I hadn’t expected it to be so out-and-out comedic at the beginning, but it darkens as it develops.  There are some great one-liners dotted through it, and each anecdote gets brought up short with a ‘But that’s another story. This isn’t about me.’  The staging is effective, directed by experienced opera director Stephen Wadsworth.  I do suspect that the transitions from the master class setting to the more intimate ‘flashback’ confrontations with her husbands, each time in a theatre setting and with Callas giving us both roles in the dialogue, would confuse some who weren’t so ‘up’ on her life story.

Daly is, of course, the centre of attention for most of it and, with the usual caveats that always apply to a portrayal of someone we know well from film or television, she is highly effective and certainly unflagging.  She has captured the Greek-American sound of the spoken Callas effectively, and the construction of the piece is adept in how it skirts around the protagonist having to sing.

The three singers that are the subject of the class are also very engaging, particularly the tenor Garrett Sorenson (a graduate of the Met’s Lindemann Young Artist programme) and mezzo Naomi O’Connell (a Julliard graduate).  They act tremendously well, as well as singing forcefully, aided by the small Vaudeville theatre to sound astonishingly gutsy.  Dianne Pilkington is a more conventional music theatre voice, but she puts across the first student’s insecurities effectively.  Jeremy Cohen accompanies with flair, as well as giving a good turn as the nervous, doting accompanist (whose name Callas has forgotten from just yesterday).

Each of the arias (Amina’s Ah! non credea mirarti from La Sonnambula; Recondita armonia from Tosca; and Lady Macbeth’s Vieni! t’affretta! from Macbeth) are fascinatingly pulled apart as the singers’ interpretations are refined and the essence of opera (in particular, that singing is dramatic communication, not a static act) is uncovered for them and for us.  There is a moving display of the singers singing whilst Callas translates with dramatic urgency, pushing their engagement with the text.  The pieces that the students bring to the master class seem fantastically challenging, almost surprisingly so.

Ultimately, enjoyable though the piece is, there is a tinge of camp mawkishness about it, to which you just have to surrender yourself but which lends the piece (to choose an apt metaphor) a rather broad vibrato as it swings between its themes.  Terrence McNally also wrote The Lisbon Traviata: a rather harrowing portrayal of psychological disintegration, infused with bitchy queeniness and set against a backdrop of Callas’s coveted bootleg 1958 Traviata recording from the São Carlos theatre).  He clearly has his themes, therefore, and Masterclass is imbued with similar dark undertones in its more intimate moments.  However, it is most effective when confronting the audience with the deconstructed opera extracts and, with however broad a brush, conveying something of the complex power of the art-form.

Given Ms Netrebko’s track record, there must be a fair chance of a last-minute call to get husband and wife together on stage…

Sure enough, the cancellation came, this time due (not unreasonably) to having to have surgery on her foot.  There was a tense few days and then we were told that Ermonela Jaho, who was the principal protagonist for the post-Christmas run of Traviatas, would step in.  So it seemed that the prophecy was not to be fulfilled.  However, at the last minute, Jaho also fell ill and, lo! Pérez is summoned from her rehearsals for the same piece in Hamburg.  Opera does like a good off-stage drama, and sure enough there was a bit of a buzz for the first performances together of this husband-and-wife team in this repertoire.

It began with Kaspar Holten, Director of Opera making the announcement, to the effect that sometimes, with late replacements, you worry about them picking up the finer points in the restricted rehearsal time and whether or not there would be any chemistry between the principals, but on this occasion…

Ailyn Pérez in La Traviata at Covent Garden, November 2011 (c) Royal Opera House - click to head over to their Flickr site

Pérez was indeed as impressive as she had been before Christmas, even more so.  She was a little unwieldy in the coloratura of Act 1, but again acts 2 and 3 really brought out the intensity of her performance.  She seemed more wont to let phrases die off here and there for dramatic effect, injecting strong dynamics if they suited the dramatic purpose.  She gave off an air of dramatic fearlessness in how she threw herself into the depths of the character.  She injected full force into such declamatory moments as Act 2′s Morro! La mia memoria or Amami, Alfredo! or Act 3′s Ah! Gran Dio, morir si giovine.  Elsewhere, details reigned, with lovely attention to other singers’ contributions.

Stephen Costello is a less natural stage animal, and I can’t compare other outings to know whether the special circumstances drove him to something beyond other performances.  His voice rings out beautifully, despite sounding predominantly like quite a subtle instrument, and he shades it nicely in response to the text.  However his physical presence could do with loosening up a bit, with the addition of a bit of danger and a reduction in arm-gesturing, in order to add the necessary extra dimension to a character such as Alfredo.  Still rewarding to experience, though, no doubt.

Paolo Gavanelli’s Germont père was a world away from Simon Keenlyside’s earlier incarnation and, despite Keenlyside being generally able to walk on operatic water, I have to say I preferred the older man’s presentation.  Gavanelli’s voice, with an attractive weathering to it, is nonetheless able to project the text with solidity and shading, and with effective use of a soft-toned piano even if volume does sometimes jump alarmingly.  His character had a more naturally believable quality to it than had Keenlyside’s ‘acted’ age.

There was lovely, attentive detail in both Hanna Hipp’s Annina and Justina Gringyte’s Flora (who reminded me of the vivid Flora of Leah-Marian Jones in the first outing of the production).  Surely the very definition of luxury casting, even at this late stage in his distinguished career, is Robert Lloyd as Dr Grenvil, but he added many minor details that amplified the drama: his tending to the insulted Violetta in Act 2 scene 2 was touching indeed.

Chorus and orchestra were on fine form, although in comparison the revival direction felt a little lacking, with a some slightly saggy movement and too much front-facing, though how much of that is down to direction and how much to the actors’ styles, or to the cautiousness introduced by the late substitution, is hard to say.  Violetta ended up down stage left for the throwing of the money at her, and given she was already on the ground (after Alfredo had rather roughly yanked her about, it has to be said!), she had nowhere to fall when the violins make that lovely descending ‘collapsing’ motif in the opening bars of the succeeding ensemble.  Slightly disappointing. Benini’s reading was rather interventionist, but effectively so: sudden slowings to emphasise moments, combined with an orchestral sound that was strongly delineated into its constituent instrumental parts, added up to an old-school Italian reading, even if a slight lack of grace robbed it of an Italianate quality.  Nonetheless, it drove the drama nicely, foregrounded the principals, and kept bringing interesting details to the fore.

This performance did have a special aura about it, and even if the few minor cavils did detract slightly, it nonetheless joins the pre-Christmas Pérez performance, high up in the pantheon of tremendous outings of this production.

Having seen the New Year’s Day matinée, the 300-mile round trip (there and back in the day) for substantially the same cast seemed excessive, and so we have arranged with Symphony Hall a substitution of tickets.  As I said in the note with which I enclosed the returned tickets,

Whilst I would not usually seek to change a booking on the strength of a single artist withdrawing, particularly not for a work with such an enormous cast of other talented singers, on this occasion we were planning to drive up from south London to see this performance, having already seen substantially the same forces presenting the work in the fully staged production at the Royal Opera House (as recently as 1 January 2012).   The substitution of Bryn Terfel for Wolfgang Koch (who, however disappointing it is to be missing Bryn, did give a very good performance at Covent Garden) means that this is now an identical cast and it is difficult to justify the 300 mile roundtrip to see the semi-staged performance.

It feels a bit rotten to be bailing out on everyone else because of the one substitution, but it is a major effort to get up to Brum and back, especially from the outer reaches of south London and particularly in the context of a rather heavy return to work after the Christmas break; regrettably therefore I must ‘crave their understanding’ (not that I expect them to actually notice, of course!).  I should want that understanding because, on New Year’s Day they were, for the most part, fairly wonderful.

Let’s head straight to the top, with Wolfgang Koch’s Hans Sachs (although Symphony Hall seem to think that, in Terfel’s absence, the cast is led by Sir John Tomlinson; were I Koch, I’d be a bit peeved).  He did not dominate the drama in the way that a Terfel or Tomlinson would do, bringing a broader brush to proceedings than either of those two fine singing actors, but his characterisation built as the pressure increased.  He was at his best in conveying the frustration of losing Eva to Walther, and he raised the temperature sufficiently to provide a suitable emotional context for the crucial start of the quintet.  And the great thing about Meistersinger is that there are so many interrelations and dynamics, that the absence of so heavy a central ‘anchor’ just throws light elsewhere on proceedings.

Peter Coleman-Wright also delivered a relatively subtle Beckmesser, which avoided caricature, but sacrificed some of the comic impact in the process.  This is no bad thing.  His Beckmesser was relatively benign, as Beckmessers go: a portrait of someone so desperate to fit in and overcome his place ‘on the outside’.  I was struck at how, as others had their trades, the implication was that Beckmesser (as merely the Chief Exec of the local Council) had no ‘trade’ as such.  For a local government officer, it’s a fascinating portrayal of specialists vs. a generalist upon whom they pour disdain, and the (seemingly) centuries-old supremacy of the practical ‘manufacturer’ over the supposed pen-pusher.  I think it will soon be time for the foundation of the Sixtus Beckmesser Rehabilitation Society: let me know if you’d like to join.

As the object of their affections, Emma Bell was impressive: a strong, clear voice, well-projected and in good diction, but nonetheless lacking the sense of Eva’s youthful impetuosity. Her father (yes, him who would have her raffled off to the best singer) was of course the Sachs of so many ROH Meistersingers, Sir John Tomlinson.  He has gravitas in abundance and there can be no quibbles about an excessive vibrato here and there when a portrayal so intelligent and dramatically alive is married to so strong a voice: there were many moments when he almost managed to make some real emotional sense of giving his daughter away as a competition prize. But, obviously, not quite.  His reaction to Walther’s rejection of the Mastersingers’ medal was touching indeed.

And when that would-be Mastersinger has performed as Simon O’Neill had done, he should have snatched that medal whilst it was being offered.  We were told that he had bronchitis and, even when apologies are taken into account, his performance had a most uncomfortable edge to it.  His usual nasal, narrow sound took on a harshness under the necessary force to produce it that was rather disruptive to, as prime example, the quintet.  It was jolly impressive that he got through at all, but it was one of those moments when you are made painfully aware of the difficulty of producing an auditorium-filling sound, at the expense of your sense of the operatic character that is supposed to be on show.

Had I been awarding prizes, his tenor colleague, Toby Spence as David, would probably have taken the vocal honours for this performance.  He produced a thoroughly impressive, ringing tone and the sort of unflagging, energetic characterisation of the gauche youth that brings the music alive.  Fantastic – I hope he’s on track for Walther; if it feels like it fits for him, it should be a mightily impressive portrayal.

All of the other parts were well-taken, although I missed that last ounce of detail from the fussy bits of characterisation that were in the McVicar Glyndebourne production – the little to’s-and-fro’s between the Mastersingers in the crowd scenes.  The production’s big, bright colours and model buildings intended to be symbolic of Nuremberg are efficient enough, but I think I was left wanting more of the detail of the people within them, such as McVicar achieved at Glyndebourne.  In those big scenes, the chorus were on lusty form, and really let rip to thrilling effect in ‘Wach auf!’.  Sir Antonio Pappano – as we might now refer to him (or does he have to wait for the trip to the Palace? Anyway…) – produced a fabulous big sound, allied to the well-managed dramatic propulsion that we have come to expect in his Wagner.  I wondered momentarily if it didn’t miss some of the breathing space for the detail of the characters, but I can’t really provide any concrete backup for that assertion! Anyway, who am I to take away from the thoroughly deserved thunderous welcome that the audience gave him when he entered the pit – a privilege to have contributed to, for sure.

I’m sure, if you’re Birmingham-headed, the reduction to semi-staged concert performance will only bring out further details from this very sound cast.  I do wish I was seeing it, but can’t quite justify the journey on a ‘school night’.

By an odd, and nicely symmetrical, coincidence my operatic year began and ended with Humperdinck’s Hänsel und Gretel, starting at the Royal Opera House and finishing in the altogether more bijou King’s Head Theatre in Islington. Neither make it into a list of highlights, however enjoyable that opera inevitably is.

Wagner got a reasonable outing, not least an excellent and intense Parsifal at ENO with John Tomlinson dominating and the excellent Stuart Skelton playing the fool made wise by pity.  If there’s a league table, it was probably pipped to the top spot by the remarkable Glyndebourne Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, a presentation revelatory in its intimacy and detail, with a strong sense of ensemble about it, albeit anchored around a thoughtful and moving Hans Sachs from Gerald Finley. After disappointment in the roulette game that is the Glyndebourne Associate Membership ballot, perseverance in the search for returns proved worth the effort. A trip to Manchester for the Hallé’s Die Walküre introduced the truly astonishing Bridgewater Hall, with an expansive performance led by Sir Mark Elder.  Expansive would be a charitable description of parts of Jeffrey Tate’s Der Fliegende Holländer in November: whilst some parts flew, others dragged in what was nevertheless, on the whole, a rewarding performance.

Verdi was the year’s dominant composer, just (which would have pleased Wagner, no doubt).  Aïda was a moderate success, with an early introduction to one of the year’s knockout (almost literally) performers, Liudmyla Monastyrska.  Monastyrska returned in Macbeth with a voice of such thunderous weight and gleaming accuracy it was truly a joy to behold. As the year ran to a close, that old warhorse La Traviata seemed to be on at Covent Garden twice-nightly with three shows on Saturday.  What had looked lacklustre on paper was brought ravishingly to life when Ailyn Pérez donned the big frocks for a performance that packed its punch in the dramatic later acts rather than the glittering first act, but which chalked up one of the most impressive performances of the work since Gheorghiu launched it in 1994.

Verdi was of course the basis for that centrepiece of the operatic calendar: the marking of 40 years’ performing at Covent Garden by Placido Domingo.  Chunks of Simon Boccanegra, Rigoletto and (less successfully) Otello brought a real ensemble feel to the celebrations.  Some carped, which in a cold light might have been justified, but it seemed ungracious when applied to the earnest endeavours of so generous a performer.

My personal battle with Massenet continued: dreary Werther did nothing to improve my impression of the composer, despite Rolando Villazón’s best (and actually, quite impressive) endeavours.  On the other hand, a sparkling and completely bonkers Cendrillon was wonderfully diverting, driven by a stellar group of mezzos led by Joyce DiDonato, Alice Coote and Ewa Podlés, with Église Gutierrez impressing as the Fairy. Which, unfortunately, I can’t say she did when she took the lead role in Bellini’s La Sonnambula.  I had eagerly anticipated my first encounter with this work, but it was a production of such dreary proportions that there was no life in the work.  Gutierrez’s voice remains a baffling enigma to me.

Of other first encounters, Puccini stands out: 2011 was the year of my first Madama Butterfly and Il Trittico and they made a powerful impression.  Suor Angelica was the outstanding element of the Trittico, with Ermonela Jaho a stand-in for Anja Harteros, delivering a vivid and painful performance as Angelica.  The Butterfly was also a replacement, this time for Patricia Racette: Kristine Opolais brought vocal steel and strength to the performance, led in high-melodrama style by her husband, Andris Nelsons.  Puccini was the driver behind the summer’s big event, a two-night Tosca of Gheorghiu/Kaufmann/Terfel, for which the ROH cocked up the ticket allocations, leaving a select band of four-ticket holders for the main event, and many others (me included) forced to pay the same exorbitant prices for one of eight altogether more routine performances from Serafin/Giordani/Uusitalo.  Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and they seem to have learned: 2012′s big-cast (Gheorghiu/Alagna) Bohème has differential pricing and a two-ticket limit, although this time the other casts (one led by Anja Harteros) also promise almost as much.

The Tsar’s Bride appeared and will doubtless be a long time reappearing, vaguely engaging though it was. Although Lucrezia Borgia has not languished so far from our stages as has the Tsar’s Bride, ENO’s crack at it was as dramatically disastrous as it was vocally rewarding, with Clare Rutter delivering her all whilst trying to make something of a setting that looked like the last dregs of a furniture shop closing-down sale.  The insertion of preposterous, tedious ‘films’ between acts was a risible cherry on the top of this particular sunken cake – I have fond memories of two thousand people groaning slightly when the screen swished down for the fourth time.  ENO’s flirtation with opera novice film directors did, however, bring us more impressive fayre in the form of The Damnation of Faust, where Terry Gilliam’s Nazi setting worked surprisingly well, with Christine Rice pouring forth velvet as the destroyed heroine and Christopher Purves giving a suave and dangerous Mephistopheles.

ENO was on controversial form for Britten’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which foregrounded unsavoury power games in a secondary school and brought some moody, dynamic interest to what is probably reigning at the top of my league of least favourite operas. It’ll be a while before I give it another go, irrespective of what any director does with it.  Their foray, initially much welcomed, into French Baroque opera, with Rameau’s Castor et Pollux, again wasted the considerable singing talents on display by saddling them with a dull production that fitted the theatre badly and made the most flaccid use of on-stage nudity in recent memory.

Speaking of matters outré, there was of course that Anna Nicole, about which it would almost certainly be better to say nothing.  I will, however, allow myself mention of the almost inconceivable waste of tremendous operatic resources, not to mention the stellar efforts of the marketing department, on something so trivial and unilluminating it had no business being on the stage of the Linbury, let alone the main stage of the Royal Opera House.  Maybe some of the smaller venues could have made this little lollipop work…

In those smaller venues around town, interesting things were happening with varying success.  Wilton’s Music Hall triumphed with an all-male Iolanthe, a remarkably faithful interpretation of one of the greatest G&S’s emerging freshly from beneath the camp.  The King’s Head, gave an interesting ‘Barber of Salisbury’, but the combination of big trained voices and a small space led to quite a bit of ‘operatic convention’ in place of genuine acting and, ultimately, a slight headache.  The same feeling persisted in the energetic but not tremendously successful Hänsel und Gretel that drew my year to a close.  Covent Garden and St Martin’s Lane appear to be safe from the challenge posed by London’s Little Opera House for the time being.

So, all-in-all, despite only moderate enthusiasm at the start of the year, this was quite a rewarding – and frequently surprising – year.  Next year has a Ring Cycle, Kaufmann in Les Troyens, more Mozart/da Ponte than you can shake a baton at, a liberal dose of the usual Verdis and Puccinis, more Meistersinger, the hangover of that mammoth Traviata run, a Salome, and I’m sure a lot more.  I can’t imagine it providing the same number of personal discoveries and surprises as 2011, but then again, you never can tell…

All of the performances were unflagging, but were forced to work very hard to overcome the rather drab presentation.  Most grievous of all was the lack of a transformation when the Witch took the children into her kitchen: some UV light revealed marks on the tree bark that had been the forest and a clump of trees, you eventually realised, was a cell for Hänsel.  A flickering light from one of the exit doors marked this out as the kitchen/oven, but not in any way that made sense until it was too late.  Lots of galloping about with a broomstick tried to make sense of the Witch’s Ride in the third act.  The dream sequence, although actually quite effective in the end, lacked any atmospheric lighting, so that I began by thinking ‘why are the parents here? If they find each other now, then what happens in the next act?’ – only subsequently realising this was, in fact, the dream pantomime.

Danae Eleni delivered a clear-voiced, bright Gretel, whilst Laura Kelly’s Hänsel took a little longer to settle in, and her fruity mezzo made her words more difficult to determine in the small space.  Mother and Father were Janet AN Fischer and Ian Wilson-Pope, he being particularly clarion as well as clearer of diction.  Rosalind Coad and Alexandra Stevenson were Sandman and Dew Fairy (a nice production trick had the Dew Fairy as a drunk/hungover party reveller, supping coffee to revive herself, although if you hadn’t known what function she played in the story, you’d have left none the wiser). Finally, the Witch of Ian Massa-Harris (incidentally also responsible for make-up design) was an unrelenting old-lady drag presentation, which played heavily on the darker implications of a man luring children to an unpleasant end but, ultimately, desperately needed a kitchen transformation for the last act in order to provide some counterweight to this grim sensibility, thereby placing the story back in the realm of the fantastical, from which it draws its greater power.

And so what of that initial qualm: the reduction of the score to a piano arrangement?  Actually, this was the absolute highlight of the performance.  Kelvin Lim, a few slips aside, played tirelessly to conjure a beautifully spare, but nonetheless resonant and decidedly Romantic, account of this many-layered score.  The dream sequence, in particular, spun out beautiful lines of melody. The old jangly upright has been replaced by a grand, albeit that this replaces one problem with another and now, instead of being slightly jarring in its coarse sound, it is now rather too loud for the performers, which adds to that unsettling relentlessness.

It’s always enjoyable to see Hänsel und Gretel again although, ultimately, I tend to think it’s a piece for bigger forces and spaces.  With a more imaginative production, however, I’d be pleased to be proved wrong.  Wilton’s Music Hall, perhaps…?

There’s little needs saying about the production: it delivers, and continues to do so handsomely and straightforwardly.  A succession of casts both great and not-so-great have passed through it since it debut’d in 1994.  This was definitely one of the best.

Ailyn Pérez was last seen in these parts (and for the first time) opposite Domingo in the Rigoletto act of his recent extravaganza, having also joined their Traviata tour to Japan.  She impressed, albeit with not a great deal to go on.  There had been some very appreciative remarks on Twitter about her Violetta, one seasoned operatic twitterer being especially complimentary, as well as various positive reviews.  So there was some expectation and, it is fair to say that by the end of Act 1 I was distinctly unsure.  There was certainly no feeling of effortlessness associated with the coloratura of Sempre libera.  Although the voice was strong and well-projected, with a nice richness to the tone, it didn’t seem to be quite fitting.  That said, there was a detail to the acting which boded well for the intensified drama of later acts.  But still, I wasn’t sure, although it was certainly all very interesting.

By the end of Act 2 scene 1, this seemed a different performance.  Her voice just seemed to have come alive in response to the more dramatic and conversational demands of this act, sounding much more secure and forthright, but with a fabulous warmth to it.  Her characterisation of Violetta had an honest reality and believability that really made the scenes with Germont pére fly, and the gambling scene was similarly intense.  The third act was shattering, with all the elements in place: desperation at not seeing Alfredo again, rage at the injustice of her death, resignation and touching self-sacrifice at Prendi: quest’è l’immagine. It was a well-shaped performance overall, and a very special incarnation in this production.

Simon Keenlyside was that Germont pére, and I am a bit torn.  Vocally, he was utterly fantastic, a secure and nuanced vocal portrayal.  However, therein may lie the problem: he was in almost too rude vocal health.  Even with a bit of ageing makeup, some hair whitening and a push for an aged gait, he still seemed too young to be the grand old man of Act 2.  He and Perez played off each other fantastically, though, and with all these reservations, they still made that conversational scene the high point that it should be.

As Alfredo, Piotr Beczala was a verismo singer trapped in a Verdian character.  In the main, there was a slightly stolid dramatic sense to accompany his heroically secure voice.  His acting seemed to suffer for want of the sort of histrionics that are built-in to verismo, but need more careful unearthing from this more delicate Verdian confection. Act 3 was his high point, though, and in particular one very special moment indeed, where he redeemed (for me) the placing of Parigi, o cara in the midst of such tragedy.  Normally, it sounds to my ears so ‘oom-pah-pah‘ and out of place in the finely crafted drama that surrounds it.  But. with a breathtakingly reined-in, blanched tone to the opening verse, which completely took me by surprise, he conveyed with real power the idea that this duet is an over-optimistic – and heart-breaking – attempt to convince themselves that better times could be ahead.

Patrick Lange conducted a Traviata in the grand style, perhaps a little slow here and there, mostly in Act 1, but overall a very effective pacing of the drama. The steady tread of Act 2 scene 2 was well managed, and the intensity of Act 3 was well-balanced between giving the angst its due space, without stretching it out to become languorous.  Supporting cast and chorus all contributed myriad details to the dramatic presentation.

A truly fantastic night, one of the most effortlessly enjoyable nights of opera I can recall for some time.  It will certainly be interesting to see how this performance compares with that involving Ms Pérez’s husband, Stephen Costello, alongside Netrebko in January.  Given Ms Netrebko’s track record, there must be a fair chance of a last-minute call to get husband and wife together on stage…

A couple of weeks back, we did the backstage tour of the Coliseum and I had intended to write it up but never got around to it.  And then I remembered I had some photos that I took, so I needed to do something with them.  Anyway, herewith the photos.  I can’t recommend the tour highly enough.  Compared to the ROH tour I remember doing a few years back, it was a much more relaxed affair and we got into all sorts of interesting places in the backstage warren.  I seem to remember photography not being allowed on the ROH tour, although that might have changed now.  It’s a real pleasure being able to flex your photographic muscles in an interesting building like this.

It was also an insight into the difficulties that ENO have in making the cramped Coliseum building work for them, when compared to the room for expansion that was available to the ROH under their refurbishment.  Without the ability to store a set from one opera on-site whilst another is on stage, lorries trundle several times daily from St Martin’s Lane up to Bromley-by-Bow and back to swap scenery between last night’s show, the next show and any rehearsals.  And there is only one rehearsal room in the building; the rest of the rehearsals happen in bars around the theatre, which is why (and I have always wondered!) there’s a piano in practically every bar.

There were interesting snippets on the history of the building, which as any regular probably knows was more of a theatre of varieties than an opera house, which explains the wide auditorium (and largest proscenium in London) with good views from practically all seats (even if some are acoustically more dodgy than others).  The canteen is now in what was the ‘triple revolve’, with central, middle and outer revolves that could turn independently, which was apparently a boon during the onstage horse-racing that was just one of the many barmy things that happened there in its early years.

Apparently, during the refurbishments, attempts to replace the infamously uncomfortable Balcony seating were blocked by English Heritage, who were keen to preserve one of the last remaining Edwardian theatre balcony seating arrangements… So when your back next gives out in the last act of Götterdammerung, you know who to blame.

The pics are more arty than documentary…

Tagged: architecture, English National Opera, photography, theatre ]]> http://recitative.wordpress.com/2011/11/27/snoop-backstage-at-eno/feed/ 2 WappingMark The Coliseum The ornate Coliseum tower The Upper Circle Bar One of the rooms in one of the bars The curtain More arty pictures of seats! The Auditorium ceiling Bonkers 'Roman' ornamentation Coliseum Auditorium The Triple Revolve, now Canteen The Conductor's Room The Auditorium, seen from the Orchestra Pit Stalls Seating Stalls Seating http://recitative.wordpress.com/2011/11/26/looking-down-on-ruddigore/ http://recitative.wordpress.com/2011/11/26/looking-down-on-ruddigore/#comments Sat, 26 Nov 2011 14:02:01 +0000 RestrictedView http://recitative.wordpress.com/?p=848 Continue reading →]]> Tricky to write too much about this Opera North performance of Ruddigore at the Barbican Theatre.  From row B of the (two-row) Balcony, which sits under a rather dramatic overhang so that one feels a little ‘packed away’, it is difficult to properly appreciate what gave every appearance of being a strong, spirited performance of a relative G&S rarity.

I can’t recall having been to the Barbican Theatre before, and certainly not for opera.  From the orchestra’s first note, the acoustic struck me immediately as distinctly odd: incredibly dry and lacking in any warmth.  This had the advantage of helping the performers to delineate the vocal trickery of which Gilbert is the supreme master.  However, at such a distance as the rear balcony, by the time it reached us it was a rather cold, un-atmospheric result.  There was a further barrier in that singers, inevitably, sang out to the people a long way below us, making for a rather variable volume and projection.  It was a broadly unsatisfactory experience, all told, for a rather unreasonable £25.

That being said, the economics of these things mean a need to balance costs in order to make the touring as economic as it could be.  I just think I shall try and see Opera North nearer to their home in future.  I won’t be rushing back to the Barbican Theatre unless I can stump up the £70 (or equivalent) for a stalls seat.

The production was clever and energetic, leanly presenting the story and providing a really atmospheric Act 2 when the pictures came alive.  Amongst the performers, Steven Page’s Sir Roderic Murgatroyd made a very strong impression; the younger characters were all vivaciously presented, Hal Cazalet’s Richard Dauntless, in particular, being a remarkable mover.

The piece was an interesting one; I wish I’d known it better before I went.  It’s not as immediately appealing as the more ‘core’ G&S repertory, but it was clear that it would repay further delving.  I found the character of Mad Margaret a bit tiring, and the ending is even flimsier and clunkier than the usual G&S operetta.  Nonetheless, I thank Opera North for an introduction to a new (to me) G&S, and will continue to delve…

Postscript

Incidentally, I was reminded that Opera North were my first introduction to opera: a performance of Orpheus in the Underworld at the (then newly-refurbished) Lyceum Theatre, Sheffield, circa 1992.  I loved it, and have had a soft spot for Orphée aux Enfer ever since.  Bravo and thanks for that!

Admittedly, it picked up in the second half, but the persistent lack of spirit was never far from the surface.  I think this is to be mostly attributed to Daniel Oren’s soporific, even limp, reading of the piece, but the lead soloists are also to share some of the responsibility.

I remain baffled by Eglise Gutiérrez.  I read others’ reflections on her performances and they wax lyrical about her trills and her stratospheric capacities, and I have no desire or reason to contradict them.  She can clearly turn her voice to some remarkable things.  And yet… there is something so controlled, so husbanded about these moments that there is almost the feeling of a separate gear into which she must shift in order that she can despatch the complexity of the more fiendish passages.  Having been disappointed by her Linda di Chamounix, I thought her La Fée in Cendrillon to be a wonderfully ethereal and glitzy performance.  Here, she didn’t deliver a particularly effective ensemble performance, and drafted in many stock operatic acting tics: collapsing into chairs; stretching out arms; clasping bosom, quite frequently facing the audience.  And all the while, it was an individualistic, showy, but not especially thrilling sort of vocal performance.  I longed for the sort of extrovert style that Damrau or Dessay bring to this sort of business, certainly with brighter tone, if not the sort of fearless danger that Dessay exhibits.  Yet, in each sparkling moment, somehow it all went cool and slightly dimmed.  Her final number was enjoyable, but its solo success somehow just confirms what was missing from the rest of the performance.

The same allegations of coolness couldn’t be levelled at Celso Albelo as Elvino.  The Canarian tenor displayed a brash approach to Bellini, with some quite remarkable ‘yelping’ for the money notes that entirely broke any line or flow.  He did manage some more beautiful passages, but alas by then the expectation of a convincing dramatic portrayal had long been set aside, so they failed to really make any impact.  I remain to be convinced of his position in the much-vaunted ‘future of bel canto’ leagues…

The stage was consistently enlivened by Elena Xanthoudakis and Michele Pertusi as, respectively, a sassy Lisa and a Rodolfo of coy gravitas.  I really noticed Elizabeth Sikora as a rich, strong, characterful Teresa.  I actually thought (and you’ll have gathered that there was plenty of time for musing) that she would make an excellent Marquise de Berkenfield in La Fille du Regiment.

The production itself was an elegant single set: greys and greens forming an art deco (art nouveau?) hotel interior.  Squeezing everything into this richly-designed space took a few liberties with the story (her precipitous sleepwalking on a cliff-edge was transposed to a wobbly table, for example).  The closing passage, which Amina begins in front of the opera house curtain, was a nicely refreshing view, which was probably also telling in its way.  I’m not sure people moved very efficiently around the set: the chorus looked as though they had been left to their own devices a lot of the time; the lighting was nothing to write home about.

As I write, I realise I’m sounding grumpy and uncharitable.  By the end of the first act, I was viewing this as one of the most dull, boring, lacklustre hour-and-a-bits I’d spent in an opera house (and particularly this opera house) for a long time.  A bronchial, bangle-jangling, item-dropping Saturday audience seemed to agree.  By the close of the piece, I was a bit more conciliatory.  So what would most have improved matters?  I think it has to be a more dynamic, engaged approach by the conductor.  Slow numbers were dragged out beyond their fragile capabilities; and no matter how well the ROH orchestra played, the more spritely numbers consistently failed to take flight.

At this, my first viewing of this gentle piece, there was enough of a glimpse into its qualities to make me look forward to a further encounter with Sonnambula.   However, in itself, I can’t say that this was an entirely satisfying encounter with the work.

It was notable for a very split approach to the pacing of the drama: onwards from the meeting of Senta and the Dutchman, right through to the conclusion, it was electric; Senta’s Ballad, however, seemed to me a perverse essay in how slowness can be confused with profundity and, momentarily, it threatened to derail the whole two-hour-and-a-half hour enterprise.

Albery’s production is a stark, relatively efficient affair.  The copious rain that washes down the swirling curtain during the overture is a great effect, conjuring ominous nautical storms… but also setting one’s bladder on edge at the start of such a long slog of an opera.  The gaunt gunmetal grey slope of the stage conjures an image of the imposing prow of a merchant vessel, with the only really significant interventions being the flying-in of banks of sewing machines for the spinning scene and the addition of a gangplank for the conclusion when the Dutchman takes his leave.  There are incidents of detail within that, two of which are notable: the shadow that sweeps steadily across the stage, eerily complementing the music that announces the arrival of the Dutchman’s vessel; and the preparations for Senta’s Ballad, when the seamstresses switch off their individual fluorescent lamps, a series of little clicks and a steady darkening to throw focus on the imminent story-telling.  One a chilling effect; one delightfully domestic and human-scale.  Less successful is a lot of business with a model boat that sits on a continuous moat separating stage from pit.  Whilst not offensive, it’s a bit opaque and, occasionally, clumsy.  Senta’s death, which is intended to set the seal on her commitment to be true until death, and therefore to be the Dutchman’s salvation, is curiously fudged and I can’t honestly say whether she did or didn’t die and, therefore, whether he is or isn’t saved.  She just sort of flopped to the ground under the weight of her model boat, and I’m genuinely none the wiser about what this production is trying to say.  As the harbour community shrink away from her, after her attempts to cling to the Dutchman’s gangplank, there are hints of the oppression of Britten’s Peter Grimes, but alas nothing like enough to really justify reinterpreting (or, at any rate, blurring) the ending.

Anyway, that’s not the be-all and end-all, really (even if it is supposed to be for Senta).  Along the way, we were treated to some very committed performances of these demanding lead roles.  As the Dutchman, Egils Silins was in a subtle, lyrical vein, rather than a more overt, dramatic portrayal.  Up close (i.e. through the binoculars) he was remarkably steady in his acting of the alienated Dutchman, darkly uncertain around his new admirer and her father.  It wasn’t a declamatory voice, but he held the line with solid clarity and maintained the long span with consistency.

In the fiendish role of Senta, Anja Kampe has proved her mettle in the production before and she did so again.  Her voice is a steely sound and she seemed remarkably unflagging in a taxing role, with the high-octane final scene wanting for nothing in terms of projection and stability in the face of the histrionics.   Her diminutive figure casts Senta in a thrillingly realistic light.  She was captivatingly intense, throwing a real question mark over what is really going on for this woman who believes the myth, and then so readily meets the myth on his own terms.  As one of our company remarked, as the final chord fell to silence: “what a f**ked-up opera.”  I would suggest that the detail and disturbing commitment of Kampe is largely to be credited for the power of this performance.

As Erik, Endrik Wottrich deployed a rather constricted tone, which despite a steadiness and consistency sat curiously at odds with his solid frame and large-scale acting.  As a portrayal of Senta’s alternative, earth-bound love option, it missed the subtlety of Kampe herself in painting the portrait.  As her father, Stephen Milling was rich, solid and naturalistic in his acting.  Well, as naturalistic as you can be when you’re readily offering up your daughter to a complete stranger in exchange for a few jewels: a moment that still seems to me to be of relatively rare clumsiness and lack of insight for Wagner, almost not sufficiently developed in the relatively short scene in which Daland achieves this conversion.

So, to that issue in the pacing, then.  Jeffrey Tate was almost ceremoniously welcomed back into the opera house; and with good reason.  As the House’s Principal Guest Conductor during Solti’s reign, he has a notable pedigree.  The whole score was imbued with a dramatic, rhythmic propulsion of really exciting measure.  It was all the more remarkable to see such spareness of gesture giving rise to this terrifying tumult.  However, there is just this tricky issue of Senta’s Ballad (and the equivalent section of the overture), when the whole world slowed to a remarkable, stultifying, infuriating degree.  I can scarcely remember a time when I have more wanted to throw a rope over the front of the Amphitheatre slips, scale down to the Stalls, push to the front of row A, take the baton off the conductor and start in myself: picking up the pace and getting us back to the dramatic pulse.  It was a very curious approach indeed.  And yet, I can’t deny – indeed, have no itching to deny – the genuinely exciting thrust and power of the moments from Senta’s Ballad onwards.  The orchestra had been drilled with a dramatic bite which powered the performance to its conclusion.  The scene where the chorus of partying shipmates and their land-locked women do musical battle with a sinister chorus of the Dutchman’s crew was just mind-blowing.  Orchestra and chorus were on top form in pursuit of some of opera’s most gutsy music and drama.

The conclusion was shattering and, I suppose, that’s the way it should be: if it sagged very slightly in the middle, it was in no way akin to an unsuccessful soufflé.  This was a full-blooded Holländer, richly rewarding to the very last bite.  We were sent out into the night to go and chew over the details over a bottle of full-bodied red: just the sort of behaviour that opera should provoke in a group of friends.