OPERA
Viva Verdi!
Hugh Macpherson
To listen on successive evenings to a goodly part of The Force of Destiny at the Coliseum, followed by Covent Garden's justly renowned Falstaff is to marvel at the. genius that was Verdi. The Coliseum production is a fine introduction to one of the old master's most melodious works, with sterling performances from Clifford Grant, whose sonorous bass would grace any theatre in the world, and the redoubtable Katherine Pring, who is perfectly cast as Preziosilla.
Falstaff is one of the supreme acts of musical genius. That the octogenarian composer should produce this glowing epilogue, this seamless tapestry of joyous sound, is truly an affirmation of life as a cup to be drunk with much gusto. And when Falstaff sallies forth from the Garter Inn, who but a complete churl could not be bewitched by the rogue's company? Coming the night after Forza, when Verdi is knee-deep in gore and death, I fancied that some of the spirits who dance round the frightened old knight in Windsor Forest were from the sulphurous work that came before: all those sopranos who preferred death to dishonour or sometimes soon afterwards; the baritones who put the ladies in their predicaments; the paternal basses who variously condemned or forgave their wayward daughters; and those mezzo voluptuaries who took over the tenors before the sopranos' bodies were cold. It will be gathered that I found Falstaff enchanting.
Much is due to Aldo Ceccato's handling of the orchestra which produced the right balance of sparkle and mellowness — for these ears anyway. The young lovers, Elizabeth Robson and Ryland Davies, were not only ardent but visually absolutely right for the part; Regina Resnik poked a rib and nudged a side to great effect as ever; and Richard Van Allan and Robert Bowman as Pistol and Bardolph were a suitably rumbustious pair of villains.
And what of the fat old knight himself? It was Peter Glossop's first Covent Garden Falstaff. Sometimes it is felt that Mr Glossop is not sufficiently honoured in his own country. I am inclined to agree. He is one of the greatest Rigolettos of the postwar period and his lago has grown into a highly individual, bluff and corrupted schemer. Not so long ago I heard him in a broadcast from Italy of Ernani in which he sang the heads off a cast which included Montserrat Caballe and Christoff. Yet recording companies and British critics have often overlooked Mr Glossop's great contribution to international opera.
This had to be said because I do not think his Falstaff is, as yet, a great one. There is a certain lack of pathos in his soliloquy ' Mondo labro, Mondo rubaldo 'not assisted by the fact that the entire audience seemed to have contracted tuberculosis. Nor did he quite convey the confusion of the old man in Windsor Forest — especially when he had nothing to sing. But how well he dispatched those rogues Pistol and Bardolph. And he swaggers splendidly forth to his ill-fated romances. This Falstaff will grow and mature — or should one say ripen and decay. A splendid evening. The final fugue tells all — jesting is man's vocation.
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