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Royal Albert Hall
Cassandre – Anna Caterina Antonacci
Chorèbe – Fabio Capitanucci
Enée – Bryan Hymel
Didon
– Eva-Maria Westbroek
Narbal
– Brindley Sherratt
Anna – Hanna Hipp
Ascagne – Barbara Senator
Priam
– Robert Lloyd
Hécube
– Pamela Helen Stephen
Ghost
of Hector – Jihoon Kim
Panthée
– Ashley Holland
Hélénus
– Ji Hyun Kim
Greek
Captain – Lukas Jakobski
Trojan
Soldier/Mercure – Daniel Grice
Iopas
– Ji-Min Park
First
Soldier – Adrian Clarke
Second
Soldier – Jeremy White
Hylas
– Ed Lyon
Orchestra
of the Royal Opera House
Royal
Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)
Sir
Antonio Pappano (conductor)
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| Image: BBC/Chris Christodoulou |
Hearing
The Trojans in concert at the Royal
Albert Hall as part of the Proms was, for me at least, a much happier
experience than when it laboured under the crowd-pleasing
would-be-musical-comedy served up by David McVicar’s production for the Royal
Opera. (I wrote about my experience of the latter here,
so shall try to restrain myself from rehearsing my criticisms. For a very
different standpoint, from one who admired McVicar’s staging, read Anne
Ozorio’s review for Opera Today.)
Speaking
to a few members of the audience who had also attended both, I was clearly not
the only person to have found conductor and soloists liberated by the concert
hall. Sir Antonio Pappano’s conducting still has its problems, but he makes
Berlioz sound less like Verdi than he does Wagner, and, as at Covent Garden, his
reading gathered strength as it went on. Even the first act, where sometimes he
appeared to think that he was conducting Aida,
had stronger, more idiomatic moments. The
very opening was far too fast, breathless rather than jubilant, the Trojans
opening ‘Ha! Ha!’ sounding as if they were hyper-ventilating. However, the
transformation of mood signalling the arrival of Cassandre was very well
handled, doubtless informed by plenty of theatrical experience yet without the
encumbrance of inadequate scenic presentation. The disquieting weirdness of the
orchestra throughout her recitative and aria painted a thousand words. Likewise,
the terrible, ominous tread of the march and choral hymn, ‘Dieux protecteurs de
la ville éternelle’ - the irony of the
words properly telling – was compellingly presented, far more in touch with the
inheritance of Gluck’s obsequies than had previously been the case. It was a
pity, then, that the ensuing Wrestlers’ Dance reverted to Verdian type. Cassandre’s
aria, ‘Non, je ne verrai pas la deplorable fête’ was conducted as if Pappano
had a bus to catch, but thereafter things settled down, off-stage – or rather
arena – brass sounding utterly resplendent in the act finale. One might have
had quibbles here and there, but save for an unfortunate lapse of tension
towards the end of the fourth act – it really must be maintained here, lest the
Berlioz nay-sayers have their day in court over alleged ‘longueurs’ – there was
much to enjoy, not least a vividly pictorial Royal Hunt and Storm, suffused
also with erotic longing.
Of
course, those of us who have heard Sir Colin Davis conduct the opera will never
forget the experience: a performance far more alert to Berlioz’s formal
imperatives, in which never, not once, did the dramatic, Gluckian tensian sag,
but sadly, it is not logistically possible for every performance one hears to
emanate from the hands of the world’s greatest Berlioz interpreter. The best
stomachs, to misquote Voltaire, are not necessarily those that reject all food.
Pappano more often than not did a good job, considerably better than at the
staged performance I saw. And the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House played
magnificently throughout, even on the occasions when its direction proved a
little misguided.
The
major problem with a number of the sung performances remained the level not
only of French pronunciation, but French style. The latter is not monolithic of
course, and it is no bad thing to have preconceptions challenged, but singing
Berlioz as if he were Verdi simply does not pass muster, especially if
pronunciation is all over the place. (Incidentally, the lack of comment by many
writers on this crucial aspect should really be a matter for concern. If English-language
critics simply cannot hear when the French language is being distorted, even
butchered, they should probably leave Berlioz well alone.) There was a broad
spectrum, of course: two singers who again covered themselves in glory were Ed
Lyon as Hylas, his song deceptively simple and touching, and Anna Caterina
Antonacci as Cassandre. If there were times when the orchestra threatened to
overwhelm the latter’s voice, it never did, and that struggle is surely
expressive of the drama. Relieved of McVicarisms, Antonacci channelled all of
her musico-dramatic energies into a searing portrayal of the doomed prophetess.
Even as a little boy reading the ancient legends, Cassandra was for me a figure
of empathy; here, her predicament and nobility of spirit were searingly
portrayed in a performance that would have nothing whatsoever to fear from
comparison with Davis’s Petra Lang. Ironically, Eva-Maria Westbroek’s Didon, if
hardly an epitome of French style, came alive far more dramatically than on
stage. There was now a proper sense of a woman scorned, of righteous fury. Bryan
Hymel’s Enée, however, continues to lack not only correct, or even feasible,
pronunciation, but also refulgence of tone. If only, Jonas Kaufmann had been
fit to sing. At times, alas, Hymel sounded like a parody of Jon Vickers Perhaps
others can more readily overlook the odd mispronunciations, also a
characteristic of Fabio Capitanucci’s Chorèbe, but they surely ought at least
to have difficulties with the strangulated tone and the crude, Verdi-like
delivery. Vignettes were often well taken. Ji-Min Park’s Iopas was sung
beautifully, if one could ignore the lack of ease with the language. And small
though the part may be, Pamela Helen Stephen’s Hécube somehow managed blood-curdlingly
to capture the attention, as she and others recoiled at the death of Laocoön.
Aside
from the second act finale, when the women experienced slight intonational
problems, the choral singing was excellent too. Not quite a match, perhaps for
Davis’s London Symphony Chorus – is there a chorus anywhere that has sung more
Berlioz? – but impressive nevertheless. As
an introduction to Berlioz’s extraordinary opera, this could hardly have failed
to impress. Even for those of us who have known Les Troyens for a while, it remained an inspiring, if in some
respects flawed, experience. Both the Proms and the Royal Opera should be
congratulated for their efforts in bringing the work to a wider audience.
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