The first truly outstanding concert of this year’s
Proms, this was a performance of Elektra that was by any standards
world-class. There may have been imprecisions in ensemble, and some
of the voices were clearly challenged by Strauss’ writing, but dramatically
it was the equal of any performance I have heard in the opera house.
In no small measure this was down to Donald Runnicles’ superlative conducting
which was fierce and lyrical, brutal and sensuous and powerful and flexible:
a truly inspired, even virtuoso, display from a conductor at the height
of his operatic powers.
At least three orchestral moments stand out as exceptional.
The first was the sweep and neurosis that Runnicles gave to the opera’s
opening bitonal chords, so utterly emblematic of the underlying psychological
disorder that is later to disturb the barely seething harmony of the
score’s undercurrents. The second was the opera’s first major climax
where Elektra believes she has triumphed over Klytemnestra. Runnicles
built up the tension magnificently with the orchestra playing furtively
at first, to suggest the nightmarish terrors of Klytemnestra, and then
broadening its sound base to devastating effect to evoke her triumph
over despair into murderous despot. The pungency of tone was bewilderingly
dark. The third was the closing scene of the opera which I have never
heard more sublimely done – here, Runnicles used his orchestra with
catastrophic power to suggest the collapse of Elektra’s perceived triumph
(have the tubas ever sounded more menacing?), the reversal of dramatic
fortune curtailed by those final deadening chords. Even beside a final
dance that was beguilingly vertiginous, and almost obscenely Viennese
in its parodying, and an entrance by Klytemnestra and her entourage
that barely concealed its savagery, these were compelling moments.
Vocally, however, this was an
unevenly cast Elektra. Gabriele
Schnaut sang Elektra with great feeling
for the part, but the voice came under strain too frequently for her
performance to have been a great assumption. Noticeable is a flattening
out of her top notes (a top C during her exchange with Klytemnestra
(in her ‘Was bluten muß’ solo) sounded almost a tone lower than
it should have been) and even if there is now little wobble at the top
of her voice (there once was!) that steadiness is achieved with great
difficulty. In the middle register she is indeed firm – but her best
singing was reserved for the Recognition Scene which was spellbinding
in its beauty, a mesmerising example of a soprano confident enough to
allow the inner voices to preternaturally take control of events. Alan
Held’s Orestes was more mellifluous
than we are used to but he has the richness of sonority to be able to
project over the orchestra – which he did with ease.
Easily the most magnificently
sung performance of the evening was Felicity
Palmer’s Klytemnestra. This is a singer
who lives the role, as she did at Covent
Garden in April. I wrote of her performance
there that:
Dramatically, she dominates Edwards’ production bringing
vividly to stage the cruelty, dementia and hysteria of Klytemnestra.
It is a tour de force of acting and stamina, although I am less
convinced by her vocal strengths. As with the role of Elektra, Strauss
cruelly exposes Klytemnestra’s vocal writing in the upper and lower
registers. Ms Palmer is quite magnificent in the lower and middle reaches,
indeed I would be hard pressed to think of a more convincingly sung
nightmare than what we had here with the tension she produced in her
voice proving not just haunted but genuinely paranoiac. When Elektra
interprets her dream of the anonymous terror as the avenging Orestes
Ms Palmer visibly looks on the point of collapse, ‘Mutter, du zitterst
ja!’ Elektra exclaims. However, whilst the voice above the stave is
secure it is often an uningratiating sound, although even that can be
forgiven in a portrait that is really one of the monstrous creations
of our time. How she caresses her jewels and lurches like a female hunchback
across the stage suggests real understanding of Klytemnestra’s emotional
chemistry. And if vocally there were moments of discomfort lines like
‘Und müßt ich jedes Tier, das kriecht und fliegt…’ were delivered
with the kind of fortitude and rasping hatred which makes her one of
the outstanding interpreters of the role today.
In many ways all of those comments apply to this performance
– I still find her voice slightly sour in the upper registers – but
as an actress she simply has no rival. Even though this was a concert
performance she brought such physical energy to the role that her words
were given added impetus, the true focal point of this performance.
It remains utterly compelling, the reincarnation of pure evil. A stunning
off stage cream (which had been preceded earlier in the opera with hyena-like
laughter of sheer perniciousness) – a shriek of agonising frailty that
reverberated around the Albert Hall with terrifying power – was the
culmination of a murder that was unapologetically towering in its savagery.
Both the Chrysothemis of Janice
Watson and the Aegisthus of John
Treleaven (both singing from a score)
were less distinctive. Ms Watson lacks the necessary lyricism to make
an ideal Chrysothemis, and sometimes the weight of her voice was suffocated
by the orchestral playing. Although she is capable of much beauty of
phrasing, and was majestically so in her final cries of ‘Orest! Orest!’,
ultimately she seemed rather lightweight. A similar charge can be levelled
against Treleaven’s Aegisthus who really did have difficulties in his
small scene with the size of his voice (this is after all a Tristan
voice) surprisingly vanquished by the Albert Hall acoustic. The maids
of Susan Gorton, Antonia Sotgiu, Sarah Castle, Gwyneth-Ann Jeffers and
Rebecca Nash were supremely confident in their opening music and the
contrast in timbre between their voices worked well.
Elektra is such a vast canvas of allusion, psychology
and musical connectivity but even a badly sung Elektra (of which
this was not really one) has moments of greatness. If the singing here
wasn’t perfect (but so few singers in this work are) it was memorable
and highly dramatic, the colours in the voices as evocative as the peacock-blue
or blood-red lighting going on behind the orchestra (a welcome use of
lighting for a change). Yet, the overriding impression is that of conductor
and orchestra – such beautifully intoned Wagner horns, lush strings
and savage percussion – all held together with an iron grip by the mercurial
Donald Runnicles. If Covent Garden should revive Elektra in the
not too distant future they should call on Mr Runnicles – on this showing
few conductors have a better grasp of this seminal and astonishing score,
still as fresh today as it was almost a century ago.
Marc Bridle
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