Opera
Die Fledermaus (Covent Garden)
Cox to the rescue
Rodney Manes
John Cox is certainly earning his appointment as production director at the Royal Opera, having masterminded two rescue operations in as many months first Manon and now the ten-year-old, elephanto-polyglot Fledermaus. The latter is not a complete salvage job — how could it be with the millstone of decor that precludes any sort of sensible production? — but my goodness Mr Cox has made a start. What took the stage on Monday was at least recognisable as a slice of sprightly social satire instead of a mindless down- market romp.
He has been greatly aided by John Mortimer, who has provided the new translation. The dialogue, especially in the second act, is mercifully pared down to a minimum, with the whole Bat's Revenge imbroglio briskly disposed of in the first. There are some really snappy new jokes, snappily delivered; they include rather a good one about surtitles, though it was perhaps unkind to make it at the expense of the sort of audience that the manage- ment is so assiduously wooing (I'm getting that in quick-sharp just in case anyone thinks it was directed at me).
Best of all, Mr Mortimer and Griff Rhys Jones have between them devised a bril- liant routine for Frosch, in which more insults are hurled into the auditorium than at any time since Frankie Howerd was unwisely let loose in the Coliseum. The fact that many were hurled directly at the Chairman's box added a certain spice, and the elaborate champagne-pushers metaphor (`addicts sharing dirty swizzle- sticks') might even draw charges of du- bious taste. But since Mr Mortimer is not averse to sending up himself in his Camp- den Hill mode (`first you hear voices and then you have socialism') all is forgiven. Playing Frosch as a swivel-eyed, authorita- rian petty official instead of a Central European drunk is enormously refreshing.
One or two problems remain, though. I don't envy Mr Mortimer his task with the lyrics. The existence of a good standard translation (Christopher Hassall's) limits too many options: you have to think of something new simply because it's there, and what is new here is by no means always an improvement on the best of Hassall (like him, Mr Mortimer is defeated by `Glficklich ist'). And there are two curious glosses on the plot. Making Dr Falke one of Rosalinde's ex-bonks is fair enough, but the business of his warning letter, for which there is no precedent in any kosher Fledermaus text that I know, lets this gloriously hypocritical character off the hook on which she so richly deserves to be hung. And Mr Mortimer's clever dramatic device for explaining the presence of the company in jail at the finale is made nonsense of when the walls still fly out and we are back (yawn, yawn) at the party. I'd be interested to hear the views of the Royal Opera's newly appointed dramaturg on this betise.
There are some lovely performances nevertheless. Carol Vaness, whom we have heard and admired in heroic roles, turns out to be no mean comedienne, placing her one-liners with aplomb; she plays Rosa- linde as a deliciously haughty old baggage and sings the role as I have never heard it sung before. Thomas Allen also sings wonderfully and is duly debonair (a touch too debonair for Eisenstein?). Lillian Wat- son's dead-common Adele, Alan Opie's saturnine Falke and Donald Adams's be- mused Frank are all spot-on. Perhaps Dennis O'Neill's caricature of an Italian tenor might warrant the attentions of the Race Relations Board, but the potential combination of this bright-eyed, randy little terrier and the majestic Rosalinde of Miss Vaness is somehow suggestive beyond any words. Claire Powell makes a curvy Orlofsky: it's a pity that her new catch- phrase Chow suburban') should rebound off the company and on to what surrounds it.
The Royal Opera is not having much luck with its bright new conductors this season. Adam Fischer goes for wild ex- tremes of tempo, and the band is hard put either to keep up with the fast ones or sustain the unconventional and interesting adagios. Mr Fischer's 'Briiderlein', in par- ticular, makes Bruckner sound like Cole Porter. This Fledermaus may be a bit iffy, then, but it is still a million per cent better than the witless shambles it replaces. And the same, incidentally, goes for the new programmes. Hurrah for public opinion.
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