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Director
David Pountney
Design
Stefanos
Lazaridis
Costume
Marie-Jeanne
Lecca
Lighting
Davy Cunningham
Conductor
Charles Mackerras
Performers
Manolios
Christopher
Ventris
Katerina
Marie McLaughlin
Grigoris
Peter Sidhom
Yannakos -
Peter
Timothy Robinson
Lenio
Juanita Lascarro
Priest Fotis
Willard W.
White
Panait - Judas
Douglas Nasrawi
Archon
Jeremy White
Aga
Richard Angas
Andonis
Alasdair
Elliott
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Royal
Opera House
15
September - 1 October 2004 |
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I first
saw this production when it
was new to Covent Garden in
April 2000. I sat in the stalls
and was overwhelmed. The director,
David Poutney, had used the
newly enlarged stage to the
full, and taken advantage
of all the available opportunities
for changing scenes to suit
the plot and action. In this
he was superbly supported
by the wonderful set designs
of Stefanos Lazaridis. The
magical score was movingly
conducted by Sir Charles Mackerras,
who was completely at sympathy
with Martinu's religioso style
of common chords, restrained
dissonances and restricted
lyrical outbursts all to suggest
the re-enactment on several
layers of an Eastern Orthodox
Passion. It was a powerful
experience and I recommended
many friends not to miss it,
thinking then that it was
unlikely to be revived.
Well, it has been revived,
with some cast and other changes.
Christopher Ventris has taken
over the central role of Manolios,
the young man chosen to play
Christ in the ensuing Passion
drama, and whose life is gradually
transformed by the role for
which he has been selected
and who, like Christ, is murdered
at the end by hate-filled
crowd incited by jealous and
fearful leaders. The two warring
priests whose difference is
central to Kazantzakis's novel
(more than the opera which
focuses on the relationship
between Manolios and Katerina/Mary
Magdalene and on the transformation
of each), both have new voices.
Pastor Grigoris, the local
man, was excellently sung
and acted by Peter Sidhom,
He strutted and blustered
with all the small-time self-importance
of a puffed up local dignitary
carefully guarding his territory.
Even more impressive was the
wise Father Fotis, the sage
driven from place to place
with his nomadic flock of
souls, who is forced to settle
for a while outside the village
on the bleak mountainside.
His presence seems to be a
constant threat to the frightened
village elders. Willard White
brought his magisterial vocal
and dramatic powers to bear
on this role.
This ought to have been a
great experience, but for
me it was not. Somehow the
magical cohesion I felt when
I saw the production in 2000
was falling apart. The music
sounded leaden, and the religioso-style
seemed earthbound, sometimes
even dull. Some of the cast
seemed to have difficulty
tuning and the sounds on stage
and in the pit hardly ever
gelled to produce the power
I had remembered. As I left
the theatre I overheard a
group of well-suited business
men complaining that the score
did not do justice to the
singers. In 2000 they would
not have said that.
Why? It is hard to say. But
for me one reason was that
instead of being privileged
as a critic to sit in the
stalls I was given a ticket
in the stalls circle with
the words 'restricted view'
marked on the ticket. Well,
no wonder he didn't like it,
I hear you cry, he listened
with his ego hurt! A disgruntled
critic complaining of his
inconvenience.
Not so, I would reply though
I don't deny disappointment
as I always approach going
to the opera hoping to be
moved, laughter or tears will
do. I think it is good for
a critic occasionally to have
to experience a work from
less good positions in the
theatre. After all, much of
the audience has to, and they
have very different experiences.
If you are sitting right at
the back of the amphitheatre
you can hear well, but inevitably
you cannot see stage details
well. Where I was sitting
I could see most of the stage
but not about a quarter of
the right hand side. More
worryingly the view was blocked
by the overhang of the tier
above, and this affected the
sound of the music. The upper
partials of the instruments
seemed boxed-in or lost, and
so the balance between stage
and pit could never be properly
judged or heard. The music
seemed to lack aural lustre.
Much of the sound seemed directed
away from me, or at any rate
not in my direction. Of course,
most theatres and concert
venues put critics in good
seats not least because they
want them to experience what
is on offer in the best way.
But critics should also remember
that they should speak for
all in the theatre not just
those in the most expensive
seats.
However, a final word. I have
sat in the stalls circle,
second row, half-way round
before, and though I have
always found these aurally
and visually restricted, it
has not always been the case
that I have not been moved
by the performance. Sometimes
one does generate so much
power that wherever you are
you can sense its energy.
So, I must conclude that in
part my disappointment may
have been due to the fact
that this revival was under-rehearsed
or that it had not quite 'clicked'
yet and may do in subsequent
performances. If the opera
had been the Marriage of Figaro
I would not greatly mind.
But this wonderful piece by
Martinu does not get many
outings, and when one is underwhelmed
the blame is placed unjustly
at his door as those departing
business men I overheard demonstrated.
Finally, however, now that
I have got this off my chest
I must recommend that all
who can see this opera. Martinu
is a composer who is unjustly
dismissed on the usual criminal
grounds that he was prolific,
multi-stylistic, not Czech
enough for some, not American
enough for others, not modern
enough for the cognoscenti,
too modern for the dilettanti.
This is Martinu's last opera
of nine and was composed over
the last few years (1954-9)
before he died in 1959. He
very much wanted to compose
this piece and it was all
set to be performed in Covent
Garden in 1958, but was blocked
at the last minute by a number
of short-sighted though 'well
meaning' judges. The rejection
led Martinu to re-compose
the opera and the result was
this magical mix of opera
and quasi-oratorio. The Greek-tragedy-sense
of inevitability in Kazantzakis's
novel, and his telling a complex
story in an almost detached,
this-is-the-way-life-is, epic
way, from a distance without
over-dramatization is marvellously
caught by Martinu's restrained
and quasi-archaic musical
language that breaks out every
so often into powerful, but
short-lived, lyrical passages.
Like the character Manolios,
the music seems too good for
the shenanigans of the local
dignitaries and the murder
to which he is eventually
subjected. The music articulates
the drama the way Kazantzakis
articulates the plot in his
book. As such it is an unusual
piece of operatic writing,
and for this reason alone
should be heard more often.
But sadly it won't be if it
cannot be heard at its best.
Roderick Swanston |
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