Arts
Twice bitten
Rodney Milnes
Capriccio (Scottish Opera, Glasgow) Tosca, Rigoletto (Coliseum)
John Cox's production of Capriccio at Glyndebourne in 1973 marked a signifi- cant stage in the continuing reassessment of Strauss, blazing a trail for the important series of revivals there that revealed two unsuspected masterpieces, Intermezzo and The Silent Woman, in each case thanks largely to Cox's own immaculate direction. It also gave great encouragement to Straus- sians of what Max Loppert in the Financial Times has called `that most recent, rabid strain of the breed' (goodness, can he mean me?) who admire the later works to which I plead guilty. I would rather listen to Capriccio or Intermezzo than to Salome or Elektra (all that noise) just as I would rather hear Falstaff than Oberto, the Flute than Ascanio in Alba, and Bruckner's Ninth rather than his nuilte. But the rabid ones, nipping at assorted ankles, have certainly spread the disease: it was not only the good Michael Kennedy (Chief Rabid) who trekked to Glasgow last week, but also quite a few critics of hitherto unim- peachable respectability who wouldn't have been seen dead at late Strauss 15 Years ago, all like naughty schoolboys Playing hookey from the Stockhausen Fest in London and bent on thoroughly en- joying themselves.
Which makes it all the sadder that the evening should have been so disappoint- ing. Perhaps the piece isn't quite as good as we all said it was, particularly in the context of Intermezzo and Silent Woman. Although Strauss in his late seventies was diverting himself just as happily as Verdi Was with Falstaff, it was to less obvious operatic purpose. Capriccio is what it says it is — a conversation piece, no more, no less. The plot is of extreme slenderness, its Charm deriving from the Countess's 'magic mirror' image; as in Osud (though other- wise the works could scarcely be more dissimilar) we are never quite sure whether we are watching the opera the composer wrote or the one his characters decide to write for themselves. That, and the wealth of theatrical in-jokes and musical quota- tions, makes Capriccio a teasingly delight- ful piece for connoisseurs in the right circumstances.
The circumstances at Glyndebourne, with a dream cast (Soderstrom, Hagegard, Stilwell, Goeke, Rintzler), were absolutely right, and perhaps Cox has tempted fate by seeking to reproduce his production exact- ly. Eleven years is a long time, and what then seemed smart and sophisticated now looks demo& (item, the business with the cocktail stick at the end, which is surely unworthy of the music). Or the up-dating to the Twenties, dernier cri in 1973, a tired cliché today — perhaps Cox should have been really adventurous and tried to make the opera work in the late 18th-century setting of the original. It is quite illogical, but the references to Gluck, Rameau et al sound much odder in English translation in a Twenties milieu, especially when Bent- leys and taxis are added elsewhere, and in English it is awfully difficult not to make the Countess sound like E. F. Benson's Lucia (`The stream of music carried me far out over a magic horizon').
Sadly, the Glyndebourne decor, with exquisite set-dressing and costumes by the late Martin Battersby, is not used; in their place are Jack Notman's standard West End box set (anyone for Tennents?) and dreary costumes. The Countess is dressed as though for a healthy round of golf at Helensburgh, changing for dinner into a livid blue number fit only for the Latin American finals of Come Dancing — she looks hopelessly suburban. The very cap- able cast can't quite carry off a production conceived for others; it was unfair to ask them to try. Margaret Marshall's Countess is a nice, straightforward girl with a fixed smile and none of her distinguished prede- cessor's awareness of social distinction or smouldering allure — the rather special- ised business in the finale looks alien to the character as presented; Stafford Dean, smothered in false hair, is an unexpectedly muted La Roche; Alan Oke (Olivier) and Ian Caley (Flamand) uneasily fight charac- terisations imposed on rather than drawn from them.
Happiest on stage are Ian Caddy as the philistine Count, perfectly at ease in a country house situation, and Anne Howells as the actress Clairon who, despite another unflattering frock, gave the even- ing a much-needed lift at her entrance. Perhaps she overplayed slightly, but she was a miracle of understatement compared to the Italian singers, who turned Strauss's affectionate parody into a vulgar music- hall turn and then upstaged the climactic ensemble with a series of crass antics: it was as though everyone had suddenly lost faith in the score.
In a repertory context the singing was good and the playing, under Norman Del Mar, fairly good: in so fragile a piece both have to be a great deal better. I may have to wipe the foam from my lips and admit that Capriccio really is festival fare, an
opera that only weaves its precious spell through singing and playing of the highest order. What a pity.
But Tosca can survive more or less anything. Robustly conducted by Charles Mackerras, the latest ENO revival boasts the hugely promising Phyllis Cannan in the title-role for the first time (understandably she was less than at ease on the first night) and Charles Craig, at 64 diverting himself quite as happily as Strauss or Verdi — his voice is a phenomenon. Jonathan Miller's Rigoletto goes from strength to strength. The revival has been carefully re-rehearsed (there are many changes of detail) and is almost too carefully conducted by John Mauceri. The performances of John Rawn- sley and Arthur Davies grow ever sharper. In advance I wondered if Valerie Master- son, singing Gilda here for the first time, would fit easily into the West Side Story ambience. How unworthy: she looks a dream and sings with bewildering insight and passion, catching your imagination in an iron grip at her second-act entrance and never once relaxing it. She and Mr Miller make the girl's self-sacrifice totally credible — a stunning performance in a stunning production. Don't miss them.
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