Reynaldo HAHN (1874-1947)
Ciboulette (1923)
Julie Fuchs (soprano) – Ciboulette, Jean-François Lapointe (bass-baritone) – Duparquet, Julien Behr (tenor) – Antonin, Eva Ganizate (soprano) – Zénobie, Ronan Debois (baritone) – Roger, Cécile Achille (soprano) – Françoise, Jean-Claude Sarragosse (bass) – Grenu, Giullemete Laurens (mezzo-soprano) – Mme Grenu, Patrick Kabongo Mubenga (tenor) – Auguste, Victor, François Rougier (tenor) – Patron, Maire, Safir Behloul (tenor) – Grisard, Michel Fau – Comtesse de Castiglione
Accentus
Toulon Opera Symphonic Orchestra/Laurence Equilbey
Michel Fau (stage direction)
rec. Opéra Comique, Paris, France, 20 and 22 February 2013
Sung in French with subtitles in English, French, German, Japanese, Korean
NTSC 16:9, PCM stereo and DTS 5.1; All Regions
NAXOS 2.110697 DVD [145 mins]
In the jazz-saturated popular culture of 1920s Paris, Reynoldo Hahn’s operetta Ciboulette must have struck a deliberated old-fashioned note from the very outset. In some ways Hahn’s career in Parisian society circles paralleled that of Noel Coward in London some years later: a studiously manufactured personality, which progressively over the years hardened into the realms of caricature, but at the same time disguised a real sense of social anarchy which sought to undermine the very society which nourished it. The music of Ciboulette, too, has overtones of Coward in his lyrical sentimental vein, with delicately shaded melodies over slightly bruised and bruising accompaniments, interspersed with more upbeat numbers which in some ways fly in the face of the more consciously popular aspirations of the ‘big tunes’ being contemporaneously created in the same field by Lehár.
Mind you, in the opening scene of Ciboulette, the parallels go even further back. The carousing soldiery seem to have remained almost totally unchanged since the days of Donizetti’s and Offenbach’s regimental daughters, taking their musical cues from Sullivan with just the slightest hint of more elaborate orchestration. And what might in the nineteenth century have seemed comically quaint, the assumption of false bravado in the face of death and the enemy, must have struck a decidedly uncomfortable if not anachronistic note in the immediate aftermath of the First World War which would have been so fresh in the minds of many of its first audiences. The contrasting character of the haplessly incompetent and petulant playboy Antonin, a sort of Bertie Wooster without the Jeeves and without the charm, does nothing to redress the balance; and the only character who seems to engage the sympathy is Duparquet, the aging manager of the market at Les Halles, who has a rueful couple of comments to add about the nature of love. The female object of all their attentions, the original good-time girl with her repulsively spoilt chihuaha, is so patently a mercenary minx out purely for her own self-delectation, that one can only feel relieved that none of her suitors seem likely to succeed in their doubtless unworthy pursuit of her body (her mind being effectively non-functional on all levels). The production team here, seeming to feel that the situation needed some more contemporary relevance, have inserted references to offstage characters such as Barbra Streisand which strike an even more incongruous note when set against the military bravado of the toy soldiery.
In the second scene we move to the market and are introduced to the charming if naïve girl Ciboulette, who makes a refreshing change from her rival previously encountered; but the Wooster-like wimp remains as annoying as ever, despite the half-hearted nature of the attempts to assist him by Duparquet which consist of burying him on a cart under a pile of cabbages for some totally obscure reason. A clairvoyant friend makes a number of extremely improbable predictions about the future of Ciboulette’s happiness, which are clearly designed to be fulfilled in the most absurd fashion imaginable during the course of the coming action. And, apart from some jolly choruses for the marketeers, that makes up most of the substance of the first Act in which nothing of any real dramatic significance happens. Ciboulette enters on a donkey-driven cart, but the beast of burden – which does appear to have a separately animated head – is remarkable more for its resolute lack of action which ironically parallels the dramatic situation. One longed for it to do something, if only to liven up proceedings. Matters are not helped by the fact that most of the characters we encounter in this first Act are so thoroughly unsympathetic – a criticism that can of course also be levelled at Coward in his earlier theatre pieces.
Fortunately during Act Two the action of the operetta suddenly springs to life, with the appearance of Ciboulette’s step-parents, a Thénardier-like couple of dubious morals and venal motivations. There again, one feels that they might have cause for concern, since their step-daughter has contrived to get herself simultaneously engaged to no fewer than eight would-be husbands. But since these all transpire to be hopeless nincompoops in the same Wooster mould, without even a single feature of individuality to their names, they are easily disposed of. Antonin emerges from beneath his pile of cabbages to continue his wooing of Ciboulette, but this fails to materialise in any tangible result; so Duparquet agrees to help the hapless market girl by setting her up in fashionable Parisian society in the guise of a Spanish cabaret artist – how this precisely is to be achieved being left very much up in the air. Act Three begins with an extended comic turn (think of the similar opening to the final Act of Die Fledermaus) and only after this has extended itself for some time does the curtain go up for the ‘Spanish’ artiste’s début, after a good deal of fun regarding French accents which will mean nothing to anyone who does not actually speak the language (subtitles notwithstanding). The disguised Ciboulette delivers her big number, with the misunderstandings quickly sorted out between the verses, and that is more or less it as the curtain comes down and the conductor leads the audience in community singing of the same number after the cast have taken their calls.
And that might appear to be it – a light-hearted romp with no serious pretensions of either dramatic or musical verisimilitude. And yet, and yet…
The sympathetic character of Duparquet which was established in the opening scene quite suddenly erupts towards the end of Act Two into a moment of real seriousness. In a lengthy spoken melodrama (speech over orchestral accompaniment) he seeks to explain to Ciboulette the meaning of true love as opposed to the flirtatious girlishness that she has previously experienced, and tells her a story from his early life. At the mention of his friend Colline and then of the need of his beloved for a muff for her frozen hands, the listener suddenly realises with a thrill of recognition that we are hearing the plot of the final Act of La Bohème (whether the Puccini or Leoncavallo opera, or the Murger novel) recounted by the young poet Rodolphe, now an older and wiser man. Hahn very properly eschews any references to the composers who had earlier treated the same story (or perhaps the laws of copyright intervened), but his musical underlining of the dialogue manages to pack quite a visceral punch nonetheless. At this moment the whole action suddenly becomes dramatically plausible, and the listener even begins to wonder whether we are going to encounter a less expected conclusion to events, with a bitter-sweet emotional conflict being set up in the manner of Die Meistersinger or Der Rosenkavalier between the younger couple and an older adviser.
But Hahn and his librettists (Robert de Flers and Francis de Croisset are both credited) simply allow this heart-stopping moment to slip away. After a short and almost conversational mélodie, Rodolphe forgets all about Mimi and simply tells Ciboulette that his fellow-Bohemians are now all prosperous and well-established as civil servants. And we are abruptly back to the original world of farce and make-believe as if nothing had happened. No amount of subsequent stage comedy, with the extended routines of a drag act giving a poor imitation of Hinge and Bracket during the final cabaret scene, can then restore this element of the score. All that remains is the sentimental froth.
The singers do what they can with the material they are given, and indeed the musical elements do give them something to work with. There only ever appears to have been one previous recording of the score – an EMI set from 1983 [review] – and this has long disappeared from the listings. That set was cast with well-established singers – Mady Mesplé, Nicolai Gedda and José van Dam – but the younger and fresher voices here are fully equal to the task at hand and rise to the occasion with plenty of sparkle, even if Jean-François Lapointe looks rather too handsome and young to be a Bohemian in old age. Julie Fuchs in the title role is totally secure even in her stratospheric top notes, which is more than could be said of the sometimes strained Mesplé; and Julien Behr sounds more convincingly youthful than Gedda, even managing to work in a quote from Debussy’s Pelléas as he emerges from the cellar (don’t ask). Some of the other singing is less technically perfect, but there is plenty of French character. The one dubious element, Michel Fau merely makes one realise how much better British drag acts seem to be than their French counterparts. But then, those who do not speak French can always spool through the opening scenes of Act Three. And Fau is also credited with the stage direction throughout, where he displays a much surer hand for the period style; indeed the dramatic action, such as it is, gets full measure from everyone concerned even when the contrived predictions of the clairvoyant are fulfilling their unlikely consummation. And the work, let it be emphasised, benefits from being treated in its proper period and not being forced into a modern updating when it would simply become ridiculous. The Accentus chorus go through their motions with predictable silliness and stage business, changing costumes regularly as they transform from one role to another; and Laurence Eqilbey gives Hahn’s often surprisingly elaborate orchestration its full measure.
We should be grateful to Naxos for rescuing this 2013 staging and making it available on video, the more so since it seems extremely unlikely that there is likely to be any rival soon. In his valuable 1990 book Musical Theatre on Record Kurt Gänzl refers to Ciboulette in equivocal terms, stating that its “very refinement and lack of vulgarity translates too often, particularly on disc, into a pastel piece, lacking in colour.” The provision here of the visual element serves to remove the latter objection to a considerable degree, and makes the best possible case for the work. It is unlikely that we are ever likely to see new productions of any other of Hahn’s substantial catalogue of stage music – although, of course, his songs are another matter – although his Mozart might make for a rather interesting curiosity. In the meantime, this video can certainly be recommended to those who enjoy Hahn’s other music and wish to expand their horizons. The booklet comes complete with track listings, synopsis and a short article on the background to the work in English and French; and the video direction by François Roussilon enables us to savour every moment.
Paul Corfield Godfrey
