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
|
The Greek Passion
by Bohuslav Martinu
Royal Opera
Covent Garden
15 September - 1 October 2004
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
|
