Opera
Mystery tour
Rodney Mikes
Londoners stop reading here. As so often at this time of year, the operatic action moves to the provinces. Citizens of Birmingham, Manchester, Oxford, Norwich and Newcastle can pick from such goodies as Scottish Opera's new Lucia di Lammermoor and Rosenhavalier, Glyndebourne's Intermezzo or the Welsh National's Elisir d'Amore and new Flying Dutchman.
Or rather Der fliegende Holkinder First the bad news: this production is sung by a non-German cast in atrocious German. cannot conceive any justification for this artistic betise. Now the good news: it is performed, as Wagner intended, in one act.
At just on two-and-a-a-quarter hours, it is shorter than Rheingold, shorter-seeming than many a G6tterdlimmerung or Parsifai first act, and only marginally longer than Efektra. The gain in dramatic impetus far outweighs any physical discomforts.
As Wagner's orchestral interludes are mercifully brief, a variously dressed permanent set is used. Designed by William Dudley, it is in the form of a frozen wooden wave, which, being both curved and raked, looks nice enough but must be hell to sing on. It has a raisable wing, so I hoped that at last the ghostly half of the last act's double chorus would be on stage though concealed; alas no, they resorted to the usual dreary amplification, but as the Welsh Philharmonia, who made up for lack of finesse with exuberance of volume, drowned both choruses anyway, the shortcoming was merely technical.
Ian Watt Smith's production moved traditionally and tolerably smoothly. The clash between daemonic and everyday was slightly muddied by Anne Evans's luxuriously costumed and decidedly self-possessed Senta, who seemed way beyond rather somewhere in the middle of the behavioural spectrum, though the other half of the partnership, David Ward, looked suitably otherworldly with his floppy green sleeves and manic grin. Both sang well, though the role of Senta ideally requires fuller tone and more generous breath control. Kenneth Collins's warmly Italianate Erik is a decided asset, and the chorus, as always, sang magnificently. Conductor Richard Armstrong favoured incisive rhythms, an overtly dramatic approach, and some strange inconsistencies of tempo, which may be traditional but remain inexcusable.
Neither this nor many finer productions from Cardiff will be seen in London, a scandal that I am becoming bored with bewailing. Nor will the English Opera's
Group's revival of Tchaikovsky's one-act masterpiece Yobande, though why this is not to be included in their Sadler's Wells season is something of a mystery. It cannot be lack of money, for they are bringing new productions of Puccini's La Rondine (hardly necessary) and Albert Herring (definitely not). Perhaps it is out of pique, for when new last year, Yolande elicited a blank lack of response remarkable even from a musical press who will not see further than the end of their semiquavers, Still, it was not altogether. their fault, as Cohn Graham's production was fussily fairy-tale rather than fruitfully Freudian, and the mere two performances were bedevilled by illness.
Fortified by the best Sun-full of fish and chips I have ever munched, I caught Yolande at Aldeburgh / Snape, where things are much improved. The outlines of production and decor (rehearsed by Roger Williams) are far less fuzzy, the young and handsome cast is ideal, and Steuart Bedford's conducting is as affectionate as it is understanding. Teresa Cahill's portrayal of the emotionally Crippled heroine (bags of identification from the composer) is really extraordinarily touching. A marvellous new lighting effect accompanies the curing of Yolande's blindness, and just as her sight regained its clarity, so was mine (if I may for once do a Hope-Wallace) saltily dimmed. But to share the experience, you will have to go to Nottingham, Wolverhampton or Leeds.
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