Prokofiev, Debussy, Stravinsky: Valery Gergiev (conductor), London Symphony Orchestra, Zlata Bulycheva (Mezzo-soprano), Oleg Balashov (tenor), Yevgeny Nitkin (bass), Fedor Kuznetzov (bass), Alexander Timchenko (tenor), Simon Callow (narrator), LSO Chorus, Barbican Hall, London 13.05.2007 (AO)

 

A few weeks ago, Gergiev conducted a programme of familiar standards, and seemed to rush through it, saving his best for the relatively unknown Prokofiev cantata, Seven, they are seven.  This programme, fortunately, was one in which Gergiev was fully engaged and the difference was striking.  He’s in his element exploring unusual and specialist parts of the repertoire.

He introduced a seldom heard suite by Prokofiev from his opera The Gambler.  It’s not simply a series of extracts, but piece specifically written about the four key roles, hence the title Four Portraits and a Dénoument.  It’s an entirely “musical” opera, minus voices and narrative, which culminates in a final movement where the themes of each “portrait” are drawn together.  Gergiev’s careful delineation of the themes made it work vividly even without the specifics of the opera.  The full opera is, of course, in Gergiev’s central repertoire and he’s conducted it several times.  Thus the panache with which he presented the suite, it in essence, “as miniature symphony”, so to speak.

More symphonic fragments followed, this time based on Debussy’s Le Martyre de Sainte Sébastien.  The basic story lends itself to bizarre interpretation.  Yukio Mishima’s early Forbidden Colours uses the young saint as a brilliant image on which to develop his themes of homoerotic awareness. Debussy was writing music for a ballet in which Sébastien was to be played by Ida Rubenstein, with a colourful reputation, who was to dance half naked (in 1911 !) and mime Christ’s passion on the cross.  Nonetheless, the artistic intention was serious: even in the orchestration, it’s possible to recognise elements of religious music. It was interesting to watch how Gergiev conducts: his left hand is so expressive that each finger has something to communicate. The result was beautifully detailed playing, where each element was clear and distinct, building up to climaxes of great depth.  It was so lovely I hoped that Gergiev would do a Knussen and repeat it straight away.

But then came Oedipus Rex. Stravinsky chose Latin for the text because it distanced the words from commonplace operatic convention, capturing instead the stylised formality of ancient Greek tragedy. This emphasises the inexorable nature of Fate, from which human beings have no escape.  Hence the huge dramatic blocks of sound, the chiaroscuro colouring and the absence of decorative detail.  It’s Rite of Spring minus nature and folklore. Gergiev shaped the sculptural forms in the score, revealing its magnificent, savage elegance.  His clear definition and purposeful direction evoked the relentless, pounding blows from what the narration calls “supernatural powers, those sleepless deities who are always watching from a world beyond death”.

Stylised this may be, but it’s certainly not simplistic.  Whether Stravinsky acknowledged it or not, there is real emotional impact in this work, and Gergiev knows how to employ it, fearlessly and without sentiment.  Thus the singing was of unusual power.  These soloists made Latin sound like a real language -- demotic and off the streets -- with the odd twist of opera singer's Italian surfacing from time to time.  It gave the singing a thrilling sense of immediacy, as if the events were actually unfolding in real-time. We don’t actually know what Greek tragedy was like in performance, as all we have is literature and art.  Maybe it was sterile and emotionally opaque, but my gut instinct is that it must actually have been fairly dramatic and high impact to have won its prized reputation.  Whatever the case, this was a remarkable performance, since the characterisations, as such, evolved convincingly, sung with profound commitment.  At first, Oleg Balashov, singing Oedipus, pitched his tone too high and suffered, his chest beating wildly when he stopped.  But he is experienced enough to know how to adjust, and the rest of his performance was fine.  He managed to convey, in the rolling rhythm, the character’s increasing tension and disintegration.  Zlata Bulycheva’s Jocasta was chilling, because she sang it with intelligence.

This jagged edged music was sung with dramatic intensity, but its stark, vivid quality was blunted by narrator Simon Callow's tendency to rounded ‘actorliness.’  One moment we were thinking of rough old plague-ridden Thebes, while the next we were pulled back to genteel, Shakespearean 'artsiness.'  He emoted beautifully, curling and forming his words with elaborate portent. Of course this was an acme of perfection, and will be much admired.  Maybe Stravinsky didn’t want realism, but I’m not sure that refined RADA sensibilities quite fit music which is so deliberately unadorned and without artifice. It might have worked in other performances, but with Gergiev’s uncompromising directness, and these soloists, a different approach might have been more in keeping.

 

Anne Ozorio