Vintage year
Michael Tanner
Cosi fan Tutte; The Turn of the Screw Glyndebourne Touring Opera, Norwich Glyndebourne on Tour is having a vintage year, and that’s not counting its Die Fledermaus, which, favourite work of mine as it is, I couldn’t bear to see again in that production. Così fan tutte, on the other hand, I couldn’t bear not to see, having been at the first night in Glyndebourne last May, and felt there that, in the face of the hottest competition, it was the finest production of this infinitely subtle and probing comedy that I have ever seen. Not only did Glyndebourne on Tour match the home team, all told it surpassed it, and the result was an evening of simply unparalleled satisfaction — whether the hundreds of pre-teen schoolchildren who, incredibly, were taken to this of all works, felt the same I couldn’t say.
This production is set in the time da Ponte and Mozart envisaged. Both the sets and costumes by Vicki Mortimer are beautiful, also swift to move, so that there are minimal gaps between scenes, which is crucial. Nicholas Hytner’s direction, revived by Samantha Potter, is ideal. There is no underlining of significances, but nothing that matters is overlooked. The naturalness with which the sisters relate to one another, and equally their lovers, is of an order you very rarely see on the operatic stage. I suppose some people might complain that not only is this Così not played for laughs, but that there are almost no laughs in it, apart from those which accompany Despina as doctor and notary. My own feeling is that there is very little place in this opera for laughter, and that the much-commentedupon artificiality, or, as some would have it, preposterousness of the plot, is just a brilliantly economical way of setting up a situation in which profound questions — the most profound — about the nature and durability of feelings are raised, and given highly unpalatable answers. If we are amused, it is the amusement of embarrassment and discomfiture: for the terrible truth is revealed, that we have no way of telling how genuine and therefore (?) how long-lasting our feelings are, at any rate when they are involved in the most intimate way with biological urges.
These utterly typical youngsters take them at their face value, not that there is much else they can do. And that means that at the close we, and they, would be close to tragedy if anyone had acquired self-knowledge. This lot think that they end wiser than they began, while all that has really happened is that Don Alfonso has taught them to parrot idiotic lies about how happy you will be if you guide your life by reason.
The Don Alfonso of Henry Waddington avoids the usual clichés of world-weary cynicism, is rather a bon viveur actually concerned to educate his illusioned friends. He runs the show with expert unobtrusiveness, abetted by the frisky Despina of Claire Ormshaw. The sisters are so lovely a pair that to see them distraught as their betrotheds depart for active service is poignant, and to witness their capitulation to the blandishments of the ‘Albanians’ even more painful. The climactic duet, Fiordiligi played with the utmost intensity by Aga Mikolaj, Ferrando the honeyed Andrew Kennedy, takes seriousness as far as it could go without breaking the framework of the opera altogether. But the other pair, the sexy Rodion Pogossov and Jenny Carlstedt, are wonderful, too. And the conducting of Rory Macdonald is beyond praise, with his small ‘period’ orchestra producing miracles of sensuous tone in the great ensembles and the melancholy Act II serenade. The pacing is so acutely judged that the long work has never seemed shorter.
The Turn of the Screw is notable primarily for the Governess of Kate Royal, a performance which demonstrates that she is on the way to being a great operatic artist, with presence, acting ability, looks and a voice which are all extraordinary. As the work moved to its climax it became clear that the only real interest of this questionable work is the insane possessiveness which the Governess acquires towards Miles, something quite as terrible as whatever it might be that Quint has in mind for him. The fearfulness of the human relationship makes the ghosts seem more unconvincing and certainly less frightening than ever; they are a blot on the opera so large that it can’t be reckoned more than a cleverly atmospheric but meretricious piece with one powerful true situation to command our interest. This production is almost swamped by the design of Paul Brown, as elaborate a piece of revolving machinery as the stage can ever have seen, so that uppermost in one’s mind is the question of what it will do next.
Again an excellent cast, with AnneMarie Owens a sterling Mrs Grose. Miles is sung beautifully by Christopher Sladdin, but there is no hint of guile in his performance, so that ‘I’m bad, aren’t I?’ lacks any chill. Edward Gardner’s conducting is lucid, tense, propulsive, and made one wish that there weren’t an interval. Of all Britten’s mature operas this one seems to me the least satisfactory, though it will always have its appeal for connoisseurs of resourceful instrumentation.
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