Op e ra Guillaume Tell (Covent Garden) Capriccio (Glyndebourne)
Of Coxes and castration
Rodney MIInes
You can't win of course, certainly not with hacks. The Royal Opera's new pro- duction of Rossini's last masterpiece one of the greatest of all operas — is traditional and naturalistic, so they all say how boring, old-fashioned and typical of Covent Garden. Had John Cox elected to set it in present-day Lithuania, he would have been attacked for being trendy, pre- dictable, after a job at the Coliseum, and hasn't Andrei Serban done all that any- way? I think Cox made the right choice, and a brave one: he pays the audience the compliment of trusting them to make the necessary connection and at the same time marvel at the sort of revolutionary fervour we used to think started with early Verdi and (more guardedly) Meyerbeer: but Rossini had done it all before. The only peculiar moment is the triple castration (mostly off-stage) at the end of the first act, which seemed to have strayed in from a Harry Kupfer production of The Bartered Bride, though I am happy to be able to report that the three gentlemen in question are restored and whole again in time for the third-act ballet.
The best thing about the production is that virtually the whole text is performed.
It's a long evening — five hours, but all of them feel a great deal shorter than any of Wagner's notorious quarts d'heure. The piece moves at its own majestic pace and is perfectly structured in dramatic terms. Especially exciting is the long (nearly 90 minutes) first act, in which not very much happens and which is so often a target for the trimmer's shears. Musically it is of bewildering richness — I would defend every bar of it to the death — and dramatically it presents in necessary detail the pastoral society that is going to have to change.
The full version of the fourth act, too, is enormously rewarding. It is truly the epic's musical climax, and the idea of cutting the women's trio or the Prayer, as often happened, is simply unthinkable after ex- perience of them in the theatre. The third act, with the apple, can't fail; oddly enough it is the famous second act, equally often performed in the 19th century on its own as a gala item, in which you might argue (though not in my presence) that Rossini's musical invention momentarily falters in the Patriotic Trio and the tenor-soprano duet. But they are surrounded by riches enough in the soprano's 'Sombre foret' (it would have taken Wagner three hours to create the effect of the soft drum roll in the ritornello) and the magnificent triple chor- us for the Ruth oath-taking.
The production, devotedly conducted by Michel Plasson and very properly sung in French, is strongly cast. In the title role Gregory Yurisich projects wholesome pat- riotic sentiment without a hint of embar- rassment, and Ewa Podles and Linda Kitchen are outstanding as his wife and son. On the evening I attended, Lelia Cuberli was a little tentative as Mathilde, and there was a sensation when Chris Merritt, one of the few tenors capable of tackling Arnold today (I heard him sing the socks off it at La Scala) fell ill. Miraculous- ly there was a cover in Justin Lavender, who by pacing himself cunningly and de- clining to try anything he knew he couldn't do, came through with colours flying.
'This should put them off.' `Asile hereditaire' was quite exquisitely sung.
Just when the unworthy thought was crossing one's mind that Cox's 17-year-old production of Capriccio might have had its day, it has returned in its best state for many a long year, impeccably rehearsed, and conducted by Bernard Haitink at his &lest. Familiar cast-members — Felicity Lott at her most radiant, the increasingly excellent David Kuebler, the effortlessly authoritative Ernst Gutstein — have never been better. Newcomers include Brigitte Fassbaender making her Glyndebourne debut with a supremely witty impersona- tion of Clairon (what wicked eyes she has), Jeffrey Black as a wholesome, rugger- hearty Count (the characterisation skilfully adapted by Cox to suit him), and Francis Egerton easily assuming the immortal Hugues Cuenod's mantle as the Prompter. The only scintilla of criticism I can muster is that Fassbaender's heels should be half an inch higher. Otherwise this is an even- ing that demonstrates with blinding clarity what Glyndebourne is all about, and it is worth committing quite serious crimes to obtain tickets.
Some strange names have been conjured up to describe the music of Gerald Barry's new opera at the Almeida, Glass and Kagel among them. Rats. The Irish com- poser's spiky musical language continues the fine tradition of 20th-century neo- classicism: Stravinsky, Hindemith and Weill spring to mind, especially Stravinsky in the word-setting, resourceful manipula- tion of 18th-century formulae, and tenor- baritone partnership in a pastiche 18th- century action. What may have made fellow writers hostile to a new opera I thoroughly enjoyed was the production by David Fielding, who added his own brand of visual surrealist fantasy to a plot that was already quite surreal enough: the mixture was over-rich.
The opera deals with a subject dear to most writers, the Work Block (aka bone idleness). In this case a composer finds inspiration from a star castrato singer who eventually runs off with the girl the com- poser should be marrying for money. The ending remains open, I think. Anyway. Barry has finished his opera. The London run has ended, but anyone in Dublin next week can catch it at the Gate Theatre, whose pit should help audibility of the words.
With which, gentle reader, I take my leave. Twenty years is a long time, and I sometimes feel that I have been writing what you expected to read, and that you have been reading what you expectd me to write. Predictability is journalism's worst enemy, and I must find a new readership to tease. I leave you safe in the hands of Rupert Christiansen, who may be as unsafe on Donizetti as I am on Wagner, but is otherwise as sound and sane a fellow as you could hope to meet. Thank you for having me.
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