-semitism – love for the German nation entails hatred of the Other. It often has done, in different forms, but Wagner’s nationalism, such as it is, tends to be more ambiguous than is allowed here; it can permit of more than one dialectical opposite, for instance universalism. Indeed, I recall not a single reference to Wagner’s contrast in The Artwork of the Future between the national and the ‘un-national’ or ‘universal’. Whereas Greek tragedy had been ‘generically national’, the artwork of the future would represent the second of the ‘two principal moments in mankind’s development’ (‘Das Kunstwerk der Zukunft’, in Richard Wagner, Sämtliche Schriften und Dichtungen, 4th edn, 16 vols. (Leipzig, 1911) [SS], iii.61). In another of the Zurich reform writings, Art and Revolution, we read that the Athenian spectator had been reconciled with ‘the most noble and profound principles of his people’s consciousness’, whilst Wagner’s envisaged post-revolutionary audience would celebrate its membership of ‘free humanity’, a ‘nobler universalism’ ('Die Kunst und die Revolution,' in ibid., iii, 30, 23, 39). One may take the attitude that such words contradict Wagner’s practice, but they merit attention.
There are issues of history, intellectual and political, with which I am uneasy, for instance, the highly contentious claim (p. 188) that, by the time of Napoleon’s death blow, the Holy Roman Empire ‘had long been a joke’. Much recent work has highlighted the Empire’s 18th-century vitality. Moreover, its borders were not unstable in the way that Emslie supposes (p. 189). The Reich of blessed memory was not a state, more a legal and a cultural framework – a point relevant to Die Meistersinger. Its millennium in existence surely answers the writer’s question (p. 286): why a thousand years for the (successor but one) Third Reich? Emslie’s early references to Hegelian ‘synthesis’ may mislead the reader through employment of too positive a term. Hegel never employed the all-too-common formula, thesis–antithesis–synthesis, which vulgarises the sublating concept of Aufhebung: an invaluable, well-nigh untranslatable term for German cultural commentary, encompassing negation, preservation, mediation and more. ‘Mediated unity’ is probably as good as one can get; yet, if one can employ the German term Volk, surely one can Aufhebung too. Emslie does later (p. 235), though in a way that implies final resolution, rather than an invitation to further negation. This may or may not be what Wagner wanted. I do not think that he achieved it, even, as Emslie suggests, in Parsifal, and it is certainly not what Hegel meant. It seems to be implied in a ‘thereafter’ (p. 21) that Schopenhauer was a chronological successor rather than contemporary to Hegel. That ‘thereafter’ should pertain to most Schopenhauer reception, Wagner’s included, but not to Schopenhauer himself, an important point given his chronological proximity to the German Romantics. However, the thesis of Wagnerian presentiments concerning Jürgen Habermas, via Hegel’s Jena writings (p. 46) – the latter more important, I think, than Emslie allows – is a fascinating prospect, which deserves further attention.
An interesting point made is that drama ‘as genre is customarily focused on individuals and all its greater connotations (whether Fate, the Gods, the tribe, the nation, class struggle etc.) are difficult to dramatise in terms other than in the destinies of subject/actors’ (p. 138). It is a pity Emslie goes on to say that whilst ‘this is not an uninteresting conundrum – Marxist aesthetic theorists, for instance, tore into each other in the early decades of the twentieth century as they tried to come to terms with all the issues it raised – it is not strictly relevant here.’ For it is highly relevant to Wagner, whether in analysis of his own works or his legacy to theorists of different hues, and indeed to artists of the 20th century. Schoenberg springs immediately to mind, likewise Brecht; so does Die Meistersinger. Wagner’s dramas are distinguished from treatises in various ways, but one is the inherent tendency for radicalisation in drama, or at least in successfully dynamic drama. Ideas, abstractions, ‘greater connotations’, call them what one will, may at some level actually be more deeply probed through dramatic than analytical means, partly because of the way characterisation allows such exploration. This is not quite what Wagner says in Opera and Drama, but nor is it remote from that. It would have been interesting to hear more from Emslie on this, not least given his subsequent concentration upon nation and race. However, no book will be able to address everything; to suggest fruitful tangents on which the reader may choose to embark is a good deal of its purpose. Likewise, given Emslie’s continual, quite justified, insistence on the centrality of heterosexual love – the qualifier is usually attached – I wondered whether we should at some point be treated to a ‘queering’ of Wagner. There is certainly ripe material here; a starting point might have been Hans Werner Henze’s divining ‘something disagreeably heterosexual […] in all those rampant horn calls’ heard in Götterdämmerung (Bohemian Fifths: An Autobiography, tr. Stewart Spencer (Princeton, NJ, 1999), 207). Sadly, that was not to be, the sole, brief mention of homosexuality (p. 121) leading nowhere in particular. Perhaps the purpose was simply to suggest; again, a single book cannot accomplish everything.
We should return, however, to the posited dark side. More important than the ‘German’ to Emslie is the negative form of Wagner’s ‘love’, the ‘inimical, allegedly inadmissible bloodline’ (p. 198) of the ‘loveless’ (p. 217) Jews. Indeed, blood and race colour a great deal of this book. It is here that the writer truly goes on the attack, having little time for those he considers Wagner’s ‘apologists’. I do not consider myself an ‘apologist’, the writer’s favoured term for those who take a different view, nor a ‘literalist’, an ‘acolyte’ or a ‘loyalist’. It is certainly not the case that, in the face of evidence, I seek to excuse Wagner. When I challenge the general thesis of anti-semitism in the music dramas, I have given the matter some thought. Emslie is quite right to argue that ‘you cannot, or at least should not, put a firewall around the music dramas’, though one may still not accept that ‘the anti-semitic issue […] is an essential ingredient’ (p. 203). He is also right to argue that ‘there has to be an argument about interpretation’ (p. 205); likewise that it is not enough, though surely important, to point out that none of the music dramas ‘explicitly attacked Jews’ (p. 204). An argument concerning interpretation may begin in all sorts of places, yet there are worse places than with Wagner (and Cosima). None of the ‘accusers’, or whatever one might call them – were one inclined to regard them as Them – seems able to explain why Wagner did not once ever draw attention to an anti-semitic text or subtext. If Wagner’s 1869 decision to republish Das Judentum in der Musik was ‘courageous’ (p. 201) – I fail to see it as especially so – then why did he demonstrate such little courage in the present respect? He might well have failed to do so had this been an issue that cropped up once or twice – Beckmesser seems the most plausible of the usual suspects – but for something that has an allegedly ‘unparalleled epistemological function […] within Wagner’s conscious Weltanschauung’, and which is therefore alleged to permeate anything and everything? Emslie rightly, however, points to the lack of division of labour, more Romantic–nostalgic than Marxian, in Meistersinger. And though I do not see the prospect of Eva and Walther eloping as constituting betrayal of Nuremberg (p. 171), if one does, it fits well with the nasty, völkisch, almost totalitarian nationalism Emslie discerns. After all, Sachs prevents them from escaping.
Ultimately, though, the argument concerning the dramas remains circular: Wagner hates the Jews; certain characters and characteristics are bad; these characters and characteristics must be Jews; Wagner hates the Jews…. It is not clear why one should not do the same with Frenchmen or Jesuits; or rather, it is not clear why one should do it with any group. If ‘the Jew’, that is Alberich, ‘turns to gold and silver as substitutes for what might have been’ (p. 218), do we say this of Fafner too? Perhaps, at a push, Fasolt, once Loge advises him to take the ring? Presumably, since race and blood are so crucial, we should have to allow Fasolt, since brothers could hardly be of different races, and yet, he could hardly have suddenly become a Jew at that point. And if Emslie calls Siegfried ‘a non-Jew if ever there was one’ (p. 260), one must ask why. What of a letter to Malwida von Meysenbug, in which Wagner contrasts the Messiah with the Jews who thought he would turn out to be an agent of political liberation: ‘Believe me, all our political freedom fighters strike me as being uncannily like the Jews.’ (Letter of 15 June 1862, Selected Letters of Richard Wagner, ed. Stewart Spencer and Barry Millington (London, 1987), 546.) One might just as well, then, though quite absurdly, claim that Siegfried is really ‘a Jew’. For if one permits that there might be something else at work, the whole ‘racist’ edifice collapses. Opposition to Jewish culture and religion is amenable to a less ‘literalist’ approach to plot detail; fundamental, as opposed to more incidental, racism is not. Renunciation of love, conversion of gold into capital, power-lust, and so on, issues that are treated onstage and in Wagner’s own comments upon his work, may actually be his fundamental points. It is possible that he might have wished to conceal ‘epistemological’ anti-semitism, but given the nature and the volume of his pronouncements, that seems highly implausible and requires explanation. If we permit that Wagner’s opposition to ‘Jewishness’ may partly have reflected some other concern(s), that opposition loses its ascribed function. This is not to say that what remains is unworthy of comment, simply that it cannot fulfil so ambitious a task. It seems more plausible to see Wagner’s reaction to Jewishness, in all its varieties, as in good part a consequence of his identification of ‘the Jew’ with the capitalist, instrumentalist modernity the composer so abhorred.
Sometimes Emslie runs into trouble when it comes to music. This is a difficult matter when writing for the elusive ‘general reader’, but one which, to the author’s credit, he does not shirk, though the brief description of the music of Tristan (p. 151) sounds merely naive. One issue may seem merely nomenclatural, when Emslie writes, in his author’s note, ‘Unlike Wagner, I have chosen to use the term “music drama” exclusively for all the theatrical works from The Flying Dutchman to Parsifal, and the term “opera”’ for the three preceding works. However, whilst the ‘traditional’ distinction between music drama and Romantic drama is not absolute, it serves a useful purpose, and Emslie’s redrawing of the boundaries confuses. ‘What’s in a name?’ one may ask, though, as the author elsewhere avers, the Lohengrin-like answer may be, ‘more or less everything’ (p. 17). For this reclassification sometimes appears to lead to treating works such as Tannhäuser as if they were ‘music dramas’ in the usual sense (p. 61), even though later on, Emslie, citing Arnold Whittall (p. 64), acknowledges development in Wagner’s method. It is true that the precepts of Opera and Drama are to some extent born of practical compositional experience – the works preceding Das Rheingold – yet, like Wagner’s leitmotifs themselves, they look forward as much as back. It is surely more revealing to follow Carl Dahlhaus in acknowledging a ‘qualitative leap in the evolution of symphonic style’, for which the traditional usage acts as shorthand (‘Wagner’s Place in the History of Music’, tr. Alfred Clayton, Wagner Handbook, ed. Ulrich Müller, Peter Wapnewski and John Deathridge (Cambridge, MA, and London, 1992), 110). A few typographical errors are more or less inevitable, though there are perhaps too many here. Many will find the split infinitives easier to overlook than I do. Nevertheless, I repeat that I enjoyed reading Richard Wagner and the Centrality of Love. It has given me much to ponder, much to contest. Other readers will doubtless respond in similar fashion.
To follow the debate that ensued, click here.
Monday, 23 May 2011
Sunday, 22 May 2011
Happy Birthday, Richard!
Two years to go before the bicentenary...
Almost everyone seems to have been at Glyndebourne yesterday for the new Meistersinger: not, alas I, though early reports tend to suggest a production somewhat lacking in Wahn and its darker implications. ('Riotous apprentices,' however, a friend approvingly remarks.) Though it looks as though I shall miss out on Wagner in Sussex, there will be a good few reports to come over the summer. Next month brings Götterdämmerung in Paris, to conclude the impressive new Ring there, and Pierre Boulez conducting the Staatskapelle Berlin in the Faust Overture and the Siegfried-Idyll (along with Daniel Barenboim at the piano for both Liszt concertos). Early August offers four nights in Bayreuth, from where I shall report on the new Tannhäuser, Lohengrin (Hans Neuenfels), Tristan (Christoph Marthaler), and the final outing for Stefan Herheim's extraordinary production of Parsifal.
With Wagner, there is of course always more than enough to think about. At some point, I should like to revisit and to develop my thoughts concerning the Immolation Scene, which anyone interested will find in the final chapter of my book, Treacherous Bonds and Laughing Fire: Politics and Religion in Wagner's Ring (click here for details on the publisher's website). In the meantime, however, here is the very end of that chapter, which may, even out of context, be of interest to some readers...
The uncertainty of the watchers’ position precludes talk of a ‘happy ending’, yet they stand a little advanced upon us, as a beacon of hope to a world that has destroyed neither Valhalla nor Nibelheim. Art, in [Herbert] Marcuse’s words, ‘cannot change the world, but it can contribute to changing the consciousness and drives of the men and women who could change the world.’ The watchers’ emotional witness serves to remind us not only of the hopes we might invest in the future, but also of the condemnation we should pronounce upon the present: mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur. If we have rejected Mother Courage, what, then, of the ‘cloth-capped workers out of Brecht-Weill’ in [Patrice] Chéreau’s production? [Michael] Tanner acidly remarks that the centenary Ring was, ‘after all, a Ring to make us think. There is no evidence yet that it has succeeded.’ On the contrary: the debate ignited has still not died down. The watchers might be seen, if not to represent a particular social class, then at least to provide a crucial social element to the Ring’s denouement: a counterpoise to the ‘interior’ ending to Tristan, a return to words from 1849:
Some of these suggestions are tentative, but that follows necessarily from the suggestive nature of the Ring, and in particular of its ending. Wagner, even in his theoretical writings, is vague as to what form any future political system might take – but this holds for many social and political critics, Marx included. In the introduction to the Zurich reform works for the 1872 edition of his collected writings, Wagner claims, ‘I believed in the revolution, in its necessity and its inevitability,’ but adds that it was never his intent to define the new political order. This would ‘emerge from the ruins of a mendacious world’. Eight years later, we read:
It seems fitting to turn one last time to the Centenary-Ring, which has proved quite an inspiration throughout this book. In his Performer’s Notebook, Boulez writes:
Just as the explorations of the Ring had beckoned during Lohengrin’s concluding bars, so now do those of Parsifal: the work intended explicitly, indeed solely, for the Oracle of Bayreuth. If sexual love has become embroiled in games of power-politics and shown to be a force more of destruction than of liberation, such dark intimations of Freud will be more fully explored in that great second-act confrontation between Kundry and Parsifal, next to which the awakening of Siegfried and Brünnhilde might stand in danger of appearing superficial or naïve. Wagner’s final drama will build upon the riddles adumbrated in the Ring, and climax in the most oracular pronouncement of all: ‘Redemption to the Redeemer’. Solution to Wagner’s sphinx-like riddle of redemption will once again be postponed. Is the answer ‘man’? At any rate, Feuerbach remains a tangible presence. We must continue to listen carefully to the final bars of the Ring, which seem ‘to be telling us that the ultimate form of asceticism is to renounce easy illusion and create in ourselves the void from which a new genesis may spring’. Is this Feuerbach or Schopenhauer? If the question is ‘revolution or redemption?’ is the answer ‘revolution in redemption’? It is not that these questions have ceased to matter, nor that they have been transcended; it is certainly not the case that they should not have been asked, nor that they should cease to be asked. Chéreau’s mistrust and anxiety must remain at the hearts of present attempts if not to interpret then at least to suggest an illusory, momentary ‘solution’.
Adorno rightly feared the ‘Happy End’. Siegfried and even Hagen would have profited had they too been able to do so. We should remain vigilant, lest the tempting nihilism of phantasmagorical resolution should lure us from our path. A twentieth-century mind’s ear – but what of the twenty-first century? – might have found less perilous the tragedy and catharsis of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony, Ravel’s whirling post-war vortex of disintegration in La Valse, or the inconclusive halt to which Berg so chillingly calls his Wozzeck. On the other hand, the redemptive halo in which, echoing Wagner, Berg bathed the end of his last completed work, the Violin Concerto (‘To the memory of an angel’) has often proved more problematical. Whilst considering the concerto more successful than Berg’s other ‘late’ works, Der Wein and Lulu, the young Boulez could not conceal his distaste at ‘this same desire for reconciliation’. Yet Boulez would subsequently conduct Parsifal and the Ring at Bayreuth – not to mention the first three-act performance of Lulu.
Adorno was quite justified to claim that serious consideration of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis – perhaps the most enduringly enigmatic musical work yet written – could only result in its Brechtian alienation, in rupturing ‘the aura of unfocused veneration protectively surrounding it’. One of the greatest problems with respect to the Ring is that such rupture has become well-nigh impossible. To be aware of this is only a beginning, but better than nothing. We should remain grateful that the enigma of the Ring pales besides that of Beethoven’s work. If we could understand why Beethoven set the Mass, we should, Adorno claimed, understand the Missa Solemnis. Understanding why Wagner wrote the Ring and beginning to understand the work itself suddenly seem less forbidding prospects.
Wagner’s musical mastery should not render us deaf to problems, or indeed opportunities, which endure. We engage with those problems when we consider redemption not as something accomplished – which, for the most part, it patently is not – but as a possibility. We should do Wagner a gross injustice were we to consider the Immolation Scene as an attempt to return to Beethoven. No longer can a journey from C minor to C major, from darkness to light, enable a hero to burst open the portals of Heaven; the Fifth Symphony means something different after Feuerbach. The Ring might open in E flat, but to end in the flattened tonality of D flat, the key of Valhalla and the key in which Das Rheingold so unsettlingly concludes or fails to conclude, can hardly fail to provoke unsettling questions. Progressive – even ‘regressive’ – tonality did not fail to leave its mark upon Mahler, who at times appeared to speak to the later twentieth century more directly than any other composer.
Birtwistle, it may be noted, has continued to reject Beethovenian goal-orientation in his music, whilst benefiting greatly – for example, in Gawain (1990–94) – from his intensive study of the Ring and Wagnerian leitmotif technique. As Birtwistle’s dramatic œuvre, up to and including The Io Passion (2004), indicates, myth, whether Christian or pagan, has, with its dialectic between the linear and the cyclical, come to seem more fruitful for dramatic exploration than its Romantic roots might once have seemed to imply. Myth has proved far less sterile and dated, far more capable of renewal, than verismo or inter-war neo-classicism. Birtwistle himself composed incidental music – though the word ‘incidental’ does the depth of his labyrinthine invention no justice – in 1981 to Tony Harrison’s translation of the Oresteia for the Royal National Theatre. Boulez had plans to set a reduction by Heiner Müller of the Oresteia, frustrated by Müller’s untimely death. Xenakis pursued his own Æschylus-inspired ‘synthesis of the arts’ in Oresteïa (1965–66), a combination of incidental music and concert-piece, followed by the vocal works Kassandra (1987) and La déesse Athéna (1992). And Stockhausen, in his gigantic seven-part Licht myth of creation, would seem to court, even to crave, Wagnerian comparisons; the new purveyor of myths strives to see the world begin, if not end. (Lucifer may have other ideas, though.) Wagner’s oracle is of the nineteenth century, yet is no more confined to that century than that of Æschylus is to his. The Ring attempts to ‘make clear to the men of the Revolution the meaning of that Revolution, in its noblest sense’. Only a further revolution, it seems, will enable us fully to understand the oracle of Götterdämmerung; then, we may hope, shall the owl of Minerva once again spread its wings. In the meantime, the Ring’s final augury will keep us fruitfully occupied.
 |
| A relatively rare nod to Leipzig's greatest son, at the site of his birth (Good Friday, April 2011) |
Almost everyone seems to have been at Glyndebourne yesterday for the new Meistersinger: not, alas I, though early reports tend to suggest a production somewhat lacking in Wahn and its darker implications. ('Riotous apprentices,' however, a friend approvingly remarks.) Though it looks as though I shall miss out on Wagner in Sussex, there will be a good few reports to come over the summer. Next month brings Götterdämmerung in Paris, to conclude the impressive new Ring there, and Pierre Boulez conducting the Staatskapelle Berlin in the Faust Overture and the Siegfried-Idyll (along with Daniel Barenboim at the piano for both Liszt concertos). Early August offers four nights in Bayreuth, from where I shall report on the new Tannhäuser, Lohengrin (Hans Neuenfels), Tristan (Christoph Marthaler), and the final outing for Stefan Herheim's extraordinary production of Parsifal.
With Wagner, there is of course always more than enough to think about. At some point, I should like to revisit and to develop my thoughts concerning the Immolation Scene, which anyone interested will find in the final chapter of my book, Treacherous Bonds and Laughing Fire: Politics and Religion in Wagner's Ring (click here for details on the publisher's website). In the meantime, however, here is the very end of that chapter, which may, even out of context, be of interest to some readers...
The uncertainty of the watchers’ position precludes talk of a ‘happy ending’, yet they stand a little advanced upon us, as a beacon of hope to a world that has destroyed neither Valhalla nor Nibelheim. Art, in [Herbert] Marcuse’s words, ‘cannot change the world, but it can contribute to changing the consciousness and drives of the men and women who could change the world.’ The watchers’ emotional witness serves to remind us not only of the hopes we might invest in the future, but also of the condemnation we should pronounce upon the present: mutato nomine, de te fabula narratur. If we have rejected Mother Courage, what, then, of the ‘cloth-capped workers out of Brecht-Weill’ in [Patrice] Chéreau’s production? [Michael] Tanner acidly remarks that the centenary Ring was, ‘after all, a Ring to make us think. There is no evidence yet that it has succeeded.’ On the contrary: the debate ignited has still not died down. The watchers might be seen, if not to represent a particular social class, then at least to provide a crucial social element to the Ring’s denouement: a counterpoise to the ‘interior’ ending to Tristan, a return to words from 1849:
How should man create from himself a greater strength than he possesses? – We see that man is utterly incapable in himself to attain his destiny, that in himself he has not the strength to germinate the living seed distinguishing him from the beast. Yet that strength, missing in man, we find in overflowing abundance in the totality of men. … Whereas the spirit of the isolated man remains eternally buried in deepest night, it is awakened in the combination of men …Hegel had pointed out that ancient movements inimical to worldly actuality – Stoicism, Epicureanism, and Scepticism – had brought only an abstract, inward reconciliation, incapable of satisfying living Spirit, which longed for a ‘higher reconciliation’. This, in conjunction with the depravity of Roman – Gibichung? – politics, had brought Christianity into the world. [Moses] Hess too had warned of the dangers of ‘philosophical egoism’:
Is the consistent Philosopher, as he appears in Bruno Bauer, not the self-satisfied egoist, the solitary who is blissful and all-powerful in his self-consciousness? … Is he not but as the pious Christian who has been elevated and consoled by his Communion feast and so separated from this evil and fallen world? Has he anything other to do in the world except – to learn to despise it? – Read Bruno Bauer! No Church Father and no statesman has ever more cynically expressed his scorn of the world of the ‘mass’ than this recent philosopher …The watchers express sympathy for Brünnhilde and amazement at the flames of Loge, but what do Brünnhilde and Loge care for the survivors? Is Brünnhilde’s capacity for sympathy really universal, or is her separation from this evil, fallen world more cynical, or at least more selfish? More fundamentally, might Schopenhauerian rejection of the world actually, if unintentionally, provide ideological cover for ‘critical criticism’? Loge threatened to burn Valhalla in his Rheingold soliloquy; perhaps Brünnhilde, having passed through the illusions of love, is now, as his instrument, led astray by the critical illusions of nothingness. Do the watchers provide a counterpoise to such ‘egoism’, or to the nihilism it might engender in Wagner’s audience? It is possible that they retain something of [Max] Stirner’s free union of individuals, come together voluntarily and ever at liberty to disperse. Yet the wondrous events appear to provide a stronger communal bond than Stirner would allow.
Some of these suggestions are tentative, but that follows necessarily from the suggestive nature of the Ring, and in particular of its ending. Wagner, even in his theoretical writings, is vague as to what form any future political system might take – but this holds for many social and political critics, Marx included. In the introduction to the Zurich reform works for the 1872 edition of his collected writings, Wagner claims, ‘I believed in the revolution, in its necessity and its inevitability,’ but adds that it was never his intent to define the new political order. This would ‘emerge from the ruins of a mendacious world’. Eight years later, we read:
Questions as to how this or that shall be altered or eliminated, e.g., what to do with animals, how to distribute property, order sexual unions etc., are not to be answered in advance by speculative guidance; they answer themselves of their own accord through the consequences of the act, when this proceeds out of a great religious awareness.Indeed, in Art and Revolution, Wagner had attacked the ‘utopia’ of Christianity, whose dogmas had ever been unrealisable. His move towards Schopenhauer lessened his hostility, yet reconciliation is never completed: not in the Ring, nor even in Parsifal. On the other hand, as Wagner lapped up Schopenhauer’s metaphysics, the increasingly preferential role played by music in the Gesamtkunstwerk itself provided a utopian vision. Wagner rejected even the ‘Schopenhauer ending’ as tendentious, resolving to let the music speak for itself – even if, perhaps especially if, it should ultimately resist translation into words. The final grandeur of Valhalla ablaze and the glorious – prophetic? – memory of Siegfried and the ‘act’ lead us into that enigmatic final motif. Its enigma is as intrinsic, as insoluble, as that of the ‘Tristan chord’. It provokes the dangerous, yet creative questioning of Wotan and Loge, and the malcontent and rebellion of the Volsungs; through Brünnhilde and the watchers, it tantalises us with ‘religious awareness’, the possibility of redemption. Falling short of absolute reconciliation – as even Hegel had done – returns us to the dialectical conflict between ‘absolute’ Romantic music and critical utopian ideas.
It seems fitting to turn one last time to the Centenary-Ring, which has proved quite an inspiration throughout this book. In his Performer’s Notebook, Boulez writes:
There have been endless discussions as to whether this conclusion is pessimistic or optimistic; but is that really the question? Or at any rate can the question be put in such simple terms? Chéreau has called it ‘oracular’, and it is a good description. In the ancient world, oracles were always ambiguously phrased so that their deeper meaning could be understood only after the event, which, as it were, provided a semantic analysis of the oracle’s statement. Wagner refuses any conclusion as such, simply leaving us with the premisses for a conclusion that remains shifting and indeterminate in meaning.Chéreau himself wished:
… that the orchestra pit be, like Delphi’s smoking pit, a crevice uttering oracles – the Funeral March and the concluding redemption motif. The redemption motif is a message delivered to the entire world, but like all pythonesses, the orchestra is unclear, and there are several ways in which one might interpret its message. … Should one not hear it with mistrust and anxiety?Writing in 1873 about his conception of the Bayreuth Festspielhaus then under construction, Wagner had expanded in similar terms upon his discussion nine years earlier with Gottfried Semper, concerning the abortive Munich Festival Theatre for Ludwig II. Between proscenium and audience would lie a ‘mystical abyss’, out of which the sounds of the concealed orchestra should emerge as an aural equivalent to the steam that once had risen from Gaia’s primæval womb, underneath the seat of the Pythia. Once again, Boulez and Chéreau point us toward the interpretive implications of Wagner’s vision.
Just as the explorations of the Ring had beckoned during Lohengrin’s concluding bars, so now do those of Parsifal: the work intended explicitly, indeed solely, for the Oracle of Bayreuth. If sexual love has become embroiled in games of power-politics and shown to be a force more of destruction than of liberation, such dark intimations of Freud will be more fully explored in that great second-act confrontation between Kundry and Parsifal, next to which the awakening of Siegfried and Brünnhilde might stand in danger of appearing superficial or naïve. Wagner’s final drama will build upon the riddles adumbrated in the Ring, and climax in the most oracular pronouncement of all: ‘Redemption to the Redeemer’. Solution to Wagner’s sphinx-like riddle of redemption will once again be postponed. Is the answer ‘man’? At any rate, Feuerbach remains a tangible presence. We must continue to listen carefully to the final bars of the Ring, which seem ‘to be telling us that the ultimate form of asceticism is to renounce easy illusion and create in ourselves the void from which a new genesis may spring’. Is this Feuerbach or Schopenhauer? If the question is ‘revolution or redemption?’ is the answer ‘revolution in redemption’? It is not that these questions have ceased to matter, nor that they have been transcended; it is certainly not the case that they should not have been asked, nor that they should cease to be asked. Chéreau’s mistrust and anxiety must remain at the hearts of present attempts if not to interpret then at least to suggest an illusory, momentary ‘solution’.
Adorno rightly feared the ‘Happy End’. Siegfried and even Hagen would have profited had they too been able to do so. We should remain vigilant, lest the tempting nihilism of phantasmagorical resolution should lure us from our path. A twentieth-century mind’s ear – but what of the twenty-first century? – might have found less perilous the tragedy and catharsis of Mahler’s Sixth Symphony, Ravel’s whirling post-war vortex of disintegration in La Valse, or the inconclusive halt to which Berg so chillingly calls his Wozzeck. On the other hand, the redemptive halo in which, echoing Wagner, Berg bathed the end of his last completed work, the Violin Concerto (‘To the memory of an angel’) has often proved more problematical. Whilst considering the concerto more successful than Berg’s other ‘late’ works, Der Wein and Lulu, the young Boulez could not conceal his distaste at ‘this same desire for reconciliation’. Yet Boulez would subsequently conduct Parsifal and the Ring at Bayreuth – not to mention the first three-act performance of Lulu.
Adorno was quite justified to claim that serious consideration of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis – perhaps the most enduringly enigmatic musical work yet written – could only result in its Brechtian alienation, in rupturing ‘the aura of unfocused veneration protectively surrounding it’. One of the greatest problems with respect to the Ring is that such rupture has become well-nigh impossible. To be aware of this is only a beginning, but better than nothing. We should remain grateful that the enigma of the Ring pales besides that of Beethoven’s work. If we could understand why Beethoven set the Mass, we should, Adorno claimed, understand the Missa Solemnis. Understanding why Wagner wrote the Ring and beginning to understand the work itself suddenly seem less forbidding prospects.
Wagner’s musical mastery should not render us deaf to problems, or indeed opportunities, which endure. We engage with those problems when we consider redemption not as something accomplished – which, for the most part, it patently is not – but as a possibility. We should do Wagner a gross injustice were we to consider the Immolation Scene as an attempt to return to Beethoven. No longer can a journey from C minor to C major, from darkness to light, enable a hero to burst open the portals of Heaven; the Fifth Symphony means something different after Feuerbach. The Ring might open in E flat, but to end in the flattened tonality of D flat, the key of Valhalla and the key in which Das Rheingold so unsettlingly concludes or fails to conclude, can hardly fail to provoke unsettling questions. Progressive – even ‘regressive’ – tonality did not fail to leave its mark upon Mahler, who at times appeared to speak to the later twentieth century more directly than any other composer.
Birtwistle, it may be noted, has continued to reject Beethovenian goal-orientation in his music, whilst benefiting greatly – for example, in Gawain (1990–94) – from his intensive study of the Ring and Wagnerian leitmotif technique. As Birtwistle’s dramatic œuvre, up to and including The Io Passion (2004), indicates, myth, whether Christian or pagan, has, with its dialectic between the linear and the cyclical, come to seem more fruitful for dramatic exploration than its Romantic roots might once have seemed to imply. Myth has proved far less sterile and dated, far more capable of renewal, than verismo or inter-war neo-classicism. Birtwistle himself composed incidental music – though the word ‘incidental’ does the depth of his labyrinthine invention no justice – in 1981 to Tony Harrison’s translation of the Oresteia for the Royal National Theatre. Boulez had plans to set a reduction by Heiner Müller of the Oresteia, frustrated by Müller’s untimely death. Xenakis pursued his own Æschylus-inspired ‘synthesis of the arts’ in Oresteïa (1965–66), a combination of incidental music and concert-piece, followed by the vocal works Kassandra (1987) and La déesse Athéna (1992). And Stockhausen, in his gigantic seven-part Licht myth of creation, would seem to court, even to crave, Wagnerian comparisons; the new purveyor of myths strives to see the world begin, if not end. (Lucifer may have other ideas, though.) Wagner’s oracle is of the nineteenth century, yet is no more confined to that century than that of Æschylus is to his. The Ring attempts to ‘make clear to the men of the Revolution the meaning of that Revolution, in its noblest sense’. Only a further revolution, it seems, will enable us fully to understand the oracle of Götterdämmerung; then, we may hope, shall the owl of Minerva once again spread its wings. In the meantime, the Ring’s final augury will keep us fruitfully occupied.
Saturday, 21 May 2011
Mozart Unwrapped (5) - Cropper-Welsh-Roscoe Trio, 21 May 2011
Hall One, Kings Place
Violin Sonata in A major, KV 526
Piano Trio in G major, KV 564
Violin Sonata in E minor, KV 304
Piano Trio in E major, KV 542
This latest instalment in Kings Place’s ‘Mozart Unwrapped’ series was the third concert of trios and duos given by the Cropper-Welsh-Roscoe Trio. The performance took a little while to get going, the extraordinarily difficult A major violin sonata – I remember battling with it as a schoolboy pianist – receiving a sometimes unsettled, as opposed to unsettling, performance. There was vigour, especially from Peter Cropper’s violin, but Beethovenian stabbings in the first movement’s second subject proved too much for Mozart. Cropper’s wavering intonation did not help either. Those notorious problems of balance remained unresolved as often as not. Period instrumentalists often point here to the easier blend of fortepiano and Classical violin, but that should present a challenge rather than an impediment to musicians playing on modern instruments. Even in the first movement, however, there were passages in which both instruments sang, especially Martin Roscoe’s piano. Roscoe imparted a nice rhythmic bounce to much of his music too, likewise a welcome yet never excessive flexibility of tempo. The slow movement was poised and happily vocal in apparent performative inspiration. If sometimes the music sounded close to Beethoven, that is simply a reflection of the score’s qualities; in any case, the operatic cantilena was unmistakeably Mozart’s. If I readily admit to preferring a somewhat slower tempo in such an Andante, I appreciate that not everyone shares my apparently antediluvian preferences. The finale, however, emerged rather breathless at times, though Roscoe introduced charming moments of relaxation. Intonation, again, stood a little too distant from flawless.
When Moray Welsh joined the players for the G major trio, KV 564, balance immediately improved; the performance sounded more at ease too. There was sparkle without rushing, though occasional roughness remained. The slow movement benefited from a simple yet never simplistic – an exam script I marked the other day referred unfortunately to Die Zauberflöte as ‘a simplistic opera’ – dignity that again hinted at Beethoven, without quite reaching his still-foreign shores. Mozart’s chromaticism in the minor-key variation could only ever have been his: Roscoe delineated its twists very well. Cropper imparted a winning lilt to the finale theme when he took it over, proving refreshingly willing to play out: no Mozart as Meissen china here. Welsh’s cello tone was beautifully rich without straying into inappropriate territory; his sure touch with respect to the music’s harmonic contours was greatly appreciated.
The greater ease announced by the trio was not simply a matter of the extra player, for the E minor violin sonata, which followed the interval, received a fine performance, very much alive to the moment. The first movement (of two) possessed a quality of Sturm und Drang tempered by lyricism, that one might be tempted to call Schubertian, were that not a case of getting things the wrong way around. (And even then, I am still tempted to do so.) There are still awkward corners to be navigated at this stage in Mozart’s career – again, I retain not entirely happy memories here as a performer! – but Cropper and Roscoe handled them well. The Tempo di Menuetto movement proved truly moving, Mozart smiling, as so often, through (vocal) tears, that mixture of senses seeming especially apt here. It harked back to the fantasy-world of CPE Bach, albeit with none of that composer’s shortness of breath, a shortcoming of which Mozart could never be accused.
Welsh returned to the stage for the E major trio, KV 542. What a rare key this is for Mozart, if not for Haydn, nor for Beethoven! One immediately perceived its tonal warmth, aided by rich, lyrical instrumental tone. The Andante grazioso sounded like true chamber music, with all the natural give and take that seemingly innocuous description implies, and without loss to essential simplicity. Mozart’s sinuous line in the finale almost inevitably brought to mind the minuet of the Jupiter Symphony, but the movement had a character of its own, inviting none of the (neo-)classical formality of the other work. Again, it was treated to a fine example of unforced chamber music playing. The minor mode section was especially touching, its pathos genuine rather than overwrought.
Violin Sonata in A major, KV 526
Piano Trio in G major, KV 564
Violin Sonata in E minor, KV 304
Piano Trio in E major, KV 542
This latest instalment in Kings Place’s ‘Mozart Unwrapped’ series was the third concert of trios and duos given by the Cropper-Welsh-Roscoe Trio. The performance took a little while to get going, the extraordinarily difficult A major violin sonata – I remember battling with it as a schoolboy pianist – receiving a sometimes unsettled, as opposed to unsettling, performance. There was vigour, especially from Peter Cropper’s violin, but Beethovenian stabbings in the first movement’s second subject proved too much for Mozart. Cropper’s wavering intonation did not help either. Those notorious problems of balance remained unresolved as often as not. Period instrumentalists often point here to the easier blend of fortepiano and Classical violin, but that should present a challenge rather than an impediment to musicians playing on modern instruments. Even in the first movement, however, there were passages in which both instruments sang, especially Martin Roscoe’s piano. Roscoe imparted a nice rhythmic bounce to much of his music too, likewise a welcome yet never excessive flexibility of tempo. The slow movement was poised and happily vocal in apparent performative inspiration. If sometimes the music sounded close to Beethoven, that is simply a reflection of the score’s qualities; in any case, the operatic cantilena was unmistakeably Mozart’s. If I readily admit to preferring a somewhat slower tempo in such an Andante, I appreciate that not everyone shares my apparently antediluvian preferences. The finale, however, emerged rather breathless at times, though Roscoe introduced charming moments of relaxation. Intonation, again, stood a little too distant from flawless.
When Moray Welsh joined the players for the G major trio, KV 564, balance immediately improved; the performance sounded more at ease too. There was sparkle without rushing, though occasional roughness remained. The slow movement benefited from a simple yet never simplistic – an exam script I marked the other day referred unfortunately to Die Zauberflöte as ‘a simplistic opera’ – dignity that again hinted at Beethoven, without quite reaching his still-foreign shores. Mozart’s chromaticism in the minor-key variation could only ever have been his: Roscoe delineated its twists very well. Cropper imparted a winning lilt to the finale theme when he took it over, proving refreshingly willing to play out: no Mozart as Meissen china here. Welsh’s cello tone was beautifully rich without straying into inappropriate territory; his sure touch with respect to the music’s harmonic contours was greatly appreciated.
The greater ease announced by the trio was not simply a matter of the extra player, for the E minor violin sonata, which followed the interval, received a fine performance, very much alive to the moment. The first movement (of two) possessed a quality of Sturm und Drang tempered by lyricism, that one might be tempted to call Schubertian, were that not a case of getting things the wrong way around. (And even then, I am still tempted to do so.) There are still awkward corners to be navigated at this stage in Mozart’s career – again, I retain not entirely happy memories here as a performer! – but Cropper and Roscoe handled them well. The Tempo di Menuetto movement proved truly moving, Mozart smiling, as so often, through (vocal) tears, that mixture of senses seeming especially apt here. It harked back to the fantasy-world of CPE Bach, albeit with none of that composer’s shortness of breath, a shortcoming of which Mozart could never be accused.
Welsh returned to the stage for the E major trio, KV 542. What a rare key this is for Mozart, if not for Haydn, nor for Beethoven! One immediately perceived its tonal warmth, aided by rich, lyrical instrumental tone. The Andante grazioso sounded like true chamber music, with all the natural give and take that seemingly innocuous description implies, and without loss to essential simplicity. Mozart’s sinuous line in the finale almost inevitably brought to mind the minuet of the Jupiter Symphony, but the movement had a character of its own, inviting none of the (neo-)classical formality of the other work. Again, it was treated to a fine example of unforced chamber music playing. The minor mode section was especially touching, its pathos genuine rather than overwrought.
Friday, 20 May 2011
ENO, A Midsummer Night's Dream: other reviews
The following have struck me as interesting in their various ways. Some, which I shall not bother to mention, seem depressingly similar to the angry booing from the stalls. I may update this... (Here, meanwhile, is a link to my review.)
Michael White (Telegraph)
Classical Iconoclast
Simon Thomas (whatsonstage.com)
David Nice (The Arts Desk)
Barry Millington (Evening Standard)
Edward Seckerson (Independent)
Mark Ronan's Theatre Reviews
Peter Reed (Classical Source)
Mark Valencia (also Classical Source)
George's Musings
Fiona Maddocks (Observer)
Andrew Clark (Financial Times)
Michael White (Telegraph)
Classical Iconoclast
Simon Thomas (whatsonstage.com)
David Nice (The Arts Desk)
Barry Millington (Evening Standard)
Edward Seckerson (Independent)
Mark Ronan's Theatre Reviews
Peter Reed (Classical Source)
Mark Valencia (also Classical Source)
George's Musings
Fiona Maddocks (Observer)
Andrew Clark (Financial Times)
A Midsummer Night's Dream, English National Opera, 19 May 2011
The Coliseum
Oberon – William Towers
Bottom – Sir Willard White
Tytania – Anna Christy
Lysander – Allan Clayton
Demetrius – Benedict Nelson
Theseus – Paul Whelan
Puck – Jamie Manton
Helena – Kate Valentine
Hermia – Tamara Gura
Flute – Michael Colvin
Snug – Grame Danby
Snout – Peter van Hulle
Starveling – Simon Butteriss
Quince – Jonathan Veira
Cobweb - Alexander Lee
Peaseblossom - Luke Saint
Mustardseed - Luke Dugan
Moth - Dominic O'Donnell
Changeling boy - Dominic Williams
Hippolyta - Catherine Young
Christopher Alden (director)
Charles Edwards (set designs)
Sue Wilmington (costumes)
Adam Silverman (lighting)
Boys of Trinity School, Croydon (chorus master: David Swenson)
Orchestra of the English National Opera
Leo Hussain (conductor)
That said, the darkness is really the thing. Alden daringly – and no, I am not using the word ‘ironically’ – reimagines the opera in terms of a mid-twentieth-century boys’ school. I immediately thought of Britten’s own – and Auden’s – Gresham’s, a connection reinforced both by Charles Edwards’s superb set designs and a mysterious figure strolling around, observing, and to a certain extent participating, suggestive of Britten himself. (More of that figure anon.) Just in case one were in any doubt, the inscription above the school entrance forbiddingly – invitingly for some? – reads ‘BOYS’. The fairies are the younger boys, with Puck an older, apparently knowing member of the community. Oberon and Titania are an especially twisted master and mistress, free with their favours, clearly in competition for the favour of their charges. A nice touch is Titania’s schoolmarmishly wooden beating time for the fairy choruses. When Puck gets things wrong, he is subjected to a spanking by his master Oberon, who may already have transferred his affections to the Indian Boy. Clearly Puck will have to redouble his efforts, though his relationship to the Britten-like figure seems to grant him extra kudos. Lysander and Hermia explore their sexual awakening behind the dustbins, whilst the sadistic rejection of Helena by Demetrius and her masochistic response are especially cutting and credible, given his status as a highly popular member of the rugby team. Sue Wilmington’s costumes, here and elsewhere, strike just the right note. One can quibble, no doubt, about what the girls are doing there at all, but their presence does not really jar, and girls have a habit of sneaking in to such environments, wanted or otherwise. During their explorations, the boys are initially as inclined to play with each other, similarly the girls, as old habits die hard. The magic, when it comes, is all, or at least mostly, to be attributed to whatever it is that Oberon is smoking. Puck passes around the cigarette to devastating effect. It may sound contrived, but it really works on stage. And he threatens to set the entire school ablaze at the end of the second act.
Finally, the observer, himself earlier subjected to sado-masochistic tying up by Puck, is revealed to be the Duke, returned to his old school on the eve of his wedding and now again following the (play) reception. One often wonders, whether in Shakespeare or Britten, quite what the nature of his role should be: not here, for we were in for another turn of the screw. This is a tormented man, turned tormentor, who, following the rustics’ departure, manages to free himself from his respectable, echt-1950’s wife, returns to the school to revisit Puck, with whom he has earlier shared his neck-ties (a bond, it seems, born of a gift, or perhaps of identity). Puck, whom one might expect now to be triumphant, appears broken, perhaps literally. The abuse, and abuse it undoubtedly it is, has taken its toll. Rather than force himself upon the boy again, the Duke, perhaps chastened, as a Puck himself in later life, slinks away. Punk’s final words are defiant, but we know that this boy will remain troubled.
The cast entered into this scenario with gusto. Indeed, one had the real sense of a company performance, and even if it were not so in the strictest sense, it is surely no coincidence that many of these artists have worked together before. Iestyn Davies, sadly, was ailing, similarly his understudy Iestyn Morris, so Davies acted the role of Oberon, whilst Will Towers sang from the side of the stage. With that performance, Towers has doubtless ensured himself of a major role of his own at ENO before long, with a hauntingly beautiful rendition that never once lapsed into stereotypical hooting. (I cannot say the same for a certain other, highly celebrated counter-tenor, whom I heard a few years ago at Glyndebourne.) Allan Clayton was also, we were told, suffering from an infection, but one would barely have known: his Lysander remained an impressive portrayal. Benedict Nelson’s Demetrius was full of youthful masculine swagger, which yet retained a propensity, understated though it may have been, to equally youthful self-doubt. Tamara Gura and Kate Valentine made an impressive pair of female lovers. White’s excellent Bottom, blessed by a genuinely comic vocal delivery I have not heard in this artist before, was complemented by an excellent oddball assortment of rustics, from whom Michael Colvin’s Flute should be considered first amongst equals. The Donizetti parody truly hit home. Paul Whelan, whom I previously admired as Claggart in Glyndebourne’s Billy Budd, proved a haunted and haunting Theseus: this Duke will linger long in the mind. Jamie Manton was equally impressive as Puck, his adolescent cockiness twisted into something almost too painful to watch; memories of Manton’s fine performance will doubtless prove equally difficult to dispel. Magic, as the production suggested, only takes one so far: to treat it is a refuge from reality is at best irresponsible.
Underpinning this real company success were the excellent contributions of Leo Hussain and the ENO Orchestra. Hussain, making his ENO debut, conducted as if he were a knight of the realm, so readily did Britten’s style and structure speak from his baton. One would not have been surprised to discover that it was a Sir Colin, or a late Sir Charles, save that neither of those conductors, I suspect, would have warmed to Alden’s production. Magic was there: those harps, the woodwind, the slithering fairy-music. We were left in no doubt, however, that malevolence was always present too. (What, after all, is a forest? It is hardly a place of straightforward comfort. Think of Hansel and Gretel.) Above all, and this is crucial in music that can otherwise tend to meander, Britten’s score was shown to be constructed. The booers would doubtless have preferred not to be reminded of Britten’s twelve-note experimentation, but so much the worse for them. Boys from Trinity School, Croydon, proved impressive too, clearly well coached by their Director of Music, David Swinson.
It was an interesting coincidence upon returning home from the Coliseum last night, to post a quick summary on Twitter, to see the name of Melanie Phillips ‘trending’ there. (Reader: if you do not know who she is, may you at all costs strive to retain your blissful ignorance. Suffice it to say, that she is a ‘commentator’ to the humourless, far right fringe even of the rabid, petit bourgeois bigotry that infests the Daily Mail, Britain’s answer to Der Stürmer, both then and now. To its eternal discredit, The Spectator offers her a platform upon its website too.) It appears that Ms Phillips had wound up – and she appears to mean what she says – a good section of the television audience for BBC television’s Question Time, doubtless by spitting and cursing upon the slightest semblance of human charity. One can well imagine how she and her readers would have reacted to this production: not a justification in itself, but not a bad sign either. As Germaine Greer has pointed out, the obsession amongst large sections of our society with paedophilia reflects their own paedophilia: witness the photographic reproductions of missing children, especially girls, whereas for those of us not interested, we are simply not interested and should prefer to hear about something else (our ruling class desperately trying to keep it from us). They want to ‘hear all about it’ but react violently when their motives are questioned, let alone examined, hence the mittelständisch booing. The more vicious the society, the more vicious the individual, as we shall be reminded when the Royal Opera revives Peter Grimes next month. ENO would also seem to have set the scene very nicely for Nico Muhly’s Two Boys, from which I shall also report in late June.
 |
| Images: Alastair Muir (click to enlarge) The eve of the wedding... |
Oberon – William Towers
Bottom – Sir Willard White
Tytania – Anna Christy
Lysander – Allan Clayton
Demetrius – Benedict Nelson
Theseus – Paul Whelan
Puck – Jamie Manton
Helena – Kate Valentine
Hermia – Tamara Gura
Flute – Michael Colvin
Snug – Grame Danby
Snout – Peter van Hulle
Starveling – Simon Butteriss
Quince – Jonathan Veira
Cobweb - Alexander Lee
Peaseblossom - Luke Saint
Mustardseed - Luke Dugan
Moth - Dominic O'Donnell
Changeling boy - Dominic Williams
Hippolyta - Catherine Young
Christopher Alden (director)
Charles Edwards (set designs)
Sue Wilmington (costumes)
Adam Silverman (lighting)
Boys of Trinity School, Croydon (chorus master: David Swenson)
Orchestra of the English National Opera
Leo Hussain (conductor)
 |
| Iestyn Davies (Oberon) and Anna Christy (Tytania) |
ENO’s superlative Return of Ulysses has been my operatic highlight of the season so far; This Midsummer Night’s Dream in many respects comes close: such a relief after the well-nigh unwatchable Damnation of Faust recently endured. But this was not easy ‘relief’, Christopher Alden’s production proving intent on exploring the darker side of Britten and his work. It was telling that the discomfort of a certain section of the audience manifested itself in the unpardonable boorishness of booing the production team. Reactionaries who might just about have reconciled themselves to Britten’s music – forget Birtwistle... – did not want their ‘enjoyment’ ruined by something that went beyond kitschy tales from the Athenian woods. For those with ears to listen, as well as eyes to see, an opera that has its weaknesses emerged stronger and, a signal achievement this, managed both to chill the spine and to elicit genuine comedy. How many times has one previously consulted a watch during the Tedious Brief Scene of Pyramus and Thisbe? Not on this occasion. Excellent personal direction and acting, not least from Sir Willard White’s Bottom, made that scene a genuine joy, focusing attention on Britten’s clever parodies, which thereby emerged as more than merely clever (often a danger with this particular composer).
That said, the darkness is really the thing. Alden daringly – and no, I am not using the word ‘ironically’ – reimagines the opera in terms of a mid-twentieth-century boys’ school. I immediately thought of Britten’s own – and Auden’s – Gresham’s, a connection reinforced both by Charles Edwards’s superb set designs and a mysterious figure strolling around, observing, and to a certain extent participating, suggestive of Britten himself. (More of that figure anon.) Just in case one were in any doubt, the inscription above the school entrance forbiddingly – invitingly for some? – reads ‘BOYS’. The fairies are the younger boys, with Puck an older, apparently knowing member of the community. Oberon and Titania are an especially twisted master and mistress, free with their favours, clearly in competition for the favour of their charges. A nice touch is Titania’s schoolmarmishly wooden beating time for the fairy choruses. When Puck gets things wrong, he is subjected to a spanking by his master Oberon, who may already have transferred his affections to the Indian Boy. Clearly Puck will have to redouble his efforts, though his relationship to the Britten-like figure seems to grant him extra kudos. Lysander and Hermia explore their sexual awakening behind the dustbins, whilst the sadistic rejection of Helena by Demetrius and her masochistic response are especially cutting and credible, given his status as a highly popular member of the rugby team. Sue Wilmington’s costumes, here and elsewhere, strike just the right note. One can quibble, no doubt, about what the girls are doing there at all, but their presence does not really jar, and girls have a habit of sneaking in to such environments, wanted or otherwise. During their explorations, the boys are initially as inclined to play with each other, similarly the girls, as old habits die hard. The magic, when it comes, is all, or at least mostly, to be attributed to whatever it is that Oberon is smoking. Puck passes around the cigarette to devastating effect. It may sound contrived, but it really works on stage. And he threatens to set the entire school ablaze at the end of the second act.
 |
| Paul Whelan (Theseus) and Jamie Manton (Puck) |
Underpinning this real company success were the excellent contributions of Leo Hussain and the ENO Orchestra. Hussain, making his ENO debut, conducted as if he were a knight of the realm, so readily did Britten’s style and structure speak from his baton. One would not have been surprised to discover that it was a Sir Colin, or a late Sir Charles, save that neither of those conductors, I suspect, would have warmed to Alden’s production. Magic was there: those harps, the woodwind, the slithering fairy-music. We were left in no doubt, however, that malevolence was always present too. (What, after all, is a forest? It is hardly a place of straightforward comfort. Think of Hansel and Gretel.) Above all, and this is crucial in music that can otherwise tend to meander, Britten’s score was shown to be constructed. The booers would doubtless have preferred not to be reminded of Britten’s twelve-note experimentation, but so much the worse for them. Boys from Trinity School, Croydon, proved impressive too, clearly well coached by their Director of Music, David Swinson.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Fantasy Opera: time to cast your (contemporary) vote
A little more than a fortnight ago, I asked readers which neglected (unstaged as yet at Covent Garden) opera they would most like to see next season. Since the polling gadget I used did not offer a closing date, that poll is still open, for anyone who would still like to participate. However, Birtwistle's Mask of Orpheus came out in front at the outset and has maintained that lead throughout, with Strauss's Die Liebe der Danae relatively soon settling into a good second place.
I thought it might now be interesting to see which contemporary composer readers would be most keen to have compose a new opera for an imaginary new season. Some choices will doubtless be absent, but I hope that everyone will be able to find something palatable from the following list. The selection veers, though not exclusively, towards more senior composers, if only because they will often have had more of a chance to make international names for themselves; it should certainly not be inferred that I should only wish to choose from their ranks. There is also probably something of a bias towards English composers, but again I hope not excessively so. Nor is inclusion in the list a sign of favour; I have tried to include at least a few composers whose music is not really to my taste at all. Finally, the order in which they appear has no significance whatsoever...
I thought it might now be interesting to see which contemporary composer readers would be most keen to have compose a new opera for an imaginary new season. Some choices will doubtless be absent, but I hope that everyone will be able to find something palatable from the following list. The selection veers, though not exclusively, towards more senior composers, if only because they will often have had more of a chance to make international names for themselves; it should certainly not be inferred that I should only wish to choose from their ranks. There is also probably something of a bias towards English composers, but again I hope not excessively so. Nor is inclusion in the list a sign of favour; I have tried to include at least a few composers whose music is not really to my taste at all. Finally, the order in which they appear has no significance whatsoever...
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Charles Rosen - Chopin, 15 May 2011
Queen Elizabeth Hall
Nocturne in B major, op.62 no.1
Nocturne in E major, op.62 no.2
Barcarolle in F-sharp major, op.60
Mazurka in A-flat major, op.50 no.2
Mazurka in C-sharp minor, op.63 no.3
Waltz in C-sharp minor, op.64 no.2
Ballade no.4 in F minor, op.52
Sonata in B minor, op.58 no.3
I expected to enjoy this recital; I wanted to enjoy this recital… Unfortunately, I gained the impression that it came a good few years too late. Charles Rosen is a great musicologist and, more than that, a great public intellectual. Moreover, as one can readily forget, he was a pupil of Moritz Rosenthal, and thus a grand-pupil of Liszt, and has forged a distinguished career as a pianist. I had never heard him before in concert, so jumped at the opportunity. On the basis of the present recital, at least, his technique has in good part deserted him.
The two op.62 Nocturnes are far from easy, but ought to have presented a relatively safe way in. The B major Nocturne, however, proved heavy-handed, distended, and at times strikingly uncertain of direction: all the more surprising from a pianist who, as we know from his writings, understands this music so well. There was perhaps more direction to its E major companion, but it opened in casual fashion, quite charmless, and, despite a few instances of interesting voice-leading, sounded as unlike a Nocturne as any recent performance I can recall. Fioritura not only failed to hint at the vocal – one might, I suppose, claim that as an interpretative choice – but sometimes failed to materialise at all. The Barcarolle had its moments, but quite lacked charm and also suffered from considerable uncertainty. A couple of Mazurkas and the C-sharp minor Waltz replaced the advertised three op.59 Mazurkas. The A-flat Mazurka, op.50 no.2, failed to dance, though that in C-sharp minor, op.63 no.3 replaced liveliness – it is marked Vivace – with true poignancy. The waltz charmed in parts but, alas, there was more than one occasion when the right hand ran away from the left, and these were not occasions on which one could ascribe that to old-fashioned, purposive asynchonicity. Again, despite some telling instances of voice-leading, there were a few ornamental passages that did not properly run their course.
Perhaps surprisingly, it was the F minor Ballade, replacing the Fantasy-Polonaise, which, heard immediately prior to the interval, came off best. Here, despite the slips, was a true sense of purpose. Rubinstein it was not; there was little to beguile. There remained, however, a sense of almost Lisztian struggle, such as had also characterised the stronger passages of the Barcarolle. The Third Sonata had the second half to itself. There was something of that Beethovenian purpose to the first movement, married moreover to a properly neo-Bachian sense of polyphony. Light and shade, however, were for the most part absent and pauses sometimes seemed inserted to gather breath rather than to serve rhetorical ends. The Scherzo came and went, hardly scintillating, but steady and dogged. Much the same, unfortunately, could be said of the slow movement – and the finale. It was, I am afraid, a relief to reach the end, though two encores ensued: Liszt’s transcription of the song Moja pieszczotka (‘Meine Freuden’) and the first published mazurka.
Nocturne in B major, op.62 no.1
Nocturne in E major, op.62 no.2
Barcarolle in F-sharp major, op.60
Mazurka in A-flat major, op.50 no.2
Mazurka in C-sharp minor, op.63 no.3
Waltz in C-sharp minor, op.64 no.2
Ballade no.4 in F minor, op.52
Sonata in B minor, op.58 no.3
I expected to enjoy this recital; I wanted to enjoy this recital… Unfortunately, I gained the impression that it came a good few years too late. Charles Rosen is a great musicologist and, more than that, a great public intellectual. Moreover, as one can readily forget, he was a pupil of Moritz Rosenthal, and thus a grand-pupil of Liszt, and has forged a distinguished career as a pianist. I had never heard him before in concert, so jumped at the opportunity. On the basis of the present recital, at least, his technique has in good part deserted him.
The two op.62 Nocturnes are far from easy, but ought to have presented a relatively safe way in. The B major Nocturne, however, proved heavy-handed, distended, and at times strikingly uncertain of direction: all the more surprising from a pianist who, as we know from his writings, understands this music so well. There was perhaps more direction to its E major companion, but it opened in casual fashion, quite charmless, and, despite a few instances of interesting voice-leading, sounded as unlike a Nocturne as any recent performance I can recall. Fioritura not only failed to hint at the vocal – one might, I suppose, claim that as an interpretative choice – but sometimes failed to materialise at all. The Barcarolle had its moments, but quite lacked charm and also suffered from considerable uncertainty. A couple of Mazurkas and the C-sharp minor Waltz replaced the advertised three op.59 Mazurkas. The A-flat Mazurka, op.50 no.2, failed to dance, though that in C-sharp minor, op.63 no.3 replaced liveliness – it is marked Vivace – with true poignancy. The waltz charmed in parts but, alas, there was more than one occasion when the right hand ran away from the left, and these were not occasions on which one could ascribe that to old-fashioned, purposive asynchonicity. Again, despite some telling instances of voice-leading, there were a few ornamental passages that did not properly run their course.
Perhaps surprisingly, it was the F minor Ballade, replacing the Fantasy-Polonaise, which, heard immediately prior to the interval, came off best. Here, despite the slips, was a true sense of purpose. Rubinstein it was not; there was little to beguile. There remained, however, a sense of almost Lisztian struggle, such as had also characterised the stronger passages of the Barcarolle. The Third Sonata had the second half to itself. There was something of that Beethovenian purpose to the first movement, married moreover to a properly neo-Bachian sense of polyphony. Light and shade, however, were for the most part absent and pauses sometimes seemed inserted to gather breath rather than to serve rhetorical ends. The Scherzo came and went, hardly scintillating, but steady and dogged. Much the same, unfortunately, could be said of the slow movement – and the finale. It was, I am afraid, a relief to reach the end, though two encores ensued: Liszt’s transcription of the song Moja pieszczotka (‘Meine Freuden’) and the first published mazurka.
Bolshoi/Sinaisky - Tchaikovsky, 12 May 2011
Cadogan Hall
Eugene Onegin (extracts)
The Nutcracker (extracts)
Dinara Alieva (soprano)
Andrei Grigoriev (baritone)
Bolshoi Symphony Orchestra
Vassily Sinaisky (conductor)
Extracts from both Eugene Onegin and The Nutcracker did not make for the most ultimately satisfying programme. One missed much of what was not there, though by the same token one could treat the concert as something of a calling card. We did, however, hear the Bolshoi Symphony Orchestra, in the music of a composer to whom it could hardly stand closer, on magnificent form, under the baton of a very fine, arguably underrated, conductor, Vassily Sinaisky.
The programme was altered somewhat from that advertised, presumably as a consequence of the replacement of an ailing Alexander Lazarev by Sinaisky. (That, however, still begged a few questions, since the replaced music is certainly in Sinaisky’s repertoire.) It was, perhaps, no great loss to manage without the overture to Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tsar’s Bride, recently performed in full by the Royal Opera (click here). To have an all-Tchaikovsky programme probably made more sense too, though it sounded a little odd to hear the Introduction to Eugene Onegin by itself, without leading into anything. Nevertheless, it displayed from the very first bar a wonderfully rich, indubitably Russian, string tone, horns and woodwind proving just as impressive. It was full of incipient drama, Sinaisky imparting a flexibility of phrasing that could only really be described as ‘vocal’ in quality. The Letter Scene followed; again, the orchestra was on excellent form indeed: one could almost imagine oneself in the theatre, especially once the harps began to weave their magic. Dinara Alieva made a fine Tatiana, with a properly Russian sound yet so verbally acute that her performance conveyed the words’ meaning, even if one had no Russian to speak of. The denouement was moving, even out of context. Onegin’s aria form the following scene was to be enjoyed more for the orchestral than the vocal contribution; Andrei Grigoriev sounded earnest but too wobbly, and proved dramatically wooden throughout. The Polonaise had an irresistible swagger; it may be unbearably clichéd to say so, but it really did sound as if the orchestra had the music in its blood. There was gorgeous woodwind detail to be heard and cello tone of a depth one rarely hears. What a pity that a good – or rather bad – part of the audience applauded before the music had even finished. Finally came the closing duet between Tatiana and Onegin. Orchestral sadness, somewhere between melancholy and tragedy, set the scene perfectly, followed by real frustration preparing the way for Alieva’s entry. Once again, one marvelled at the flexibility Sinaisky provided, of which his soprano took full advantage. However, the contrast between the two singers was even more glaring than when they had been singing separately. It is also only fair to say that the Letter Scene has the unfortunate consequence of overshadowing subsequent excerpts still more than it has the rest of the opera when heard in full.
The Nutcracker excerpts were somewhat confusing. What we heard was not the advertised Evgeny Mravinsky ‘Suite’, itself a rather odd selection, so it was not always clear precisely what was being heard. There was much to enjoy, however, though the omissions were surprising. Orchestral sound was once again enchanting – as of course it must be in this music, and there was again very much a sense of the theatre, not least in the expectancy engendered by the departure of the guests. At times, a more modernistic sound was also elicited there by Sinaisky with respect to orchestral detail, which put me in mind of Der Rosenkavalier and of course presages ballets such as Petrushka too. One really heard – and almost saw – the Christmas tree grow, and the waltz of the snowflakes had just the right sense of Vienna transposed to Russian soil. Cellos sang with echt-national melancholy, whilst the string sound as a whole was such that one could imagine Mravinsky himself having been pleased. The second-act pas de deux, advertised in the programme, was not part of what we heard, but its Tarantella – not, surprisingly, the Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy – received an energetic, fiery reading as an encore.
Eugene Onegin (extracts)
The Nutcracker (extracts)
Dinara Alieva (soprano)
Andrei Grigoriev (baritone)
Bolshoi Symphony Orchestra
Vassily Sinaisky (conductor)
Extracts from both Eugene Onegin and The Nutcracker did not make for the most ultimately satisfying programme. One missed much of what was not there, though by the same token one could treat the concert as something of a calling card. We did, however, hear the Bolshoi Symphony Orchestra, in the music of a composer to whom it could hardly stand closer, on magnificent form, under the baton of a very fine, arguably underrated, conductor, Vassily Sinaisky.
The programme was altered somewhat from that advertised, presumably as a consequence of the replacement of an ailing Alexander Lazarev by Sinaisky. (That, however, still begged a few questions, since the replaced music is certainly in Sinaisky’s repertoire.) It was, perhaps, no great loss to manage without the overture to Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Tsar’s Bride, recently performed in full by the Royal Opera (click here). To have an all-Tchaikovsky programme probably made more sense too, though it sounded a little odd to hear the Introduction to Eugene Onegin by itself, without leading into anything. Nevertheless, it displayed from the very first bar a wonderfully rich, indubitably Russian, string tone, horns and woodwind proving just as impressive. It was full of incipient drama, Sinaisky imparting a flexibility of phrasing that could only really be described as ‘vocal’ in quality. The Letter Scene followed; again, the orchestra was on excellent form indeed: one could almost imagine oneself in the theatre, especially once the harps began to weave their magic. Dinara Alieva made a fine Tatiana, with a properly Russian sound yet so verbally acute that her performance conveyed the words’ meaning, even if one had no Russian to speak of. The denouement was moving, even out of context. Onegin’s aria form the following scene was to be enjoyed more for the orchestral than the vocal contribution; Andrei Grigoriev sounded earnest but too wobbly, and proved dramatically wooden throughout. The Polonaise had an irresistible swagger; it may be unbearably clichéd to say so, but it really did sound as if the orchestra had the music in its blood. There was gorgeous woodwind detail to be heard and cello tone of a depth one rarely hears. What a pity that a good – or rather bad – part of the audience applauded before the music had even finished. Finally came the closing duet between Tatiana and Onegin. Orchestral sadness, somewhere between melancholy and tragedy, set the scene perfectly, followed by real frustration preparing the way for Alieva’s entry. Once again, one marvelled at the flexibility Sinaisky provided, of which his soprano took full advantage. However, the contrast between the two singers was even more glaring than when they had been singing separately. It is also only fair to say that the Letter Scene has the unfortunate consequence of overshadowing subsequent excerpts still more than it has the rest of the opera when heard in full.
The Nutcracker excerpts were somewhat confusing. What we heard was not the advertised Evgeny Mravinsky ‘Suite’, itself a rather odd selection, so it was not always clear precisely what was being heard. There was much to enjoy, however, though the omissions were surprising. Orchestral sound was once again enchanting – as of course it must be in this music, and there was again very much a sense of the theatre, not least in the expectancy engendered by the departure of the guests. At times, a more modernistic sound was also elicited there by Sinaisky with respect to orchestral detail, which put me in mind of Der Rosenkavalier and of course presages ballets such as Petrushka too. One really heard – and almost saw – the Christmas tree grow, and the waltz of the snowflakes had just the right sense of Vienna transposed to Russian soil. Cellos sang with echt-national melancholy, whilst the string sound as a whole was such that one could imagine Mravinsky himself having been pleased. The second-act pas de deux, advertised in the programme, was not part of what we heard, but its Tarantella – not, surprisingly, the Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy – received an energetic, fiery reading as an encore.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Tallis Scholars - Victoria and Palestrina, 10 May 2011
Cadogan Hall
Tallis Scholars
Peter Phillips (director)
Victoria – Dum complerentur
Palestrina – Dum complerentur
Victoria – Lamentations for Maundy Thursday
Victoria – Lamentations for Holy Saturday
Palestrina – Tribulationes civitatum
Victoria – Vidi speciosam
Palestrina – Tu es Petrus
A funny programme for May, let alone such a May of such unseasonable warmth: to open with two Whitsun motets, thence to retreat to Holy Week, prior to a final thaw. Moreover, though Cadogan Hall hosts a good number of choral concerts, it is perhaps not the most obvious venue for Renaissance polyphony: the former Christian Scientist church looks and feels more inclined at least to English nonconformism. The acoustic, good in itself, took a little getting used to – and I wondered whether this were the case for the Tallis Scholars too. At any rate, Victoria’s setting of the Pentecostal text, Dum complerentur, at times sounded a little thin. However, the Tallis Scholars’ accustomed smoothness of phrasing provided continuity, and by the time of the final ‘alleluia’, bells – or should that be tongues? – could be heard a-rejoicing. Palestrina’s responsory setting of the same text offered a fascinating contrast. ‘Older’ and ‘purer’ were two comparative adjectives that came to mind, but equally apparent was greater sturdiness of rhythm, at times presaging Handel. Imitative writing came across keenly in the present performance, Palestrina’s version sounding fuller in tone than Victoria’s, though the performers were two fewer in number. Peccantem me quotidie seems to hark back still further in time; Alexandra Coghlan’s booklet note rightly mentioned Franco-Flemish style as an influence upon Palestrina. Just as striking was the sonority of intimate contrition, to which the Tallis Scholars brought a rather English – and I mean ‘English’ rather than ‘Anglican’ – tonal quality.
The centrepieces to this concert, positioned either side of the interval, were two Victoria sets of Lamentations: those for Matins on Maundy Thursday and Holy Saturday. Phrasing proved as seamless as in the opening motet, but the performances continued to sound more at ease. I was especially taken by the mood of dignified sadness to the first set, putting me in mind, perhaps fancifully, of the dark Escorial. Victoria now seemed to be heard – which, in terms of the programming he was – through the auditory prism of Palestrina. The second refrain of ‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum tuum’ (‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem, turn to the Lord thy God’) sounded especially plangent. The equivalent passage in the Holy Saturday suffered from slight imprecision upon the cadence of the second ‘Jerusalem’, but otherwise performances impressed. By the time of the final refrain, there was initially a not inappropriate impression of near-weariness, but the imprecation to turn to the Lord elicited a final, sonorous bloom.
After two considerable doses of Victoria, the dawning of Palestrina’s Tribulationes civitatum again heralded a sense of almost ‘classical’ purity. This is never, of course, a composer to wear his heart upon his sleeve: words were permitted broodingly to tell of our sinful plight, without impinging duly upon musical progression. A brighter note was struck in the final two motets. A Song of Songs text, composer, and performers brought new warmth to Victoria’s Vidi speciosam, even if I can imagine other groups imparting a greater sense of the erotic. There was an apt sense of Petrine certainty to be heard in Palestrina’s Tu es Petrus. Fuller tone was employed, though a performance more overtly jubilant might have conveyed the message more strongly.
Tallis Scholars
Peter Phillips (director)
Victoria – Dum complerentur
Palestrina – Dum complerentur
Victoria – Lamentations for Maundy Thursday
Victoria – Lamentations for Holy Saturday
Palestrina – Tribulationes civitatum
Victoria – Vidi speciosam
Palestrina – Tu es Petrus
A funny programme for May, let alone such a May of such unseasonable warmth: to open with two Whitsun motets, thence to retreat to Holy Week, prior to a final thaw. Moreover, though Cadogan Hall hosts a good number of choral concerts, it is perhaps not the most obvious venue for Renaissance polyphony: the former Christian Scientist church looks and feels more inclined at least to English nonconformism. The acoustic, good in itself, took a little getting used to – and I wondered whether this were the case for the Tallis Scholars too. At any rate, Victoria’s setting of the Pentecostal text, Dum complerentur, at times sounded a little thin. However, the Tallis Scholars’ accustomed smoothness of phrasing provided continuity, and by the time of the final ‘alleluia’, bells – or should that be tongues? – could be heard a-rejoicing. Palestrina’s responsory setting of the same text offered a fascinating contrast. ‘Older’ and ‘purer’ were two comparative adjectives that came to mind, but equally apparent was greater sturdiness of rhythm, at times presaging Handel. Imitative writing came across keenly in the present performance, Palestrina’s version sounding fuller in tone than Victoria’s, though the performers were two fewer in number. Peccantem me quotidie seems to hark back still further in time; Alexandra Coghlan’s booklet note rightly mentioned Franco-Flemish style as an influence upon Palestrina. Just as striking was the sonority of intimate contrition, to which the Tallis Scholars brought a rather English – and I mean ‘English’ rather than ‘Anglican’ – tonal quality.
The centrepieces to this concert, positioned either side of the interval, were two Victoria sets of Lamentations: those for Matins on Maundy Thursday and Holy Saturday. Phrasing proved as seamless as in the opening motet, but the performances continued to sound more at ease. I was especially taken by the mood of dignified sadness to the first set, putting me in mind, perhaps fancifully, of the dark Escorial. Victoria now seemed to be heard – which, in terms of the programming he was – through the auditory prism of Palestrina. The second refrain of ‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum tuum’ (‘Jerusalem, Jerusalem, turn to the Lord thy God’) sounded especially plangent. The equivalent passage in the Holy Saturday suffered from slight imprecision upon the cadence of the second ‘Jerusalem’, but otherwise performances impressed. By the time of the final refrain, there was initially a not inappropriate impression of near-weariness, but the imprecation to turn to the Lord elicited a final, sonorous bloom.
After two considerable doses of Victoria, the dawning of Palestrina’s Tribulationes civitatum again heralded a sense of almost ‘classical’ purity. This is never, of course, a composer to wear his heart upon his sleeve: words were permitted broodingly to tell of our sinful plight, without impinging duly upon musical progression. A brighter note was struck in the final two motets. A Song of Songs text, composer, and performers brought new warmth to Victoria’s Vidi speciosam, even if I can imagine other groups imparting a greater sense of the erotic. There was an apt sense of Petrine certainty to be heard in Palestrina’s Tu es Petrus. Fuller tone was employed, though a performance more overtly jubilant might have conveyed the message more strongly.
La Damnation de Faust: Encore
Those who were interested in my Damnation de Faust review might also be interested in reading a response to its Seen and Heard version (essentially the same, minus a few pictures) from Shahla Tarrant, plus my resply to her. It seems that Shahla Tarrant is a regular collaborator with Terry Gilliam; she is also listed amongst the actors in this production, so can justly claim a different perspective upon it. Click here to read what she had to say.
Other interesting pieces on the production may be found as follows:
Classical Iconoclast, with a fuller piece at Opera Today
Jessica Duchen
Simon Thomas (originally here and, in a more general piece, which refers to my review, here)
Other interesting pieces on the production may be found as follows:
Classical Iconoclast, with a fuller piece at Opera Today
Jessica Duchen
Simon Thomas (originally here and, in a more general piece, which refers to my review, here)
Sunday, 8 May 2011
Jerusalem Quartet and friends - Schoenberg and Brahms, 7 May 2011
Wigmore Hall
Schoenberg – Verklärte Nacht, op.4
Brahms – String Sextet in B-flat major, op.18
Alexander Pavlovsky, Sergei Bresler (violins)
Ori Kam, Yuri Zhislin (violas)
Kyril Zlotnikov, Adrian Brendel (violoncelli)
The Jerusalem Quartet has failed to disappoint me yet in a number of visits to the Wigmore Hall; this concert was to prove no exception. Here the players were joined by violist Yuri Zhislin (1993 BBC Young Musician of Year) and cellist Adrian Brendel. Since I last heard the quartet, Ori Kam has succeeded Amihai Grosz as violist. I noted a year ago the excellence of Kam’s performance in the well-nigh impossible viola part of Le marteau sans maître, conducted by Boulez himself. On the evidence of the present performance, Kam has achieved what one might have thought impossible, proving a more than worthy successor to Grosz, who is now principal viola of the Berlin Philharmonic (and who also shone in a recent London concert).
I could not help but wonder whether reversal of the two items in the programme, announced immediately before the concert, were an attempt to stem departures occasioned by the dread name of Arnold Schoenberg; there were certainly bewildering groans to be heard upon that announcement. Imagine, in 2011, or even in 1911, objecting to Verklärte Nacht! This performance ought at any rate to have converted any lingering dissenters. It did not always conform to my preconceived notions about the work, but why should it? Whenever I wondered whether the players were moving a little too close to Straussian tone poem, ironically away from Brahms, the excellence of their performance disquieted any fears – and made me wonder anew at quite how closely Schoenberg’s essay in so ‘absolute’ a form as the string sextet follows Richard Dehmel’s verse. One does not need to know the latter to listen to the former. An odd thing is that, even when one knows the poetry well, one can forget it in the midst of performance; not here though, for I was constantly put in mind not only of Dehmel’s words but of their musical sublimation. More than once Tristan came to mind; this was a struggle to be understood dramatically as well as tonally – just like that world-historical transition in the second string quartet. Occasional – and I do mean occasional – fraying mattered not at all; if anything, it reminded one of the players’ and, more to the point, Schoenberg’s humanity.
An unusually slow opening, or so it seemed, contrasted strongly with ensuing passion. This, it seemed, was to be a Mahlerian performance, a sextet that encompassed the world. Sweetness of tone did not preclude properly febrile tension in passages that undoubtedly look forward to Schoenberg’s subsequent quartets. (We really need to hear the Jerusalem Quartet in those!) Kam’s beautiful rich arco tone contrasted with Zhislin’s searing pizzicato. Generous cello vibrato from Kyrill Zlotnikov was perfectly gauged to provide warmth at the turning point of sextet and verse. Leader Alexander Pavlovsky’s sweet violin tone emerged as transfiguration (Verklärung) itself. What emerged triumphantly, perhaps surprisingly so in so ‘pictorial’ a performance, was the true sense of quartet music writ large for six, sextet form proving as much a forum for interaction and reaction as the quartet. Individual personality was enhanced, not precluded: let no one say chamber music is apolitical. Climaxes sent shivers down the spine. This was not merely an excellent performance; it was a special performance.
Brahms’s glorious sextet, which I have always founded far easier to warm to than his quartets, received an equally fine reading. The players managed well throughout that tricky yet necessary balancing act between Classical (the first movement’s opening bars) and Romantic (the response). Brahms without rich mahogany sound is not Brahms at all, whatever rebarbative ‘authenticists’ might claim; ‘rightness’ of tonal quality here permitted one, Janus-like or rather Brahms-like, both to look backward and forward through musical history. There was, moreover, an equal ‘rightness’ to be heard when it came to phrasing; one almost did not notice it, so natural did it sound, art concealing art. An impeccable sense of structure was married to Romantic passion, enhancing both, so that one might marvel anew at Brahms’s astonishing craftsmanship and feeling. There were especially heart-rending solos to be heard from Zlotnikov and Kam: melancholy perhaps, but never, in Nietzsche’s malicious barb, the ‘melancholy of impotence’.
I was a little taken aback yet utterly convinced by the depth of Schubertian pathos to the slow movement, which proved ardent, impassioned, and based upon true, harmonically-grounded strength of purpose, defiance even. The sheer strangeness of the major-mode drone variation, whatever precedent it might have in Haydn, shone through. It was Beethoven, though, who immediately came to the fore in the scherzo, though the humour, perhaps belying Brahms’s reputation, was rather less gruff in nature. Metrical dislocation both looked back to Beethoven and indeed to the minuet of Don Giovanni, an opera beloved of Brahms, but also forward to the Second Viennese School, Brahms’s closest successors. (Someone who claims to ‘understand’ Brahms but not Schoenberg is listening to neither.) The opening opposing trios of the finale evinced Mozartian charm, yet in a nostalgic, arguably tragic, vein: Mozart’s reconciliations can be no more – just as in Schubert. This movement balanced, as did the performance as whole, battle hard won and vital affirmation.
Schoenberg – Verklärte Nacht, op.4
Brahms – String Sextet in B-flat major, op.18
Alexander Pavlovsky, Sergei Bresler (violins)
Ori Kam, Yuri Zhislin (violas)
Kyril Zlotnikov, Adrian Brendel (violoncelli)
The Jerusalem Quartet has failed to disappoint me yet in a number of visits to the Wigmore Hall; this concert was to prove no exception. Here the players were joined by violist Yuri Zhislin (1993 BBC Young Musician of Year) and cellist Adrian Brendel. Since I last heard the quartet, Ori Kam has succeeded Amihai Grosz as violist. I noted a year ago the excellence of Kam’s performance in the well-nigh impossible viola part of Le marteau sans maître, conducted by Boulez himself. On the evidence of the present performance, Kam has achieved what one might have thought impossible, proving a more than worthy successor to Grosz, who is now principal viola of the Berlin Philharmonic (and who also shone in a recent London concert).
I could not help but wonder whether reversal of the two items in the programme, announced immediately before the concert, were an attempt to stem departures occasioned by the dread name of Arnold Schoenberg; there were certainly bewildering groans to be heard upon that announcement. Imagine, in 2011, or even in 1911, objecting to Verklärte Nacht! This performance ought at any rate to have converted any lingering dissenters. It did not always conform to my preconceived notions about the work, but why should it? Whenever I wondered whether the players were moving a little too close to Straussian tone poem, ironically away from Brahms, the excellence of their performance disquieted any fears – and made me wonder anew at quite how closely Schoenberg’s essay in so ‘absolute’ a form as the string sextet follows Richard Dehmel’s verse. One does not need to know the latter to listen to the former. An odd thing is that, even when one knows the poetry well, one can forget it in the midst of performance; not here though, for I was constantly put in mind not only of Dehmel’s words but of their musical sublimation. More than once Tristan came to mind; this was a struggle to be understood dramatically as well as tonally – just like that world-historical transition in the second string quartet. Occasional – and I do mean occasional – fraying mattered not at all; if anything, it reminded one of the players’ and, more to the point, Schoenberg’s humanity.
An unusually slow opening, or so it seemed, contrasted strongly with ensuing passion. This, it seemed, was to be a Mahlerian performance, a sextet that encompassed the world. Sweetness of tone did not preclude properly febrile tension in passages that undoubtedly look forward to Schoenberg’s subsequent quartets. (We really need to hear the Jerusalem Quartet in those!) Kam’s beautiful rich arco tone contrasted with Zhislin’s searing pizzicato. Generous cello vibrato from Kyrill Zlotnikov was perfectly gauged to provide warmth at the turning point of sextet and verse. Leader Alexander Pavlovsky’s sweet violin tone emerged as transfiguration (Verklärung) itself. What emerged triumphantly, perhaps surprisingly so in so ‘pictorial’ a performance, was the true sense of quartet music writ large for six, sextet form proving as much a forum for interaction and reaction as the quartet. Individual personality was enhanced, not precluded: let no one say chamber music is apolitical. Climaxes sent shivers down the spine. This was not merely an excellent performance; it was a special performance.
Brahms’s glorious sextet, which I have always founded far easier to warm to than his quartets, received an equally fine reading. The players managed well throughout that tricky yet necessary balancing act between Classical (the first movement’s opening bars) and Romantic (the response). Brahms without rich mahogany sound is not Brahms at all, whatever rebarbative ‘authenticists’ might claim; ‘rightness’ of tonal quality here permitted one, Janus-like or rather Brahms-like, both to look backward and forward through musical history. There was, moreover, an equal ‘rightness’ to be heard when it came to phrasing; one almost did not notice it, so natural did it sound, art concealing art. An impeccable sense of structure was married to Romantic passion, enhancing both, so that one might marvel anew at Brahms’s astonishing craftsmanship and feeling. There were especially heart-rending solos to be heard from Zlotnikov and Kam: melancholy perhaps, but never, in Nietzsche’s malicious barb, the ‘melancholy of impotence’.
I was a little taken aback yet utterly convinced by the depth of Schubertian pathos to the slow movement, which proved ardent, impassioned, and based upon true, harmonically-grounded strength of purpose, defiance even. The sheer strangeness of the major-mode drone variation, whatever precedent it might have in Haydn, shone through. It was Beethoven, though, who immediately came to the fore in the scherzo, though the humour, perhaps belying Brahms’s reputation, was rather less gruff in nature. Metrical dislocation both looked back to Beethoven and indeed to the minuet of Don Giovanni, an opera beloved of Brahms, but also forward to the Second Viennese School, Brahms’s closest successors. (Someone who claims to ‘understand’ Brahms but not Schoenberg is listening to neither.) The opening opposing trios of the finale evinced Mozartian charm, yet in a nostalgic, arguably tragic, vein: Mozart’s reconciliations can be no more – just as in Schubert. This movement balanced, as did the performance as whole, battle hard won and vital affirmation.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
La Damnation de Faust, English National Opera, 6 May 2011
The Coliseum
(sung in English, as The Damnation of Faust)
Faust – Peter Hoare
Marguerite – Christine Rice
Mephistopheles – Christopher Purves
Brander – Nicholas Folwell
Soprano solo – Ella Kirkpatrick
Terry Gilliam (director)
Hildegard Bechtler (set designs)
Katrina Lindsay (costumes)
Peter Mumford (lighting)
Leah Hausman (associate director)
Finn Ross (video)
This was, I am afraid, a self-congratulatory car-crash, from beginning to end. Alarm bells rang when opening the programme to reveal images from the Third Reich. Still louder did they ring when perusing an interview between director Terry Gilliam and Edward Seckerson, in which the former’s grasp of German history was revealed to be at best shaky. Take this passage on the origins of the First World War: ‘The Prussians’ mentality overwhelmed the Romantic side, except the Romantic side was always there in the people.’ The most telling sentence, however was the following: ‘I could have approached The Damnation of Faust by reading a great deal about Berlioz but I avoided that.’ Why bother with Berlioz when one can have Gilliam instead?
So far, so bad, but good things can sometimes come from conceptions that do not necessarily deserve them. Not in this case, alas, for what we have is a (car-)crash course in German history according to Gilliam. Having Faust consider Nature and her renewal in a Caspar David Friedrich landscape (Hildegard Bechtler’s designs were throughout impeccable, when judged on their own merits) is not a bad idea at all, worryingly hackneyed though some of those wondrous Friedrich images have become. (I fear a favourite painter may be going the same way as Klimt or Monet: perhaps it is time for a break.) But all that happens thereafter is a series of irrelevant settings that initially speed through history chronologically – the Marche hongroise a dance for Archduke Franz Ferdinand and moustachioed military men from other nations! – before seemingly becoming stuck in the Third Reich. At the initial rate of change, I wondered whether all might culminate in a panegyric to the euro or Angela Merkel’s apotheosis as vision of the Goethian ‘eternal-feminine’. But no, Gilliam clearly always wanted to be in the Third Reich, and doggedly remains there.
It might have worked, but there is barely even an attempt to make the Nazi ‘entertainment’ – and that, I am afraid is very much how it comes across – connect with the work allegedly being staged. In a brief prologue, Mephistopheles informs us that ‘my struggle can be translated as mein Kampf’. You don’t say? If that is as Faustian as one can render the Third Reich, one might as well give up immediately. Incomprehensibly, large sections of the audience dissolved into hysterical laughter: is translation of a simple phrase really that hilarious? Presumably these were the same people who awarded the director an ecstatic ovation at the end: fans of Terry Gilliam, it would seem, rather than people who might have an interest in La damnation de Faust. Auerbachs Keller sports a poster of Lenin, torn down by brown shirts (of whom Brander is one). The flea song is for some reason treated as anti-Semitic propaganda. (Perhaps, again, it might have been made to work, but it is difficult to discern any attempt.) Berchtesgaden appears and later re-appears. For some reason, out-of-date (even for 1930s Bayreuth) images of Siegfried and Brünnhilde are enacted at a cocktail party; Faust beds down with Brünnhilde. According to Gilliam, ‘I knew I had to have Wagner in the production somewhere: so in the narrative we go to Berchtesgaden.’ Further comment seems superfluous; in any case we have swiftly moved on to a racist depiction of the 1936 Berlin Olympics, in which the athletes sport blond (Aryan, you see) wigs. 'Marguerite Oppenheimer' is Jewish, for no apparent reason; her menorah-lit night with Faust takes place against the backdrop of Kristallnacht. Again, Bechtler’s sets are powerful indeed: if only they could have been used for another production, preferably of another work. Jews are deported, Marguerite amongst them. Video trickery that draws attention to itself – however finely accomplished – whisks Faust and Mephistopheles off to a final scene of scarlet kitsch. (That may be partly Goethe's fault: how tiresome Gretchen is, and how relieved one is by her absence from Busoni's Doktor Faust! Nevertheless, the idea that redemption is somehow present in a Holocaust setting is problematical, to say the least.)
I am in no sense opposed to operatic, or other, productions that deal with the period in question, though I should have thought that there were more obvious candidates amongst works than La damnation de Faust. Stefan Herheim’s Parsifal stands, in my experience, in a class of its own, but I was also greatly enlightened by the Cologne Opera’s Capriccio, a powerful production that engaged with the work and its creation (click here to read some related thoughts upon Strauss, with interesting discussion in the comments below). This, however, does no such thing. It veers dangerously close to Springtime for Hitler, albeit without the jokes (or at least the genuine comedy). One could do the same thing with equal justice, or injustice, with or to pretty much any other work, since there is no discernible attempt to engage with Berlioz; it might as well be a Third Reich Barber of Seville. It simply came across as an unholy marriage between a desire to put some Nazi costumes on stage and a racial slur against the Germans, without even a degree of thought having been put into the latter. When Friedrich Meinecke spoke of the ‘German catastrophe’
, I do not think it was this sort of catastrophe that he had in mind.
I have said nothing yet about the music, which, sad to say, reflects the apparent priorities of the evening. Berlioz’s score was apparently reduced to the status of a film track to an entirely different drama, such as it was. It was not helped by often lacklustre conducting by Edward Gardner. Gardner’s initially downright insipid reading seemed relatively invigorated after the interval, but Berlioz’s extraordinary nervous energy often went for nothing, sounding closer to Massenet than Berlioz as we have come to know him from a conductor such as Sir Colin Davis. The ENO Orchestra was, however, on very good form, when considered apart from its direction, likewise the choral forces amassed. Christopher Purves’s Mephistopheles stood out amongst the singers. Purves exhibited strong stage presence and, with the odd exception, equally fine vocal presence. Peter Hoare seemed to be trying his best as Faust, but was hamstrung both by his too-youthful-mad-scientist look, and by miscasting. He often struggled, especially at the upper reaches of the range; memories of Nicolai Gedda did not help. Christine Rice proved a solid enough Marguerite, though she could not conceal what was lost by translation into English. (If it must be done, it might as well be done by a Berlioz scholar such as Hugh Macdonald, though I was surprised at the number of forced rhymes: ‘tender’, ‘surrender’, and ‘splendour’, for instance.)
Whether Berlioz’s légende dramatique was a wise choice to stage at all might have seemed more of a question with a more convincing staging. There are, after all, three operas by the composer, but ENO is not alone in its curious desire to stage works that were never intended to be staged. ENO’s own recent Messiah springs to mind. Sometimes that can work; here, alas, Berlioz was never given a chance. I cannot imagine anyone encountering his music for the first time having been encouraged to explore its riches further. There is no harm in principle in staging La damnation de Faust; it has been done many times before, and I should have loved to see, for instance, what La Fura del Baus did with it in Salzburg. (There is a DVD, though I have not seen it.) Next time, however, let it be Sir Colin, the LSO, and the bare walls of the Barbican.
(sung in English, as The Damnation of Faust)
 |
| All images: Tristram Kenton As usual, click images to enlarge. |
Faust – Peter Hoare
Marguerite – Christine Rice
Mephistopheles – Christopher Purves
Brander – Nicholas Folwell
Soprano solo – Ella Kirkpatrick
Terry Gilliam (director)
Hildegard Bechtler (set designs)
Katrina Lindsay (costumes)
Peter Mumford (lighting)
Leah Hausman (associate director)
Finn Ross (video)
This was, I am afraid, a self-congratulatory car-crash, from beginning to end. Alarm bells rang when opening the programme to reveal images from the Third Reich. Still louder did they ring when perusing an interview between director Terry Gilliam and Edward Seckerson, in which the former’s grasp of German history was revealed to be at best shaky. Take this passage on the origins of the First World War: ‘The Prussians’ mentality overwhelmed the Romantic side, except the Romantic side was always there in the people.’ The most telling sentence, however was the following: ‘I could have approached The Damnation of Faust by reading a great deal about Berlioz but I avoided that.’ Why bother with Berlioz when one can have Gilliam instead?
So far, so bad, but good things can sometimes come from conceptions that do not necessarily deserve them. Not in this case, alas, for what we have is a (car-)crash course in German history according to Gilliam. Having Faust consider Nature and her renewal in a Caspar David Friedrich landscape (Hildegard Bechtler’s designs were throughout impeccable, when judged on their own merits) is not a bad idea at all, worryingly hackneyed though some of those wondrous Friedrich images have become. (I fear a favourite painter may be going the same way as Klimt or Monet: perhaps it is time for a break.) But all that happens thereafter is a series of irrelevant settings that initially speed through history chronologically – the Marche hongroise a dance for Archduke Franz Ferdinand and moustachioed military men from other nations! – before seemingly becoming stuck in the Third Reich. At the initial rate of change, I wondered whether all might culminate in a panegyric to the euro or Angela Merkel’s apotheosis as vision of the Goethian ‘eternal-feminine’. But no, Gilliam clearly always wanted to be in the Third Reich, and doggedly remains there.
It might have worked, but there is barely even an attempt to make the Nazi ‘entertainment’ – and that, I am afraid is very much how it comes across – connect with the work allegedly being staged. In a brief prologue, Mephistopheles informs us that ‘my struggle can be translated as mein Kampf’. You don’t say? If that is as Faustian as one can render the Third Reich, one might as well give up immediately. Incomprehensibly, large sections of the audience dissolved into hysterical laughter: is translation of a simple phrase really that hilarious? Presumably these were the same people who awarded the director an ecstatic ovation at the end: fans of Terry Gilliam, it would seem, rather than people who might have an interest in La damnation de Faust. Auerbachs Keller sports a poster of Lenin, torn down by brown shirts (of whom Brander is one). The flea song is for some reason treated as anti-Semitic propaganda. (Perhaps, again, it might have been made to work, but it is difficult to discern any attempt.) Berchtesgaden appears and later re-appears. For some reason, out-of-date (even for 1930s Bayreuth) images of Siegfried and Brünnhilde are enacted at a cocktail party; Faust beds down with Brünnhilde. According to Gilliam, ‘I knew I had to have Wagner in the production somewhere: so in the narrative we go to Berchtesgaden.’ Further comment seems superfluous; in any case we have swiftly moved on to a racist depiction of the 1936 Berlin Olympics, in which the athletes sport blond (Aryan, you see) wigs. 'Marguerite Oppenheimer' is Jewish, for no apparent reason; her menorah-lit night with Faust takes place against the backdrop of Kristallnacht. Again, Bechtler’s sets are powerful indeed: if only they could have been used for another production, preferably of another work. Jews are deported, Marguerite amongst them. Video trickery that draws attention to itself – however finely accomplished – whisks Faust and Mephistopheles off to a final scene of scarlet kitsch. (That may be partly Goethe's fault: how tiresome Gretchen is, and how relieved one is by her absence from Busoni's Doktor Faust! Nevertheless, the idea that redemption is somehow present in a Holocaust setting is problematical, to say the least.)
, I do not think it was this sort of catastrophe that he had in mind.
I have said nothing yet about the music, which, sad to say, reflects the apparent priorities of the evening. Berlioz’s score was apparently reduced to the status of a film track to an entirely different drama, such as it was. It was not helped by often lacklustre conducting by Edward Gardner. Gardner’s initially downright insipid reading seemed relatively invigorated after the interval, but Berlioz’s extraordinary nervous energy often went for nothing, sounding closer to Massenet than Berlioz as we have come to know him from a conductor such as Sir Colin Davis. The ENO Orchestra was, however, on very good form, when considered apart from its direction, likewise the choral forces amassed. Christopher Purves’s Mephistopheles stood out amongst the singers. Purves exhibited strong stage presence and, with the odd exception, equally fine vocal presence. Peter Hoare seemed to be trying his best as Faust, but was hamstrung both by his too-youthful-mad-scientist look, and by miscasting. He often struggled, especially at the upper reaches of the range; memories of Nicolai Gedda did not help. Christine Rice proved a solid enough Marguerite, though she could not conceal what was lost by translation into English. (If it must be done, it might as well be done by a Berlioz scholar such as Hugh Macdonald, though I was surprised at the number of forced rhymes: ‘tender’, ‘surrender’, and ‘splendour’, for instance.)
Whether Berlioz’s légende dramatique was a wise choice to stage at all might have seemed more of a question with a more convincing staging. There are, after all, three operas by the composer, but ENO is not alone in its curious desire to stage works that were never intended to be staged. ENO’s own recent Messiah springs to mind. Sometimes that can work; here, alas, Berlioz was never given a chance. I cannot imagine anyone encountering his music for the first time having been encouraged to explore its riches further. There is no harm in principle in staging La damnation de Faust; it has been done many times before, and I should have loved to see, for instance, what La Fura del Baus did with it in Salzburg. (There is a DVD, though I have not seen it.) Next time, however, let it be Sir Colin, the LSO, and the bare walls of the Barbican.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Orpheus Remasked?
Buoyed by the victory, at least so far, of Birtwistle's masterpiece, The Mask of Orpheus 
in the Fantasy Opera poll (please vote here if you have not yet done so), I tried to find a clip on YouTube. Nothing alas was immediately forthcoming. However, I came across something rather surprising during my search, namely a clip from another great retelling of the Orpheus legend, that by Gluck. So far, so unsurprising. Yet, in the face of the great reformer's Iphigénie en Aulide failing so far to register a single vote, it was heartening to hear his music being presented in so unexpected a fashion:
The Lydians also have an interesting way with Handel's Messiah. This performance might not be the last word in accuracy, but seems to me a hundred times preferable to anaemic authenticism. The visual element helps too...
For anyone wondering about the less-favoured of Gluck's two Iphigénie operas, here are extracts from a Rome performance conducted by the composer's greatest living interpreter, Riccardo Muti:
And finally, here is the greatest (recorded) conductor of them all, performing the overture in properly Wagnerian fashion (audio only, but who needs to see anything when hearing a performance of this intensity?)
in the Fantasy Opera poll (please vote here if you have not yet done so), I tried to find a clip on YouTube. Nothing alas was immediately forthcoming. However, I came across something rather surprising during my search, namely a clip from another great retelling of the Orpheus legend, that by Gluck. So far, so unsurprising. Yet, in the face of the great reformer's Iphigénie en Aulide failing so far to register a single vote, it was heartening to hear his music being presented in so unexpected a fashion:The Lydians also have an interesting way with Handel's Messiah. This performance might not be the last word in accuracy, but seems to me a hundred times preferable to anaemic authenticism. The visual element helps too...
For anyone wondering about the less-favoured of Gluck's two Iphigénie operas, here are extracts from a Rome performance conducted by the composer's greatest living interpreter, Riccardo Muti:
And finally, here is the greatest (recorded) conductor of them all, performing the overture in properly Wagnerian fashion (audio only, but who needs to see anything when hearing a performance of this intensity?)
Monday, 2 May 2011
Tragédiennes de l’Opéra, 1875-1939, Opéra national de Paris
The Opéra national de Paris and the Bibliothèque nationale will join forces for this exhibition, running from 7 June to 25 September, covering the period from the opening of the Palais Garnier (1875) to 1939. Described as 'evoking some of the greatest female singers connected to the Palais Garnier, a brand new temple dedicated to lyrical art and to all of its excess', those featured will include Rose Caron (creator of roles in works by the now-forgotten Ernest Reyer, his Sigurd also based upon Norse and Teutonic myth, as well as Sieglinde and Verdi's Desdemona), Gabrille Krauss (creator of roles by Gounod), Sybil Sanderson (Massenet's muse for Thaïs), Lucienne Bréval, Felia Litvinne, Mary Garden, and many others. Photographs, jewellery, costumes, and other rare documents will attempt to bring back to life 'the memory of these exceptional women' and the times and repertoire in which they worked.
The exhibition may be seen at the Bibliothèque-musée de l’Opéra, Palais Garnier, Place de l’Opéra, Paris 9e. Opening hours will be 10.00 to 17.00, admission costing 9 euros, or 6 euros for concessions. There will also be an exhibition guide, due to appear on 2 June, edited by Albin Michel, 'Les Tragédiennes de l’Opéra'.
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