12 DECEMBER 1998, Page 56

Opera

Russian torment

Michael Tanner

Iwas unable to get to the first two nights of the ENO's new Boris Godunov, with the result that the press office was unable, in its turn, to find me a seat during the first cast's run. The consequence of that was that I was able to see, what otherwise I would probably have missed, the produc- tion in its first full flowering, teething trou- bles having subsided; and a very fine new singer of the title role having taken over from John Tomlinson, who, to judge from How can I be sure its real polypropylene?' the recent Chandos recording of highlights, and the ENO broadcast, I would have had my familiar reservation about. In both he sounds to me on overdrive from the word go. Such lack of nuance and subtlety, how- ever generous the spirit that informs it, can only rob one of opera's greatest but short- est roles of a lot of its complex significance.

The second Boris, Gidon Saks, is an Israeli trained in Toronto, and was making his ENO debut. He is a fine actor, has a good though not especially distinguished voice, and a keen dramatic intelligence which makes him into an individual Boris, though he doesn't give the impression of searching for new lights on dip part. He sings the role, at any rate where Musorgslcy (as it seems we must now spell him) has written notes, but he has an imposingly Chaliapinesque repertoire of groans, snarls, grunts, stifled moans, shrieks and gasps at his disposal to represent the Tsar's extremities, in the clock scene and in his final minutes. Despite that potentially hammy equipment, he is dignified, restrained, suffering from much more inner torment than any of that can show — the noises are wrenched from him, not an abandonment to self-pity and remorse, Russian-style. He is just as inward a per- former as Chaliapin himself, who, to judge from the great records made of him on stage at Covent Garden was able simulta- neously to go over the top and yet suggest that there was far more going on than he could express: hence the enduring, amazing quality of those forever moving mementoes of one of the supreme singer-actors, an artist so extraordinary that he may actually be said to have partly created the role that he was the greatest exponent of.

Saks is not, of course, in that league yet, as no one has been apart from Boris Christoff at the height of his career. But there is much more than promise in his performance. The opera, as everything intelligent that is written about it — quite a lot of stupid things too — shows, is always tearing one between viewing it as the tragedy of a torn soul, and as the ongoing agony of an endlessly suffering people. It is, it should go without saying, both, and the ENO has chosen just the right admix- ture of the 1872 into the 1868/9 versions to show that. Ending with the Kromy Forest scene, though without the Simpleton's last wordless wail, keeps the people in view from start to finish; and not only is the exu- berant music at the beginning of the last scene an effective contrast to Boris's death scene, but the arrival of the false Dmitry, an indeterminate creation of Musorgsky's not given any special focus by John Daszak, is a painful image of the perpetual misrule the Russians seem doomed to suffer, since nothing about Grigory suggests any more than vague ambition.

Odd that so much discussion has gone on about Boris himself, as if there were some- thing anomalous in the world of politics about a wholly unscrupulous seizer of power wanting to wield it wisely once he has obtained it. If we find that implausible, how shall we ever find hope in our leaders? If few of them have murdered anyone on their way to their position, all of them have regularly to connive at murder and other extreme crimes, whatever spinning they may put on them. So far as we can see, Boris is a man of quite exceptional nobility and too much refinement of conscience: if he were more ruthless he would stand more chance of staying in power and acting in a uniquely benign mode for a Russian leader. His tragedy lies not so much in his crime as in his squeamishness at the thought of it, which gives such loathsome and entirely life-like characters as Shuisky the opportu- nity to frighten him. In that context, he should simply eliminate them. Robert Tear plays Shuisky with such reptilian sliminess as to make convincing Boris's inability to grasp him and do the necessary deed.

The other major innovation of the sec- ond cast is the replacement as conductor of Paul Daniel by Noel Davies. He had the huge advantage of building on Daniel's probing insights into the work's structure, but where, even by the broadcast, Daniel was still having trouble synchronising the pit and the stage, Davies managed that throughout. At times, especially in the opening scene, I would have appreciated more wildness from the orchestra; he was too considerate to the chorus, who were singing quite lustily enough not to be spared. What he did sustain from Daniel was the large-scale organisation of the work through timbre, something which I had never registered so vividly before, and which is stressed in an article by Gerard McBurney in the programme. Some of Musorgsky's weirdest sounds are individual moments, which recur as motifs after long periods, and are only recognisable because his palette is so striking and so singular. For all the good that Rimsky-Korsakov did, the most harmful thing was the homogenis- ing of the colour — Musorgsky himself favouring various shades of grey, while Rimsky could only manage Technicolor, having nothing else on offer.

The chief merit of Francesca Zambello's production is its unobtrusiveness. She lets the striking sets of Hildegard Bechtler do most of the work, and contents herself with masterly organisation of the choral move- ments. Above all, she ensures continuity and pace, and almost makes one wish that there was no interval, which would result in something about the same length as Das Rheingold. I must add that the performance I attended, an altogether overwhelming experience, was sign-interpreted. Wendy Ebsworth, the tireless interpreter, merits not only mention but celebration. She is incredibly expressive, both facially and with her whole body, as involved at every moment as if she were centre stage; once one notices with what completeness she acts as a conduit for the work she is inter- preting, it is very hard to look elsewhere.