Munich Opera Festival (2) - Arabella, Bavarian State Opera, 6 July 2015

Nationaltheater, Munich

Count Waldner – Kurt Rydl

Adelaide – Doris Soffel
Arabella – Anja Harteros
Zdenka – Hanna-Elisabeth Müller
Mandryka – Thomas Johannes Mayer
Matteo – Joseph Kaiser
Count Elemer – Dean Power
Count Dominik – Andrea Borghini
Count Lamoral – Steven Humes
Fiakermilli – Eir Inderhaug
Fortune Teller – Heike Gröyzinger
Waiter – Niklas Mallmann
Welko – Bastian Beyer
Djura – Vedran Lovric
Jankel – Tjark Bernau

Andreas Dresen (director)

Frauke Meyer (assistant director)
Mathias Fischer-Dieskau (set designs)
Sabine Greunig (costumes)
Michael Bauer (costumes)
Rainer Karlitschek (dramaturgy)

Bavarian State Opera Chorus (chorus master: Soren Eckhoff)

Bavarian State Orchestra
Philippe Jordan (conductor)

I had last seen Arabella as part of the Munich Opera Festival’s Richard Strauss Week in 2008. It is not, I am afraid, my favourite Strauss opera; in fact, it is probably my least favourite. However, I am always willing to be convinced. There was a great deal to admire in this performance, but I fear that asking for more than to admire it on the work’s own terms would have been to ask the impossible. A tale of operetta-ish Jane Austen – or is that of Jane-Austen-ish operetta? – the libretto unfinished (and set as it was written by Strauss, out of respect for Hofmannsthal), it is not a work that makes it easy for one to care about its characters, nor indeed for their plights, such as they are. Its outings other than in Strauss’s Germanic heartland, and sometimes even there, veer dangerously close to that dubious operatic phenomenon: the ‘vehicle’ for a star soprano. Yet Arabella herself remains a curiously blank canvas on to whom men, and to a certain extent women, project their fantasies. That is not in itself an unpromising idea, if one can steer clear of misogyny: after all, one can say the same, up to a point, about Lulu. But is Strauss’s – or indeed Hofmannsthal’s – heart really in it? Is this ultimately more than an unsuccessful rehash of certain themes in Der Rosenkavalier? Again, I remain to be convinced.

Enough of doubts, anyway, at least for the moment. This was a splendid performance. The Bavarian State Orchestra was on excellent form throughout, Strauss’s orchestral sound perfectly captured, with enough clarity and, at times, irony to guard against the sentimentality that is perhaps more of a snare in this opera than any of his. (And yes, I include Rosenkavalier in that.) Philippe Jordan clearly knew the score and communicated its twists and turns admirably. Waltz and other rhythms were well pointed, phrases taking their place within a greater whole to highly convincing effect. My only real misgiving was that very difficult end to the final act. One should certainly feel the accelerando and its frankly sexual implications, but here, as so often, the gear change seemed unprepared. It is perhaps only fair to point out that it is something very few conductors manage to pull off. (Sawallisch, Keilberth, and Böhm spring instantly to mind, but then, without an encyclopædic knowledge of the discography, I am floundering. I seem to remember Christoph von Dohnányi, always a fine Strauss conductor, convincing here too at Covent Garden; he certainly did in the score as a whole.) Jordan’s achievements here were real – and greatly appreciated, as were those of this magnificent orchestra.

Anja Harteros had been due to sing Arabella in that 2008 performance, but cancelled; this time, she was present, and that made all the difference. (Her substitute had, sadly, left a great deal to be desired.) Harteros, like Karita Mattila at Covent Garden in 2004 made the most of the role, turning Arabella into as convincing a flesh-and-blood woman as one could imagine, without distorting unduly the frustrating ‘purity’ of the role. This was a graceful and – in the final scene – sexy portrayal, sung with consummate ease, beauty, and indeed commitment. One could not have asked for more. Thomas Johannes Mayer contributed equally to the sexual frisson at the end. His performance as Mandryka was dark, even on occasion demonic, fully living up to the high hopes Hofmannsthal seems to have entertained for the character and – who knows? – might actually have accomplished more fully, had he lived. Mayer’s Wagner singing is by now well known; he is clearly an equally fine Straussian. Hanna-Elisabeth Müller’s Zdenka was lively, spirited, unfailingly well sung: everything one wishes for in such a trouser(-ish) role. Doris Soffel’s Adelaide provided an object lesson in ‘secondary’ character portrayal, making far more of the compromised mother – not least in her second-act amorous encounter with Elemer – than one would expect. Kurt Rydl complemented her perfectly as Waldner: again compromised, but with life and honour in him when called upon. The couple’s way with Hofmannsthal’s text was surely second to none. Joseph Kaiser made for an attractive Matteo indeed, as much vocally as on stage, a plausible possibility for Arabella, had she been interested. As for the Fiakermilli, surely the most irritating character, if one can call her that, in all Strauss, Eir Inderhaug did a good job, without elevating the coloratura quite into something one could simply enjoy for its own sake, there being little else to detain one’s interest.

I say that, but director, Andreas Dresen, did what he could. In what is otherwise a relatively conventional, though that is certainly not to say dull or unthinking, production, the Fiakermilli’s presentation as an S&M Mistress of Ceremonies can hardly be missed. Dresen sees her, as a programme note made clear, as the initiator of the night’s amorous events, ‘the anarchistic element’, testing the guests’ boundaries. It is an interesting idea, even if there seems to be a limit to how emphatically the work, at least as it stands, can support it. Still, it is part of the task of a good production to present such possibilities and to see where they will lead. In general, Dresen seems content to draw out the characters – as, indeed, he would claim to be doing with the Fiakermilli – and that he does with skill, without turning them into something they cannot really be. Psychological realism and exploration not unreasonably trump the search for a Konzept, although I should be curious to know whether a more challenging staging would deepen appreciation of the work, or simply disrupt it. Mathias Fischer-Dieskau’s set designs, Sabine Greunig’s costumes, and Michael Bauer work together to stylish effect indeed: black, white, and red were the order of the day: the Austrian triband with eagle, I suppose, although not of course the colours of the Austrian Empire of the day. I am not sure that the colours necessarily signify anything, though, or even if they do, that there is further meaning to be discerned. Not unlike the opera, one might say.




 

Munich Opera Festival (1) - Die schweigsame Frau, Bavarian State Opera, 5 July 2015

Nationaltheater, Munich

Sir Morosus – Franz Hawlata

Housekeeper – Okka von der Damerau
Barber – Nikolay Borchev
Henry Morosus – Peter Sonn
Aminta – Brenda Rae
Isotta – Elsa Benoit
Carlotta – Tara Erraught
Morbio – Christian Rieger
Vanuzzi – Christoph Stephinger
Farfallo – Tareq Nazmi
Papagei – Airton Feuchter-Dantas

Barrie Kosky (director)

Esther Bialas (designs)
Benedikt Zehm (lighting)
Olaf A. Schmitt (dramaturgy)

Bavarian State Opera Chorus (chorus master: Sören Eckhoff)
Bavarian State Orchestra
Pedro Halffter (conductor)

If Strauss’s operas of the 1920s receive far too little performing attention, especially in the Anglosphere, those of the 1930s seem to fare worse still. Quite why is anyone’s guess; no one, I assume, would declare Die schweigsame Frau a greater work than Elektra, but it is clearly a better work than so many that continue to hold the stage. German theatres are different, of course, not least those associated with Strauss personally, so to see Strauss’s collaboration with Stefan Zweig and, at one remove, Ben Jonson, a visit to the Munich Opera Festival seemed like a good idea.

And so it was. One could not reasonably have hoped to hear Strauss in better hands. Not only could I find no grounds to fault Bavarian State Orchestra – not that, in imitation of the third act’s divorce proceedings, I was attempting to find such grounds – the orchestra reaffirmed its credentials as a Strauss orchestra to be spoken of in the same breath as Dresden and Vienna, and arguably more reliable than either, certainly more so than the latter. Precision and warmth – though not too much – were very much the hallmark of this performance, wisely guided by Pedro Halffter, who seemed keen to impart to his account a sense of, if not quite Neue Sachlichkeit, then at least of something that made Strauss’s writing here particular rather than generalised. Pacing was impeccable, quasi-autonomous musical structures coming fruitfully into contact with verbal demands: the sort of thing one longs for, generally in vain, in Rossini. The Straussian orchestral phantasmagoria is never far away, of course, but there is perhaps less overt dazzle in much of the score than in, say, Rosenkavalier or Elektra; Halffter and the orchestra appreciated its subtleties and responded to them in equally subtle yet undoubtedly sure fashion.  

I doubt that Brenda Rae’s Aminta could be bettered in any theatre today (although how would one know?) Just as sure of note and line as the orchestra and with greater, contrasting warmth, especially at those wonderful revelations, through the disguise of Timidia, of the fundamental humanity of Aminta, this was a performance to savour. Much the same could be said of her partner in crime – and love – Peter Sonn’s splendidly lyrical, often imploring Henry. Franz Hawlata’s Morosus was very much a character portrayal: too many notes, as it were, lacked a little when it came to the demands of intonation. But such was Hawlata’s identification with and communication of the role, it would be churlish to complain unduly; the audience responded warmly, and it was right to have done so. The quicksilver vocal and dramatic qualities of Nikolay Borchev’s Barber – despite the hideous green tracksuit he initially had to wear – were rightly appreciated by the Munich audience too. Okka von der Damerau captured to near-perfection the disapproving, ultimately amusing qualities of the Housekeeper. There was depth in the casting too: splendid rivalry to Timidia came from Tara Erraught (with, insofar as I could tell, a fine line in Bavarian dialect) and Elsa Benoit. There was indeed an excellent sense of company: no one disappointed and almost everyone shone.

Barrie Kosky’s production: well, it was considerably better than his Berlin Figaro. But I cannot help but think that his matching of high camp – the tasteless pink designs of the first part of the third act, splendidly realised on their own terms by Esther Bialas – and custard-pie slapstick is not really a match for Strauss, or for Zweig. The subtle, even sometimes not-so-subtle, æstheticism of both artists may well benefit from deconstruction. But might not a production that takes to heart the circumstances of the opera’s composition – this, after all, was the opera occasioning Strauss’s fateful letter to Zweig, intercepted by the Gestapo, which led to Goebbels having the composer resign from Presidency of the Reichsmusikkammer – offer a more fruitful, deeper (yes, I know, how Teutonic of me!) mode of questioning?  There is no doubting the skill with which Kosky and his production team accomplish their vision; I wish, though, that I could discern more in the vision itself. According to Kosky, quoted in the programme, ‘We have placed our protagonist in a world which swings [schwankt] uncertainly between Mel Brooks, the Muppets, and Vienna’s Josefstadt [Theatre].’ Make of that what you will.

Even for those of us who remained sceptical about the production, however, there was much to enjoy, for which many thanks should go to the Bavarian State Opera. This would surely make an interesting prospect for ENO, whose Strauss record has recently been anything but conspicuous, to bring to London. Now, how about an enterprising company offering us Salieri’s Angiolene, also based (loosely) on Jonson’s Epiocene? Or even a hearing for Mark Lothar’s 1930 Lord Spleen, written for Dresden? (Does anyone know the music of Lothar, a Schreker pupil whom Max Reinhardt enlisted as Music Director for Berlin’s Deutsches Theater in 1933, whether for this or for anything else? I freely admit that I do not.) George Antheil’s Volpone, which apparently owes a good deal to Zweig’s German adaptation of Jonson’s play, also awaits revival. And yes, more Strauss would be much appreciated too: Feuersnot, Friedenstag, Die Liebe der Danae, etc., etc. Opera houses of the world, unite: you have nothing to lose but Timidia’s timidity!

Goerne/Pressler - Schumann, 2 July 2015

Wigmore Hall

Dichterliebe, op.48

Variations on an original theme in E-flat major, WoO 24, ‘Ghost Variations’
Songs from the Six Songs, op.89, and from Six Poems of Nikolaus Lenau, op.90

Matthias Goerne (baritone)

Menahem Pressler (piano)

 

London audiences have grown used to making difficult choices, and expect little sympathy from those in less musically-favoured cities. In most circumstances, I suspect I should have opted to hear Krystian Zimerman play Brahms with the LSO, but the prospect of Matthias Goerne and Menahem Pressler won out on this occasion. Not unreasonably so, either on paper in practice: Goerne is of course one of the very greatest Lieder-singers of our time, whilst Pressler’s career is without parallel. Never having heard the latter in concert – alas, I never heard the Beaux Arts Trio – the choice was actually not so very difficult.

A good deal of thought had clearly gone into the programming, for a last minute change had been made to its ordering (and, in one case, to its composition). Originally, Dichterliebe was to have come last, a fitting climax, no doubt, with the op.89 and op.90 songs and the ‘Geister Variations’ to have been heard in the first half. ‘Requiem’, the final number of op.90 disappeared, as did the interval, and Dichterliebe moved to the front of the queue. It was a brave move, fully vindicated, and in practice, I think a wise move, for the strange works of Schumann’s tormented final years probably fared better for being put into context by such an unquestioned masterpiece. One would not expect Pressler’s pianism necessarily to be technically flawless at this stage, nor was it; but here, any momentary slips were of little import (whether for me, or, so it seemed, the rest of the audience). The opening bars of ‘Im wunderschönen Monat Mai’ said it all really, pregnant with expectation, but already equally careful and expressive of Schumann’s intricate balance – or dialectic – between quasi-autonomous musical structures, Bachian lessons fully learned and developed, and response to Heine’s verse. (It is noteworthy how, in most cases, Schumann’s greatest songs are his settings of the very greatest in German verse, something that certainly differentiates him from Schubert.) Voicing often made one hear the music afresh: an inner line brought out, a striking move towards abstraction or, conversely, towards dissolution or expansion of poetry in music. ‘Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen’ peered forward towards Das klagende Lied, not the only occasion on which Mahler sprang to mind, an impression conveyed by both artists, whether consciously or otherwise..

Goerne, of course, does ‘serious’ like almost no other vocal artist. Born to sing Wozzeck, born to remind us of the true sadness of Papageno, he was, if anything, still more born for Lieder. His legato remains a thing of wonder, fully the equal of, yet utterly different from, that of, say, Christian Gerhaher. But Goerne arguably makes more of the words, or at least offers a more verbal portrayal, Fischer-Dieskau hovering in the background without the slightest sense of imitation. And so, we heard so much of human experience: joy, sadness, immediacy, recollection, strident insistence, fear… Heine, as much as Schumann, came once again to life before our very ears.  ‘Die alten, bösen Lieder’ told its sombre tale as if already hinting at the troubles of Schumann’s later years, and yet also signalling a control, an ability to cope and indeed to transfigure, that would increasingly elude the composer later on. But Pressler had the last word, or rather did so in tandem with Schumann: that infinitely touching piano epilogue held us spellbound. One never wants it to end, yet feels that it captures something of the eternal. So, at any rate, I felt again here.  

The piano variations stand as testament to a tortured soul, yet also the composer’s ability, even in 1854, to make something of that torture. It is difficult, perhaps impossible, simply to hear them ‘as music’, but Pressler, despite a good few uncertainties, conveyed their almost Beethovenian nobility as compositional inspiration came and went. The op.89 and op.90 songs are less problematical, although we do not hear them so very often. Flashes of former inspiration were very much present, but so too was a sense of struggle towards something almost close to sobriety. Goerne knew not to make too great demands of them, but there was, by the same token, not the slightest hint of condescension. The bleakness of the Lenau songs comes readily to him, of course, but that is not to gainsay the subtlety with which he portrayed the very particular bleakness that remains founded upon hope. Neither in life nor in work did Schumann tend towards nihilism; Goerne and Pressler too offered hope, both as performers and in performance. The quiet close of the final song left us uncertain, just as it should have done.

 

Sampson/Heath Quartet - Bach, Musto, Webern, and Schoenberg, 1 July 2015

Wigmore Hall

Bach – Chorale Preludes: ‘Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier,’ BWV 731; ‘Allein Gott in der Höh sei Ehr,’ BWV 662; ‘In dulci jubilo,’ BWV 608

John Musto – Another Place (world premiere)
Webern – Langsamer Satz
Schoenberg – String Quartet no.2, op.10

Carolyn Sampson (soprano)

Oliver Heath, Cerys Jones (violins)

Gary Pomeroy (viola)

Christopher Murray (cello) 

 

Bach goes more or less unerringly well with music of the Second Viennese School. Three Chorale Preludes, arranged for string quartet, did not, however, seem to have any obvious connection with the song cycle, Another Place, by John Musto, which here received its first performance. (Nor did works by Schoenberg and Webern.) Treated on their own terms, though, they were welcome to hear. Bach from a string quartet often seems to offer a slight element of friction, perhaps because it is so ‘Classical’ an idiom at heart: does one ever fail to think of Haydn or Beethoven? I remain to be convinced, for instance, that the Art of Fugue finds its most natural home here. By the same token, however, Bach is too great to be constricted by such matters, and the Heath Quartet offered an intriguing balance, despite my initial doubts concerning minimal vibrato, between modernity and the sonorities of certain Baroque organ stops. More than once, I fancied I heard an echo of an 8’ Gamba. ‘Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier’ was taken at a sensible tempo, speaking, as the useful cliché has it, ‘for itself’. There was indeed something winningly self-effacing about all the performances. Great clarity was achieved; harmonic tension was productive, without being exaggerated. The quasi-serial expansiveness of ‘Allein Gott in der Höh sei Ehr’ had me wish it would continue for eternity. ‘In dulci jubilo,’ however odd it might sound on the hottest day of the year, was, by contrast, experienced in the twinkling of an eye.

Musto’s new work sets verse by Mark Strand, father of the dedicatee, Jessica Strand. Paul Griffiths’s programme note tried gamely to discern a Schoenbergian connection: ‘The soprano in Schoenberg’s Second Quartet discovers, was we will hear, the “air of another planet”; in this new work …, she finds “another place”, which seems to be a place out of this life.’ If you like. Aside from a certain busy-ness of counterpoint in the first movement, I failed to discern anything more. No matter: whilst I cannot say that the songs made a great impression upon me, they were well enough put together, provided one could take a language which, at its most adventurous, seemed to extend little further than Britten or Weill. The second, ‘Another Place’, offers a passacaglia one can hardly miss: certainly several times less oblique than that of Pierrot lunaire. Likewise, the 5/8 dance of the following ‘XVIII from Dark Harbor’ and pictorial representation of a heartbeat therein announce themselves without subtlety, though not without effect. Performances were throughout committed. As I have repeated perhaps too often before, if you like this sort of thing, this is the sort of thing you will like.

Webern is certainly the sort of thing I do like. His early slow movement for string quartet received as fine a performance as I can recall, enabling me almost to see, let alone hear, early twentieth-century Vienna. It was ‘late Romantic’ in the best sense, ushering in, as well as waving the fondest of farewells: not just gorgeous, but tastefully gilded. Tempo was admirably flexible, founded upon sound structural understanding. Kinship with Verklärte Nacht was abundantly clear, especially when a motif passed furiously between the instruments. Vibrato was – well, put it this way: not for Norringtonians. But there was great variegation with respect to dynamic contrasts, which were yet always integrated into an expansion of what Schoenberg would have called the Idea. Even the relative gaucheness of the young Webern could hardly have proved more lovable.

I am not sure I have heard a bad performance of Schoenberg’s Second String Quartet; there was no question of this performance breaking that particular mould. The first movement was already heading in that direction, whilst remaining of our own – or rather, 1908’s own – planet. The contrapuntal complexities of the First Quartet and First Chamber Symphony, and the latter’s joy (if here, ever turning to F-sharp minor melancholy) soon came to mind. It was salutary to hear Schoenberg sounding more radical than Webern. Brahmsian intensity was palpable throughout; so also was the possibility of themes we heard taking on life beyond their present tonal moorings. (The same can also, of course, be said of many of Brahms’s themes.) Flexibility and harmonic understanding again provided a sure context for the unfolding musical drama.

The second movement seemed to take us a step closer. (I know that I am speaking teleologically, perhaps unduly so, but it is difficult to avoid doing so in this work, and I am not sure I see the point in trying.) There was certainly a great deal of pent-up intensity in both the material and its unfolding. Again, it was the sureness of integration – of melody, harmony, and rhythm – that signalled the excellence of the Heath Quartet’s performance. That quotation actually had me laugh, so startling did its humour, if humour it be, prove. The closing bars were incendiary.

Harking back to the opening of the concert, the opening bars of ‘Litanei’ sounded almst as if they were from a Bach Chorale Prelude, albeit with a touch of Beethovenian ‘Muß es sein?’ With Carolyn Sampson’s entry, almost but not quite bell-like, ghosts of Romanticism assembled, as they (not quite correctly) believed, for one final conference. Twin ecstasy and nostalgia relating to that assumed parting of the ways thrilled, as did Sampson’s mini-Kundry-ish downward leap. Strings briefly reminded us of what, tonally, was at stake.

The ‘air of another planet’ never fails to brace, to invite, even to seduce; nor did it fail here. So we were brought to the moment of transition, which, I am not afraid to admit, elicited a tear from my eyes. With those words, necessary release came – without, or so it seemed, the slightest of effort. And how ambivalent the following cello line sounded, testament to the meaning of both work and performance. Thereafter, there came exploration, ever firmly to what had gone before, and yet with early freshness of discovery recaptured. Moonlight silver and vocal conviction sounded with unerring conviction. The players, however, quite rightly reminded us that, ultimately, this remains a string quartet – and what a string quartet!

I had not anticipated an encore, let alone two; nor would I have anticipated the choices. The second of Britten’s Three Divertimenti and an a cappella performance of The Ash Grove – as Sampson told us, her favourite folk song – proved just the unexpected ticket, in their different ways.

Philharmonia/Dohnányi - Bartók, Mozart, and Beethoven, 28 June 2015

Royal Festival Hall

Bartók – Divertimento

Mozart – Sinfonia concertante for violin and viola in E-flat major, KV 364
Beethoven – Symphony no.7 in A major, op.92

Arabella Steinbacher (violin)

Lawrence Power (viola)

Philharmonia Orchestra

Christoph von Dohnányi (conductor) 

 

The Philharmonia’s closing concert of the 2014-15 season showed no sign of winding down, not that one would expect such from a conductor such as Christoph von Dohnányi. This was not the most ‘Hungarian’ of Bartók performances, but it was well considered, and, like any composer worthy of the name, Bartók does not benefit from being defined in nationalistic terms. The first movement offered alert, sometimes even febrile string playing. Climaxes and contrasting intimacies were very well shaped, rhythms not without a tellingly ominous quality. A broad emotional range, then, was traversed, as in the slow movement, whose contours were equally intelligible throughout. In the finale, the solo intrumentalists sounded especially impressive, quite beyond reproach. Counterpoint was admirably clear in a performance which, rightly, looked back to Bachian inspiration without ever losing sight of the composer’s inimitable voice.

Judging by the frequency of performances he has conducted of Mozart’s great E-flat major Sinfonia Concertante, Dohnányi is very fond of the work – and, frankly, who could fail to be? Its greatness, likewise, did not fail to announce itself from the orchestral tone and direction in the opening tutti. ‘Authenticity’ might never have happened; instead, solid, unfashionable, musical virtues were the order of the day. The Philharmonia’s evenness and beauty of tone during a long crescendo were certainly of a golden age. Arabella Steinbacher and Lawrence Power proved equally intelligent, sensitive, and gracious. Mozart is never an arena in which to attempt point-scoring, and it was never attempted here, but there was nothing bland to the performance either; the score was simply, or not so simply, treated with the respect it deserves. Chamber-like collaboration between the soloists was exemplary. Both of them took on, rightly, more of a solo voice in the Andante, which, as a whole, sounded ineffably sad, though never inappropriately bitter. A swift tempo for the finale worked well too; this was Apollonian Mozart, which yet did not lack anything in depth. (As Nietzsche put it, the Greeks ‘were superficial – out of profundity!’ Well, not quite like that, but anyway…) Mozart’s symmetries and his formal dynamism came together as only so fine a performance of his music can possibly suggest.

Nowadays, conducting Beethoven convincingly seems as tall an order as doing so for Mozart. It is good, therefore, to report that Dohnányi passed the test with flying colours – perhaps because he had nothing to prove. The first movement’s introduction offered both weight and delicacy. Although slightly on the slow side for what many are used to today, it was certainly none the worse for that. Crucially, every note sounded necessary. (That ought to go without saying, but alas does not.) Whilst it is doubtless fanciful to think of this too emphatically as Klemperer’s old orchestra, the thought would not quite leave me alone. Dohnányi’s handling of the transition to the exposition was that of an old (in the nicest sense!) pro: almost imperceptible. And then, came true exhilaration; there was no mistaking the vigour in the Philharmonia’s playing, nor its freshness. Form was dynamic, as it must be, and yet so rarely is. Double basses sounded duly weird and goal-oriented in the celebrated coda. When the movement had come to a close, I found myself astonished at its concision, almost as if it had been the first movement of the Fifth. The second movement flowed with a typical lack of showiness, although I could have done without an intervention from mobile telephone. Inevitability – difficult to describe, but impossible to mistake – was the properly Beethovenian characteristic, bar that intervention from another world. The music seemed to encompass tragedy, without being narrowly defined by it. Rhythm offered absolute security for the movement’s foundations, upon which composer and performers could build. The Scherzo was very fast, without sounding harried, its Trio providing relative relief, but no drop in tension. How was that possible? In a word: harmony. Joy won out in the finale, although this was no easy victory. Tradition, not as mere Mahlerian Schlamperei, but understood in a properly Catholic, developmental sense, also proved a victor. So too did Beethoven.

ORF SO/Meister - Bruckner and Messiaen, 23 June 2015

(with apologies for having fallen a little behind...)


Konzerthaus

Bruckner – Mass no.3 in F minor

Messiaen – L’Ascension

Ruth Ziesak (soprano)

Janina Baechle (mezzo-soprano)

Benjamin Bruns (tenor)

Günther Groissböck (baritone)

Wiener Singakademie

ORF Vienna Radio Symphony Orchestra

Cornelius Meister (conductor)

 

I have long thought that Bruckner and Messiaen would do well to be programmed together – at least when the length of their works permits it. Roman Catholic devotion in an increasingly secularised world, not least in musical terms, is of course an important point in common, but their frequent eschewal of conventional thematic development in favour of repetition of blocks of material suggests something more, and perhaps more surprising too. Ten out of ten for programming, then, and I am pleased to report that the performance turned out to be highly impressive too.

The very opening bars of Bruckner’s F minor Mass – grander, perhaps more grandiloquent, than its predecessors, perhaps trying a little too hard to attempt an impossible reckoning with Beethoven’s Missa solemnis – showed that we were in excellent Bruckner hands with respect to conductor and orchestra alike. This might have been the opening of the first movement of a symphony, Bruckner’s preoccupying building-blocks as ever to the fore from the outset. Intriguingly, the drooping phrase-ends ends seemed to hint at Elgar, whose music would surely benefit from more Viennese outings (not that I have forgotten the forthcoming VPO/Rattle Gerontius at the Proms). Choral ‘Kyries’ following continued, intensified, and yet also brought major-mode hope, the Wiener Singakademie on as fine form as the ORF SO and Cornelius Meister. Günther Groissböck ‘s resounding first ‘Christe’ seemed to issue almost from Beethoven’s world, whatever the problems of Bruckner’s would-be emulation later on. This movement’s a cappella passages sounded flawless, deeply felt, before the musi sank back into darkness.

The ‘Gloria’ proved equally impressive, starting out as if bells were ringing in Heaven itself. Meister’s command of rhythm and harmony seemed to me every bit the equal of celebrated past recordings, even Jochum’s. Contrast with imploring intoning of the word ‘peccata’ was telling, as again were Beethovenian parallels, not least from a gorgeous woodwind section. With that in mind, there were an appropriate sense and scale of struggle towards the close. The ‘Credo’ responded in properly titanic – symphonic – fashion, again with splendid contrast, not least in the sweetness of the violin, viola, and tenor (Benjamin Bruns) solos upon reaching ‘Et incarnatus est…’.  ‘Et resurrexit…’ sounded as a veritable earthquake, almost Bachian: certainly as powerful, if simpler, and of course with well-nigh Wagnerian means. No easy route was taken thereafter, ensuring that the victory upon ‘Et exspecto…’ inspired as if that to one of the greatest Bruckner symphonies.

 

The ‘Sanctus’ was grand, turning to exultance, whilst the ‘Benedictus’ exuded tenderness and warmth, especially from the outstanding string section. It had the depth of one of the composer’s symphonic Adagio movements – just as it should. Groissböck’s tonal richness was especially welcome here; alas, the shrillness of Ruth Ziesak, here and elsewhere, offered a rare blemish to the performance as a whole. Nevertheless, it was a minor blemish upon the leisurely but always-directed progress shaped by Meister. The poignant falling lines of the ‘Agnus Dei’, echoing the opening, proved equally moving, prior to a triumphant close, to which even the most hardened of Bruckner-sceptics would surely have submitted.

 

L’Ascension sounded different immediately, a ‘French’ soundworld – however much of a construct that might be – announcing itself unquestionably. This was also a different sort of slowness as Messiaen’s ecstatic voice began its progress, harmonies still more gorgeous, devotion still more intense. ‘No room at the inn for doubt!’ composer and performance appeared to be telling us. For me, as a sometime organist, the orchestral version still sounds as a transcription – but who cares? I certainly did not, and indeed listened with new, or at least refreshed, ears. ‘Alléluias sereins d’une âme qui désire le ciel’ offered opening material that was sinuous yet implacable, melismatic orchestras alleluias inveighing, perhaps even seducing. And then, awestruck, we seemed to approach and yet to remain hopelessly distant from Whomever it might be in Heaven Himself. Echoes of Ravel hinted at something sultry, although, needless to say, Messiaen’s eroticism remained of a very different nature. This, I know is the Messiaen some find difficult or impossible to take, but not I. Swooning Alleluias were heard from the next movement’s ‘trompette … [et] cymbale’. Orchestra and conductor kept rhythms tight, without precluding occasional relaxation. Again, the sonority sounded convincingly Gallic. More importantly, there was a true sense of cosmic drama, perhaps even of an unintentionally comic variety when the cymbals clashed in almost Hollywood-like climax. Ensuing counterpoint issued forth with genuine panache. The final ‘Prière du Christ montant vers son Père – the first piece of Messiaen I played, all too many years ago – was taken very slowly, as it must be. Soaked in ecstatic vibrato, this really seemed to capture something of the almost-beyond. Moulded exquisitely, the movement nevertheless retained surprising, refreshing simplicity in a model account.

 

Cardillac, Vienna State Opera, 22 June 2015

Cardillac (Tomasz Konieczny)
Images: Wiener Staatsoper / Michael Pöhn

Cardillac – Tomasz Konieczny
Daughter – Angela Denoke
Officer – Herbert Lippert
Gold Dealer – Wolfgang Bankl
Cavalier – Matthias Klink
Lady – Olga Bezsmertna
Police Officer – Alexandru Moisiuc

Sven-Eric Bechtolf (director)

Rolf Glittenberg (set designs)
Marianne Glittenberg (costumes)
Jürgen Hoffmann (lighting)

 

Is there at present any more unfashionable composer than Hindemith? Tippett perhaps runs him close, but I can think of no one else. Little has changed in that respect since I lamented this situation upon the Paris Opéra’s 2008 revival of Cardillac by André Engel. It is all the more welcome, then, that Vienna should not only stage but keep in its repertoire this wonderful opera, here given, as seems generally now to be the case, in its original, three-act form rather than Hindemith’s 1952 four-act revision for Zurich. (We miss, then, the performance within a performance of numbers from Lully’s Phaëton and the greater, post-Mathis der Maler sympathy accorded to Cardillac as artist.)

Daughter (Angela Denoke) and
Officer (Herbert Lippert)

Sven-Eric Bechtolf’s staging is probably the best I have seen from him. I opened my Paris review – bear in mind this was still the Gérard Mortier era of blessed memory – by saying, ‘Perhaps only Paris could turn in so stylish a production of the terminally unfashionable Hindemith.’ Bechtolf does not do so badly either, his stylisation fitting and lightly questioning the work too. The crowd scenes in particular benefit from carefully clockwork choreography, as if responding to the large timepiece (surely a more general nod to ETA Hoffmann, author of the original short story, Das Fräulein von Scuderi), and the black-and-white, top-hatted designs. The crowd both acts as a mob and retains, perhaps intensifies, its weirdness: not inappropriate for a Neue Sachlichkeit treatment of a German Romantic story. Sexual congress is again both plausible and stylishly removed from the merely representational. The realm of the master goldsmith himself offers powerful visual contrast – gold as much the order of the day here as in a later Schoenbergian orgy – and yet retains quirky, choreographed connection, as the action passes between different worlds. The work of Rolf and Marianne Gilttenberg as designers is very well fitted as frame and incitement to the exaggerated and musically-conceived, or at the very least musically-consistent, movement that ensues.  

For Hindemith’s motoric, extremely anti-Romantic conceptions of Bach – think of the Kammermusik transformed into opera – rightly came to the forefront here of our musico-dramatic attention. There were times, especially during the first act – all three acts were given, wisely, without an interval – when I missed the final degree of dry precision from the orchestral playing, but in general, Michael Boder’s conducting impressed, especially his handling – and the orchestra’s execution – of climaxes. Moreover, a relative relaxation of anti-Romanticism arguably held its own rewards, in preparing the way for the Officer’s compassion and, perhaps, whetting the appetite for a hearing of that later Zurich version. The Vienna State Opera Chorus’s contribution was excellent throughout, a credit to its chorus master, Thomas Lang.

Lady (Olga Bezsmertna)

 

 

Tomasz Konieczny offered a properly complex portrayal of Cardillac, permitting us to be torn between horror at his murderous narcissism, unable to permit his masterpiece to be owned by another, and his strange, increasing dignity as a craftsman. Vocal and stage presence were communicated as one. Angela Denoke, also Cardillac’s daughter in that Paris revival, gave quite the best performance I have heard from her in some time: lyrical and ever-meaningful verbally. As ever, she acted the role with passion and commitment. Herbert Lippert’s Officer struggled a little too often with Hindemith’s demands, but shared that sense of dramatic commitment. Olga Bezsmertna’s Lady showed true star quality. A member of the Vienna ensemble, she had me wishing her role offered more for her to sing. Wolfgang Bankl, Matthias Klink, and Alexandru Moisiuc all convinced in their roles. More Hindemith, then, please – in Vienna, but elsewhere too.

 

 

 

Birtwistle: The Corridor/The Cure, Royal Opera, 18 June 2015

 Linbury Studio Theatre, Royal Opera House

Woman (Eurydice)/Medea – Elizabeth Atherton

Man (Orpheus)/Jason, Aeson – Mark Padmore

Martin Duncan (director)

Alison Chitty (designs)
Paul Pyant (lighting)
Michael Popper (choreography)

London Sinfonietta

Geoffrey Paterson (conductor)

 

Outstanding in pretty much every way – just what an opera house should be doing, in this case in collaboration with Aldeburgh and the London Sinfonietta. Although The Corridor was premiered in 2009, with the same cast, this was my first encounter; and The Cure had been given its first performance but a few days earlier, again in Aldeburgh. The two chamber operas could clearly work separately, and I hope that they will, in conjunction with any number of other works; in tandem, however, there are all manner of connections one may make, whether as performer, director, or audience. Agency, not least female agency, is but the most obvious, although that is not to minimise its importance. Identical instrumentation (violin, viola, cello, harp, flute, clarinet) and, in this case, an identical cast, served to strengthen unity, but also to allow us to consider what is different.

The Corridor takes us, once again, to that foundational musical myth so beloved of Birtwistle, that of Orpheus. But a moment – his turning back, wondering why Eurydice is not by his side – and then a lifetime’s reaction. David Harsent and his composer have us ask whether Eurydice in fact ever really wanted to leave Hades. She was lagging behind and Orpheus wonders where she has gone, turning around involuntarily. Love and tragedy are expressed in their laments following the event, but did they ever have a chance, second time around? She interacts with the players in Martin Duncan’s straightforward, powerful staging, not unlike one of those increasingly popular stagings of Bach’s Passions. Birtwistle’s score steers a fascinating path between tight rhythmic cellular writing and something more capable of subdivision, even perhaps rubato (or at least homage to Monteverdian freedom?) Stravinsky versus Schoenberg, we still might say. Or rather, Stravinsky and Schoenberg.

Birtwistle’s love of antique wildness exhibits itself once again: a reinvented antique wildness, not born from our paltry knowledge of ancient music, but something far more powerful. But there is no sense that we have heard this all before, for we have not. Fourths and fifths seem to speak to us from the age of organum – and beyond. The harp – what writing he has always offered for that instrument! – is no stranger to calamity, to catastrophic caesura. Vocal lines, in impassioned performances by Mark Padmore and Elizabeth Atherton, speak again of the invention that comes with longstanding assurance. Everything draws in – and makes us rethink what we thought we knew.

 

The Cure was conceived explicitly as a companion piece. Here, in the words of the excellent conductor, Geoffrey Paterson, the six solo instrumentalists of a work that had come close to ‘secular oratorio, for much of its duration’ coalesce ‘into a mini orchestra whose endlessly varied colouristic possibilities are at the service of a viscerally operatic scenario’. As ostinato builds up climactically, but never predictably, we reach the (again surprising) climax of a tale adapted by Harsent from John Gower, who in turn had adapted it from Ovid. Medea and Jason having returned to Colchis with the Golden Fleece, Jason offers to give ten of his years, that his father, Aeson, might regain some youth. Medea uses her magic instead, but did Aeson, partially transformed, actually want to be rejuvenated?

Again, then, we are made to think, and rethink. Birtwistle’s ritualistic response to Harsent’s ritual spells screws up tension – both conventionally and unconventionally. Duncan’s staging, with Alison Chitty’s typically primæval yet modern designs, again draws us in to a work that seems to take its cue perhaps more from the Birtwistle of The Minotaur than the composer of The Mask of Orpheus. Circles, numbers, and their properties: verbally, musically, scenically, they have us recall Gawain, yet also remind us that this is a different myth, a different response. The performances from all concerned seemed to me beyond reproach. Padmore and Atherton had us forget they had even appeared on stage before; Padmore even had me wonder whether it was indeed he singing both Jason and Aeson, so differentiated were his responses. Atherton's wild dignity struck just the right note. in every respect. 

 

 

My immediate reaction was to want to hear both works again. Then, doubtless, like the works themselves with respect to earlier tellings of their myths, my responses would both deepen and change. These are both chamber operas we shall need to hear again and again.

 

Spitalfields Festival: Polyphony/CLS/Layton - Haydn, J.C. Bach, Mozart, and Handel, 16 June 2015

St Leonard’s Church, Shoreditch

Haydn – Symphony no.101 in D major, ‘The Clock’

J.C. Bach – Sinfonia concertante in E-flat major, WC 41

Mozart – Symphony no.4 in D major, KV 19

Handel – ‘Dettingen’ Te Deum, HWV 263

Ashley Riches (baritone)

Polyphony

City of London Sinfonia

Stephen Layton (conductor) 

 

This final Spitalfields Festival concert promised a taste of ‘Georgian London – Global Metropolis’, each of the works being written for eighteenth-century London (well, perhaps in the case of the Mozart symphony), although at different times. There was much to enjoy, even if, as a whole, the programme worked somewhat awkwardly. I could not help but wonder if Stephen Layton would have been better off programming another choral work, and losing one or two of the orchestral pieces, since his strengths undoubtedly lie in the former realm.

For that reason, the greatest work on the programme, Haydn’s Symphony no.101, fared least well. The first movement’s introduction had an air of mystery, albeit with decidedly low vibrato: that, despite an acoustic that ought to have alleviated the worst of ‘authenticke’ excess. That acoustic rendered the Presto exposition proper too much of a scramble, fine detail too often lost. There was little in the way of sonata form dynamism. Perhaps surprisingly, the slow movement fared better: characterful, with meaningfully darker passages well integrated. The minuet, alas, failed to smile, and its trio failed even slightly to relax. Still, the nature of the material and many of its implications were clear. The finale was certainly fast yet somehow remained ponderous; like so much of what we had heard previously, it lacked the life that great Haydn conductors such as Jochum, Klemperer, or Davis brought to this music. The City of London Sinfonia’s woodwind proved a euphonious joy throughout.

We do not hear much of Johann Christian Bach’s good-natured if somewhat interchangeable music. Layton presented an affectionate reading of this Sinfonia concertante, in which again the CLS wind proved excellent soloists indeed. The first movement was welcoming in spirit, even before the soloists entered. Shortcomings, such as they were, related more to the work itself. A siren following on from the final note offered amusement. It was a relief not to have the Larghetto taken absurdly fast, as is increasingly the norm in such music. Instead, it seemed imbued with the spirit of the outdoor serenade, even looking forward to Mozart. Much the same could be said of the closing Minuet, stylishly and warmly performed.

I am reasonably sure that this was the first time I had heard Mozart’s Fifth Symphony in concert. Layton and the CLS proved alert in the first movement, possessed of a winning, if small-scale, swagger. A sense of the exploratory was certainly apt. The slow movement might have exuded greater warmth – we felt distant indeed from Böhm and the Vienna Philharmonic – but spoke sensibly enough for itself. Youthful ebullience characterised the finale, although balances were less than ideal. It was difficult, moreover, to discern much affection for the composer and his work in Layton’s merely efficient direction.

No such reservations for Handel’s ‘Dettingen’ Te Deum. Ashley Riches and Polyphony made their mark magnificently, in vocal contributions as incisive as they were sonorous. Georgian militarism – John Brewer’s Sinews of Power – was announced loud and clear, trumpets and choir responding to and inciting one another. Handel’s borrowings amused rather than irritated. An excellent command of rhythm was proportionate with harmonic development. Expectations were aroused and fulfilled. This, at least, proved a thrilling, resoundingly musical conclusion not only to the concert but to the festival as a whole.

The Queen of Spades, English National Opera, 9 June 2015

Coliseum

(sung in English)

Hermann – Peter Hoare

Count Tomsky – Gregory Dahl
Prince Yeletsky – Nicholas Pallesen
The Countess – Dame Felicity Palmer
Lisa – Giselle Allen
Pauline – Catherine Young
Chekalinsky – Colin Judson
Surin – Wyn Pencarreg
Chaplitsky – Peter van Hulle
Narumov – Charles Johnston
Governess – Katie Bird

David Alden (director)

Gideon Davey (designs)

Wolfgang Goebbel (lighting)

Lorena Randi (choreography)

Chorus of the English National Opera (chorus master: Stephen Harris)

Orchestra of the English National Opera

Edward Gardner (conductor)

 

Oh dear! What a maddeningly inconsistent director David Alden is. Or is he maddeningly consistent, his productions suiting some works, or perhaps better, some swathes of the repertoire, better than others? His ENO Peter Grimes was a brilliant reassessment of a work that is weaker than partisans allow; it engaged with Britten’s opera at a level deeper than most have dared. This Queen of Spades barely engages with Tchaikovsky’s opera at all. I cannot help but conclude that high Romanticism – call it what one will – is really not Alden’s thing. He exhibits no sympathy for any of the characters, nor for their predicament. He seems to have no interest in the plot, not even to deconstruct it. All we have is a tiresome parade of clichés, as if designed to rouse the ire of operatic ‘conservatives’ and nothing more. Dark glasses, piles of chairs, flippantly unmotivated cross-dressing, a ragbag assemblage of costumes from different periods (the Kruschchev era (?) meets something older, though not of course Tchaikovsky’s brand of Mozartiana, and with no real sense of interplay), a hospital ward, extras who are not extras but are treated as such until they are not, party guests with animal masks: all these and more put in their mandatory appearances. Contemptuously tossed bank notes might make a point, but it is all but drowned under the frenetic, meaningless goings on. Is there a hint that the Countess is a gay icon, even a drag queen? Perhaps, but it is taken no further. And why does the clock never reach twelve, even when we are told that it does? This audience member was long past caring. My fear was that everything lay in Hermann’s – or rather Alden’s – tortured, or careless, mind. What a novel idea! If you despise the opera and everything surrounding it quite so much, if you really think it so clichéd that you have nothing to add beyond further cliché, might there not be a degree of integrity in leaving it to the care of another director?

The orchestra, however, sounded terrific, as it generally does now, especially under Edward Gardner. Precision, weight, delicacy: all were present. If only Gardner’s prowess as an orchestral trainer were matched by insight into the score. His conducting was often stiff, save when he accelerated too quickly. There were moments of repose, not least in the realm of Mozartian parody (which Gardner clearly esteems more highly than Alden), but there was little to indicate a longer line. Continuity was fractured less than on stage, but Tchaikovsky needs more than that. The chorus was on fine form too, its virtues – and its acting, however misplaced – every inch the equal of the orchestral performance.

ENO also offered a splendid cast. Peter Hoare proved an unusually thoughtful Hermann, his detailed attention to the text (that is, to words and music) exemplary throughout. Giselle Allen’s Lisa provided a near-ideal mixture of, or perhaps better confrontation between, coldness and warmth; her confidante, Pauline (Catherine Young) mirroring and to an extent extending such qualities on her smaller scale. What on earth Alden was thinking of in her case, I hardly dare consider. Felicity Palmer retains the most formidable star quality; her Grétry aria was as moving as anything we heard. For once, a degree of stillness! The richness of Nicolas Pallessen’s baritone proved a welcome luxury in the role of Prince Yeletsky. Despite the absurdities of the production at large, there was always a proper sense of interaction between all on stage; almost all excelled. What a pity, then, that the director seemed determined to undermine, even to negate, such manifest virtues.

Ein Landarzt/Phaedra - Guildhall School, 8 June 2015

Silk Street Theatre, Guildhall School of Music and Drama

Landarzt – Martin Hässler

Aphrodite – Laura Ruhi-Vidal

Phaedra – Ailsa Mainwaring
Artemis – Meili Li
Hippolytus – Lawrence Thackeray
Minotaur – Rick Zwart

Ashley Dean (director)

Cordelia Chisholm (set designs)
Mark Doubleday (lighting)
Victoria Newlyn (movement)
Dan Shorter (video)

Orchestra of the Guildhall School of Music and Drama
Timothy Redmond (conductor)

Once again, many thanks are owed to the Guildhall School for courageous programming, fully vindicated. A double-bill of Henze operas, neither of them straightforwardly designated as such by the composer, surely offered one of the most enticing offerings in London for quite some time. Henze’s early, short radio opera, Ein Landarzt, presents a number of problems, not least of which might be: how should one, or simply should one, stage a ‘radio opera’ at all? Premiered in 1951, it is, as Henze recounts in his autobiography, Bohemian Fifths, ‘a word-for-word setting of Kafka’s short story of the same title’. Martin Hässler’s performance proved deeply impressive, in attention to words, text, gesture, and their marriage. It doubtless helps to be German, but that is only the beginning. Indeed, as conservatoire presentations go, this must have been one of the most challenging (for the artist) I have heard. Yet there was no gainsaying Hässler’s achievement, in what might consider almost a whimsical (or not) male-voiced Erwartung, with more than the odd backward nod to Schubert.

 

Whether it really benefits from staging, I am not sure. Henze certainly had no problem with it being presented in that way; one such performance was staged by Madeleine Milhaud. However, the production here did not really seem to me to add up to much beyond the scenery; perhaps concert (or indeed radio) performance remains preferable. There were a few tentative moments from the orchestra – hardly surprising in such a score – but for the most part, the young players offered a committed performance, firmly directed towards its denouement by Timothy Redmond. In any case, Hässler’s marriage of language, musicality, and stage presence offered ample rewards. At the end, we remained properly unsure whether anything had ‘happened’ at all, or whether the doctor’s difficulties were of his own imagining.

The 'concert opera', Phaedra was first heard in London at the Barbican in 2010. It is a measure of this Guildhall performance that, not only did I find it not wanting by comparison with a British premiere from the Ensemble Modern and Michael Boder, I actually found myself considerably more involved. Perhaps that was at least in part a matter of better acquaintance. (I have certainly heard a great deal more Henze since then too, partly on account of my academic work.) But in 2010, I had wondered whether a slightly irritating cleverness in Christian Lehnert’s libretto might actually be offset by full staging. Probably, would be the answer, because now the question never presented itself. Nor did my suspicion of a little note-spinning on Henze’s part. I am, then, more than happy to offer a mea culpa.

Reenactment and ritual proved generative: not quite as in Birtwistle, for the composers are very different, but presenting interesting parallels, for all the title might (misleadingly?) edge us towards Britten or the French Baroque. Ashley Dean seemed very much to have saved his best for this opera. The ruined labyrinth of the first act (‘Morning’) asks more questions than it answers: less, as so often, proves more, even when dealing with complexity. A surprising transformation into a modern operating theatre proves just the thing for the ‘Evening’ of the second act. Hippolytus eventually arises from the efforts of the divine medical team, though no one will ever be quite sure what happened, the drama finally broken down – not unlike the images we have earlier seen on screen – into dance.

Just occasionally, there were a few slips and imprecisions on the orchestra’s part, although this was a fine performance by any – not just youthful – standards. Henze’s love of flickering colours and their transformation – again I thought, whatever he himself might have made of this comparison, of Strauss’s Daphne – shone through, as full of dramatic propulsion as harmony and rhythm. Redmond’s direction again proved sure, indeed more than that: vital. Lawrence Thackeray’s tenor led the way, navigating Henze’s often difficult lines and tessitura with greater ease than one perhaps has any right to expect. Meili Li’s countertenor Artemis brought due strangeness to the endeavour, blurring boundaries as that final dance blurs events and motives. Laura Ruhi-Vidal and Ailsa Mainwaring offered proper contrast, considerable range and differentiation of colour employed to sometimes searing dramatic effect. The sonorous bass of Rick Zwart’s Minotaur signalled that he would also have made a compelling Landarzt. (He and Hässler were alternating roles on different evenings.) My immediate reaction was that I really needed to see everything again, to piece more of the work together. I suspect that that is part of the point: we think we can, yet it remains fragmentary. A performance, however, needs to remain purposeful, compelling: this unquestionably did.