The Cunning Little Vixen

by Leoš Janáček

seen at the London Coliseum on 22 February 2022

Martyn Brabbins conducts Sally Matthews as the Vixen and Lester Lynch as the Forester in Jamie Manton's new production of  Leoš Janáček's 1924 opera The Cunning Little Vixen, based on a newspaper comic strip by Rudolf Těsnolídek which had triggered his imagination.

The Forester captures the vixen cub and attempts to domesticate her, but inevitably it doesn't work out well: his wife and children, and the family dog, are less than impressed and in any case the vixen's inherent nature cannot be tamed. After attacking a patriarchal cockerel she escapes, falls pregnant to a fox, and they begin to bring up the next generation. In the meantime there are petty jealousies in the village community. A trap set for the vixen is foiled, but a poacher shoots her. The Forester sees another cub; will the cycle be repeated?

It's a strange piece, sometimes whimsical, with gorgeous musical attention paid to the natural world - all sorts of creatures inhabit the forest where the vixen lives - and a powerful sense of the cyclical nature of life lies beneath the surface vignettes of both village and animal life. The somewhat minimalist design by Tom Scutt revealed the stark vastness of the Coliseum stage which is hard to reconcile with settings in the natural world. A single huge sheet dropped from a cylindrical drum suspended above the stage unfurled progressively throughout the performance with stylised evocations of the passage of the seasons, but this served to emphasise a disorienting staginess about the whole affair.

As well as the primary characters there was a panoply of critters moving about - a frog, a cricket, a grasshopper, a mosquito, a large number of fox cubs, and so forth - and also a soberly dressed stage crew moving huge screens and stylised piles of logs into various positions. In the domestic setting the human characters wore peasant clothing, but the cockerel was a gorgeous overblown narcissist, while the dog was inexplicably a huge sphere of fur. Personally I did not find this vision particularly convincing; I preferred the celebrated Bill Bryden production for Covent Garden originally staged in 1990, a revival of which I saw in 2010, in which the mysteriousness of the world was more compelling.

Musically this ENO production was attractive, with radiant orchestral playing in the great climaxes and fine singing by the principals. Visually, however, I felt let down.

Theodora

by George Frideric Handel

seen at Covent Garden on 14 February 2022

Harry Bicket conducts Katie Mitchell's production of Theodora, a piece composed by Handel as an oratorio rather than an opea, and not performed at Covent Garden since its less than enthusiastically received premiere in 1750. 

The plot is inspired by the fourth century story of the martyr Theodora, here sung by soprano Julia Bullock, one of many who refused the obligation to sacrifice to the Roman emperor as a deity, or to the Roman pantheon in general, and who thus risked execution. In this instance the implacable governor Valens (baritone Gyula Orendt) recognises that consignment to a brothel would be a worse punishment than death, since it would both compromise Theodora's chastity and frustrate her eagerness for a martyr's crown.

Didymus (countertenor Jakub Jósef Orliński), a soldier in love with Theodora, manages to help her escape by an ingenious exchange of clothing, but in the process is himself captured and sentenced to death, prompting Theodora to surrender herself hoping to save him; Valens not unreasonably points out that those who break the law cannot dictate the terms of their own punishment, and maintains his condemnation of both of them.

The moral complexities of the situation are further examined through Irene (mezzo soprano Joyce DiDonato), a friend of Theodora who often acts as spokeswoman of the Christian community, and Septimus (tenor Ed Lyon), a sympathetic soldier friend of Didymus who nevertheless puts duty before the ties of personal loyalty or private conviction.

The story unfolds through a series of recitatives, da capo arias, choruses and occasional duets. Harry Bicket maintinas a firm control of the score while the cast is uniformly excellent, supremely confident in the vocal techniques needed to sing Handel arias with conviction as characters as well as skill as singers. The whole evening was a joy to listen to.

Katie Mitchell's often controversial interrogations of classic stories of female oppression begin by questioning the ways in which these stories emphasise women reacting to bad things happening to them. She prefers to provide some agency to the female protagonists, and equally does not shy away from acknowledging the personal cost in emotional and psychological terms of the damage being perpetrated on the victim. Thus in her reading of this story, which is updated from late Roman imperial times to be set in a modern 'Roman' embassy, Theodora and Irene are among many lowly kitchen staff in the Embassy, covertly using the equipment to make a bomb. The brothel (the 'vile place' of the text) becomes a private pole-dancing room attached to a boudoir for the delectation of Valens and his underlings, the seediness of the venue quietly emphasised while the musical action plays out in the adjoining state room. There is a startling moment when Didymus, having disguised himself as Theodora, is taught the basic techniques of pole dancing by one of the other dancers. No doubt Jakub Jósef Orliński's skill at break dancing helped him here!

There was considerable advance 'publicity' about Mitchell's production offered by Covent Garden: an email to those who had bought tickets contined the following trigger warning

As we approach the final stages of the rehearsal process, we feel we should let you know that we are now recommending the production to audiences over the age of 16, owing to its explicit presentation of scenes of sexual violence, harassment and exploitation and its evocation of themes of terrorism

Later, a press release announced the appointment of an intimacy co-ordinator to ensure that all the actors and singers were comfortable with the levels of explicitness required by the director. The House has perhaps felt threatened by the intensity of the critical response to some of Mitchell's earlier productions (particularly Lucia di Lammermore), though on the other hand her work on George Benjamin's operas Written on Skini and Lessons in Love and Violence seemed to me to be entirely appropriate and deeply illuminating. It is possible that Covent Garden was deliberately fomenting interest to pre-empt criticism for this new production.

In the case of Theodora there is no doubt that uncomfortable issues concerning the conflict between personal adherence to faith and the overbearing dictates of civic authority lie not very far underneath so-called inspiring tales of martyrdom. In most of the older Christian stories the persecuted do not engage in acts of aggression, and the more responsible Christian leaders generally were dismayed by those who actively sought martyrdom even as they extolled this ultimate expression of faith under pressure. Mitchell has shifted the weight of the story by imagining Theodora and Irene as terrorists in the making, since it means that the complicit Christians (at least some of the kitchen staff are complicit) are doing more than just standing on their principles by refusing to worship false gods. The denouement she imagines for the opera in particular is at most variance with the original tale of martyrdom, with the authority figures rather than the Christians brought low.

The method for introducing these subversions is classic Mitchell. Chloe Lamford has designed a set of five rooms and two passageways, though we see at most three rooms at any one time, and usually only one or two. The set slides slowly to left or right as required, with black walls at the front to widen or narow the view, so that we either focus entirely on the singing and action of the singers, or else see dumbshow actions in adjoining spaces which broaden our perspective on what is really happening. Sometimes, it must be admitted, this technique is a distraction, but often it works extremely well. There is an element of ritual about the measured pace, intensified in moments of high drama when everything proceeds in carefully choreographed slow motion. Curiously, both the making of the bomb by Theodroa and Irene, and its subsequent defusing by a nervous but determined Septimus, echo these ritualistic proceedings, and it seems all of a piece with the moving proto-baptism of Didymus at the close of the first act as he prepares to rescure Theodora.

I found the visual interpretation very often enhanced the music, but could not escape the feeling that the original story had been subverted by the conclusion imposed on it. We are often frightened by martyrs if their cause opposes our way of life; most of us are now hardly inspired by martyrs from within the Christian tradition. On either count the story of a woman embracing martyrdom is now problematic. Whether the image of Theodora and Didymus grimly leaving the chaotic scene of their apparent escape from death in an industral freezer as the final curtain falls is more palatable it is hard to say. 

 

 

 

Bajazet (or Il Tamerlano)

by Antonio Vivaldi, libretto by Agostino Piovene and others

seen at the Linbury Theatre, Covent Garden on 12 February 2022

Vivaldi composed his opera Bajazet in 1735, some dozen years after Handel's treatment of the same story titled Tamerlano (performed on the main Covent Garden stage in 2010). This production, essentially created by and for Irish National Opera with the Royal Opera in collaboration, is directed by Adele Thomas with Peter Whelan conducting the Irish Baroque Orchestra (ten instrumentalists and himself).

The Linbury Theatre provides an intimate, and perhaps ultimately more satisfactory, setting for Baroque opera than the main auditorium, especially with such a small instrumental ensemble. In a simple box set of roughly gilded walls all the action between the six characters can easily take place, and their various experiences of entrapment can be presented credibly.

Bajazet, the defeated Turkish sultan (bass-baritone Gianluca Margheri), is the most obvious prisoner, often chained to a giant rope attached to a formidable pulley hook breaking through the ceiling. He is bedraggled, with flesh wounds on his arms and face, and dressed in dull clothing, the plaything of the victorious Tamerlano (an extraordinarily seedy countertenor James Laing, exuding sleaze and entitlement in equal measure). Andronico, a Greek prince and ally of Tamerlano (also a countertenor, Eric Jurenas) is by contrast smartly dressed in a suit with a sumptuous sash in royal blue, a picture of pained collusion with the brutal conqueror. While these two men are not physical prisoners like the hapless Bajazet, Tamerlano is at the mercy of his capricious whims, and these in turn constrain everyone around him: Andronico's hopes of marriage with Asteria, the daughter of Bajazet, are confounded when Tamerlano takes a liking to her and ditches his intended bride Irene (offering her to Andronico instead, where of course 'offering' only means insisting that they marry).

Asteria (mezzo soprano Niamh O'Sullivan), though not in chains like her father, is trapped by the sudden shift in Tamerlano's marriage plans, and is well aware of her powerlessness; we first see her in rags, wild-eyed and injured, and she wastes no time in venting her fury and frustration at Andronico whom she assumes has betrayed their love for the promise of Irene's superior political position. The contrast with the imperious Irene herself (soprano Claire Booth) is marked by the latter's stunning blue costume, but even she, though clearly a woman not to be messed with, is trapped into the degrading position of pretending to be a servant in order to further her ambitions.

The story is thus full of opportunities for recrimination, misunderstanding, the naked use and abuse of power, despair and rage, and correspondingly lacking in any indication of tenderness or finer feeling - even the love of Asteria and Andronico never comes across as revivifying, and the father/daughter relationship has none of the depth explored by later operatic composers. In a court dominated by a psychopathic vulgarian such as Tamerlano perhaps one cannot expect anything refined to survive. But there is ample opportunity for vocal pyrotechnics on all sides, including a staggering aria from Irene to close the first act, stunningly executed by Claire Booth. Even Idapse (soprano Aoife Miskelly), the only non-royal character, has moments in the limelight, and, having been given the role of dispensing Tamerlano's medicines, it turns out she has a crucial role in a surprising denouement.

The decorousness of Baroque music, and the potentially deadening awkwardness of a long succession of da capo arias (in which the first phrases are always repeated with more elaborated ornamentaton after the middle section) are both overcome in this production by spirited playing and electrifying singing and acting, with several characters literally bouncing off the walls in their various frustrations. Vivaldi's operatic oeuvre is not well known, but this was an exciting introduction to his repertoire.