Saint-Saëns - Samson et Dalila

La Monnaie at Bozar, Brussels, Sunday March 25 2007

Conductor: Kazushi Ono. Chorus Master: Piers Maxim. Dalila: Olga Borodina. Samson: Carl Tanner. Le Grand Prêtre de Dagon: Jean-Philippe Lafont. Abimélech, satrape de Gaza: Federico Sacchi. Un vieil Hébreu: Chester Patton. Un messager: Tie Min Wang. Premier Philistin: André Grégoire. Deuxième philistin: Bernard Giovani. Orchestre symphonique et choeurs de la Monnaie.

[Photo: Shafahi]

This concert peformance of Samson et Dalila took place in the handsomely-restored art deco concert hall - complete with organ - of Horta's otherwise grim Palais des Beaux-Arts, or "Bozar" as it's now called, in Brussels. Though it seems fairly obvious to me that if composers intended their operas for the stage, staged they should be, Samson works quite well as oratorio: strong orchestral support, plenty of good stuff for the chorus, etc., apart from the odd detail explicit only on stage, e.g. the child who guides Samson to the pillars at the end. And when you see photos of some productions of the piece, you might be tempted to conclude that a concert performance is perhaps a blessing after all...

Kazushi Ono went for steady tempi and, overall, a round, full, symphonic sound not especially wedded to the typical French ideals of transparency, taste, lightness and elegance: more Hollywood than Bois de Boulogne, and at the end of the Bacchanale, unashamedly vulgar - but exciting - noise . The revealing acoustics probably played a part in this, with the all-wooden stage and the organ loft behind acting as a sounding-box: the double-basses, for example, had such remarkable oomph in the opening bars that people craned their necks to see what was going on; same for the castanets later; and the chorus, lined up right in front of the organ, set your ear-drums ringing. There was occasional horn trouble and the woodwinds, who managed overall to achieve that characteristically French, organ-like, Franck-y sound, were more clunky than supple in their "forest murmurs" moments; but in all La Monnaie's orchestra was on good form.

The men in the cast were doing perfectly fine till Dalila came along.

The supporting basses were strong: Chester Patton, in particular, had all the notes (for once) of a Sarastro (which he has sung) and remarkable, grave stage presence - though far too young and handsome for the part. Jean-Philippe Lafont was Jean-Philippe Lafont. I'm not sure I know how to translate "gueuler comme un veau". What does a bullock do? Bray? Whatever: he sang full blast, as usual, from start to finish, and with the usual vast vibrato, but all under control and undeniably one way of playing the character.

Carl Tanner has lots going for him. His voice is big, he hits all the notes (slamming down his music stand to make sure nothing would get in the way of his last, triumphant, top one) and you can tell what he's singing. The only thing lacking is more edge to his timbre, which is what the French might call "felted", i.e. fairly soft and chalky, to allow it to sound above the full orchestra. This would presumably be less of a problem if the orchestra were in the pit, not massed right behind him.

So it would have been a very good concert anyway. But then, along came Olga Borodina to wipe the floor with the men and lift the evening to an altogether higher plane. Good though her partners were, she is patently in another league. She has volume (and more in reserve) and projection and a rich, dark bronze timbre, now veering towards that of an alto, with enough edge to be audible whatever racket the orchestra may be kicking up behind. The notes are spot-on, however unkind Saint-Saëns may have been with Dalila, sending her up to a ferociously high note then thrusting her down, within bars, into baritone regions. Runs, when required, are no trouble. Note values are wonderfully business-like: a dictation of the score. Her French had my French friends amazed.

All this was carried off with as much apparent effort as reading a newspaper, ironing or making tea, as if she were singing Dalila as a break between more strenuous activites. Borodina's acting was limited to one expression: the peculiarly Russian, contemptuous surliness of the lady you found guarding every floor in Soviet hotels. Nevertheless, the old lady beside me admitted that during Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix, more particularly at Réponds à ma tendresse, réponds à ma tendresse, she tingled all over and had tears in her eyes.

So, though Samson and his friends (and enemies) were good, it was Delilah who brought the house down.

Händel – Ariodante

Théatre des Champs Elysées, Paris, Friday March 16 2007

Conductor: Christophe Rousset. Production and sets: Lukas Hemleb. Choreography: Andrew George. Ariodante: Angelika Kirchschlager. Polinesso: Vivica Genaux. Ginevra: Danielle De Niese. Dalinda: Jaël Azzaretti. Lurcanio: Topi Lehtipuu. Il Re: Olivier Lallouette. Odoardo: Nicolas Maire. Les Talens Lyriques.

“Indignities for a pittance”. It’s highly unlikely Ivy Compton-Burnett ever danced in an opera, but her terse definition of work must strike a chord in the careworn hearts of those who do. How often, over the years, have we all felt sorry for those poor, cute kids: so much hard work, such beautiful bodies, only to be forced to look ridiculous in front of 1,000 people who wished you weren’t there at all, and smile as you get booed at the end. Presumably for a pittance, too.

Lukas Hemleb’s production of Ariodante has had particularly mixed reviews, ranging from pure panning to sheer ecstasy - though any praise for the ballets has been rare. The sets are simple and, as the French say, efficacious. A triangular space formed by two walls meeting in a point contains a chocolate-coloured “Wendy” castle. There’s a simple gothic window pierced high on the left, there are plain rectangular openings on each side, there’s one simple gothic chair. There are curved slots in the triangular floor, so the walls can open up and a high, round, white tower can slide in from the rear on hidden rails to enclose the space.

The costumes add to this quite chicly-handled, Zen-gothic atmosphere: flowing, white gauze, waisted tunics with kimono sleeves, trains, and medieval designs printed on the front in colour-washed grisaille: armour, a dress or, for the king, a less medieval but nevertheless regal uniform jacket and sash. The women wear very fancy high heels, Sex-and-the-City style; the men, or male characters, trousers and flat shoes. For the tournament, extravagantly-crested helmets elicit a laugh. The dancers, led by a minimalist “jester”, look out-of-place in plain grey Lycra and tight-fitting masks.

I agree with those who have said the medieval feel was achieved with a degree of poetry. (Some have referred to early sets of tarot cards in Italy.) But it seemed to me that the directing was oddly inconsistent: at times, the singers looked undirected, just adopting the usual opera poses and singing; then, out of the blue, they had inexplicable contortions to carry out - the king, leaning over from his chair till his head touched the floor and his feet were in the air – or sudden bursts of modern-looking, naturalistic business, as if breaking out of the operatic mould and into modern theatre or soap opera.

And those poor dancers, writhing knock-kneed and waving hankies as if in a kind of satire on court dance, and banging their bottoms on the stage… They, I think, took the stick for the director, who didn’t emerge on the second night, having been so loudly booed on the first.

I wondered if it was apprehension, after that first-night booing, that held the singers back. We had an excellent cast and they nearly all sang impeccably, but apart from a magnificent Scherza infida in the second part that warmed things up for a while, to me it all remained too well-behaved, needing more fire and abandon.

Angelika Kirschlager gave us, as I said, a magnificent Scherza infida, a great improvement over Anne-Sophie von Otter’s mannered whimpering under Minkowski at Garnier and on disc, but was less at ease in rapid runs. Vivica Genaux had, of course, no trouble with those. Groups of presto triplets may be easy enough for the violins but they’re murder for a mezzo; Genaux rattled them off perfectly, and had the dark timbre and dykey looks the part required, but lacked projection and left me wishing for more oomph.

Danielle de Niese has come a long, long way from Giulio Cesare and Les Indes Galantes at Garnier. I must admit that when the Glyndebourne DVD of Cesare came out, I suspected engineering trickery of some kind, but no: her voice is indeed both louder and better-controlled than before. She does charm better than tragedy and her use or not of vibrato is a bit too obviously artful, but she deserves all the applause she gets.

Best of all, perhaps, was Topi Lehtipuu, so it’s a shame his character doesn’t get more to sing. His high, elegant tenor voice, caramel timbre, good tuning and vocal characterisation are familiar to us all now, either live or on DVD. He has also, I noted on Friday, an almost astonishing ability to change colour during a furious run. He’s outstanding (so I was very sorry indeed he was sick for the reprise of Les Paladins last season).

Jaël Azzaretti reminded me somehow of Rosemary Joshua: a pretty voice, highly competent, but not yet thrilling. Olivier Lallouette had good, bearded, melancholy presence but some trouble controlling both pitch and rhythm (it would be very unkind, though, publicly to wish Ildebrando d’Arcangelo, originally scheduled for this part, had not dropped out).

In any case, it would be madness to complain loudly of such a cast, and Rousset (who, now he earns money, has evening suits that fit) danced beautifully (as ever) in front of his harpsichord and carried the music along, dancing, with him: a more rounded, compact sound than either Christie or Minkowski, with more even tempi, always beautifully shaped, always with a bounce and a spring. It’s just that, as my neighbour said at the end, with opera seria, “il faut que ça pète,” and that extra, mad spark was missing.

Shostakovich – Katerina Ismailova

Théâtre du Châtelet, Saturday March 10, 2007

Conductor: Tugan Sokhiev. Boris: Alexeï Tanovitski. Zinovyi: Evgeny Akimov. Katerina: Solveig Kringelborn. Sergeï: Vladimir Grishko. Aksinia: Ludmila Dudinova. Shabby Peasant: Vasily Gorushkov. Priest/Old Convict: Ilya Bannik. Sonyetka: Anna Markarova. Police chief: Nikolai Kamensky. Orchestre National de France. Chorus of Radio France.

[Photo: Shafahi]

This excellent concert provided a perfect illustration, if one were needed, of the anyway obvious point that a singer can’t be judged on the basis of a single performance. Hauled in at the last minute to sing the Marschallin in this season’s jinxed Rosenkavalier, Solveig Kringelborn gave little sign of her acting or vocal capabilities – understandably, under the tense circumstances. She may have given more in the last act, but by then we were already far away having dinner.

In Saturday’s Katerina Ismailova she proved to be an outstanding tragic actress, even in an unstaged performance with only a strapless wine-coloured evening dress and stole for props; a remarkable triumph, given that it involved remaining on stage and in character throughout, and that, unlike her partners, she chose to sing without even a music stand and score for protection.

Her voice, too, was perfect for the part: one of those northern voices, a smoky, chesty, powerful soprano with a touch of metal at the top. I’m not sure it’s the kind of voice you’d expect to hear as the Countess in Capriccio at Garnier next season; but having seen and heard Kringelborn as Katerina, I may well decide to go back to that Carsen production (in which we had Renée Fleming last time) and see what she makes of its less obvious dramatic possibilities.

What's more, she was surrounded by about as strong a cast as one might hope to get in this work, a festival of ripe Russian timbres. Most striking of all was Alexeï Tanovitski, a dark, handsome, 30-year-old giant with a huge, healthy, bass voice and massive stage presence, already singing Wotan, so the programme notes told us.

Evgeny Akimov as Zinovyi was one of those brassy, ringing, trumpet-like tenors Russia apparently produces so easily, while Vladimir Grishko, our Sergei, was the other, baritonal kind, a rather unruly voice with occasionally dodgy tuning, but massive and broody.

Vasily Gorushkov got in a laser-like top note early in the evening but looked very put-out at missing the one at the end of his big moment, after finding the body: it was, sadly, a semitone flat, and he knew it. Ilya Bannik (Priest and Old Convict) was one of those long, skinny chaps with a quite unexpectedly cavernous bass voice, and Nikolaï Kamensky (Police Chief) was clearly an old trooper long used to the character parts Russian opera supplies in abundance (and reminded me of a silent film comedian whose name I've forgotten).

The Orchestre National was on great form once warmed up after a slightly scrappy start. Tugan Sokhiev took a relatively controlled, symphonic approach to the score, with more warmth than hysterical abandon and quite cautious tempi in the complex fugato passages (such as the wedding scene, where the chorus were no doubt grateful for the caution). But when outbursts were required, outbursts we got, with fifteen extra brass instruments on-stage to add to the general welter of sound, and of course the choir was characteristically splendid in the final act.

This magnificent performance raises the vexing question of why unstaged performances of opera are so often so much more satisfactory than staged ones. It does seem to be so…