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SEEN AND HEARD INTERNATIONAL OPERA
REVIEW
Anna Akhmatova - Janina Baechle
Lev Goumilev - Atilla Kiss-B
Nicolaï Pounin - Lionel Peintre
Lydia Tchoukovskaya - Varduhi Abrahamyan
Faina Ranevskaya - Valérie Condoluci
Representative of the Writers' Union - Christophe Dumaux
Olga - Marie-Adeline Henry
Sculptor, English Academic - Fabrice Dalis
Student, Second Academic - Paul Crémazy
Student, Third Academic - Vladimir Kapshuk
Agent - Ugo Rabec
Woman from the People - Sophie Claisse
Old Woman from the People - Laura Agnoloni
Solo tenor - Emanuel Mendes
Solo baritone - Slawomir Szychowiak
Nicolas Joël (director)
Wolfgang Gussmann (set designs)
Wolfgang Gussmann and Susana Mendoza (costumes)
Hans Toelstede (lighting)
Production Picture
©
Elisa Haberer
A tale of two cities: London recently found itself
lumbered with
Anna Nicole. Meanwhile, Paris, in the guise of
Nicolas Joel, had commissioned Bruno Mantovani to
write his second opera. Akhmatova was the
result, a retelling of key episodes from the life
of the poetess, Anna Akhmatova, with particular
focus upon the torment of her relationship with
her son, Lev, that torment in good part a
consequence of Stalinist persecution. Premiered on
28 March, this was Akhmatova's second
performance. Divided into three acts, it was
performed with an interval between the second and
third.
If I hesitate to say too much in detail concerning
the music, then it is because I think I should
need a second or third hearing to be in any sort
of position to offer more than the most cursory
observations. However, the fact that I am sure I
should benefit from a second or third hearing
already draws a contrast with Anna Nicole:
what one heard - and saw - on the surface in
London appeared all too clearly to be all that
there was. Mantovani's music, by contrast,
suggests secrets to be given up with deeper
acquaintance, microtones and all. And there was no
doubt that, on this occasion, music was the
raison d'être of the opera. Immediately
striking was the opening viola solo - Mantovani
has written a concerto for two violas - and
different instruments enjoyed their moments in the
sun, almost as if this were a concerto for
orchestra with voices. An accordion added
particular colour, plangently 'Russian' in its
way, though there is, we may be thankful, no
resort to pastiche. (For one thing, one gleans
from librettist Christophe Ghristi's words in the
programme that Mantovani is no more a fan of
Shostakovich's music than I am…) Spatial effects
are employed sparingly and therefore with dramatic
effect. There are even evocations of particular
places and moments - tone-painting, one might say
- such as the train that takes Akhmatova to
Tashkent or suggestions of the siege of Leningrad,
yet within a framework of overall continuity.
Most striking of all is the final scene, almost
entirely orchestral. 'In a birch forest near to
the Baltic Sea,' reads the libretto, though one
would never have known it from the staging, which
remained identical to that for 'Akhmatova alone in
her room, then Lev'. Akhmatova observes the sun
rise over the sea. Bar a few words towards the
end; otherwise, we hear in orchestral terms the
anguish of her situation. She has had to endure
the use of her son in a cat-and-mouse game with
the authorities, resulting in his disowning her,
believing that she did not care, for why did she
not protest, why did she not attempt to have him
released? Violins become more prominent at the
opening of the scene, but the leading role of
woodwind and trumpets continues, leading us
through a series of extraordinary solo arabesques.
It felt a little like what I imagine the use of
the Lulu-Suite prior to Friedrich Cerha's
completion might have done. At any rate, it
proffered a genuinely moving conclusion, without
attempting to answer too many questions. Burned
into one's memory there remained Akhmatova's
earlier desperate conclusion that a poetess should
not have children. It is interesting in that
connection to note Ghristi's claim that opera has
neglected mother-son relationships: oddly true,
though not exclusively so, when one thinks about
it (though the Mime-Siegfried relationship of the
previous night's production offered something of a
precedent!)
Performances all seemed to me very good,
especially the excellent orchestral contribution,
under the sure guidance of Pascal Rophé. One had
little doubt that this was how the music was
supposed to sound, which is far from always
the case in such enterprises. (Mantovani has
already had his ballet Siddharta
performed at the Bastille.) The gleaming sounds
Rophé extracted from the orchestra offered credit
to all concerned, not least of course the
composer. Mantovani owns that, following his first
opera, L'Autre côté, 'a very masculine
opera,' he had wanted to set to work on a large
female role. This was certainly what we were
offered in the role of Akhmatova, well taken by
the librettist's wife, Janina Baechle, who proved
especially moving during the climactic third act.
The splendidly named Atilla Kiss-B also proved
increasingly impressive as Akhmatova's son, Lev
Goumilev: one felt his anger and his
incomprehension, another victim of state
barbarism. A faithful friend indeed was to be seen
- and heard - in Varduhi Abrahamyan's Lydia, her
refusal to denounce Akhmatova both moving and
convincing. Valérie Condoluci employed her
coloratura to effect almost as glittering as the
orchestra in the role of Akhmatova's actress
friend, Faina Ranevskaya. I think it is fair to
say that there was not a weak link in the cast.
Lionel Peintre and Marie-Adeline Henry both
impressed as Akhmatova's ex-husband and his new
partner, whilst Fabrice Dalis revealed a fine
love-sick - or at least lusting - tenor as
sculptor and Tashkent lover of Ranevskaya. It is
perhaps by now beside the point to note in
particular the use of a counter-tenor, in the
guise of Christophe Dumaux's Representative of the
Writers' Union, chillingly excited by his power in
the aftermath of the Zhdanov Decrees. What might
not so long ago have been used, if at all, as some
sort of special effect, now seems for many
composers a perfectly natural choice, yet the
timbre seemed especially well chosen for such
'non-masculine' nastiness and the performance
amply justified its use.
Ghristi's libretto seemed to perform its task
well, for the most part self-effacing, yet
permitting Mantovani to do his job. A few English
phrases - from visiting academics - did not sound
quite so natural, but other than that, the story
was told clearly, in a narrative anything but
avant-garde in its construction, leading us
unproblematically from the years of Stalin's
Terror to some point beyond the dictator's death.
Nicolas Joel, perhaps controversially, adopted the
twin guise of patron and director. In terms of the
latter role, I have little to say, other than to
note the stark, monochrome designs and lighting
(Wolfgang Gussmann and Hans Toelstede), relieved
in the Tashkent artists war-exile scene (Act Two,
Scene Three) by scarlet, erotically evocative of
the actress, Ranevskaya and, no doubt, the
unreality of the artists' situation. As with the
libretto, the direction, despite occasional
confusion of place, in general permitted
Mantovani's music the principal role. A tale of
two cities, once again…
Mark Berry