The mysteries and myths surrounding Mozart’s Requiem Mass - left unfinished at his death and completed by his pupil, Franz Xaver Süssmayr - abide, reinvigorated and prolonged by Peter Shaffer’s play Amadeus as directed on film by Miloš Forman. The origins of the work’s commission and composition remain unknown but in our collective cultural and musical consciousness the Requiem has come to assume an autobiographical role: as if Mozart was composing a mass for his own presaged death.
I saw two operas consecutively at Oper Koln. First, the utterly
bewildering Lucia di Lammermoor; then Thilo Reinhardt’s
thrilling Tosca. His staging was pure operatic joy with some
Bernard Haitink’s monumental Bruckner and Mahler performances with
the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra (RCO) got me hooked on classical music.
His legendary performance of Bruckner’s Symphony No. 8 in
C-minor, where in the Finale loosened plaster fell from the
Concertgebouw ceiling, is still recounted in Amsterdam.
Karita Mattila was born to sing Emilia Marty, the diva around whom revolves Leoš Janáček's The Makropulos Affair (Věc Makropulos). At Prom 45, she shone all the more because she was conducted by Jirí Belohlávek and performed alongside a superb cast from the National Theatre, Prague, probably the finest and most idiomatic exponents of this repertoire.
‘Two outrageous operas in one crazy evening,’ reads the bill. Hyperbole? Certainly not when the operas are two of Jacques Offenbach’s more off-the-wall bouffoneries and when the company is Opera della Luna whose artistic director, Jeff Clarke, is blessed with the comic imagination and theatrical nous to turn even the most vacuous trivia into a sharp and sassy riotous romp.
This performance of Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream at Glyndebourne was so good that it was the highlight of the whole season, making the term ‘revival’ utterly irrelevant. Jakub Hrůša is always stimulating, but on this occasion, his conducting was so inspired that I found myself closing my eyes in order to concentrate on what he revealed in Britten's quirky but brilliant score. Eyes closed in this famous production by Peter Hall, first seen in 1981?
A staged piano recital and an opera as a concert. Pianist András Schiff accompanied the Salzburg Marionette Theater at the Mozarteum Grosser Saal and Anna Netrebko sang Manon Lescaut at the Grosses Festspielhaus.
On August 4, 2016, soprano Leah Crocetto and accompanist Tamara Sanikidze gave a recital at the Scottish Rite Center in Santa Fe New Mexico. A winner of the Metropolitan Opera Auditions and the BBC Cardiff Singer of the World Contest, this year Crocetto was singing Donna Anna in Santa Fe Opera’s excellent Don Giovanni.
On July 31, 2016, against the ethereal beauty of the main hall in the Scottish Rite Center, soprano Angela Meade and pianist Joe Illick gave a recital offering both opera and art songs ranging in origin from early nineteenth century Europe to mid twentieth century America. Many in the audience probably remembered Meade’s recent excellent portrayal of Norma at Los Angeles Opera.
It was the fifth Proms Chamber Music concert at Cadogan Hall this season, and we were celebrating Shakespeare’s 400th. And, given the extent and range of the composers and artists, and the diversity and profundity of the musical achievement inspired by the Bard, we could probably keep celebrating in this fashion ad infinitum.
Each August the bleak and leaky, 12,000 seat Arena Adriatica (home of the famed Pesaro basketball team) magically transforms itself into an improvised opera house that boasts the ultimate in opera chic — exemplary Rossini production standards for its now twelve hundred seats.
This highly enjoyable Prom, part of 2016’s ‘Proms at ’ mini-series, took as its guiding concept the reopening of London’s theatres following the Restoration, focusing in particular upon musical and dramatic responses to Shakespeare. Purcell, rightly, loomed large, with John Blow and Matthew Locke joining him. Receiving their Proms premieres were the excerpts from Timon of Athens and those from Locke’s The Tempest.
With all the bombast of the presidential campaigns rattling in our heads, with invectives being exchanged and measured discussion all but absent, how utterly lovely to retreat and relax into the harmonious soundscape and well-reasoned debate posed in Strauss’ Capriccio, on magnificent display at Santa Fe Opera.
When we entered the Crosby Theatre for Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette the stage was surprisingly dominated by a somber, semi-circular black mausoleum, many chambers inscribed with scrambled names of US Civil War era dead.
Farce is probably the most difficult of dramatic comedy sub-genres to put across. A farce got up in the stately robes of opera sets its presenters an even higher bar. Presenting an operatic farce on a notoriously chilly and cavernous auditorium is to risk catastrophe.
In their magnificent Glyndebourne production of Billy Budd, first seen in 2010 and revived here to mark Britten’s centenary anniversary, director Michael Grandage (revival director, Ian Rutherford) and designer Christopher Oram immerse us, quite literally, in the harsh realities of life aboard a late-eighteen-century man-’o-war: the uncompromisingly, and perhaps optimistically, named Indomitable.
Billy Budd at Glyndebourne
A review by Claire Seymour
Above: A scene from Billy Budd [ Photo Richard Hubert Smith]
We are dragged down into the deep, dark, timbered underbelly of the vessel
— an airless, light-deprived pit, where human emotions are, ironically,
simultaneously repressed and magnified. The stratified hierarchies of the
ship’s upper decks which loom above this suffocating netherworld oddly invert
the more tranquil orders of the theatre’s own wooden interior, the blanched
hues and cruel undercurrents of this submerged, Hadean abyss an unsettling
counterpoint to our own comforts and civilities.
It is a world of callous, merciless severity, but one alleviated by communal
understanding, simple shared pleasures, and surprising acts of kindness amid
the rough company. Billy’s selfless sharing of his ‘baccy’ to ease old
Dansker’s despondent stoicism is later matched by the old sea-dog’s gentle
ministrations to the imprisoned and condemned ‘Baby’. Similarly, as
Billy’s friends skilfully tie the knots that will imminently break his neck,
the painful tenderness of their actions contrasts heartbreakingly with the
wretched ruthlessness of their superior officers.
Mark Padmore — View from the Bridge on Vimeo.
Grandage and Oram recreate wartime naval life — its routines, deprivations
and brutalities — with detailed exactitude and veracity: ropes are bundled
and pitched; riggings are pulled and tugged; seamen heave and haul, then seek
meagre rest from their troubles and toils in paltry swinging hammocks. Movement
director Tom Roden deserves much praise for the polished choreography: the
swarming sailors go about their humdrum exertions with grace, spryly eluding
the biting flick of a whip, the threatening thud of a baton; Billy Budd nimbly
flings himself from balcony to deck, dangling from guard-rail and banister with
gymnastic litheness; and the choral set-pieces are masterpieces of physical
narrative. The crew assuage the gloom with a sprightly sea shanty which is
toe-tappingly infectious in its expression of life’s humble joys. At the
start of Act 2, the men’s excitement during the pursuit of the French ship is
wonderfully complemented by the ceremonial scarlet of the musketeers and
drummers (costume supervisor, Sarah Middleton; wig supervisor, Sheila
Slaymaker) and the animation of the ship’s proud red flag in the blustering
breeze, and the extinction of this flash of colour and hope by the returning
hoary mist emphasises the mood of bitter disappointment and futility.
The large cast are uniformly excellent, individually defining their roles,
collectively bonding in adversity. The ship’s captain, Edward Fairfax Vere,
is supported by a highly competent and professional naval team: the crisp
bellows of Darren Jeffery’s Lieutenant Ratcliffe are a clarion call to order
and discipline, while Mr Flint (David Soar) and Mr Redburn (Stephen Gadd) prowl
menacingly among the men, their commands glowing with potent intimidation.
There are many welcome role reprisals from 2010, including Colin Judson’s
squirming Squeak, Alasdair Elliott’s exuberant Red Whiskers and Richard
Mosely-Evans’ Bosun. Jeremy White is once again a powerfully dignified
Dansker, his voice full of wisdom, quiet honour and weary resignation. Peter
Gjsbertsen, who sang Maintop in 2010, is here a movingly pathetic Novice,
driven by a desperate fear to betray Billy, against instinct and love. Duncan
Rock, another returnee from three years ago, is particularly note-worthy as the
Novice’s Friend, singing with heartfelt warmth tinged with a levelling
pragmatism. The several soloists from the Glyndebourne Chorus — Benjamin Cahn
(Second Mate), Brendan Collins (Arthur Jones) and Michael Wallace (First Mate)
— all acquit themselves very well.
Which brings us to the three central characters — two of whom are singing
their roles for the first time — whose tortured triangle of emotional
entanglements brings about such wasteful death and tragedy.
Brindley Sherratt is a disturbing John Claggart, his dark bass paradoxically
beautiful, its lustrous sheen painfully at odds with the sentiments of his
malicious utterances. This Master-at-Arms lurks and skulks among his
underlings, tense and discreet, a ticking time-bomb unleashing flashes of
malevolence which reveal the monstrous depths of his loathing for those whose
fates he rules — a revulsion which, in his ‘Credo’, is turned upon his
own degenerate soul. Sherratt’s bristling self-containment is eerily
disconcerting: he presents his mendacious denouncement of Billy to his scornful
Captain with an unsettling blend of subservience, humility and contempt.
Vere himself remains an elusive figure — withdrawn, reticent, absorbed by
his erudite library but distanced from the men whose lives depend upon him.
Indeed, in Mark Padmore’s highly original interpretation, Captain Vere is
less a ‘Starry’ leader, a man of action inspiring loyal devotion from his
seamen, than a philosophising recluse, introverted and evasive, angered by the
unavoidable circumstances of war, and by his own reflections and motivations.
Padmore is characteristically thoughtful and dramatic in his delivery of the
text, dispensing with surtitles in the self-scrutinising prologue and epilogue
which frame the action aboard ship. When alone, Vere’s furious
self-reproaches are astonishing vehement, his outburst during the Epilogue,
‘What have I done?’, a ferocious vocal punch. And while at the top
Padmore’s tone is sometimes strained, the characterisation never wavers. The
reserved self-possession which Vere displays when presenting his account to the
drumhead court is shockingly cold; but such restraint does present some
problems in terms of the coherence of the narrative. For, it is not clear why a
man of such apparent moderation and self-control, educated and articulate,
would stay silent, denying his ineloquent devotee a fair and balanced hearing.
Why does this Vere arouse such affection among his men, and particularly from
Billy? What is the nature of his feelings for the boy he calls ‘an angel’
— fatherly fondness, or something more? When his officers plead for his
guidance, knowledge and wisdom, ‘Sir, we need you as always’, why does he
refuse to save his protégée?
Grandage and Oram neglect not a detail of the practicalities of naval life,
but do not venture far into the psychological complexities of Melville’s
narrative, and the homosexual tensions of both the novella and Forster’s
libretto are somewhat disregarded. Similarly, Paule Constable’s lighting is
typically sensitive and atmospheric but essentially a visual complement, rather
than an active element in the drama.
Melville’s ironic insinuations, Forster’s symbols and suggestions, and
the musical inferences of the score are not really explored. Thus, Claggart’s
‘sickness’ — what Melville elusively termed ‘natural depravity’ —
seems merely an inhuman ‘evil’; like Iago he is driven not by covetousness
or passion, but because he perceives in another a ‘goodness’, one that he
does not wish to possess (in either sense of the word) but which he must
destroy because he recognises that ‘He hath a daily beauty in his life/ That
makes me ugly’. Padmore’s inscrutable Vere similarly offers few hints of
any erotic undercurrents between the three men; the ‘foul word’ that the
officers ‘scarcely dare speak’, is simply ‘mutiny’, the threat not
within, insidious and ineradicable, but straightforward and easily oppressed by
Reprising his 2010 Billy Budd, Jacques Imbrailo is absolutely splendid, his
mature, strong voice complementing an honest openness and youthful physical
charm. Billy’s cheerful blue shirt and fancy red neckerchief bring a splash
of colour into the sailor’s grey lives, just as his breezy good humour and
bright optimism alleviate the dour, dull days with sunny hope. Imbrailo’s
phrasing is full of buoyancy and vigour, his tone pleasing and fresh, but not
without the occasion touch of realistic roughness to bring credibility to the
portrayal of innocence. It is immediately obvious why his fellow seamen hold
him in such warm affection, and also why he so easily falls prey to
Claggart’s Machiavellian deceptions. Awoken by the Novice, whose gleaming
guineas are designed to tempt him to rebel, Billy’s faraway, fragmented
remembrances of the deep fathoms into which his dream had lulled him are
achingly prophetic. And, condemned to die, enchained in the darbies, his tender
strains as the rays of moonlight stray through the porthole are touchingly
pure, full of sweet sorrow.
Conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra, Andrew Davis has a good grasp
of the narrative thrust of the score and makes much of its cinematic
scene-painting: the shriek of wind and whistle, the thump of surging wave and
rolling drum, the cries of suffering and of battle. If he never quite winds
things up to a fever pitch of intensity, anguish and paranoia, this is an
unfailingly controlled and clear reading. The saxophone’s roving dirge during
the flogging of the Novice has a paradoxical and painful mellifluousness; and
the recollection of the ‘interview chords’ as Billy accepts his fate
—‘I’m contented’, ‘I’m strong, and I know it and I’ll stay
strong’ — powerfully underline the Amen of forgiveness evoked by the
original plagal sequence.
The even rocking of the string lines which open the Prologue effectively
conveys both the inexorable lapping of the ocean and the insistent urgings of
Vere’s memory. In this regard, the masterstroke of the production comes in
the final scene when Vere oversees Billy’s execution, not from a platform
aloft but from amid his men, dressed as an old man: it is clear that what we
have seen is a re-enactment of the past as experienced by a man who is plagued
by regret, guilt and futile contrition.
This is a consummate production, exemplary in terms of its dramatic and
musical consistency. There are still a few tickets available for performances
on 15, 17 and 22 August. Don’t miss out.
Listen to Billy Budd podcast:
Cast and production information:
Captain Vere, Mark Padmore; Billy Budd, Jacques Imbrailo; Claggart,
Brindley Sherratt; Lieutenant Ratcliffe, Darren Jeffery; Mr Flint, David Soar;
Mr Redburn, Stephen Gadd; Red Whiskers, Alasdair Elliott; Dansker, Jeremy
White; Squeak, Colin Judson; Novice, Peter Gijsbertsen; Novice’s Friend,
Duncan Rock; Bosun, Richard Mosley-Evans; Donald, John Moore; First Mate,
Michael Wallace; Second Mate, Benjamin Cahn; Maintop, Dean Power; Arthur Jones,
Brendan Collins; Cabin Boy, Charlie Gill; Midshipmen, Sebastian Davies/ Tom
Foreman/ William Gardner/ Quentin-Zach Martins/Will Roberts; Conductor, Andrew
Davis; Director, Michael Grandage; Revival Director, Ian Rutherford; Designer,
Christopher Oram; Lighting Designer, Paule Constable; Movement Director, Tom
Roden; London Philharmonic Orchestra; The Glyndebourne
Chorus. Glyndebourne Festival Opera, Saturday 10 August, 2013.