Opera
Verdi Festival (Covent Garden)
Was he right?
Michael Tanner
The annual attack of Verdementia is sweeping the capital. Normally sane critics are hanging on every first thought that Verdi had, admitting that in some ways his later ideas were more mature than his ear- lier ones, but insisting that nonetheless there is a freshness which was sacrificed subsequently, that 'change' is a more appropriate word than 'develop', and much more of the same kind of nonsense.
That his operas are about the love between father and daughter, rather more intently than between lovers, that many of them are concerned with loyalty, betrayal, friendship, political ambition, remorse, shows nothing whatever. It is the quality of his dealings with them that counts. The list of concerns I have just supplied is equally applicable to Donizetti or Jeffrey Archer. I wouldn't venture such a stunning platitude if the critical fraternity weren't so exten- sively prepared to take gravity of subject- matter for seriousness of treatment, or to welcome the unfamiliar without reflecting that it is primarily a welcome relief from the over-familiar.
Not that either Macbeth or Simon Boc- canegra is among the most exposed of Verdi's operas, though they have been ris- ing in critical esteem for many years, since the predominantly German Verdi renais- sance of the 1920s. The implication is often made that they are somehow more dramat- ically cogent than the public's favourites because they are not enslaved to tuneful- ness, in the way that II Trovatore might be taken to be, wonderful — and now, com- paratively neglected — opera that it is.
Surely, though, the truth is that, if one looks at either version of the two operas Covent Garden have put on this year, the first version of Macbeth in a concert form which will go down in its history as the first time the stage show failed to go on, their inspiration is very patchy. There are power- ful passages in both, as there are in almost all Verdi's operas, and some of those are in the interstices; but there are, in both of them, long stretches of musico-dramatic inertia. Oddly enough, it tends not to be those that Verdi meddled with so much as the arias and ensembles. Often he was right, I'm sure, to feel that what he had written first was a mistake, usually cheer- fulness, or what sounds very much like it, breaking in when the required note is solemnity, or often desperation. Thus he was unquestionably correct in thinking that Lady Macbeth's Act II aria Trionfai!' needed replacement, and inspired in writ- ing 'La luce langue' to fill the gap. What should occasion questioning is how he can possibly have thought that `Trionfai!' would do in the first place, since it is well beyond the reach of parody. In fact each of his sec- ond thoughts in Macbeth is a clear improvement, with the exception of the protagonist's last aria, which is anyway usu- ally slotted into the 1865 version.
The Covent Garden first night, after Nicholas Payne had beaten his breast before us in sibylline frenzy blind, was superb. Perhaps it even benefited from being unstaged, in that the more ludicrous things in the score weren't so nakedly exposed in context. A little more acting from some of the cast would have been in place, or at any rate something a bit differ- ent. Members of the audience unacquaint- ed with the plot might have been baffled seeing Roberto Scandiuzzi, as Banquo, proceeding druggily towards the wings when he was 'really' being slaughtered to a tacky little tune. Anthony Michaels-Moore used a generalised facial expression of unease which served well enough, given that his vocal acting was so impressive. He was quite magnificent, in fact, lending dig- nity to everything he sang. 'Lady', as Verdi persisted in calling her, was the highly effective Georgina Lukacs, thrilling both in presence and in voice. She may well be a screamer in a year or two, but she should be recorded now, when she commands the range and volume for Verdi's most dramat- ic soprano roles, as no one else I can think of does at present. Dennis O'Neill, looking more like Caruso than usual, was an impas- sioned Macduff. Edward Downes conducts Verdi with a conviction that I find eludes him in other operatic composers.
Simon Boccanegra in its 1857 form received a slightly less impressive perfor- mance, except for the electrifying presence of Placido Domingo, leaving us in no doubt about who is the reigning king of Italian opera, 30 years on. His presence ensured that the house was not only full, but sur- rounded by returns-seekers with desperate expressions. Anyone hoping that they would see and hear a lot of him would have been disappointed, since Adorno is one of Verdi's smallest tenor roles, and quite a high proportion of what he has to sing is so inferior that Domingo had to remain in overdrive throughout to convince us that it was worth his while.
The chief general difference between the earlier and later version of the work is in vigour, the later rejecting most of what is to be found in the earlier in favour of medita- tive sombreness. For anyone attached to the 1881 version the noisy opening of the 1857 one is as disconcerting as it would be in Tristan. Mark Elder still managed to impart the spirit to it which makes him, like Downes, a natural for Verdi. He has plead- ed the greater unity of style of the early version in its favour, but it seems to me a desperate manoeuvre. Not only is the Coun- cil Chamber scene lost, which must strike everyone as the finest sustained inspiration in the score, but there is a terrible quantity of undistinguished music, going with a still greater obscurity of plot and motivation than the final score has, which is saying a lot. Compare this, not with the 1881 ver- sion as mounted at Covent Garden, but with the Welsh National Opera on tour, and there is no more to be said.
Why the Royal Opera didn't employ the same sets as they use for the 1881 version is a mystery. The basic unit is a realistic affair, but slanted for no discernible pur- pose; and the characters wear mid-19th- century uniforms — greatcoats once more, of course. The production does nothing to illuminate the action, but allows a highly competent cast to get on with things. Sergei Leiferkus is a light-voiced Simon, looking, and sometimes sounding, as if he thought he was in Khovanshchina, which does have quite a few features in common with Simon, thought it is a far greater work. It seems to me that where Mussorgsky lost control of his material but still left a deeply moving torso, Verdi kept control of his but thereby showed how irremediably flawed it is. I expect to remain alone in that opinion, though.
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