17 Mar 2010
Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande
Five years after the première of Pelléas et Mélisande, Wilhelm Worringer published the twentieth century’s first great treatise on abstraction in art:
On Thursday evening October 13, Los Angeles Opera transmitted Giuseppe Verdi’s Macbeth live from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, in the center of the city, to a pier in Santa Monica and to South Gate Park in Southeastern Los Angeles County. My companion and I saw the opera in High Definition on a twenty-five foot high screen at the park.
“Hi! I’m at the Wigmore Hall!” American mezzo-soprano Jamie Barton’s exuberant excitement at finding herself performing in the world’s premier lieder venue was delightful and infectious. With accompanist James Baillieu, Barton presented what she termed a “love-fest” of some of the duo’s favourite art songs. The programme - Turina, Brahms, Dvořák, Ives, Sibelius - was also surely designed to show-case Barton’s sumptuous and balmy tone, stamina, range and sheer charisma; that is, the qualities which won her the First and Song Prizes at the 2013 BBC Cardiff Singer of the World Competition.
“If I lacked ears, it would be bad, but still more bearable; but lacking a nose, a man is devil knows what: not a bird, not a citizen—just take and chuck him out the window!”
A fixation on death at San Francisco Opera. A 337 year-old woman gave it all up just now after only six years since she last gave it all up on the War Memorial stage.
Penny Woolcock's 2010 production of Bizet's The Pearl Fishers returned to English National Opera (ENO) for its second revival on 19 October 2018. Designed by Dick Bird (sets) and Kevin Pollard (costumes) the production remains as spectacular as ever, and ENO fielded a promising young cast with Claudia Boyle as Leila, Robert McPherson as Nadir and Jacques Imbrailo as Zurga, plus James Creswell as Nourabad, conducted by Roland Böer.
Francesco Cavalli’s La Calisto was the composer’s ﬁfteenth opera, and the ninth to a libretto by Giovanni Faustini (1615-1651). First performed at the Teatro Sant’Apollinaire in Venice on 28th November 1651, the opera by might have been sub-titled ‘Gods Behaving Badly’, so debauched are the deities’ dalliances and deviations, so egotistical their deceptions.
At the end of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Theseus delivers a speech which returns to the play’s central themes: illusion, art and the creative imagination. The sceptical king dismisses ‘The poet’s vision - his ‘eye, in a fine frenzy rolling’ - which ‘gives to airy nothing/ A local habitation and a name’; such art, and theatre, is a psychological deception brought about by an excessive, uncontrolled imagination.
Following the success of previous ‘mini-festivals’ at St John’s Smith Square devoted to Schubert and Schumann, last weekend pianist Anna Tilbrook curated a three-day exploration of the work of Ralph Vaughan Williams and his contemporaries. The music performed in these six concerts was chosen to reflect the changing contexts in which it was composed and to reveal the vast changes in society, politics and culture which occurred during Vaughan Williams’ long life-time (1872-1958) and which shaped his life and creative output.
Trying to work around Manon Lescaut’s episodic structure, this new production presents the plot as the dying protagonist’s feverish hallucinations. The result is a frosty retelling of what is arguably Puccini’s most hot-blooded opera. Musically, the performance also left much to be desired.
It is Herodotus who tells us that when Xerxes was marching through Asia to invade Greece, he passed through the town of Kallatebos and saw by the roadside a magnificent plane-tree which, struck by its great beauty, he adorned with golden ornaments, and ordered that a man should remain beside the tree as its eternal guardian.
Poor Puccini. He is far too often treated as a ‘box-office hit’ by our ‘major’ opera houses, at least in Anglophone countries. For so consummate a musical dramatist, that is something beyond a pity. Here in London, one is far better advised to go to Holland Park for interesting, intelligent productions, although ENO’s offerings have often had something to be said for them.
With only four singers and a short-story-like plot Don Pasquale is an ideal chamber opera. That chamber just now was the 3200 seat War Memorial Opera House where this not always charming opera buffa is an infrequent visitor (post WWII twice in the 1980’s after twice in the 40’s).
“Yang sementara tak akan menahan bintang hilang di bimasakti; Yang bergetar akan terhapus.” (“The transient cannot hold on to stars lost in the Milky Way; that which quivers will be erased.”) As soprano Tony Arnold sang these words of Tony Prabowo’s chamber opera Pastoral, with astonishingly crisp Indonesian diction, the first night of the second annual Momenta Festival approached its end.
Some operas seemed designed and destined to raise questions and debates - sometimes unanswerable and irresolvable, and often contentious. Termed a dramma giocoso, Mozart’s Don Giovanni has, historically, trodden a movable line between seria and buffa.
Péter Eötvös’ The Sirens Cycle received its world premiere at the Wigmore Hall, London, on Saturday night with Piia Komsi and the Calder Quartet. An exceptionally interesting new work, which even on first hearing intrigues: imagine studying the score! For The Sirens Cycle is elegantly structured, so intricate and so complex that it will no doubt reveal even greater riches the more familiar it becomes. It works so well because it combines the breadth of vision of an opera, yet is as concise as a chamber miniature. It's exquisite, and could take its place as one of Eötvös's finest works.
New from Oehms Classics, Walter Braunfels Orchestral Songs Vol 1. Luxury singers - Valentina Farcas, Klaus Florian Vogt and Michael Volle, with the Staatskapelle Weimar, conducted by Hansjörg Albrecht.
Manitoba Underground Opera took audiences on a journey — literally and figuratively — as it presented its latest installment of repertory opera between August 19–26.
On a recent weekend Lyric Opera of Chicago gave its annual concert at Millennium Park during which the coming season and its performers are variously showcased. Several of the performers, who were featured at this “Stars of Lyric Opera” event, are scheduled to make their debuts in Lyric Opera’s new production of Wagner’s Das Rheingold beginning on 1 October.
Desire and deception; Amor and artifice. In Jan Philipp Gloger’s new production of Così van tutte at the Royal Opera House, the artifice is of the theatrical, rather than the human, kind. And, an opera whose charm surely lies in its characters’ amiable artfulness seems more concerned to underline the depressing reality of our own deluded faith in human fidelity and integrity.
On September 22, 2016, Los Angeles Opera presented Darko Tresnjak’s production of Giuseppe Verdi’s opera Macbeth. Verdi and Francesco Maria Piave based their opera on Shakespeare’s play of the same name.
Five years after the première of Pelléas et Mélisande, Wilhelm Worringer published the twentieth century’s first great treatise on abstraction in art:
Just as the desire for empathy as the basis for aesthetic experience finds satisfaction in organic beauty, so the desire for abstraction finds its beauty in the life-renouncing inorganic, in the crystalline, in a word, in all abstract regularity and necessity…
Thus all transcendental art sets out with the aim of de-organicizing the organic, i.e. of translating the mutable and conditional into values of unconditional necessity. But such a necessity man is able to feel only in the great world beyond the living, in the world of the inorganic. This led him to rigid lines, to inert crystalline form. He translated everything living into the language of these imperishable and unconditional values. For these abstract forms, liberated from all finiteness, are the only ones, and the highest, in which man can find rest from the confusion of the world picture. (Abstraktion und Einfühlung, 1907)
The present DVD is Worringer’s dream production of the Debussy opera: the stage set consists of slabs of stone, a slab of light atop a thick low turret, white outlines of boxes made of thin planks, and a curved background of whitish corrugated iron; the colors vary from gray to silver to celadon; a layer of snow covers the stage floor and snow occasionally falls from above. The ostumes of the male singers are decorated with scenes that seem to be abstractions of lunar craters and other extraterrestrialities. The director, Sven-Eric Bechtolf, listened carefully when Golaud said, “This castle is very cold and very dark.”
Maeterlinck was in some sense an abstractionist, interested in a kind of théâtre pur in which the fairy-tale, art-nouveau-Medieval staging stylized human life into something simple and intense and stark. But it’s far from clear that his abstractions are to be considered in any sense chill: his plays aren’t about ascending into the imperishable and unconditional, not about finding rest from the world’s confusion, but about tracing the paths of perishable and confused things in as lucid a manner as he could. Antarctica isn’t quite the right venue for the words or the music, although there is some sense in which the characters inhabit a Fortress of Solitude. Still, when Mélisande says that she can’t take Pelléas’s hand because her arms are full of flowers, and we see her holding a heap of snow, the stage picture touches on something true to the opera’s aesthetic, the way in which Maeterlinck’s seasons are all, in T. S. Eliot’s phrase, a zero summer.
This production shows its love for the abstraction not only through frigid geometries, but also through its predilection for dolls. Each character cohabits with a life-sized dummy, and in most scenes the singers sing not to one another but to the dummy of their interlocutor. When the singers actually turn toward their human counterparts, it creates a feeling of unusual intimacy: for example, when Golaud examines Mélisande’s hand, before discovering the absence of the wedding ring, he clasps both the dummy’s hand and the singer’s own—you can see how startled she is to feel a human touch. And when the singers turn away from their human counterparts to sing to the dummy, it creates a shiver of distance: most of the love duet (act 4, scene 4) has Pelléas and Mélisande singing human-to-human, but toward the end there is a section where she prefers the company of the dummy.
Here Mr. Bechtolf seems on firm ground with respect to Maeterlinck’s dramaturgy. Maeterlinck in many ways preferred puppets to human actors, and some of his finest plays were intended for marionettes. He had a dualistic imagination, and considered that the soul had little to do with the body and even the body’s passions:
What would happen, for example, if our soul suddenly became visible and she had to move forward into the midst of a gathering of her sisters, stripped of her veils, but laden with her most secret thoughts and dragging behind her the most mysterious acts of her life—acts that nothing could explain? What would make her blush? What would she want to hide? Would she start to throw, like a modest women, the long mantle of her hair over the numberless sins of the flesh? She did not know them, and these sins have never reached her. They were committed a thousand leagues from her throne; and even the Sodomite’s soul would pass in the midst of the throng without suspecting anything, and bearing in her eyes a child’s transparent smile. She hasn’t intervened, she spent her life close to the light, and this is the only life she will remember. (Le trésor des humbles)
In some sense Golaud has nothing to do with his jealousy, or Mélisande with her fragility: there is a part of each of us that is immune from the events of our lives, a part to which our very character traits are irrelevant. There is no reason why our soul—a perfectly uninflected thing—might not be properly represented by a doll.
But I’m not sure that the dolls in this production ever behave in a fashion congenial to Maeterlinck’s notion of the childlike pathos at the heart of the human subject. Sometimes they seem to represent social roles, the outer husks of personality that we display to our acquaintances and our lovers. Yeats thought that every love affair had four parties: him, her, his mask, her mask; and the Bechtolf production sometimes takes its cue from that logic. In the scene in which Mélisande carelessly tosses her ring above the Fountain of the Blind, Mr. Bechtolf provides us with four fountains: his, her, his dummies’, her dummies’; and Mélisande and her dummy each drop a ring into a fountain, Mélisande when she talks of letting her hair down into the water, the dummy when the ring is supposed to fall. At other moments, it seems as if the singer represents the character’s soul while the dummy represents the body: in act 5, the dummy lies in on the sick bed, while Mélisande wanders about the room, eventually finding Yniold’s big gold ball, and eventually leaves the stage, gaily tossing the ball, as the other characters weep over her dummy-corpse.
Mr. Bechtolf, I suspect, likes dummies mostly because you can inflict a lot of damage on them, and this is indeed the most violent production of the opera I’ve ever seen or heard of. Golaud tears off the arm of the dummy-Yniold in the course of persuading the boy to spy on Pelléas and Mélisande; and soon Golaud holds up the dummy’s severed head, the eyes glowing from within by electric light, in order to see what is above his range of vision. When Golaud swings Mélisande by her hair, left and right and right and left, the dummy must endure almost comical abuse. When Pelléas and Golaud edge along the wall of the subterranean vault, the Pelléas-dummy is enclosed in a glass cylinder, looking like a sleep-pod for interstellar trips in a science-fiction movie, and mad scientist Golaud turns on the valves of gas tanks in order to flood the cylinder with dense fumes—clearly Golaud has contrived the whole episode for the sake of persecuting Pelléas.
Some of the violence menaces the singers as well as the dummies. In the very first scene, Mélisande threatens to stab Golaud with a dagger as she recounts the harm she endured in her earlier life; and she threatens him again with a dagger as he murders Pelléas in act 4. I like this idea: Maeterlinck’s characters have interchangeably blank souls, and there might be murderous rage in Mélisande, just as there’s certainly a great deal of weakness and fragility in Golaud, a giant of a man, roaring like Othello, but a man who easily gets lost, and whose horse keeps falling on him—bramble patches trouble him, too.
The strangest, most imaginative touch is the presentation of the tower as a Citroën automobile locked in ice. Mélisande stands on top of it as she sings her haunting song and lets her hair down; Pelléas scrutizines her from the driver’s seat, through the car’s outside rear-view mirror, and traps her hair in the car door; eventually Golaud climbs out of the back seat and dismisses the young folk. This will be distasteful to some, but the peculiar suggestion of transient intimacy—necking in the auto in some secluded place, able to zoom away at a moment’s notice—I found moving. And Maeterlinck in some sense wanted to write plays about contemporaneous matters (and occasionally did write plays about contemporary life, such as Le bourgmestre de Stilmonde, 1918, concerning the mayor of a Belgian town during the Great War). He was fascinated by Ibsen’s experiment, in Ghosts, of finding an equivalent for the Necessary of Greek tragedy in congenital syphilis:
We can affirm that the poet who would find today, in the material sciences, in the unknown that surrounds us, or in our own heart, the equivalent of the fatality of the ancients, that is to say a predestining force as irresistible, as universally acknowledged, would for certain write a masterpiece. (Le temple enseveli)
I’m not sure that the world of the internal combustion engine provides much of the fatality of the ancients, but no one should reject out of hand the notion of providing contemporary touches to Maeterlinck—in some sense his plays are Modernist, and concern modern life.
The singing in the production is distinguished. László Polgár is the best Arkël I’ve ever heard—his cavernous voice gives a strong impression of just what Debussy said he wanted, a voice “d’outre-tombe.” Michael Volle’s Golaud is vehement, Wotan-like, somewhat in the manner of George London on the second Ansermet recording, though Volle’s voice is better focused—you often feel that he’s lacerating someone or something, his own heart if nothing else. Pelléas and Mélisande are both cast contrary to type, in enjoyable ways. The Pelléas, Rodney Gilfry, is strong in voice, slim and brawny in physique, a Pelléas unusually commanding, unusually dangerous, with a strong erotic presence—this may actually be closer to what Debussy wanted than the normal neuresthete—we might remember that Jean Périer, the first Pelléas, can be seen in old photos with a mustache and a beard. The Mélisande is Isabel Rey: her voice is richer and more vibrant (sometimes to the point of unsteadiness) than most Mélisandes, but the warmth was welcome in this lost-in-space production—all the singers sang with a humanity that counteracted the deadness of the dolls, the wheelchairs, the ice. The conductor, Franz Welser-Möst, led a taut performance, sometimes refreshingly fast (as in the conversation at the beginning of the scene in the seaside grotto), but full-throated and resplendent at the appropriate moments.
The last thing to mention is the quality of the Blu-ray DVD, almost hair-raisingly excellent: for example, the dark sparkle on the Pollock-like squiggles on the backdrop shone with such clarity that we might have been watching through an airless medium, as if the opera really did take place on the surface of the moon.
For standard DVD, click below: