Opera
Naughty North
Rodney Milnes
Samson et Delft; Dido and Aeneas & Les MameIles de Tinesias (Leeds) The two opening productions of the new English National Opera North constituted a greater triumph than I would have thought possible. Many, but not ail, the principal singers were familiar; the excellent supporting players were not, and they will form the backbone that a busy repertory company desperately needs. Best of all were the new chorus and orchestra, who had had to learn and rehearse these three widely differing pieces in a matter of a month. The firm-toned, alert choral singing gave consistent pleasure over the two evenings, as did the clear and crisp orchestral playing, and there was a good balance between pit and stage. Indeed the overall clarity of sound was ideal — every word told —and the plushy Grand Theatre, another of Matcham's Victorian gems, should prove as great an asset to the new company as Glasgow's Theatre Royal is to Scottish Opera.
Some doubts were cast by serious persons over the suitability of the Saint-Saens piece as an opener. One of the world's great operas it may not be — Cecil B. de Mille really, but with better music — though after L'Africaine it seemed a blazing masterpiece. With improving choral music for the Jews and skittish dances for Delilah and her maidens in act One, that tune (and it is still one of the best ever) in act Two, and a whizz-bang orgy in act Three, it seems just the job for the gala opening of a brave new venture, especially as the temple comes crashing down on the Philistines at the end. Bit of a problem there, though. I'm sure the Philistines, whose sins seem to consist of not wearing enough clothes, dancing a great deal, and copulating in public, were frightfully shocking a hundred years ago, but today, well, cost fan tutti to judge from all I read about New York. I now enjoy an idle fantasy of Lord Longford demolishing the art deco pillars of the New Victoria when Studio 54 finally arrives there.
By which I mean to suggest that producer and designer, Patrick Libby and John Stoddart, went at the piece with a refreshing lack of anything as inhibiting as good taste, and in this they were supported by the splendid Katherine Pring as Delilah. Not content with a skirt slashed to what Keats so coyly named the 'fragrant zone', she also accidentally exposed her bust at the end of the second act. Sybil Sanderson lives (arcane operatic joke). The Daily Mirror noticed that, like M. Willy (ditto), but being too busy watching Samson having his eyes put out, I missed it. She went on television next day to tell the great British public about it. Good girl, I say. She sang well too. What with the boys and girls of the ballet showing lots of every known zone and simulating intercourse like billy-oh, there was something for everyone. I couldn't have liked it more. If this leg show doesn't spur local authorities, made up, surely, of tired businessmen, into coughing up the L375,000-odd needed to keep the company going, then nothing will.
Down to earth. Gilbert Py, after an unsteady start, made a stalwart Samson and was, I understand, the chief reason for the piece being sung in passable French. The libretto is a joke in any language ('arrete ces transports') so no matter. The smaller roles were excellently done, and David Lloyd Jones conducted the lively old war-horse with spirit. The sets suggested spectacle modestly —the production has to tour and Graham Large's clever lighting enhanced the suggestion. But the temple fell down in a flurry of strobe lights and feather-light pillars, at least I hope they were feather-light for the sake of those prettily wriggling chorines..
Dido and Aeneas, in a beautifully simple, eloquent, faintly ritualistic production by Ian Watt-Smith, hit the intoxicated audience with the force of a triple Fernet Branca the following evening. Seldom have I been so moved by a Dido as I was by Ann Murray's, and the sight of one of my most cynical and stoney-hearted colleagues looking a little red around the eyes suggested I was not alone. Her technique is as cast-iron as her phrasing is expressive and her involvement in the character total. A great performance. Once again the choral singing was wholly admirable.
I don't think it is just guilt at having enjoyed Samson so much that made me a bit stern about John Copley 's production of the Poulenc. In general, farce is twice as funny if played straight. This is certainly true of the theatre manager's prologue, here camped up a treat, and I think the breast-balloon joke would have been even more hilarious if Joy Roberts hadn't thought it was. But Stuart Harling had moments of fine harrassment as the child-bearing husband, Joan Edwards (newspaper seller), Keith Mills (journalist) and Martin McEvoy (gendarme) gave needle-sharp performances, and the whole cast went through the motions of this crisply choreographed romp with such zest that I was almost converted. I'm not sure why the gentlemen of the chorus were dressed only in under pants and sock suspenders, but expect the was a reason. In terms of allure the results were variable. The piece was sung in a Witt but uncredited translation, with the title left decently obscure. The best thing about the performance was the suave and soPhis. ticated playing of the orchestra under Clive Timms. I think I shall be going to Leeds rather often.
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