Arts
Turning point
Rodney Milnes
The Sicilian Vespers (Coliseum) Turandot (Scottish Opera, Glasgow) Der Rosenkavalier (Coliseum)
Had Verdi died in his mid-forties Mozart, Bizet and Weber were spared not even that long — The Sicilian Vespers would probably be considered an important opera. Unfortunately for it, but fortunately for Verdi and us, he went on to surpass its level of achievement in every respect — musically, dramatically. But it is more than just a curiosity, and the com- parative rarity of performances surely stems more from the extreme difficulty of the vocal writing than from intrinsic dramaturgical flaws — which are anyway for the most part disguised by the vigour and invention of the music. Significantly enough, it was one of the first operas resuscitated in the pre-war Ver- di revival in Germany, and the fact that it fitted in with German ideas on what musikdrama should be points to the fascination it holds for admirers of the composer as a turning point in his career. It was his first work written expressly for the Paris Opera, with all the advantages and disadvantages that this entailed. Disadvan- tages: an unwieldy, five-act grand-opera historical framework complete with obligatory ballet (cut at the Coliseum); ad- vantages; a first-rate orchestra, oppor- tunities for copious rehearsal, and the best singers available at the time.
The greatest advantage was the freedom offered from the constraints of Italian `Margo and I spent a lovely quiet weekend at the Libyan Embassy.' operatic form, the aria/cabaletta structure in which the immediately preceding master- pieces (Rigoletto, Trovatore, Traviata) had been written with varying degrees of flex- ibility. Vespers retains vestiges of that form but often cunningly disguised: it is the passages of arioso that are its chief glory, along with a new harmonic freedom that would not frighten French audiences used to Meyerbeer, and disciplined (compared to Meyerbeer) yet always deft use of orchestral colour. The greatest disadvantage was that the young foreigner did not have the con- fidence to bully the venerable Scribe — as he had bullied his Italian collaborators into rendering down his sprawling but not unskilful libretto; situations are spun out for more than their worth simply to fill up the required five acts. Never again was Ver- di to accept so diffuse a 'book', which makes Forza look like a mere novella.
But let not this put anyone off: there are strong dramatic situations aplenty in Scribe's vaguely historical treatment of the massacre in Palermo in 1282, and consistent musical interest in the mixture of good old risorgimento Verdi and experiment with through-compositional forms that looks forward to Don Carlos, Boccanegra and beyond. There are echoes of theme as well: the French governor Montfort, by far the most interesting character, is a dry run for both King Philip (another tyrant-with-a- heart) and Boccanegra (in that the heart centres upon a long-lost child): his recitative and aria in the third act constitute one of the most beautifully sustained and expressive monologues that Verdi had achieved up to 1855, and the father/son duets, underpinned with suavely used ac- companiment figures, are not far behind. The patriotic duty/private loyalty conflict, another Verdian idee-fixe from Nabucco to Aida, is powerfully and blackly voiced.
The ENO production, borrowed from Paris appropriately enough, is extremely well cast. Rosalind Plowright (Elena), in wonderfully relaxed form on the first night, makes light of the role's torturous dif- ficulties, flinging off arpeggios, sketching in top Cs as real notes, not just screeches, encompassing her two-and-a-half-octave cadenza in the fourth act without any sug- gestion of a gear change, singing with pliant and warm tone — a stunning performance acted with great dignity. As Arrigo, Ken- neth Collins delivers tenorial ardour (and a top D) with great aplomb: how lucky we are to have so reliable an heroic 'Italian' tenor to hand. Richard Van Allan sings Procida's 'Et toi, Palerme' extremely well — it is a fine tune to a fine lyric, very cleverly translated by Edmund Tracey — and proves himself to be much more than the
character bass he is too often taken for. Neil Howlett seizes his opportunities as Montfort, drawing us all to the tyrant's side in his monologue, and singing throughout with musical and dramatic insight. In a meticulously prepared performance Mark Elder draws all the colour and invention from the orchestral writing and so main- tains the forward momentum as to minimise the chances of the audience notic- ing that every now and then there is dramatically speaking not too much going on.
John Dexter's production, staged by Fabrizio Melano, is pure time-machine, transporting us back to the Sixties when Josef Svoboda was whizzing round the world designing huge staircases and back- lighting them regardless of the opera: the resultant gloom doesn't exactly scream `Sicily' at you, but the blocking works well enough on its own demode terms. It makes a worthy enough setting for an outstanding- ly successful musical realisation.
If nothing else, poor Scottish Opera's Turandot demonstrates the dangers of research. Tony Palmer, the producer, has read all about the Doria Manfredi scandal, in which the jealous Elvira Puccini lighted upon one of the few women her husband wasn't having an affair with — the family maid — and persecuted her until she com- mitted suicide. Mr Palmer blows this sad biographical footnote into the hypothetical cause of a psychological work-block on Puccini's part: he was unable to complete an opera in which a maid — Liu — was goaded into killing herself by a cruel mistress. The facts are unfortunately less romantic — the wretched librettists simply kept Puccini waiting for four months for the final scene, and when it arrived it was too late.
So Mr Palmer sets the opera in Puccini's study in Torre del Lago, where the com- poser (Calaf) and Doria (Liu) sit about not doing much while the Torreans perform Turandot in the garden outside, with Elvira got up as the ice princess. They join in the action when and as required. This makes total nonsense of both Puccini's private life and the opera. What might have been (and should have remained) the substance of an after-dinner causerie or at most a short and contentious television documentary has been turned into a full-blown opera produc- tion, and the result is a disaster.
Sadly — or not, as the case may be — the performance was musically distinguished, with Alexander Gibson revelling in the col- ours of the score and in charge of a good cast: Marie Slorach extremely appealing as Liu, Eduardo Alvarez a fair Calaf, Lud- milla Andrew — taking over at short notice — hurling out Turandot's notes with terri- fying abandon (she must have been heard clearly in Edinburgh), and Willard White marvellous as Timur, for some reason dressed as the parish priest (Mr Palmer's programme synopsis differs radically from that devised by the librettists — the ultimate betrayal). Oh dear.
Much worthier of note is the ENO's latest revival of Rosenkavalier, in which Josephine Barstow's first Marschallin balances sentiment (never sentimentality) and toughness in a compelling impersona- tion of great all-round awareness. She sings exquisitely, and her diction has never been clearer. Together with Dennis Wicks's ami- able Ochs, still one of the most convincing characterisations I have seen, she makes the last-act battle of wills as uncomfortable as Hofmannsthal wanted it to be. Anne Dawson is an enchanting new Sophie, and Friedrich Pleyer conducts with genuine Viennese charm. Very good value.
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