Opera
New Year (Glyndebourne)
Sharing the light
Rodney Milnes
There are many astonishing things ab- out Tippett's fifth opera, not least that at an age — 85, bless him! — when compos- ers might settle for gentle rechauffe recycl- ing, he should have written so youthful and original a piece, one of positively Verdian vigour and engagement. Not that the musical language is new — the familiar Tippettian melisma, the full-frontal lyric- ism, the spiky instrumental colours and rhythms here intensified by saxophones, guitars and electronics are all present — but there is a spareness in its deployment that recalls King Priam with, however, an added lushness absent from that dauntingly severe early masterpiece. New Year is above all theatrical: there is an admirable tautness to the musical dramaturgy, not a note is there that needn't be, the accom- paniments are often surprisingly light, and words audible — things that cannot consis- tently be said of, say, The Midsummer Marriage. The three acts are perfectly proportioned (short, shorter, shortest) and the piece ends with almost unforgivable abruptness at just the moment when you want it to go on for at least another quarter of an hour. There are very few operas indeed of which that can be said.
Equally astonishing is the fact that at a time when composers half his age and less are busy retreating into abstraction, trivial personal trauma or bleakest pessimism, Tippett should be brave enough to tackle big public issues and share with us a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel. It is, of course, one of the advantages of age and fame that he can afford to ignore the sniping of cynics, the giggles (and I have been guilty of the odd snigger) at his taste 'It may have effects in later life, Madame Seurat.' for curiously dated slang, and simply get on with saying what he wants to say. The words in Tippett are not in themselves important; but the scenarios are.
While not quite suggesting that this is the opera about the Poll Tax that we have all — or some of us — been waiting for, I do find the work uncannily topical considering that it was premiered in Houston eight months ago. The scenario proposes two worlds: the reality of urban life anywhere today, and a cold, hi-tech future-doubling- as-government controlled by a fearsomely bossy lady named Regan (nudge, wink); in between is the heroine Jo Ann, a child psychologist too frightened to leave her room and work where she is needed. A sympathetic tenor from the future disobeys Regan and frees Jo Ann from her terror. One of many interlocking messages seems to be that there's little point in planning a glossy future if you can't sort out the present, and that you can't sort out the present without a vision of the future. Most of today's governments simply ignore both sides of the equation.I mean, can you imagine anyone from the Cabinet or the upper reaches of the civil service ever travelling by bus in London, or using the underground after midnight, or having the remotest idea what life is like in this vile city — let alone Belfast or New York? A ' tiny point, I know, but one reason why I came out of the performance as angry and as uplifted as I was after Tony Harrison's magnificent Trackers at the National, or after practically any performance of Tra- viata. I suppose that's what theatre is for. Peter Hall's production, Alison Chitty's designs and Paul Pyant's lighting shirk nothing of Tippett's romantic vision, facing up to such conceits as the Hofmannsthalian Water of Life or the Flying Rose as squarely as Tippett does. The show looks quite wonderful. Dance plays a crucial part
in it, and I loved both Bill T. Jones's choreography and its execution by a gifted group of dancers (especially Larry Goldhu- ber's hulking Alexei Sayle lookalike) and the Glyndebourne chorus in revoltingly authentic punk costumes. The only thing I didn't like was the use of facetious surtitles telling us what to think; the music was already performing that function perfectly adequately, thank you.
Helen Field is infinitely touching as Jo Ann (a few more words would be nice, though), Philip Langridge sings exquisitely as the rebel from the future, and there is a magnetic performance of Jo Ann's black foster-brother from the Swedish baritone Krister St Hill, who dances as well as he sings and defuses the potential embarrass- ment of Tippett's quirky syntax with a mixture of commitment and tact. Richetta Manager frightened me to death as bossy- boots Regan, Jane Shaulis movingly pre- sented the acceptable face of concerned womankind as the foster-mother, and Nigel Robson brought appropriate intensi- ty to the faintly alienatory Presenter (a device rendering the surtitles doubly otiose). For Andrew Davis's conducting and the playing of the London Philharmo- nic, nothing but praise.
The whole enterprise does Glynde- bourne great honour. I should add that in the 36 hours between curtain-fall and sitting down at the typewriter I have been made much mock of by Bright Young Things for responding so warmly. I am quite unrepentant, and my enthusiasm for Tippett and all his works is redoubled. How nice to be old.
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