For such a sumptuous piece Der Rosenkavalier raises a remarkable number of issues, all of which affect both productions and performances. At first Strauss and Hugo von Hofmannsthal intended a burlesque comedy with sex at the centre. As such it was envisaged as Ochs auf Lerchenau. But Hofmannsthal, and later Strauss, could not leave the idea alone, and burlesque mutated into bitter-sweet comedy with tragic undertones, and sex morphed into regret. In the process, perhaps inevitably, the work became described as a second Figaro as both are set in the upper class society of the 18th century, both have sexual shenanigans and both have a reconciling losses and gains. But the parallels are deceptive. Figaro is a satire on contemporary life, Rosenkavalier is saturated with retrospection tinged with regret. In their conclusions Figaro achieves justice, Rosenkavalier loss, or perhaps more accurately the survival of the species, as Octavian goes to mate his new-found, same-age Sophie as nature requires - a bitter lesson for the not-very-old Marschallin. Originally the Marschallin had not been an important character; in the end she became the pivot of the opera, the one from whom all the events spring and which are surrounded by her presence, even sometimes her absence.
      Hofmannstahl’s 18th century world is an invention, and to evoke it Strauss incorporates anachronistic waltzes, particularly for country-bumpkin Baron Ochs. But the Rosenkavalier is not really a retrospect, it only uses the past as glass through which to see the present of 1911. Little did they know it, but in a few years time this present-through-the-past world would be shattered, and lives of such as Octavian, Sophie, Ochs and the Marschallin would uprooted never to be restored, though not without some Viennese aspirations. Despite being premiered in Dresden, the work oozes Vienna – a particular picture of Vienna.
      Strauss draws on a number of his earlier works to make one of his subtlest, most alluring scores. Herein, lies one of its first ‘issues’, as it is not always easy to fathom why some of the libretto’s situations justify the music that goes with them. The most famous of these is the celebrated third-act trio in which the Marschallin yields Octavian to the young Sophie. Overwhelming regret, even sorrow, permeates this most wonderful music, on occasions almost too painful to bear. But, wait a minute, she is just giving up a young lover. Won’t there be others? She knew it would come to this, though he didn’t. Yet, on the scale of things her loss is little in comparison to what it would have been had he died in the trenches and been her son. How much more agonizing could Strauss’s music be? For Strauss no more, as much the same kind of music infuses his second-world-war Metamorphosen. His music could not say more, but should it have said at all at the end of Rosenkavalier?
      In the first act Hofmannstahl puts into the mouth of the Marschallin profound reflections on the undesirable passing of time, which in one move changes her to a kind of Hans Sachs without the justification. But what could she really know of Wahn? She’s really only Magdalene playing around while Walther is away.
      All these things impinge on a production, as if the ‘gorgeous palaces’ of an 18th century ‘palais’ are stripped away is the meaning big enough to take the trappings it has acquired? John Schlesinger’s 1984 production, revived now for the sixth time, does nothing to address these issues. Instead, he, William Dudley’s sets and Mara Björnsen’s costumes strive almost beyond the call of duty to portray this apparently magical world of Viennese yesteryear. At the most superficially sensuous level it works very well, and will no doubt please a good many members of the audience disenchanted with ‘modern’ productions. But for me, for instance, it grossly over sentimentalizes the final duo between Octavian and Sophie who are already drowning in Straussian sugar. Insulin all round, should be the order of the day.
      Much more successful in the production are the riotous, comic scenes, such as the Marschallin’s first-act crowded bedroom levée (by the way in most of the 18th century palaces I have visited there is a special room for all these goings on, not a proto-Emin unmade bed!), or Baron Ochs’s grotesque second-act courting scene, or his third act seduction scene. In some ways these would work any time, any place, anywhere. And in this revival they work magnificently, largely because, ironically, the dramatic star of the show is Peter Rose’s outstanding Baron Ochs. Rose captures to a tee the rough-hewn, puffed up self-importance of the Baron, as well as his nearly mastered, but still crude, flounces and flummery of city-life. While he both captures every nuance of Ochs’s loutishness he also manages to make the part vocally more ‘sung’ than many other performances, including the rapid parlando of the first act. Surprisingly, for the audience, he overshadows Thomas Allen’s Faninal, who is a gross in his own way but is more self-conscious about the need to acquire the trappings of what his money has bought him. His fury and muddled allegiances should make a counterpoint to Ochs who prides himself on his ancient ancestry. Yet Rose and Allen are ill-matched. Allen was off-form both vocally and dramatically. And without Faninal the aspect of Rosenkavalier that resembles Dickens’s acidly portrayed Veneerings in Our Mutual Friend is missing. However, other smaller parts fared better. Graham Clark’s Valzacchi and his accomplice Anina (sung by Leah-Marian Jones) were deliciously paparazziesque in planning and reporting on the fall of their social superiors. Woodyung Kim’s rather straight-laced parody of an Italian tenor was nearly right, though the irony implied in the part was rather missing.
      The three protagonists in the amorous triangle were a mixed bag. Outstanding amongst them was Lucy Crowe’s beautifully sung and portrayed Sophie, only her second role at Covent Garden. Sophie is the ingénue of the piece. Intended by her father for social-climbing, she is unprepared for the love-at-first-sight that follows from the presentation of the silver rose in Act 2, but her instincts lead her to fight to keep what she has found and ditch what her father wants. The transformation from trapped teenager, to feisty inamorata, to grateful receiver of Octavian, the gift from a more enlightened grown-up, is performed outstandingly both vocally and dramatically. Neither Sophie Koch as Octavian nor Soile Isokoski match her, which rather affects the impetus of the whole opera. Both are good in places. Koch’s Octavian is rather uneven vocally and in characterization. She is better when playing Octavian as a man, such as in the 2nd act brawl, than Octavian as a dressed-up girl in Act 1, or Act 3 when her rather strident tone would be her first give-away to the slavering Ochs.
      The ups-and-downs of Isokoski are more marked. Her static performance, hampered some of the time by the imprisonment of her frock, made her characterization rather wooden, especially in the après-sex scenes at the beginning of the opera, and even when she gives Octavian away in the last act. But, for me, this turned to gain at the end of the first act when she laments the passing of time. Here, superbly aided by the slow tempi and controlled softness of the orchestra under Kirill Petrenko, her portrayal of the vulnerable Marschallin was deeply suggestive. Her implication of a little girl coming to terms with the downsides of her prestigious marriage, but lonely exile from her husband, were touchingly believable. In a symbolic way Isokoski suggested she did comfortably occupy the dress she was made to wear. And at the end instead of being the grand-dame the Marschallin is usually portrayed as, she seemed as vulnerable as Sophie but in a different way. Vocally her performance grew through the evening, though it never quite reached the heights of her most celebrated predecessors.
      But there is one other character present throughout: the orchestra and conductor, who were on superb form despite some rather muffled opening horns and lapses in ensemble. The thirty-seven year old, Omsk-born, conductor Kirill Petrenko is no stranger the opera-pit having been amongst other things the director of the Komische Oper in Berlin from 2002. His subtle shaping and pacing of this most subtle of scores was masterful. He managed to tame the brass, elevate the wind and mellow the strings in all the right places, and his accompaniment of the Marschallin’s first-act reflections, or the rubato of the great trio were beautiful. In some paces he set a cracking pace, such as the parlando for Ochs in the first act, or even the presentation of the rose in Act 2.
      Orchestrally speaking the evening is rich and full of insights ably presented by an orchestra and conductor on top form. On stage, it was a bit of curate’s egg, the best bits being the comic scenes around Peter Rose’s Ochs and Lucy Crowe’s Sophie.
Roderick Swanston