Glenn Winslade, Tenor:
Peter Grimes
Janice Watson, Soprano:
Ellen Orford
Anthony Michaels-Moore,
Baritone: Balstrode
Jill Grove, Mezzo-soprano:
Auntie
Sally Matthews, Soprano:
First Niece
Alison Buchanan, Soprano:
Second Niece
Christopher Gillett,
Tenor: Bob Boles
James Rutherford, Bass:
Swallow
Catherine Wyn-Rogers,
Mezzo-soprano: Mrs. Sedley
Ryland Davies, Tenor:
Rev. Horace Adams
Richard Byrne, Baritone:
Ned Keene
Jonathan Lemalu, Bass-baritone:
Hobson
You
know you are in for a memorable performance
of an opera when two of the smallest roles
(in this case the two "nieces" –
arguably more like "nieces of the evening")
are given to artists who make an indelible
impact comparable to anyone else in the cast.
In this case Sally Matthews and Alison Buchanan
had everything from ethereal plateaus to shrill
bickering, and the latter had the audience
tittering in lines like Save us from lonely
men; they’re like a broody hen with habits
but with no ideas – hilarious and dark
at the same time.
It was
some afternoon. In an extraordinary beginning
to their three-concert stand here, Sir Colin
Davis and the London Symphony Orchestra and
Chorus summoned up the windswept cliffs of
Aldeburgh in a Peter Grimes to treasure
for a long, long time. Sir Colin is justifiably
revered for his affinity with this piece,
and when his love and knowledge are partnered
with a fleet orchestra, a memorable cast and
a chorus that wowed everyone in the room,
the result made the woman next to me profess,
"This is the kind of afternoon that makes
you glad you’re alive." (As a lovely
coda to this whole affair, the program notes
indicate that this Grimes will be released
on the orchestra’s LSO Live! label
later this year.)
Glenn
Winslade made a haunting Grimes despite some
apparent vocal problems, such as some of the
more taxing passages in his big scene at the
end of Act II. But sometimes his strain
actually seemed to amplify his desperation,
such as in his earnest, high-flying projection
of Now the Great Bear and Pleiades where
earth moves are drawing up the clouds of human
grief. What profound writing this is,
and Winslade seemed lost in thought, a mass
of introspection anticipating the tide that
would overtake him.
Britten
begins Act II with an elegant passage
with the cellos, flutes and a gentle chime
to accompany Ellen Orford, and Janice Watson
(with an offstage chorus as counterpoint)
sang with unaffected simplicity, coupled with
some beautiful high notes. Jill Grove’s commanding
presence, both physically and vocally as Auntie
only made one count one’s blessings again,
for this starry cast. The fine quartet that
ends the first scene has amazing Sondheim-worthy
lines such as They are children when they
weep, We are mothers when we strive, Schooling
our own hearts to keep the bitter treasure
of their love. (Musically, too, there
seems to be a good bit of Britten in Sondheim’s
work, with all of his references to Ravel
and Richard Strauss.) As the act evaporates,
it leaves a haunting viola solo in its wake,
here delivered with complete authority and
passion by Paul Silverthorne.
As Balstrode,
Anthony Michael-Moore gave arguably the finest
performance of the afternoon, only gaining
in power as the drama progressed, and his
impressive range included a hilariously mocking
falsetto in his Act I ensemble with
those nieces. As his emotional accomplice,
Mrs. Sedley, Catherine Wyn-Rogers not only
sang beautifully, but her dark red hair seemed
to suit the part.
Act
III’s famous Embroidery Scene was
yet another highlight in an afternoon that
seemed overflowing with music designed to
make us gasp. When Watson softly landed on
her poignant final line, Now my [em] broidery
affords the clue whose meaning we avoid, it
became one of the opera’s most piercing moments.
James
Rutherford and Jonathan Lemalu made Swallow
and Hobson, respectively, uncomfortably inquisitive,
and Christopher Gillett as Boles did a superb
job, having a bit of fun with this drunken
little pipsqueak. Even Ryland Davies, in a
relatively brief appearance as the Rector,
made a strong impression. And as Ned Keene,
Richard Byrne substituted for Nathan Gunn
(called away at the last minute by a family
emergency), and did a fine job under no doubt
difficult circumstances.
And
now we come to the gleaming, agile London
Symphony Orchestra, celebrating its one-hundredth
year. The dazzling orchestral Interludes
– all six of them – could not have come across
with more verve. If one had been sitting in
the sold-out Avery Fisher Hall in total darkness,
one could almost smell the salt in the ocean
water. Whether in the violent Storm,
with simply outstanding playing from the LSO
brass, or the opening Dawn with the
woodwinds bubbling up in those watery arpeggios,
or the strings pouring forth the gentle, mournful
Moonlight – rarely do ensembles produce
this kind of magic. To call Sir Colin’s work
evocative in these set pieces would be a pitiful
understatement. And if the orchestra has experienced
some "turbulent" times (see Marc
Bridle’s review
of Richard Morrison’s new book on the LSO),
the only turbulence here was in some of Britten’s
more ferocious climaxes, when Davis evoked
some positively scary and thrilling sounds.
The
London Symphony Chorus, who received a thunderous
ovation during the curtain calls, was particularly
riveting in the rhythmically treacherous Old
Joe has gone fishing (whose innocent title
belies its tricky metre). Diction was excellent
all afternoon, and some of the more unusual
vocal effects stood out, such as the sinister
quizzing in Act II when they ask, What
is it? What do you suppose? Here they
produced sibilant, nasty "ssst"
sounds that, helped by Britten’s overlapping
vocal lines, blurred the result as if the
singers had been transformed into a den of
snakes.
During
the final scene, in a small but stunning stroke
that made me think of Shirley Jackson’s The
Lottery, the entire group slowly turned
their backs on the audience and the cast,
and only then did they breathe their eerie
calls of "Grimes!" over and over,
whilst facing the rear wall of the stage.
Led by director Joseph Cullen’s head visible
through a small aperture, the faint, high-pitched
textures seemed to drift down from the ceiling,
and the visual impact was astonishing in its
chilling matter-of-factness. For Britten’s
masterpiece, Sir Colin & Co. just clinched
it.
Bruce Hodges
See, also, review of
the London performance here.
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