ARTS
Opera
Shaken and stirred
Rodney Milnes
Porgy and Bess (Glyndebourne) Fidelio (Covent Garden) Many surprising points are raised by the triumphant first night of Gershwin's opera at Glyndeboume, which I must say straightaway — at the risk of going over the top Doctor Faust-style and being re- proved for so doing by all and sundry was one of the most stirring events of an opera-going lifetime. (For heaven's sake, if arts hacks lose the ability to respond with enthusiasm, then they should retire.) First, what a great opera it is. That should not be surprising, but it is. Composer and piece have been consistently written about with condescension; see, for example, the de- pressingly de haut en bas article in the New Grove. Porgy, we are generally told, uses the idiom of Broadway (i.e. tunes — ugh!), or is a mere folk opera (the ultimate put-down), and is anyway full of thread- bare linking passages between the big numbers we all know.
People who wrote such things of course never heard the work conducted by Simon Rattle and played by the LPO: their performance is infinitely more inspired than any other I have heard on record or in concert, indeed the popular Decca record- ing under Maazel sounds dreary by com- parison. Perhaps one more turn of the thumbscrew might force me to admit that there are passages in the later acts where Gershwin's inspiration momentarily falters — the punctuation of recitative with orchestral flourishes, for instance, rather like early Bizet — but no more so than in half a dozen operas in the standard reper- tory, and they pale into insignificance in a piece whose sum is so much greater than its parts. Cuts could only be harmful: Porgy is a cumulative experience as much as Lohen- grin is, and a whole lot more fun. And it is a first opera: compare it, if you please, with Oberto Conte di San Bonifacio, Die Feen and Paul Bunyan (to the composer of which we shall return) and then be sniffy about it. At last Saturday's performance the sheer skill with which it is put together harmonically, rhythmically and above all chorally was made dazzlingly plain. It is also a last opera, and Gershwin's early death at 38 was as tragic as that of Mozart or Weber.
The description 'folk opera' is wholly misleading unless Jenufa, with which Porgy has many similarities and which Gershwin presumably saw in New York with Jeritza, is also merely a folk opera. And its special category status as an opera about black people is also slightly misleading: Porgy is about people tout court. In writing that I intend no slight on the singers who perform it at Glyndebourne — rather the opposite. The nobility and truth of the performance underline the universality of the work as well as the particular. The tragedy is that the Gershwin estate's very proper insist- ence that English-language stagings should be given only by black singers has meant that it has been performed far too seldom, and as often as not outside legitimate operatic organisations. That tragedy is no one's fault but our society's: at least there is now a steadily growing number of outstanding black singers here and throughout the world sufficient to make the prospect of Porgy joining the general repertory seem enticingly close, even in this country.
For it is in the repertory that Porgy belongs. Despite — or because of? — its use of popular idioms it is unarguably a mainstream opera. Its creators must have known both the standard works of the day (1934) and what were considered avant- garde pieces. I have mentioned Jenufa (listen to the ostinatos); there are drama- turgical and musical echoes of Manon, Butterfly, Carmen and Tiefland, in the last case uncomfortable echoes into which I will not go this week; comparisons with, say, Wozzeck set off any number of in- teresting resonances; and Porgy's influence on Weill and — more surprisingly — the Britten of Peter Grimes is palpable. A further tragedy is that this production will be seen by so few people and those, ironically, mostly with 'plenty of plenty', which did not prevent them being so shaken that they rose to a man to give the performers a standing ovation, something I have not seen in Sussex before. Glynde- bourne must have already spent a fortune on mounting the production, and I suppose it is inconceivable that more can be found to prolong its life elsewhere.
Earlier commentators have detected condescension in the librettists' treatment of the inhabitants of Catfish Row, and the greatest triumph of Trevor Nunn and the cast is to have expunged any suspicion of this (the discreet adaptation of some of the syntax is a help). Equally successful is the sense of a community built up in rehear- sals. By the end of the first act you felt you knew, and desperately cared about, every- one on stage, whether principals or chorus — even, in their repulsive ways, Crown and Sporting Life. Towering over all was Willard White as Porgy, giving one of the great operatic interpretations of our gen- eration, one to rank with Hotter's Wotan, Christoff's Boris or, as I suggested here 12 years ago, George Shirley's Idomeneo. They were brilliant artists impersonating brilliant people; Mr White is a brilliant artist playing a simple man, and that without a hint of mawkishness, which makes his achievement the greater. The final image of his departure for New York is so powerful, so daring a theatrical stroke that it should not be described for fear of spoiling its impact.
Mr White sings magnificently, and so without exception do his colleagues Damon Evans (Sporting Life) is a real tenor, not a cabaret singer, by the way. All deserve mention, but space forbids — yet it would be criminal not to single out Harolyn Blackwell's Clara, Bruce Hub- bard's Jake and Cynthia Clarey's Serena, all performances of piercing poetic beauty, and Gregg Baker's hugely impressive Crown. If Cynthia Haymon's Bess doesn't quite join the list, it is because her diction is sadly cloudy, but her voice soars glor- iously. Sets (John Gunter), costumes (Sue Blanc) and lighting (David Hersey) are superb. An overwhelming, unforgettable experience.
It is tragic that Fidelio, mounted as Colin Davis's last new production as music direc- tor at Covent Garden, should have turned out to be a fiasco. It has already been dissected by the daily and weekend press, in some cases with unnecessary savagery, and I will only say that in principle the Marriage of Beethoven and Blake is a good idea, that the first act works well and throws out a number of interesting and relevant points about the piece, and that it is only in the second that Andrei Serban's production veers wildly and fatally out of control. There is some splendid singing from Elizabeth Connell (what a top!), Marie McLaughlin, Laurence Dale and Gwynne Howell, and equally splendid playing from the orchestra. Rumour has it that the production is already being changed. I shall go again and may, patient reader, report further.
Previous page
