Sense of discovery
Michael Tanner attends a mini festival of Czech opera in Edinburgh and London It is not often in Great Britain that we can go to three of the staples of Czech opera on consecutive evenings — and none of them by Janacek. Edinburgh's festive offerings ended with what Smetana regard- ed as his two operatic masterpieces, and the next evening the ENO's season opened with a revival of one of its longest-lasting successes, Dvorak's Rusalka, in David Pountney's psychoanalytic production.
He was the producer, too, of Scottish Opera's Dalibor, working with Ralph Koltai as set designer. They seemed to have no Special fix on the work, apart from stressing what is obvious, that the power of music lies at its core. The stage was full of string motifs, with an actual harp at the centre Point, in the middle of a coffin-shaped ramp which moved and tilted vertiginously. From time to time further ramps with tubular chairs attached appeared from each of the wings, one for idiotically dressed judges to sit on and make their fatuous judgments, the other for the King, a figure all too reminiscent of Lohengrin, as indeed is a good deal of the music and action of the opening scene. Still, though the production had no strong character, it rarely obtruded. It did send up an army by getting them to do aerobics, though that piece of nonsense would have been more appropriate in I Masnadieri. Otherwise this wonderfully idealistic piece went unimped- ed on its way, providing almost continuous pleasure and even elevation.
No one could claim that it is expertly crafted; both the music and the action have a feeling almost of improvisation, if not bewilderment about them. Loose ends dan- gle everywhere you look or listen, yet there is a marvellous sense of discovery about it, and Smetana reveals himself as a specialist in music of approaching ecstasy. It seems to be part of his gift, or maybe part of his way of viewing the world, that his charac- ters relate much more intensely to figures they encounter in visions or dreams than in actuality — perhaps another legacy of Lohengrin. Hence Dalibor himself, who roundly declares early on that the love of women has never meant much to him com- pared with the joy of male comradeship, is obsessed with his beheaded violin-playing friend Zdenek, whose ghost, usually fid- dling ardently, was almost ubiquitous in this production. Smetana manages to raise the emotional temperature far higher with Dalibor's vision of his friend than he does when he has a love duet with Milada, the woman who disguises herself as a man to save him, bearing him a violin for his own use in prison, with the elderly senior gaoler's permission. Shades of other, greater operas do both make this one seem quaint and yet fail to diminish it, as a hymn to ardour and extravagant feeling. Smetana seems bent on his characters achieving states of exaltation which are independent of what their true sit- uation is, and operatic fustian of a service- able kind is enough to link the great passages together. This performance was delivered with exhilarating panache by Scot- tish Opera, with Richard Armstrong unleashing huge waves of orchestral sounds which the singers took as challenges, tri- umphantly met. The Milada of Kathleen Broderick was notably powerful, both vocal- ly and as a dramatic presence. Probably Dal- ibor doesn't have much dramatic presence anyway, but Leo Marian Vodicka put every- thing into his singing, with electrifying results. I look forward to seeing this produc- tion again as soon as possible.
The next evening's Libuse was another concert performance, a one-off with an almost entirely Czech cast, and a Czech con- ductor, Oliver von Dohnanyi, who incited the Festival Chorus and the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra, augmented, to play with almost outrageous fervour. Libuse is a kind of three-hour national anthem, more a series of tableaux, though it only becomes that explicitly at the end, than a coherent drama. It is even so a gawky affair, with no heroine present for the whole long Act II. You couldn't help missing her, partly because there was an empty chair, partly because, however fine the other singers, and they were a magnificent collection, not a slavic wobbler among them, Eva Urbanova, alone scoreless, shone with the fervour of her stance and her fearless ringing tones. This was true heroic singing, but she was just as capable of, and willing to indulge in, soft lyricism. Her final stretch of Czech nationalism, taken up by the chorus, raised the roof. Superb coming from Smetana; how disgraceful such sentiments would be voiced by a German composer of the same period! Libuse is an occasional piece, and some of it is quite boring. But once in a while, in a per- formance as alive as this, it is also life-giving.
ENO's Rusalka got the company off to the most encouraging and confident start it has had for many years. Apart from an acidulous last chord, the orchestra was on great form, and Richard Hickox's conduct- ing was more relaxed and flowing than in anything I have heard him do. The sheer care with which Pountney's idea of the piece is acted out might lead one to think it is coherent, but after Act I, wholly effec- tive, it doesn't make sense. As a parable or allegory of the pains of maturing the silence of Rusalka is as baffling to us as it is to the Prince. Susan Patterson's Rusalka was sung beautifully throughout, but the all-purpose facial expression 7- bafflement, pain, frustration, anxiety, torment — became tiresome. Robert Brubaker's Prince was ideally ardent, though his top notes, especially when approached piano, paid the price for his intensity. When Jan- ice Cairns, in the unsatisfactory part of the Foreign Princess, was on stage everyone 'Would you care to sign a petition to save our countryside?' was dwarfed by her stature and her Brunnhilde-worthy volume. Neither the Water Spirit nor, notably, Jezibaba were up to former exponents of the role at the Coli- seum. He seemed too much a more than usually feeble Arkel from Pelleas, she was less funny and less alarming than her pre- decessors. I'm pleased that I saw it after the two Smetana operas. Dvorak is a fan- tastic pro, knowing always how to keep things together, even if the effect is decreasingly inspired; it would be easy to patronise Smetana after hearing Rusalka, and that would be an impoverishing thing to do.
• I foolishly wrote last week that the per- formance of Bruckner's Fifth Symphony at Edinburgh was cancelled without finding out officially. I relied on a fellow critic's word, and on that of an Usher Hall steward afterwards who misunderstood me, or vice versa. Apologies to all concerned.
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