Strauss’s last opera – although it was first performed later, the
beautiful and unjustly neglected
Die Liebe der Danae was written
earlier – stands completely outside the dramatic body of his other stage
works. Entitled a “conversation piece” by the composer, it explores at
length the vexed question of the relationship between words and music on the
lyric stage. As such it lies outside the realm of any historical period.
Indeed a Glyndebourne production a good many years ago updated the action to
the period of the work’s conception and composition. This did give rise to a
number of minor anomalies – surely at that period the conversation would
have revolved around the music dramas of Wagner, and indeed Strauss himself,
rather than Gluck, and the Count’s carriage was reconfigured as a limousine
– but generally the interrelationship between the characters was not
disturbed.
What is however inflexible in the treatment of the work is its social
milieu. The theatre-loving Count and his sister can clearly afford
a sizeable domestic establishment — servants are everywhere. They also run
to a private theatre sufficiently grand to attract a major actress such as
Clairon down from Paris for an afternoon’s rehearsal complete with two
singers and dancers to provide entertainment for the invited guests. Even
the theatrical impresario La Roche, although he may sometimes express
himself in an uncouth way, is not out of place in this upper-class company.
Sadly, the production by Marco Arturo Marelli on this video misses the mark
in both respects. The gestures of the protagonists would be out of place in
polite society in any age – La Roche even ‘gives the finger’ to Olivier –
and there is altogether too much purely physical action in what is after all
an intellectual debate ... but is it a debate at all? At the beginning we
see Olivier and Flamand seated at their desks in modern dress — or at least
the fashion of the early twentieth century. They then rise and put on coats
of some two hundred years earlier before they enter into the action. The
costumes look shabby, with what seem to be patches stitched onto them. The
set is an uneasy cross between a stage rehearsal room and an eighteenth
century
chateau lined with mirrors which seem to have seen better
days. In effect we are being asked to view the action as a charade, a view
emphasised by the manner in which Olivier’s play is deliberately sent up by
the Count and Clairon. This strikes at the very heart of the opera itself.
If all the characters are merely acting out their parts – and at the end of
the Septet they advance to the front of the stage to interact with the
orchestra, clearly showing an uncomfortable degree of self-awareness – then
why should the listener feel compelled to pay any attention to what they are
actually discussing? As it is, the formal duet of the Italian singers
appears no more artificial than what surrounds them.
This is a great pity, because what we have here in both musical and
(mainly) dramatic terms is a very great performance of
Capriccio
indeed. After a rather perfunctory start to the opening Sextet — Eschenbach
taking a rather brisk tempo — we are soon immersed in the world of Strauss’s
music. We experience its subtle and not-so-subtle underlining of the points
in Clemens Krauss’s text and its understanding of the exact relationship
between words and music which lies at the very heart of the opera. The cast
work together as a real ensemble, and there is not a weak link among
them.
Renée Fleming produces a stream of glorious Straussian richness – although
we should never take such bounty for granted – but she does much more than
that. She really inhabits the world of the Countess, relishing every word
and nuance of the text and interacting with the other members of the cast
with lively interest. In her final scene she spins out her singing of the
sonnet on a thin sliver of silver sound. This not only sets the quotation
apart from the rest of the scene but also enhances the effect of the music.
She even manages to make one overlook the frankly cumbersome dress which she
is given to wear for this scene, looking like some 1930s creation undertaken
under the supervision of Picasso. Her knowing smile at the conclusion seems
to convey the impression that she knows how the opera should end – but she
is not going to tell us. It is a pity that the final curtain brings us back
to Olivier and Flamand working at their desks, where the attention should be
concentrated on her.
Michael Schade and Markus Eiche as the two rivals for her favour also work
well together, sometimes friends and sometimes enemies. Schade’s small
lyrical tone may be slightly underweighted for some of the largest climaxes,
but better that than a
Heldentenor trying unsuccessfully to pare
down the volume to conversational levels. Bo Skovhus is somewhat rough-toned
as the Countess’s brother, although that fits with the slightly Philistine
nature of the character; and he flirts charmingly with Angelika Kirschlager
as Clairon. The latter also displays a nice line in bitchiness in her brief
scene with her ex-lover Olivier. Kurt Rydl as the impresario – a role all
too often consigned to basses somewhat past their prime – is a tower of
strength particularly in his big monologue when he propounds Strauss’s own
views on the lyric stage. The smaller character parts are also well taken,
but particular mention must be made of Clemens Unterreiner, whose brief
contributions to the final scene do not disturb the mood as they so often
can do.
It is a joy to encounter once again the sure directorial hand of Brian
Large at the helm of the video production. Unlike so many video producers
nowadays, he knows exactly where and when to point the camera without too
many fussy changes of perspective. He does his best to minimise some of the
more distracting elements in the stage design — one catches glimpses of a
series of scrawled signatures on the backcloth during the Sextet, the object
of which is quite impenetrable. The subtitles tell us everything we need to
know, even during the most convoluted passages of the Octet, while avoiding
any jarring colloquialisms.
All that said, there is one other fly in the ointment. A niggling cut is
made in the passage when the company are discussing the subject for the
opera they have commissioned. This saves about two minutes in a score that
lasts over two hours. Why? The cut removes one element in the conclusion of
the argument – the need to avoid hackneyed subjects – and the solution
proposed by the Count comes out of the blue. In a work as tightly knit, both
in text and music, as
Capriccio, this is sheer vandalism. Oh, and
some lout shouts “bravo” just before the final chord has quite died
away.
There are several rivals for recordings of
Capriccio in the video
medium. Although I have not seen all of these, the one featuring Dame Kiri
te Kanawa in traditional settings from San Francisco Opera conducted by
Donald Runnicles probably gives a better presentation of the work itself. On
the other hand, one would not want to be without Fleming’s Countess, which
has a liveliness of approach and acting skill which Dame Kiri fails to
match.
Paul Corfield Godfrey
