Opera
Parsifal (Coliseum)
Pretty rum evenings
Rodney Milnes
The critic's trade grows ever more hazardous. Close on the heels, should this be anatomically feasible, of the Cornwell bum drama, we have the hochdramatische (Eng: highly dramatic) soprano Anne Evans living up to her Fach (Eng: nomenclature) by casting the contents of her wine glass (red) at the critic of the Guardian (Tom Sutcliffe), with whose views on the ENO Parsifal she appeared to disagree. Doing this in another opera house — i.e. Covent Garden before their Dutchman — showed both respect for the unities and a certain sense of occasion. In future I shall go to the opera swathed in Gannex and heavily veiled, especially since to judge from his previous work the designer of one of the above shows might well omit to decant the wine from the bottle before hurling it.
So perhaps it would be prudent to try to be polite about two pretty rum evenings, but then prudence is not my second name. Presumably the ENO have got what they expected having asked Joachim Herz to direct Parsifal: a prosaic, would-be analy- tical, anti-musical staging. But they must surely have been surprised by the virulent hideousness of Wolf Miinzler's designs. The first scene appeared to be set some- where in the lower abdomen, with yards of livid green intestine draped across the back of the stage and more bits, broken off, dumped in the front like faeces. We were presumably in a hernia situation, and while to some people Parsifal may be no more than a pain in the gut, this is perhaps not a sound basis for a design concept.
The temple, reached via a piece of mobile, shrinking cheddar cheese and a false stage that flew up to form the ceiling, was equally unatmospheric, and together with Klingsor's risible flying tricycle came oddly from a house pleading dire poverty. The Flower Maidens' bower, an outsize childrens' paddling pool in shocking pink populated by art-deco Deauville lovelies in bathing caps, brought little relief (`The fool's attracted by my castle,' sang Kling- sor, verb. sap.). Worst of all, as in the case of the Garden's unforgettable flying dildo Parsifal, is the prospect of ever having to sit through it again.
Herz brought his familiar brand of social-realist literalness to proceedings, with Squires yawning at the opening and reacting comically in their conversations with Gurnemanz. The transformation was finished long before its music, so that the latter could be used for an eyeball-to- eyeball confrontation between Parsifal and Amfortas and the uncalled for appearance of Titurel, a bad-tempered old man got up as a Fellini cardinal and bossing everyone around, just in case we should take these Teutonic Knights at face value. No proces- sions, of course, despite what the score says. Back-lighting of the crucial kiss en- sures that you could not see Parsifal's face at `Amfortas! Die Wunde!' I need hardly mention that Kundry took charge of un- veiling the Grail in the finale, and that the final tableau was of serried ranks of ladies lit at the expense of everyone else. Heigh ho.
But it takes more than a social realist to defeat Sir Reginald Goodall. Admittedly the first act was not without problems of pacing, tuning and ensemble, probably caused by general unease at the last-minute substitution of Siegfried Jerusalem for an ailing Warren Ellsworth (Mr Jerusalem sang quite magnificently, and in German). But thereafter the magic worked, and it was not, contrary to received opinion, slow — indeed compared to, say, James Levine, Sir Reginald's Parsifal is a scherzo. And it is not just a matter of earth-shaking orches- tral climaxes and long-breathed lyrical flow — I have never heard the Good Friday Music so gloriously sustained — but of the months of preparation leading up to the first night. The role of Kundry can seldom have been so musically sung as it was by Miss Evans, each phrase shaped with enormous insight and delivered with suc- culently coloured tone, though her words could have been clearer (white wine please, Anne dear, and not too sweet). Similarly Gwynne Howell (Gurnemanz) more than made up with musical feeling and verbal clarity for what he may have lacked in the sheer vocal and dramatic weight of the great interpreters of the past, and the not-obviously-Wagnerian Neil Howlett (Amfortas) showed that incisive- ness of tone is in the end less important than imagination.
That so many musical riches should have been compromised by crass direction and design is an occasion for molar-grinding rage, and I should perhaps mention that Andrew Porter's excellent new translation seems to have been tampered with, not to its advantage, between printing and stage. When he arrives from New York to hear it he should have a case of Macon with him (that's enough wine jokes — Ed.).
There is less need to get worked up over the Garden's Dutchman since it is such a weak piece; it contains a couple of bons quarts d'heure and a further one-and-a-half of part rhetorical bluster (all too faithfully conjured up by the amazingly brash Gerd Albrecht in the pit) and part Lortzing gone wrong (which Mr Albrecht crushed to death). There is already a perfectly service- able Dutchman at the Coliseum, and would that the Garden had eschewed needless duplication and turned its attention to some really good music like Euryanthe or Oberon.
The production team of Mike Ashman (producer of the WNO's fine Parsifal) and. David Fielding (ace designer of the ENO's Xerxes) mounted a Norwest HoIst-style staging, the sort of thing that audiences in Duisburg could easily take in their stride; here the stride was resolutely towards the exits, and those who stayed did so to boo vociferously. Their abstract concept, with its flavour of nuclear submarine, oil rig and factory floor, all set amidst tatty furniture and (inevitably) strip lighting, was quite fun in its way, but I don't believe that in the current climate of opinion the Garden can afford expensive jokes.
At least the piece was well sung — more than well, indeed superbly by Simon Estes in the title-role — by amongst others Robert Lloyd and Laurence Dale; Rosa- lind Plowright and Mr Jerusalem did what they could with Senta and Erik, roles so mercilessly, almost incompetently, written for the voice that one hates to hear good singers having to tackle them. That's de- finitely enough Dutchmen, Ed., at least for my lifetime.
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