Opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk (Coliseum)
Awaiting developments
Rodney Whines
Glyndebourne's new Traviata has been scurvily and I think a little unfairly received by the press. Anyone could see what might or might not be wrong with it, and anyone might also have noticed what was triumphantly right about it too. First, what was wrong on a hyper-tense first night — as well it might have been with a protagonist and a production team tackling a masterpiece of this stature for the first time. The singers oversang, but they were good singers, with only Walter MacNeil's tenor hero seeming impossibly impassive. Perhaps this occasioned one misconceived piece of business — Alfredo laboriously cleaning his gun during 'De' miei bollenti spiriti', which may have given amateur Freudians something to think about but fatally compromised the communication between singer and audience, as well as giving the critics something to seize upon. The London Philharmonic Orchestra was on nervy form, and some of Bernard Haitink's tempos seemed a shade too deliberate for the size of the house.
Which leads straight to what was right. Traviata sounds fabulous in this small auditorium. The endless subtleties of Ver- di's instrumentation make their point with effortless clarity, and good singers don't have to strain and pretend to be anything they aren't, which both made the oversing- ing all the more regrettable and also reminded us that Glyndebourne has yet to found a tradition of musical preparation in Verdi to match that in their Mozart (little phrases and exchanges could have been more colourfully, more intimately pointed). And there is much more right about Peter Hall's production than otherwise. He has achieved at a blow the single most difficult thing: the creation of a convincing social milieu as background to the action, something that in my experience only Visconti has managed before. There is genuine sleaziness in the party scenes, suggested with much economy — a bared breast here, a stocking top there — and the ballets roses junketings chez Flora produce a real frisson of disgust (in me, anyway, and I imagine Mrs Whitehouse would be carried out in a dead faint). But this is essential to the opera. The credibility is complemented by the claustrophobic atmosphere of John Gunter's beautifully conceived sets, littered with reminders of mortality and (practical) clocks. Time is desperately short for Violetta.
As a first stab at this role, Marie McLaughlin's impersonation was far more than just promising — it was in many ways a stunning achievement. She looks perfect as a young good-time girl and uses her huge, lustrous dark eyes to devastating effect: they can express anger, contempt, terror, devotion, mockery and despair with equal eloquence. Together, she and Sir Peter used the intimacy of the house to create two long dramatic paragraphs of penetrating and detailed dramatic truth: the crucial first meeting with Alfredo and subsequent nervous crisis (to sing `Sempre libera' looking absolutely miserable was a masterstroke), and the pivotal confronta- tion with Germont pere. In both — greatly aided by Brent Ellis's insufferably smug, perfectly judged Father in the second she brought a wealth of minutely observed, daringly understated gesture and nuance to strike straight to the heart of the drama and find its overwhelming pain. This quali- ty of direction and performance is what Glyndebourne is for.
If her shoot-out with Alfredo at Flora's party fell comparatively flat, this was be- cause of the oddly sluggish accompaniment and a lack of response from her antagonist, and the last act will work better — it is already pretty harrowing — when she has sung herself into the role and worked out the pacing. But I love this Violetta, and can't wait to see it again. It will get better and better.
Talking of which, the Glyndebourne/ Hall Carmen is now a knock-out. Again, it sounds marvellous in this auditorium the LPO back at their best — and it is very snazzily conducted by Graeme Jenkins. Maria Ewing brings more variety of vocal and dramatic response to the title role, the first two acts lighter in touch, the second two just as fateful as they were two years ago, and the whole still tingling with barely suppressed eroticism. Barry McCauley's Jose had developed into a quite terrifying portrait of mental and physical disintegra- tion; Faith Esham is a spirited, warmly sympathetic Micaela; David Holloway's Toreador has grown into an elegant, needl- ing sadist (his fight with Jose is horribly well staged). I can't remember when I was last so gripped by a performance of this opera, and if the Traviata is as good in two years' time, then all will be well with the
world. Yes, yes, I know, perhaps Hall productions really should be ready for their first nights, but I do love watching things develop and grow. Better honest error than the ice-cold perfection of the mere stylist, as someone once said.
No problems whatsoever with David Pountney's shattering production of Shos- takovich's second opera. The tragedy is that it should have been his last: Stalin's notorious denunciation of 1936 effectively silenced a 27-year-old opera composer of genius. For this reason if no other, Pount- ney's updating the work to the 1930s and setting it in an abattoir is an act of neat gallows-humour revenge. Brimming with pole-axing coups de theatre, brilliantly con- ducted by Mark Elder and graced with a central performance by Josephine Barstow that is remarkable even by that singing actress's own Himalayan standards, this is without doubt the best show in the West End, and to miss it would be sheer insan- ity. Oh, and it was absolutely ready on the first night.
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