Opera
The Damnation of Faust (English National Opera)
Betraying Berlioz
Michael Tanner
Of the great myths which have obsessed modem Western man, and espe- cially artists — Don Juan, Don Quixote, Faust — it is the last of these that seems deepest; perhaps because it is so unclear what Faust's problem is that a wide variety of anxious preoccupations can be unloaded onto him.
Making a pact with the devil sounds exciting, but, since most of us don't believe in him any longer, not really relevant to 'Have you met my personal trainer?' any predicaments we might feel we are in.
The search for boundless knowledge is interestingly connected with that, but Faust stories keep getting away from the point, if that is it. How does Marguerite fit in? It seems she has to somewhere, since the erotic is so central an ingredient in our relations with the world, but she isn't obvi- ously connected to the weary scholar's pur- suit of truth. What seems clear is that there is no major version of the Faust story which is a complete artistic success, because it tends to become uncontrollably compre- hensive, like its hero (Goethe); or because it loses the grandeur of conception in domestic concerns (Gounod).
Berlioz wasn't the man to be daunted by cosmic scale — one of his most winning qualities; but he thrives as a penetrating miniaturist, another of the things one loves him for. Perhaps there is no other of his works which attempts to bring them togeth- er more sustainedly than The Damnation of Faust. I can't see that an argument can be made for its succeeding, but in a fine per- formance it certainly has enough striking and alluring features to command love and admiration, even if exasperation at the sheer banality of some of it follows closely behind.
Obviously the English National Opera feels that staging the work, in contraven- tion of Berlioz's intentions, is a good idea, since they make a habit of it. Rather than considering the point on principle, it may focus the mind to look at David Alden's new production. If Damnation is to succeed as a staged work, it is not on his terms. Some of the time he is threadbare and trite, some of it wantonly bizarre; the same can be said of the work, but the areas of triteness and weirdness don't correspond. He betrays Berlioz where he is most vul- nerable, instead of doing what he can to conceal his lapses. The tedium of Auer- bach's Cellar, with that dire parody of fugal church music, is reinforced if it's made into a slice of Weimar Republic life, with a transvestite posturing on top of a fridge, and Brander as a lout in Lederhosen.
Nor is the work's initial premise enhanced by the obviousness of placing Faust in a prison of a library, the books an unwieldy pile which he pulls over in his frustration with them, after taking refuge under a large mattress, even though the central heating is conspicuous (why?). Bonaventura Bottone's Faust is excellently sung, with fearless head notes and a gener- al, if generalised, ardour. The way he is produced is sheer treachery: far from suf- fering from cosmic angst, he looks and behaves like the worried head of a universi- ty department awaiting the results of the latest HEFCE. As soon as a mythic figure is reduced to an average one, the results are either comic or boring. The sheer idea of this cosy chap in his pullover, later tart- ed up in a lime-green jacket, becoming a seducer is absurd. But his seducer is no more convincing. Willard White as Mephistopheles sings beautifully, without a trace of menace or irony. Dressed mostly in a mauve suit, sometimes in a fur coat, smoking a cigar, for a few minutes in tradi- tional devil's garb, he is a pantomime fig- ure with hints of the godfather (mafia variety).
It is only when, far too late (Berlioz's fault), Marguerite appears that we have a figure to whom we can react in any way seriously. Louise Winter doesn't have flaw- less vocal equipment, but her acting, her intensity and her musicality make her two great solos the far too conspicuous high- lights of the evening. Elder accompanies her wonderfully, and gets superb playing from the orchestra throughout. But it sounds as if he has doubts about parts of the work, which can carry more conviction than they do here. The love duet which ends Part III needn't seem quite so per- functory as it does in this performance, though it can never be a masterpiece. By contrast he conducts the thrilling Part IV with prodigious commitment. 'The Ride To The Abyss', one of Berlioz's supreme inspi- rations, is electrifying if you don't look at Faust and Mephistopheles riding to Hell sitting on a red plastic settee. Nothing can redeem the Redemption, but Alden doesn't try that.
What, musically, could have been a thrilling evening is reduced by these mind- less and tired gestures of thoughtful fresh- ness.
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