. 0 0d news_ R odney Manes
the news seems bad
Wadays," remarks someone in e–he course of War and Peace; true d'4°Ligh but not, for once, at Lonnns opera houses. Maybe this is the week for Western Zdiences to revel too unreser`"IY in this bright-eyed hymn of PirjaiSe to the Russian people, nele Joe' Kutuzov and all, but rhrokofiev's War and Peace is
Ch more than that. The hymn k'iebrates not just the national
the human spirit: it is imposOle to emerge from nearly five :ill's at the Coliseum (they feel the like two) without feeling Sit Maybe it is worthwhile per ing in the world. ;he inspired presentation has a "eh to do with this. There is not d Weak link. Chorus, extras, 04tncers, stage and lighting staff, ehestral players combine ik.c.ti■rejy_tp_,0 rove that that peculiar amalgam called opera is alive and kicking. Each one of the seventy-odd named solo roles slots neatly, purposefully into place. The production as a whole is just that touch more alert than it was sixteen months ago, and the minor alterations are definitely for the better: they include the scrapping of the smaller projection screens for interior scenes and, I believe, some discreet but undeniably effective amplification for the Epigraph. This superbly staged opening delivers a body blow from which you never quite recover. I have nothing but admiration for the way in which Colin Graham, the Pudovkin of opera producers, controls his huge forces: the effects in the crowd scenes are as stirring as those in the intimate episodes are harrowing. One cannot help feeling that this Mr Graham and the perpetrator of Manon are two different people — either that or I am.
Further acquaintance with the work confirms my belief that we have found a major twentiethcentury masterpiece, and I trust that the enthusiasm of audiences means that it is in the repertory to stay. It is not the epic proportions that impress fourth time round so much as Prokofiev's extraordinary economy, his spare but telling orchestration, his wasting of not one single note, his musical characterisation achieved with the most simple yet uncannily exact strokes. He is loyally served by the conducting of David Lloyd-Jones who, among so much else in the way of controlled bombast and aching melancholy, achieves a perfect sound-balance with the stage. Enough of this uncharacteristic grovelling: there are still two more performances, and I implore everyone to witness this stirring achievement. Who knows, it may be another sixteen months before War and Peace
returns. Not to be outdone, the Royal
Opera has mounted the most persuasive revival of Rigoletto for years. Edward Downes's pungently dramatic conducting took a stranglehold in the very first notes of the prelude, and musically it was never relaxed. Zeffirelli's production has been carefully rehearsed by Charles Hamilton: the sharp characterisation of the smaller roles is especially notable. Alfredo Kraus (the Duke) may not have an intrinsically beautiful voice, but he has taste, power, agility and excellent diction. There is dangerous physical power in Peter Glossop's Rigoletto (he had taken over from a baritone unable to attend rehearsals — well done, someone) and a burning sincerity in his interpretation that makes one forgive the odd moments when he goes way over the top. He is in good voice. Joan Carden is a Gilda with the technique for Act 1, and the metal for Act 2. She managed to sing quite beautifully in the last scene and still sound as though she were on the point of death. Once out of her sack for the curtain calls, she revealed a very fetching pair of legs, which led to my staying to applaud for longer than was strictly necessary.
Previous page
