Ludomir Różycki - Eros and Psyche
Polish National Opera, 2017
Grzegorz
Nowak, Barbara Wysocka, Joanna Freszel, Wanda Franek, Anna Bernacka,
Aleksandra Orłowska-Jabłońska, Mikołaj Zalasiński, Tadeusz Szlenkier,
Wojtek Gierlach, Adam Kruszewski, Grzegorz Szostak, Mateusz Zajdel
OperaVision - April 2018
The
Polish composer Ludomir Różycki is not a well-known name, but certainly
comes from a musical background and early twentieth century
associations that I personally find interesting. Różycki studied under
Humperdinck in Berlin and was schooled in the style of Wagner and
Strauss and went on to form the Young Poland association of composers
with connections to the Russian Group of Five movement formed by Russian
composers including Mussorgsky, Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov, with the
aim of establishing a new national music identity for Poland.
Inevitably, to judge by Eros and Psyche - which we are fortunate to be
able to see performed thanks to OperaVision - those late-romantic
influences show in the classic mythological subject of Jerzy Żuławski's
libretto and the epic musical treatment applied to it.
Żuławski's
adaptation of the Cupid & Psyche myth certainly presents all the
opportunities for an expanded and rich musical treatment. The ancient
basis of the story is an epic tale of forbidden love that transcends
time and overcomes great obstacles. It's a price Psyche has to pay for
falling in love and looking on the face of an immortal god, Cupid or
Eros, who has been secretly visiting her. Cupid's orders were to use his
dart to make Psyche fall in love with a monstrous creature for
presuming her beauty to be an equal of Venus, but these darts have been
known to go astray and both she and Eros fall under a spell of this
forbidden love and are punished for it, condemned to wander the earth
(and the underworld) eternally.
In Żuławski's version of
the story, that wandering takes Psyche to a number of famous historical
ages, from the Golden Age of Arcadia, to imperial Rome, to early
Christianity in a monastery in Spain, through the French revolution and
into the present day. It's a treatment and a structure that provides a
number of serious obstacles to Psyche, who is visited by Eros in
different guises in each of these situations, and it provides Różycki
with a variety of colours to work with, as well as the
opportunity to push the romantic tone of the music into epic levels. The
tone is inevitably Straussian, with mythological correspondences with
Daphne, Die Liebe der Danae and of course, Ariadne auf Naxos.
And
it would appear to be from Ariadne auf Naxos that director Barbara Wysocka takes her inspiration for the staging of this 2017 production of
Eros and Psyche at the Teatr Wielki, 100 years after its premiere in
Wroclaw. Różycki and Żuławski's version of the story is a relatively
straightforward telling of myth that has none of the framing and
self-referential dramatic and operatic narrative complexities of Strauss
and Hofmannsthal's treatment of Ariadne auf Naxos. Wysocka however
chooses to frames this opera's story of Psyche's wanderings through time
as that of an actress working on a number of period film productions.
It's a reasonable way to make the mythological story modern and
contemporary, but it has to be said that it doesn't appear to bring
anything unexpected out of the work and may indeed even confuse matters
somewhat.
What it does highlight is that the music is
indeed beautifully composed and scored for each dramatic situation like a
movie soundtrack. The first appearance of Eros on the set, emerging out
of the darkness to meet Psyche waiting in anticipation, is lushly and
scored with a romantic surge. Each of the mini movies are given titles
(Rome, Under the Cross, With Blood etc.) the titles and Falconetti Joan
of Arc-like close-ups of Psyche accompanied by sweeping musical
introductions. Conducted by Grzegorz Nowak, the music is a treat for
anyone who likes their late and post-romantic indulgent Strauss or
Rimsky-Korsakov orchestrations, and it's wonderful to hear another
Polish composer other than Szymanowski working in this register.
Lived
through the movies, this undoubtedly helps maintain the
larger-than-life character of the mythological romance between Eros and
Psyche that is otherwise abandoned in the production, and it retains all
the colour of the periods and locations. It's perhaps a bit too busy
with extras and camera crews cluttering the stage as well, adding a
layer of remove that the opera doesn't really need, and it may even
detract from the character of the work as well. Psyche's journey and her
encounter with Eros in various guises in different eras (with Blaks the
farmhand who has been condemned alongside her for disturbing the
meeting between the illicit lovers also present) raises questions of
decadent living (Rome), sin (The Cross) and compassion (Paris) are also
considered perhaps as necessary stages in her journey to redemption.
On
the other hand if 'Psyche' gains awareness of such matters through the
movies she plays the lead role in, then that element isn't entirely lost
in the 2017 production. Nor is it lost in how it is covered in the
direction or the musical and singing performances. Joanna Freszel is
very much centre stage as Psyche and the role is not without its
challenges (if not quite at the Richard Strauss level of demands), and
she gives an engaging and note-perfect performance throughout, her voice
having a lovely character and timbre. The high tenor role of Eros is
almost Mozartian by comparison and tests the tenor's ability to hold it
steady but Tadeusz Szlenkier certainly brings a lyrical sweetness to the
role. There are good supporting performances from the remainder of the
cast, particularly from Anna Bernacka as Hagne (et al) and from Mikołaj Zalasiński as Blaks.
Links: Polish National Opera, OperaVision
Giuseppe Verdi - Aida
Royal Swedish Opera - Stockholm, 2018
Pier
Giorgio Morandi, Michael Cavanagh, Christina Nilsson, Ivan Defabiani,
Katarina Dalayman, Lennart Forsén, Alessio Cacciamani, Johan Edholm,
Jihan Shin, Jessica Forsell
OperaVision - April 2018
If
there's one Verdi opera that needs to be continually reassessed and
reconsidered in terms of whether it still has any real relevance or
anything to say to a modern audience it's probably La Traviata, but Aida
isn't far behind. Both works might have been fuelled by real anger
against social institutions, but if they ever did have anything
important to say it's easy for it to get lost in the star power and
glamour that the operas' settings and subjects inevitably attract. La
Traviata however can be immensely powerful and hard-hitting about
society's treatment of women when it's allowed to be, and condemnation
of the horrors of war in Aida need not necessarily be submerged under
the bombast of Verdi's score and the pomp and ceremony of grand opera
spectacle.
You do have to question the effectiveness of
Verdi's treatment in Aida however, in how it seems to get carried away
with its exotic setting and location, in the attention that Verdi pays
towards Eastern-influenced melodies, grand religious ceremonies and
ceremonial triumphal marches before royalty. With the melodramatic turns
of love, family and duty all becoming intertwined, it threatens to
overshadow the anti-war, anti-religious sentiments that are there, but
there have been some notable attempts (and failures) to move away from
the glamour and address the real issues at the heart of the work - if
you consider that they were ever really there.
The short
overture to Aida certainly reflects a more sombre note, and in Michael Cavanagh's production for the Royal Swedish Opera, that's immediately
established as being associatedwith the more intimate story of
the individuals whose lives have suffered because of the demands placed
on them by the 'state'. We already see Aida and Radamès buried alive in
the tomb that descends to show a figure we can presume in Amneris, lying
face down in a pool of blood with a knife by her side. The note of
melancholy that can also be found in Radamès ode to an impossible love
for a slave girl of his nation's enemy ('Celeste Aida') is soon
overwhelmed by cries of 'war and death' as the news of Amonasro's
advance is brought by the High Priest, Ramfis.
It's in
such contrasts however that Aida does effectively present the conflict
between the individual's hope and dreams and the necessity of putting
them aside for something as monstrous as war. Radamès's personal
conflict is mirrored in the situation of Aida later in the opera when
she is torn between her love for Radamès and her love for her father,
Amanasro, the King of Ethiopia whose armies have been routed and taken
captive by the Egyptian commander and his forces. There's also very much
a case put of there being no real victors when it comes to war. "Today
we are the victims of fate, tomorrow fate may strike you", Amonasro
warns Radamès, and history has shown the truth of such turns of fate in
the downfalls of the great.
This aspect is borne out and
elaborated upon quite successfully in the Stockholm production even if
the focus is very much on the small personal drama. It's hard to
criticise the production on those grounds, as this is indeed very much
how it is played by Verdi. So yes, Aida has musical and dramatic flaws,
or even if you don't consider them flaws - and it's perfectly valid to
enjoy the opera for the music and singing for what it is - you still
adjust the emphasis at your peril. Olivier Py's scattershot Paris production demonstrated the risks inherent in that whereas the chamber
approach as seen more recently in the La Monnaie production, touched
much more effectively on the true nature of the work in a way that
prevented it from it appearing dated and out of touch with the times.
Magdalena
Åberg's set and costume designs for the Royal Swedish Opera production
are unimposing, but there is a balance struck between modern military
uniforms with AK47 rifles and some nods to the Egyptian heritage of the
work with its robes and ceremonies. The production does well to avoid
the familiar imagery and processional choreography, presenting a more
minimal stage with a gold wall in the background and blue lighting that
nonetheless retains an air of a royal palace with notions of strict
protocol and order. So there's a fresh modern outlook on the work at the
same time as the necessary contrasts between the institutions of the
state and the ordinary citizen are marked out well; contrasts that focus
on the intimate love story at the heart of the work, one crushed by the
weight of those powers that Verdi depicts so dramatically.
The
main issue that has to be dealt in a production of Aida is in how to
present it's Triumphal March; whether to make it a glorious spectacle or
undercut it with realism. Cavanagh's approach wisely takes a dim view
of celebrating slaughter, so while the chorus and trumpets are
proclaiming victory and the greatness of their King, we are shown scenes
of the reality of the war that Radamès has waged against the Ethiopian
tribes. And it is very much that of a large military force, bulked out
in combat gear with every precision targeting technology at their
disposal, bringing horror to the lives of ordinary citizens. It's very
well staged - with curtains blocking off live vignette scenes rather
than using projections - and it hammers home the horror of the contrast
between the ideal of duty and the reality for Radamès.
Musically,
Pier Giorgio Morandi conducts an excellent performance that plays well
to the contrasts of Verdi's melodies and the variety of sentiments
within it without letting it get too sentimental. The singing
performances, despite some initial reservations with timing and technique,
are also quite good, and backed up with a superb chorus. You have to
pity any young tenor who has to launch straight into an aria like
'Celeste Aida' with barely time to warm up, but Ivan Defabiani's Radamès
really comes through spectacularly later with a performance that builds
in character and confidence. Christina Nilsson as Aida also takes a
short while to find her feet after 'Ritorna vincitor', but likewise
gives a fine performance, the two of them making a convincing young
couple whose love is challenged by the scorned Amneris. Katarina Dalayman shows the right kind of
imperiousness tinged with regret, although her voice is lacking some of
the necessary force. It's in this small scale drama that the bigger
picture is reflected, bearing out the words spoken earlier that "Today
we are the victims of fate, tomorrow fate may strike you".
Links: Royal Swedish Opera, OperaVision
Stephen Sondheim - Assassins
The Gate Theatre, 2018
Selina Cartmell, Rory Corcoran, Muiris Crowley, Brian Gilligan, Kate Gilmore, Dan Gordon, Ger Kelly, Andrew Linnie, Aoibhéann McCann, Ruth McGill, Sam McGovern, Helen Norton, Rachel O’Byrne, Mark O’Regan, Nicholas Pound, Matthew Seadon-Young
The Gate Theatre, Dublin - 28 April 2018
Usually there are a few signs around the entrance to the theatre that warn if there are going to be any sudden loud noises, but I think you could take it for granted that there are likely to be a few gunshots heard in Assassins at the Gate Theatre in Dublin. Stephen Sondheim's musical presents accounts of no less than nine people who have plotted to take the life of the incumbent President of the United States of America, and in some cases succeeded. Going out with a bang I guess you could say, and the Gate production makes a bit of an impression as well.
Even as someone unfamiliar with Sondheim and with the musical theatre genre in general, a musical about nine deluded, deranged and dangerous people does strike me as an unusual subject to write songs around. Considering they take place many years apart with no indication that any of them knew one another, I couldn't see how Assassins could be anything more than a series of musical vignettes that possibly delved into the personal backgrounds of each of the nine would-be and actual assassins and the circumstances that led to them pointing a gun at the President. Even though they do indeed take place many years apart, with only Gerald Ford being the target of two different assassins, Stephen Sondheim and John Weidman manage nonetheless to weave together 100 years of American history into the production.
The interweaving of separate stories is not purely for dramatic purposes, to provide an overarching narrative rather than a collection of disparate events, but precisely to consider the assassins as a very distinctive and select group of people united by a very singular drive to kill the President of the United States of America. Could there be some common ground? Could they have legitimate grievances about how the USA is governed? Or is the common theme that unites all these individuals merely just mental illness and a sense of self-importance? Even there alone, could that not tell us something deeper about the nature of the where the American Dream meets reality?
Certainly there are on the surface very different motivations between the oldest recorded case here where John Wilkes Booth would shoot Abraham Lincoln in the back of the head in a Washington theatre in 1865 and the most recent, John Hinckley Jr, who shot and succeeded in wounding Ronald Reagan in 1981. And yet, there are suspicions that Booth - a stage actor himself - may have been at least in part frustrated by a lack of success and bad press notices and may have seen the shooting of Abraham Lincoln as the ultimate piece of theatre, jumping from the theatre box and shouting 'Sic semper tyrannis!' from the stage straight after the assassination. Hinckley too has some sense of detachment from reality in his obsession with Jodie Foster and her character in the film Taxi Driver, and the shooting of Reagan could also be seen as a theatrical act of attention seeking.
Such little connections creep out also in the lives of Squeaky Fromme and Sara Jane Moore, the two women who unsuccessfully attempted to assassinate President Gerald Ford merely weeks apart in 1975. One was a disciple of Charles Manson, the other according to Weidman's book at least, came from the same part of the States as Manson, and knew him from school days. Even though the two women never met in real life as far as we know, Sondheim and Weidman establish this connection between them in an amusing target practice scene. The writers similarly have Booth speak as an 'inspiration' to Lee Harvey Oswald, and many of the other assassins similarly connecting with each other on various levels, whether that be common interests and sentiments, political or personal grievances, or - since such a common aim immediately makes you famous - even just on the level of inspiration or awareness of past assassins.
It's important in a stage production then to both clearly demarcate each of the individuals and their rationale, as well as find a common connection or overarching theme that necessarily draws them together. As if the idea of bringing the nine singing assassins onto the stage weren't a strange enough idea on its own, the concept of bringing them together as part of some kind of macabre carnival game is another inspired touch that the production at the Gate Theatre in Dublin wholeheartedly embrace. Each of the would be assassins are offered a gun and a prize (Shoot the Prez! Win a Prize!) by a rather Pennywise-like clown master of ceremonies - a wonderfully sinister Nicholas Pound as 'The Proprietor' - their efforts marked by a Hit or Miss indicator flashing in lights above the stage. The humour is wonderfully black, Sondheim's songs and music also drawing from carnival themes, country music and a wide variety of styles.
The music and singing performances are a constant delight. Inevitably, working with historical characters of clearly rich colourful backgrounds, each of the individuals is well characterised, but the ensemble playing is also exceptionally good and important to the overall impact and Ruth McGill and Rachel O'Byrne are in fine voice in roles where they have much more to do than just sell sticks of candy. It's the comically incompetent roles of course that get the most laughs, but certainly Aoibhéann McCann shooting at a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken as Sara Jane Moore and Dan Gordon as a Santa-suited Samuel Byck in a Dodgems car strike a wonderfully surreal note and really make the most of characters whose motivations and behaviours strike you as the most unfathomable and deranged. It's a close call though, and - as is at least clear from the account of Lee Harvey Oswald - the nature of the musical and songs is clearly insufficient to delve fully into most complex conspiracies and motivations.
What is clear however is that Assassins brilliantly achieves what it sets out to do, creating a platform that allows the spectator to see this diverse group of individuals as a select group of people and perhaps through that tell us something about the nature of the people and government of the United States. First produced in 1990, the contemporary relevance of Assassins still comes through in 2018, when the question of gun control remains a highly controversial issue. The nine assassins might have very little obviously in common with each other and apparently achieved little of any real political change (much less gun controls), but what happens when a person with mental illness, deranged beliefs and a sense of their own superiority gets their hands on a gun with the promise of a prize of fame and immortality, is still very much a relevant and topical subject.
Links: The Gate Theatre
Giuseppe Verdi - Il Corsaro
Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia, Valencia, 2018
Fabio Biondi, Nicola Raab, Michael Fabiano, Kristina Mkhitaryan, Oksana Dyka, Vito Priante, Evgeny Stavinsky
OperaVision - 8th April 2018
The
quality of early Verdi operas is variable, even by the composers own
admission, but some are certainly worth of occasional revival, even if
it's just for curiosity value. A few - very few, maybe only one
(Macbeth) - are worthy of being included more often as part of the
familiar Verdi canon, others are crude and forgettable (Alzira, Attila),
some are flawed but redeemable through a good production and an
interesting interpretation (I Due Foscari, Stiffelio, Giovanna d'Arco,
Luisa Miller). Il Corsaro probably belongs in the latter category, but
its qualities can be enhanced with a good staging and exceptional
singing and the 2018 Valencia production goes some way towards
demonstrating and achieving that.
It's rare however that
you can do anything redeemable with the staging of any early Verdi
opera; which in the main consist of romantic melodramas in oppressive
wartime situations that don't have much in the way of subtext, nuance or
depth. The singing, particularly that of the lead soprano role, can
also be extremely challenging far beyond the merits of the piece without
really adding to the drama. That's all part of the Verdi DNA however
that comes into fruition mid-career, and it can be fascinating to
explore the hints already there of the greatness to come if you have a
production good enough to tease them out.
The first good
sign in the Valencia production is that there's a bit of imagination and
style applied to the production design rather than literal slavishness
to the libretto's locations. Instead of ship anchored at a Greek island
where the chief corsair Corrado is languishing in exile and reduced to
piracy, we find ourselves in Act I within the mind of a broken man,
sitting at writing desk remembering better times or dreaming of taking
part in further exploits. His wife Medora looks on in despair at his
downfall and, alarmed at the flask of what may be laudanum he is
imbibing, she slips it into her pocket.
Corrado however
has other vices and is clearly not adverse to a pipe of opium. In his
mind the Ottoman Empire still a threat, so in Act II the bold Byronic
adventurer once more visits the exotic East of delights and dangers.
There he visits a harem and attracts the attention of Gulnara, the
favourite of the Pasha Seid. Seid and his warriors launch into a battle
with the corsairs, putting the city and the harem to flame. Corrado
rescues Gulnara from the conflagration and is captured while doing so,
and earns the mercy of Seid. Until Seid becomes suspicious of Gulnara's
feelings for this brave corsair...
There's no need to get
to clever with the concept, but there's no need for literal realism
either, as combined with Verdi's bombast, the Byronic hero's romantic
adventures in the exotic East could seem a little bit over the top. Il
Corsaro is tremendous fun, but not particularly memorable and hard for a
modern audience to take seriously. Director Nicola Raab doesn't try to
get too clever by imposing an unworkable concept on top of what is a
fairly straightforward romantic adventure, and without betraying the
original spirit of the work she finds a good way of making it a little
more 'realistic' or relatable by playing it out as an opium-induced
flight of imagination, which as it was originally written by Lord Byron
it may well have been.
The production doesn't need a
literal depiction that takes it all seriously and literally then.
There's more than enough dynamic in the music and the contrasts and
colours that lie between East and West, between Christian and Muslim,
between men and women. Verdi of course depicts all that in grand brush
strokes, all sword and flame, blood and thunder, gods and demons.
There's nothing wishy-washy about early Verdi (or middle or late Verdi
either, I suppose), and Fabio Biondi's conducting of the Orquestra de la
Comunitat Valenciana emphasises the sheer brio with which Verdi attacks
the material, where there is also at least some measure of
sophistication in the melodies and romantic sentiments.
There's a similar contrast between
imagination and reality in George Souglides's production design that
shows this flitting between dreams of adventure and the sudden
down-to-earth shifts of reality that seep in. Projections of battles and
flames are thrown onto a screen that is torn down like a sheet of
paper, emphasising that it's all the projection of a troubled mind,
allowing it to be taken seriously but not literally. It's a good
middle-way to approach early Verdi, giving us spectacle and
entertainment and permitting all the spirit of the work to come through
without having to look at it ironically or indulgently. That's probably
about the best you can hope for in Il Corsaro.
Well, that
and some great singing, as that can make all the difference. The
Valencia production gets off to a terrific start, the clever production
design and the invigorating score matched by a committed Michael Fabiano
in the role of Corrado and Kristina Mkhitaryan as his wife Medora. As
he showed in Dmitri Tcherniakov's radical reworking of Carmen for
Aix-en-Provence 2017, Fabiano isn't thrown by contradictions between
characters who are seen to be role-playing and allows a touch of
bewilderment creep into the heroic sincerity of the performance.
Mkhitaryan is mightily impressive as Medora, showing a fullness of voice
and a deep emotional expression. Medora however is not the principal
soprano role, and it's Oksana Dyka who has to struggle with that
challenge as Gulnara. Inevitably she is pushed and her pitch wavers
occasionally, but it's a valiant effort. Vito Priante sings well but
throwing pantomime villain poses he is unable to make much of the role
of Seid.
The singing performances and the full-on musical
performance under Fabio Biondi carry the work though the dramatic
weaknesses of Act III. There's a long scene of Corrado refusing to
accept Gulnara's help of escape ("Fly from your prison to freedom, my
soul") by manfully accepting his fate only to eventually agree, but as
Corrado puffs on his opium pipe, the production does well to try to
associate his behaviour as being captive of his addiction or the
affliction of his desires and fears. Medora is also saddled with more
despairing sentiments that lead up to her suicide and Corrado following,
but there's no denying that Verdi provides all the thrills and spills
that lead up to this heroic-romantic conclusion, and Biondi hammers it
home.
Links: Palau de les Arts Reina Sofia, OperaVision
Bohuslav Martinů - Julietta
National Theatre Prague, 2017
Jaroslav
Kyzlink, Zuzana Gilhuus, Alžběta Poláčková, Peter Berger, Ondřej
Koplík, Petr Levíček, Yevhen Shokalo, Michaela Zajmi, Stanislava Jirků,
Jiří Hájek
OperaVision - April 2018
It seems only a natural reaction to want to interpret, psychoanalyse
or just try to make sense of a work that operates on the level of
abstraction, surrealism, symbolism or dream logic. And, to be fair, when
it comes to works from the former Czechoslovakia or any nation behind
the former Iron Curtain, such an approach has some validity, since it
has often been a means for artists to depict a reality that is difficult
to describe in any other way, not least because of the fear of
censorship, arrest and imprisonment. Bohuslav Martinů's Julietta (The Key to Dreams) however
predates the worst horrors of WWII and the post-war Communist years,
and it certainly seems to operate on a much simpler level, but that
doesn't mean that it is entirely detached from describing another
reality.
That reality, rather than having a political
undercurrent - although I'm sure such an interpretation could be applied
- would seem to be more in the realm of exploring the rather abstract
human emotions and behaviours associated with memory, desire and perhaps
other less easily defined sensations. Martinů based his opera on a play
by French writer Georges Neveux and there are good antecedents for
putting such abstractions to a musical treatment, not least in Wagner's
Tristan und Isolde but more obviously in the approach taken by
Debussy in his musical setting of Maeterlinck's Pelléas et Mélisande.
Closer to home, Janáček ponders some basic human questions related to
time, existence and memory in the science-fictional unreality of The
Makropulos Case. Martinů's Julietta finds it own language to describe
its world, and - unlike Maeterlinck - Neveux, who attended the 1938
premiere, reportedly found Martinů's adaptation better than the
original.
You could certainly apply some kind of
commentary on a nation and authority to the little seaside town where
Parisian bookseller Michel Lepic turns up, a town where the
citizens have no memory of the past, are unable to recall anything more
than 10 minutes ago and seem to even have no awareness of basic things.
In such a place there are people willing to tell fortunes and sell
memories of invented histories that serve to pacify and keep the people
happy. Since Michel seems better equipped with knowledge and memory - he
can even remember a toy duck from as far back as his childhood - the
town's Commissar confers on him the office of town captain, giving him a
hat (authority), a parrot (law) and a gun (enforcement).
The
problem with trying to apply any kind of basis in reality to Julietta
is that the dream logic basis of the story means that there's a constant
shift of meaning and emphasis. Michel's role as captain is short-lived
since even the Commissar isn't able to remember appointing him a short
time later when he reappears as a postman. The gun too is somewhat
illusory; fired by Michel in the woods even though he doesn't remember
firing it, a watchman in the woods later says that it was he who fired
at a duck. The principal thread that runs through the opera however is
of course Michel's search for the mysterious woman he heard singing from
a window on his last visit to the town three years ago, Julietta, an
object of desire that has continued to haunt him.
On that
basis the subject of the opera is much more playful in its exploration
of the nature of human desire and memory, on idealisation and reality.
Michel has created a figure in his head based on what to him has been a
magical encounter, but for Julietta it was just an everyday event that
has made no impact on her, and even what she does remember of it seems
to her ridiculous. She has her own memories created for her by a seller
of memories and prefers them to the reality. Act III brings a twist to
proceedings when it is revealed that Michel's dream is indeed just a
dream. At the Bureau of Dreams he discovers that there's a 'Julietta' in
dreams of many others - a beggar, a messenger, a convict, an engineer -
and it's a necessary escape from the boundaries of their earthly
misery. The Parisian bookseller decides he wants to remain there.
Again,
there are ways of viewing that as some kind of political allegory, but
if you want to apply an allegory to the work you'd need to do that
yourself as Zuzana Gilhuus's direction for National Theatre Prague's
production, celebrating 80 years since the opera was first performed
there, treats Julietta merely as a dream fantasy. There's nothing wrong
with that as there is more than enough in those abstract themes to make
this a fascinating and entertaining work, particularly with the rich and
playful score that Martinů has written. It's immensely varied in tones
and styles, from full orchestration to express the dramatic situations
to more intimate piano accompaniment and even unaccompanied spoken
sections.
The production takes advantage of the
opportunities the opera presents to create a simple but effective dream
world set. The townspeople are dressed all in white, in rather
old-fashioned clothes of people living in the past (without a past),
wiped clean of memories, in a certain respect free and pure but unable
to see beyond their limited horizons (I'm still trying to apply an
allegorical meaning!). The town in Act I is viewed only in the abstract
as a maze or forest of low white trees bare of any leaves placed on a
white illuminated platform. This is moved around and turned on
its side for Act II in the forest and in the Bureau of Dreams. It's a
fairly open abstract production that serves the music well and Jaroslav Kyzlink's conducting brings them together well for the varied tones of
the work.
Links: National Theatre Prague, OperaVision
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - Le Nozze di Figaro
Irish National Opera, 2018
Peter
Whelan, Patrick Mason, Jonathan Lemalu, Tara Erraught, Ben McAteer,
Máire Flavin, Aoife Miskelly, Adrian Thompson, Graeme Danby, Suzanne
Murphy, Andrew Gavin, John Molloy, Amy Ní Fhearraigh, Catherine
Donnelly, Dominica Williams
Irish Chamber Orchestra
National Opera House, Wexford - 13th April 2018
"Ah,
when we are not fighting each other for personal interest, every woman
will march to the defense ofher fellow woman against ungrateful men who
seek wrongly to oppress them".
There's always something
truthful, relevant and contemporary to be found in Mozart's operas,
particularly his works with Lorenzo Da Ponte, and Marcellina's
pronouncement in Act IV of The Marriage of Figaro neatly taps into a
certain current social phenomenon that is unlikely to be missed by
anyone in the audience, even if it needs reduced to something a little
shorter and catchier with a hashtag. The fact that the above line was
first uttered in 1786 however also highlights just how long the same
struggle has been going on. The Irish National Opera's new production of
Le Nozze di Figaro could of course have made a lot more of this in a
modernised setting, but for the first night of the first production in
Wexford of their inaugural season they instead wisely focus on the other
essential elements that demonstrate why this is a masterpiece and why
opera is important. And they do it rather well.
The
latter question of why opera is important is one that I personally felt
it was important to address and I had wondered before the opening night
what kind of message the first INO production might set for
future direction, standards and overall purpose. Every opera of course
has its own needs and requirements, and a stuffy period Marriage of
Figaro sung in English with nothing new to add to it might have been
deemed a safer bet, but it would surely have sent out entirely the wrong
message about the importance and relevance of opera to the lives we
lead today. A modern high concept production wouldn't be a good move at
this stage either, but director Patrick Mason pitches it right here
with a bright fresh update that doesn't set about making a statement of
its own. Mozart and Da Ponte's adaptation of Beaumarchais can do that
perfectly well on its own in performance, and it was in the fine music
and singing here that the production made the necessary impression.
That
sense of brightness and freshness is to some extent established by the
set design and the lighting, which presents an open space that at any
moment can work as an interior, an exterior, or both within the same
space. With a small model of the Almaviva estate mansion always present
on the stage, and a large portrait of Mozart in the background
throughout, it also manages to keep the wider context of the work in the
back of the mind without having to be too clever or knowing. Not that
you would be unaware of Mozart's hand in the work for one moment when
the music is played as well as it is here by the Irish Chamber Orchestra
under the direction of Peter Whelan; the composer's character stamped
across every single, crisp, elegant and emotionally buoyant note.
The
period updating of the production isn't over-emphasised, or at least
not in any way that might compromise the nature and intentions of the
work, but there is a hint of late sixties/early seventies. Glyndebourne
did this too with their 2013 production of Figaro and it's a workable
solution to the out-dated (if still very much alive in a new form)
droit-de-seigneur tradition that Count Almaviva has every intention of
re-establishing for the purposes of his designs on Susanna, his wife's
maid who is about to be married to his manservant Figaro. In light of
recent controversies of misconduct by men in positions of power, the
setting here presents a different picture, even from the superficially
similar Glyndebourne production. If the 60s/early 70s play to notions of
a 'permissive society', it's one where the playing field is not level
and indeed playing the field is not seen on equal terms, rather it's one
that just gives men the power to take further advantage of the
liberties offered.
There's no need for the production to
emphasise that with any placards of banners or hashtag references. The
implications that it holds for all women, and not just Susanna, are made
clear in the several lovely chorus arrangements of the original work in
the songs that Figaro has cleverly organised for the other female
servants to sing, illustrating precisely what Marcellina recognises in
that quotation from Act IV. There's a need for women to combine their
strengths and resources, to recognise who the enemy is and to challenge
and resist; and it's not just a protest against all men, but "ungrateful
men who seek to wrongfully oppress them". Mozart and Da Ponte's
enlightened views, as well as the consequences of such oppression, are
insightfully woven into every note and word that make up the fabric of
this near-miraculous work.
The production however
highlighted what is really essential to get right in Le Nozze di Figaro.
You can play and sing every note to perfection, but unless the comedy
engages and strikes a chord with the audience, it's all to little avail.
This is a work that has to implicate and draw you in, and it's done
through the personalities of the wonderfully drawn characters who
nonetheless essentially need real people to bring them to life. It's
here where Patrick Mason has done the necessary work to make the opera -
at full length with all the 'supporting' characters arias included -
fairly zip along. There are some broad comic gestures but also subtle
ones, all the set-pieces run like clockwork to provide the expected
laughs and plot developments, the busy but uncluttered and adaptable
sets permitting a wonderful flow and openness that allows us, for
example, not only to see Cherubino jump from the Countess's bedroom
window, but also make a run for it across the garden below.
And
it's not just all about the comedy. It's necessary to strike the right
tone for each of the emotionally rich and insightful situations that
Mozart assembles. It's here that the benefits of including Marcellina's
and Basilio's Act IV arias prove their worth, not just balancing and
contrasting the emotional tenor of each adjacent scene, or even just
rounding out the characterisation, but showing that there is a human
side to each of the characters. The actions (or intentions) of the Count
don't just have a consequence for the women that he has set his
libidinous sights on, but it has an impact on everyone, on how men and
women behave towards one another, on how society views such behaviour
and the wider impact that it can have on it. It's even more of a joy to
have these usually cut scenes included when you have such good
performers in the roles of Basilio (Adrian Thompson), Bartolo (Graeme Danby), the gardener (John Molloy) and Marcellina (Suzanne Murphy).
Barberina is another role in the opera that can be undervalued and fail
to make an impact, but not when you have a young soprano as talented as
Amy Ní Fhearraigh to make something of it and show just how musically
and emotionally rich a work Mozart has created down to the finest
detail. Ní Fhearraigh has already made a stunning impression in the
recent Opera Collective Ireland Owen Wingrave and this performance will only enhance that
reputation further.
The performing challenges that the
principals in this production have to measure up to however is of
another degree altogether, balancing and mixing comedy with pathos in
arias, duets and complex ensemble arrangements. It's the Count who
has the trickiest role to maintain, keeping on the right side of
caricature that can either go the way of pathetic bumbling fool to
unsympathetic cheating lecher, neither of which tend towards a
convincing redemption. Ben McAteer's Almaviva carried a measure of those
characteristics, but - in line with the well-considered period setting -
was more of a last-gasp opportunist finding that the times (and women's
rights) were fast catching up with his sort. His singing was perfectly
measured for technique and character, a perfect foil for whoever he was
on stage with at any given moment. The Countess is also a challenging
role with some of the key arias in the whole opera, and it in places
seemed a little too big a role for Máire Flavin. With some terrific
support from the Irish Chamber Orchestra however, those arias sang of
all the depth of feeling of all Rosina's emotional turmoil and sadness.
It's
great to see Tara Erraught back on home shores, having built up an
international career in Munich - where most of her performances
broadcast on the internet show the breadth of her experience - as well as (controversially) at Glyndebourne and the Met in New York. This was a
wonderfully engaging Susanna that Erraught sung brilliantly but just as
importantly brought to life with verve, charm and character. Figaro
actually ran the risk of being left as a bystander to all the plots and
machinations going on around him, but Jonathan Lemalu exuded a quiet
confidence in his performance and characterisation of the former Barber
of Seville that made it seem a lot more effortless than it really is.
Personally, I find a mezzo-soprano a better fit for Cherubino and was
surprised at Aoife Miskelly's high and light lyrical soprano being cast
for the role, but her 'Voi che sapete' was wonderful and Miskelly's
ability for character role playing was a joy to behold. Irish National Opera's impressive inaugural production sets out with high
standards, not least of which is to demonstrate the importance of opera today.
Links: Irish National Opera
Richard Warner - Parsifal
Opera Vlaanderen, 2017
Cornelius Meister, Tatjana Gürbaca, Christoph Pohl, Markus Suihkonen, Stefan Kocan, Erin Caves, Kay Stiefermann, Tanja Ariane Baumgartner
OperaVision - April 2018
At first sight, and probably for much of the long first Act, the stripped back, minimal production and reduced orchestration of Opera Vlaanderen's Parsifal doesn't look like it has what it takes to really do justice to the epic vision of Wagner's final masterpiece. It has almost nothing of the religious imagery of the work's Good Friday death and rebirth celebrations and it hardly seems to engage with the deeper, sacred mystery and transcendental themes of its wider philosophical influences and references (Buddhism, Schopenhauer). The treatment however remains connected to the work and more tightly focussed on the nature of Kundry, and it's through this focus that the Vlaanderen production does successfully elevate at least one of the themes and meanings of this complex work.
The opening of the opera on a bare stage with a curved wall to the background and a spot of light at the centre of the stage, does give the impression that director Tatjana Gürbaca is settling for representing Parsifal in the abstract, and indeed the opera certainly exists more in the theoretical plane than a physical or geographical one. The colours of the stage and the costumes when the Knights of the Grail take to the stage in modern dress, remain neutral, beige, grey and pale green. Standing out against them, but only slightly, Gurnemanz wears brown corduroy and sits in a wheelchair, while the young boys dressed only in white undergarments, tended by acolytes, turn out to be 'swans'.
Gürbaca's more direct engagement with the work and Kundry's place at the centre of it has however already been laid-out in the Vorspiel in a scene that shows Kundry in a passionate clinch with Amfortas, the incident that leads to his downfall and suffering. The question of suffering and the Christian implications of it are then taken up in thin lines of blood that trickle down the walls at the back, their progress watched more with fascination than reverence by the knights. Parsifal, when he arrives soon breaks this mood carrying a bucket of the blood that he has gathered from this stream and 'shoots' one of the 'swans' by throwing its contents at one of the boys being tended by the knights.
That still remains all very vague and abstract, far from the sombre, reverential tone that we expect from Parsifal, and there is none of the usual ceremonial aspect in the subsequent 'time becomes space' mystery, nor in the transubstantiation scene of the unveiling of the Grail. During this scene, Gurnemanz leads Parsifal around the circle of the stage, their positions frozen in time and echoed in mirrored arrangements by the knights, creating a visual echo of their progress. Other figures wander randomly within the circle of light and look upwards, hands clasped in prayer, as more trickles of blood rain down the back wall and a pregnant Kundry hands out blessings.
By removing the epic grandeur of the traditional imagery and mystique of this scene, what stands out as more significant here is Parsifal's reaction. He might be a holy fool, but rather than be overawed by it all he is instead shocked by the attitude and behaviour of the others. The suffering of Amfortas is largely ignored by everyone else and it's only Parsifal who shows compassion and sympathy. This simple idea is a good interpretation that goes to the heart of what the work is about - one interpretation of many valid possibilities that this work inspires. Looking upward, caught up in their own sense of being special and chosen, they are prepared to offer "thoughts and prayers" to the suffering of Amfortas, but are actually horrified by his punishment and don't really want to acknowledge it.
The interpretation of the work then becomes one where Parsifal's journey is to put us all back in touch with true feelings of compassion, of learning to achieve true enlightenment though the suffering we experience and witness in the world. In order to do that however, Parsifal has to reconnect the division that exists between men and women, between knowledge and compassion. The indications are there in how Kundry is treated by the knights, and the pregnant vision of Kundry in Act I implies that there is a necessity for a rebirth. It's in Parsifal's subsequent encounter with Kundry in Act II that he has to face up to the conflict between what he has been learned from Gurnemanz and what he feels with Kundry. It's a struggle that is much greater than the actual fight that takes place with Klingsor, which is by comparison rather rapidly dispatched at the conclusion of the second Act.
If you're going to put so much importance on the role of Kundry as the path to salvation, then Act II is going to be much more important than the transubstantiation scene of Act I, which is more traditionally the turning point of the opera. Act II however gives considerable room for interpretation and director Tatjana Gürbaca takes full advantage of its possibilities - again not so much for the traditional spectacle as much as for how it can add to her interpretation of Parsifal. Here the Flower Maidens are not as threatening as they might be in other productions, but bewitching creatures that Parsifal finds fascinating, discovering in them something new about beauty and otherness that women represent.
That is only one aspect however and it's not all that Parsifal needs. Complete knowledge - or the true beginning of a path towards completeness - can only be gained though his encounter with Kundry and the kiss of enlightenment. Gürbaca's direction of Tanja Ariane Baumgartner's Kundry doesn't neglect to set the scene for this, realising how important it is for Parsifal to reach this awareness through knowledge of love in the relationship between his father and mother. Parsifal's recollection of Amfortas then at the moment of the kiss is a recognition then of how he came by his wound in the arms of Kundry, not seduced as the Knights' tradition has led him to believe. The mission of healing the wound then becomes one of healing the wound between men and women. Parsifal still resists, but without Kundry, without love, he is warned that he cannot find a way back to Amfortas.
Act III follows through on these ideas, but beautifully manages to retain some of the mystery and ambiguity of the work. Living only with pain, suffering and death, the Knights have become even more detached from their true humanity, from compassion. Their view of the world has consequently become corrupted over time, a never healing wound that needs someone to lead the way towards renewal, rebirth and redemption. "Only the spear that caused the wound can heal it" and Kundry is the spear who necessarily must make the self-sacrifice, who rejects the baptism of Parsifal and cuts deeply into her forearms, smearing the wall with her blood. While the knights gather around in worship of Parsifal, who becomes the Grail for them, it's left to Gurnemanz to recognise the truth, and he lies down between the dead forms of Amfortas and Kundry, reuniting them in death. It's a supremely beautiful ending that works with the complex sentiments of the conclusion, ecstatic and yet melancholic. The way has been opened but not everyone will find or take the path.
It's in these moments that the performance of the orchestra under the direction of Cornelius Meister rises to the occasion. Elsewhere, in the moments of dramatic expression, the performance feels underpowered and inadequate, but then there is a deliberate effort on the stage to also underplay these moments, particularly in Act I. In the moments where the production needs the support of the music to support its interpretation - in the Flower Maidens scene and the Parsifal/Kundry scene of Act II, in the final shimmering, unsettling notes of the opera - it comes through with remarkable feeling for the sentiments and beauty of the work. The singing is also strong in those areas where it counts, particularly in Tanja Ariane Baumgartner's performance of Kundry throughout. Erin Caves delivers a lyrical and dramatically attuned Parsifal. Symbolically confined to a wheelchair for most of the work, Štefan Kocán has a challenge interpreting the role of Gurnemanz, but his singing is strong, resonant and heartfelt. Christoph Pohl isn't the strongest Amfortas and is occasionally overwhelmed by the music, but his role is vital and he brings it fully to life.
Links: Opera Vlaanderen, OperaVision
