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6Indeed, Lizzi Gee’s movement direction is superb. The children’s rough-and-tumble antics; the dream sequence, in which the children really do ‘take flight’ into fantasy; the delicate dancing of the en pointe duplicates of the dazzling Dew Fairy (He Wu), with their ‘milk-bottles’ of dew droplets; the reawakening of the lost children and the final chorus in celebration of this miracle: all are brilliantly conceived and executed. And, the choreography provides the production with a judicious moment of tongue-in-cheek kitsch. Reunited with his toy aeroplane by the sympathetic Sandman (Gillian Keith), the sleeping Hansel’s imagination powers a ‘lift-off’ to paradise. A bleached-blond flight crew arrive, smiles beaming and uniforms spic-and-span, and semaphore their pre-flight briefing before the excited children soar into the air on the surging wave of Humperdinck’s score, to be greeted by their parents bearing the balloons that will float them to wonderland. It’s terrifically well done.
Rachel Kelly and Susanna sang the roles of Hansel and Gretel in fine style, acting the childish roles with mischievous enthusiasm, but the real comic star of the piece was Alasdair Elliott as the witch, appearing first in a dress and luxurious blonde wig, but later revealing himself as a bald male, which I suppose makes him a warlock rather than a witch.
As a result, the evening relied more on the fine Marcello and Musetta from Charles Rice and Louise Alder, who gave the tragedy the ring of truth, both revealed and camouflaged by their explosive relationship. Alder took charge of her Café Momus waltz with imperious ease, considerable humour and some impressive coloratura, while in Act Three Rice’s immensely likeable Marcello in fine acting and singing painfully got to the heart of the misery Mimì and Rodolfo are inflicting on each other – they can’t live with or without each other. Rice naturally took charge of the artist household, backed up William Thomas’s Colline and Benson Wilson’s Schaunard, both strongly characterised and sung.
Or maybe not, for one of the most impressive aspects was Ben Glassberg’s conducting, which revelled in Puccini’s Wagnerisms, memories of Tristan evoked quite magically in the first act, without taking for something they were not. The sounds extracted from the ENO Orchestra were often magnificent: a great dynamic range, from moments of hushed intimacy, to grand, declamatory gesture. But it was Glassberg’s pacing and his reconciliation of vocal and orchestral demands that marked this out most strongly. That was not all his doing, of course. Both orchestra and chorus—what a joy to see and hear a chorus, handled most resourcefully, onstage once again—deserved plaudits in their own right. String sheen and incisiveness, bubbling woodwind and chorus: these and more played their part in weaving an effervescent, yet ever-darkening dramatic tapestry.
As our operatic experiences continue to be framed by pandemic conditions, virtual and live landscapes abound with chamber works, reduced orchestrations, and adaptations. One overarching trend is the careful attention to filmic dimensions of digital premieres, nudging the game forward from the generally high production values of cinema broadcasts. In this context, Andrea Breth’s staging of The Turn of the Screw for La Monnaie (directed for video by Miriam Hoyer with sound design by Christoph Mateka) achieves a highly satisfying level of polish. At the same time, one recognizes a precisely executed live performance at its core – one that would be thrilling to experience in person. The nebulous atmosphere of Henry James’ novella supports Benjamin Britten’s handling of Peter Quint and Miss Jessel as deceased spirits who seem to retain influence over the orphans Miles and Flora. By contrast, the children’s world in the operatic score is peppered with realistic music-making moments like the song Tom, Tom the Piper’s Son, evocative of youthful naïveté. All the more telling, then, is Britten’s scene in Act 2 when the 10-year-old Miles is to perform beyond his years at the keyboard, his prowess suggestive of adult strength and abilities. Already during the Prologue Breth uses the piano as a prop and portal into the realm of the surreal. When the instrument in the orchestra pit opens up to include its counterparts and the narrator’s recollection unlocks a warped, multi-layered tale, a male actor slowly slides into the broken grand piano on the stage floor. Miles and Flora later slither out of the same space to sing the song about the piper’s son. As enacted, their simple song is anything but. Their innocence is scarcely palpable in this labyrinthine flashback, exquisitely realized through Raimund Orfeo Voigt’s unsettlingly stark and fluid sets. A pair of over-sized wardrobes later serve as portals to darkly imaginative spaces, creatively coordinated with blocking and gestures to emphasize a sense of the surreal. Ed Lyon delivered an arresting performance of the Prologue’s narration, capturing our attention and concern before his anonymous image takes on symbolic heft. Six male dark-suited doubles populate the production. At several moments we see them as voyeurs or lifeless reminders of something elusive or missing, while during an early instrumental interlude one emerges as the spinster Governess’s romantic dance partner. (All of the orchestral transitions are sophisticated and far-reaching in their visual treatment.) Sally Matthews sang a richly hued and deeply invested vocal performance as the Governess throughout, as did Carole Wilson in the role of Mrs Grose, both reinforcing the impression that the experience of the story strongly colours its retelling. This is also true of Julian Hubbard’s wildly disheveled and riveting performance of Peter Quint, who appeared as the source of anarchy and transgression from the outset. He dominated Miss Jessel, attractively and seductively sung by Giselle Allen. Henri de Beauffort and Katharina Bierweiler crafted essential and mature performances of Miles and Flora respectively in this intricate theatrical conception. Contributing provocatively against the grain of this tapestry of shattered innocence and concomitant distortion are the orchestral voices, at times pure or nostalgic, at others assuredly robust and genuinely effusive. Ben Glassberg conducted the mostly masked orchestra with firm focus to embody these human dimensions, connecting fruitfully above all with Matthews’ Governess and preventing the otherwise moribund tale from collapsing flat.
