Vindicated ! Herheim Glyndebourne Pelléas et Mélisande - screw the Golauds!

Christina Gansch, Christopher Purves, John Chest : Photo Richard Hubert Smith

At Glyndebourne for Debussy Pelléas et Mélisande, an opera that operates on many levels at once.  Symbolism, for goodness sake, not literalism !  Towers, tunnels, pools, movements upwards and downwards. Sex, obviously, but also violence and disorder rumbling not far below the surface.  Blinding heat and impenetrable darkness,  extremes that mirror and contrast.  In a dense forest (itself a symbol) Golaud is out hunting (killing animals).  Why is a man of his position alone in the middle of nowhere ? And who is Mélisande, and what's she doing?  Debussy's music is ambiguous yet beguiling, tonally elusive, leading us ever deeper, til we're almost as hypnotised as the characters acting out the mystery.  Nothing in this opera is straightforward, so it's ideally suited to a director like Stefan Herheim, whose forte is multi-levelled  detail.  This Pelléas et Mélisande  deserves careful attention, since it's psychologically perceptive and, like so much of Herheim's work, explores concepts of art, repression and creativity.  It's as good as anything that might be seen in a bigger house  and ought to be on DVD for repeat listening.

Usually all we see of the Organ Room at Glyndebourne is the window, which appears right stage. Now we see it from a different perspective,  modelling the logic of the narrative.  But it's a mistake to assume that this production is "about" Glyndebourne and the Christie family. Like so much in the opera, appearances are deceptive,  designed to divert the unwary. So, for starters, get past the obvious symbolism.  The family business is theatre: they know that art is not reality TV.  Getting too caught up in the Glyndebourne allusion is a mistake. Herheim likes the 19th century from whence came Romanticism. Remember his Parsifal for Bayreuth ? Just as Pelléas et Mélisande is not a shallow opera,  Herheim's production is anything but superficial.  In the first scene, deep chords emerge from the orchestra, as resonant as an organ.  The huge upright pipes dominate the stage, but are they a symbol for Golaud (Christopher Purves), the big man in Allemonde, who thinks mainly in terms of his own organ and needs. Again and again, Mélisande (Christina Gansch) says "Ne me touchez pas!" but he's not a guy who connects to anyone but himself, like so many one-dimensional bullies.  From purely practical considerations, the organ serves a structural foundation, as did Hans Sachs’s desk in Herheim's Der Meistersinger von Nürnberg.  (Please read what I wrote about that HERE) 

Assume that Mélisande is meek and mild, and you're on the wrong track.  She's the supposedly passive vector whose presence unleashes havoc all around her.  Like a Lorelei, she's an elemental spirit, perhaps as old as Time. Herheim combines beginning and end : Mélisande's "body" is seen on her deathbed, while she sings. Past, present and future converge. The baby is cradled by others, implying that the cycle will be reborn. "C'est au tour de la pauvre petite.", as wise old Arkel (Brindley Sherratt)  will sing at the end.  So it's no problem seeing the dead Pelléas moving or the dying Mélisande singing as she once was, in the forest.  That "is" the story.  

It's also a mistake to assume that  Pelléas et Mélisande means just Pelléas and Mélisande.  Golaud and Pelléas (John Chest) are brothers with the same roots, but are mirror opposites, interacting with Mélisande in their different ways : not inseparable. Herheim's focus on Golaud is important because it connects to the deeper psychological levels in the opera.  Though warned, Golaud brings Mélisande to Allemonde where she awakens in Pelléas feelings that are at once child-like and dangerous.  It's no accident that Pelléas and Mélisande see three blind men by the grotto.  His first comment is telling. "Oh! voici la clarté! ".  Then "ce sont trois vieux pauvres qui se sont endormis... .. Pourquoi sont-ils venus dormir ici?"   There has been a famine in the countrysiude, but perhaps there's been an emotional famine in the palace, from which Pelléas might now be waking.  The images of drought and clear water, oppressive sunshine and darkness, noon, and damp, underground caves in the libretto and in the music are there for a reason.  Herheim suggests this by showing the blind men as empty easels, on which Pelléas seems to be painting invisble pictures, mirroring the portraits of the past on the castle walls.  Is Pelléas a prototype artist, who can see what philistines like Golaud cannot see ?

Golaud puts Pelléas's eyes out so he "becomes" a blind man.  Destruction is Golaud's way of expressingn what he cannot articulate.  Listen to the brutal menace in the music. We see Golaud sodomise Yniold. That's what bullies do. They think in power, humiliation and self-gratification. The organ, again.... Herheim uses a soprano (Chloé Briot) in the role, partly because sopranos are easier to cast than trebles, but also because this connects to violence against women in macho society. This is also in the score. In this production the women who come to Mélisande on her death bed look like Victorian maids, but they may well represent ancient female rituals attending birth and death.  When Yniold's hat falls off, revealing her long hair (like Mélisande's), we recognise her as part of that alternative culture.  That's why Golaud cries out on the appearance of the women "Qu'y-a-t'il? Qu'est-ce que toutes ces femmes viennent faire ici!".  He ought to be able to recognize regular castle staff, but these he cannot comprehend.  Casting an adult women also moderates the horror an audience might feel imagining a real child getting raped.  But it isn't just women who are Golaud's targets.  Significantly, he leads Pelléas into the caves beneath the castle, damp and dark, like vaginas. When Yniold goes looking for his ball he spots Pélléas lying blind - silenced - on stage, his bottom raised upwards, facing the audience and lit by a spotlight.  "Oh! cette pierre est lourde..." sings Yniold.  Yniold can't find his ball, and even the sheep are still. "Berger!" he cries "Pourquoi ne parlent-ils plus:?"

And who is Arkel? Is he a benign figure of authority, or is he implicit in the slow devitalization of Allemonde and its ruling house ?The desiccation   didn't happen overnight. The ancestor portraits on the castle walls look down, impassively, a bit like Arkel himself.  After all, Arkel is quick to comfort Golaud. Mélisande doesn't judge him either, but she may well know that she's the Lorelei he tried to possess.  And Geneviève (Karen Cargill), the Doctor (Michael Mofidian), Shepherd (Michael Wallace), and the factotums in the castle ? Extremely good ensemble work, the groups of actors operating in unison, not as individuals. Bullies win when in systems where no-one stands up to them. Christopher Purves and Brindley Sherratt provided the ballast in this cast, two very strong personalities, mirroring and contrasting with each other.  Glyndebourne singers and choruses are much better than most country house and seasonal productions  but the economics doesn't run to some of the international megastars who often sing Pelléas and Mélisande.  Robin Ticciati conducted the London Philharmonic Orchestra and Nichilas Jenkins directed the Glyndebourne chorus.  If the orchestral playing was more raucuous than refined (apart from the key flute, harp and woodwind parts which symbolize Mélisande) that didn't detract too much.  Herheim and his dramaturge Alexander Meier-Dörzenbach created an unusually perceptive Pelléas et Mélisande which really needs to be seen again so its insights and details might better be appreciated. 

And as for the ending ?  Actors dressed  as a Glyndebourne audience wander into the room, like tourists gaping, oblivious of the psychic drama that has taken place, Utterly obtuse, like critics who can't see beyond their own egos.  The whole point of this opera is the questions it raises.  Symbols exist as clues to meaning, but meaning will always elude those who don't think.  In general Glyndebourne audiences are sharp - I overheard a group baying blood against Brexit - but the London media are a pack of Golauds.

Pelléas et Mélisande deals with uncanny events and layers of reality and non-reality. Srrangely enough, that's exactly what happened to me and my partner when we attended.  We arrived early and could hear Brindley Sherratt practising his scales from somewhere high above. Wow, did his voice carry ! He's been unwell, but being a pro, he soldiers on.  Basses who can act with their voices go on til they reach old age. Sherratt certainly has character, and Arkel benefits from  Sherratt's personality.  Each year, I count the sheep on the hills above  Glyndebourne. This year's heatwave has turned the fields white, revealing the chalk beneath the surface.  No grass, no sheep grazing. Just like the heat which paralyzes Allemonde. "Where are the sheep?" my partner said.  Quick as a shot "Maintenant ils se taisent tous..."  Driving back after the show on the B2192 to Lewes, our car was hit by a deer who jumped suddenly into the road. We had no time to brake or react, and couldn't stop because there was so much traffic, going too fast on the bends.  The deer might have ben hurt but it darted off. Our car had a bump : not a minor impact. But why did the deer jump, heading towards the wall on the other side of the road with a  steep cliff below ?  Who knows why, anymore than Mélisande materializing suddenly in the forest.  Perhaps Golaud is right  "Ce n'est pas ma faute". What is "la verité, la verité" ?

2013 - looking back

Not so much the highs and lows of 2013 but a guess at what the year might have meant. Anniversary years bring composers mass publicity but that's not necessarily a good thing. Mahler's anniversary turned him into Mahlerkugeln. Wagner, Verdi and Britten fared rather better, though. 

This year's BBC Proms will be remembered for Daniel Barenboim's concert performances of the Ring. This summer I did a Wagner Marathon - London, Salzburg, Bayreuth. Read more here for links to individual reviews, including Herheim's wonderful Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg. True, there's been plenty of commercialized Wagner but he's a composer who resists too much dumbing down. Contrary to those who thought Verdi was ignored,the BBC has been doing Verdi all year. There's a lot of Verdi around (and some of it sounds the same - ha!). In any case The Royal Opera House and Salzburg did exceptional Les vêpres siciliennes and Don Carlo. And it was good to hear non-opera Verdi at the Proms and elsewhere. 

And then there's Britten. Russian and American audiences may think they've discovered him but there's a long, long way to go. Even in Britain, where Britten is performed and studied more than anywhere else, the composer is still an unorthodox, contradictory figure who defies simplistic stereotype. This year we've heard every single thing Britten wrote, including the juvenilia and discarded works. It's been an extraordinarily rewarding year. There is more on Britten on this site than anywhere else that's not Britten-only, so please explore. I reviewed four of the six or more War Requiems this year, and the wonderful Aldeburgh centenary performance, which was oddly ignored in the media. Knussen knows Britten musically better than most.

Opera-wise things have been stimulating, revealing a lot more about audiences than the productions themselves. Audiences scream because they want "historic" but when they get genuinely historically informed productions like Les vêpres sicilennes, Robert Le Diable and  La donna del lago, they can't recognize it. Some were outraged because the ROH  Nabucco favoured the ascetic, invisble God of Israel instead of graven images. Evidently, history got it wrong.

Excellent baroque this year, too, also demolishing myths against period-informed performance.  The baroque era was flamboyant, adventuresome and daring - should its music be the opposite Thankfully in Britain we're close enough to France and Germany where baroque practice is robust.  "If it's good enough for Bill Christie", said a friend of Glyndebourne's audacious Rameau Hippolyte et Aricie "It's good enough for me". 

Many good concerts this year but one I'll remember was Wolfgang Holzmair with Imogen Cooper, at the Oxford Lieder festival, doing Schubert's Mayrhofer songs (repeated at the Wigmore Hall). I was mesmerized by every note and every word, far too overwhelmed to write it up. Do not miss Oxford Lieder's Schubert Festival in 2014. Two extremely good recordings this year : Matthias Goerne's Eisler Lieder with Thomas Larcher, almost better than his game changing version with Eric Schneider, and Goerne's Erlkönig with Andreas Haefliger, seventh volume inn the DG Schubert series.  Read about their Wolf and Liszt concert at the Wigmore Hall to see why they are so exceptional.  I only review about half or a third of what I listen to, leaving out the very best, the very worst and stuff about which there's nothing specially worth saying. The joys of being independent !

Verdi Les vêpres siciliennes Royal Opera House

Kaspar Holten promised that Verdi Les vêpres siciliennes at the Royal Opera House would be a spectacle, and he was right. The sheer presence of singers like Bryan Hymel, Michael Volle, Erwin Schrott and Lianna Haroutounian guaranteed its success, and Antonio Pappano's impassioned conducting made it orchestrally thrilling. Indeed, I suspect the singing will get even better as the run continues. Musical excellence is a given with this cast, conductor and orchestra. The big news was Stefan Herheim's ROH debut. 

Like the recent Salzburg Don Carlos (reviewed here) as opposed to Don Carlo, Les vêpres siciliennes, as opposed to I Vespri Siciliani, is bringing greater respect for Verdi's French language operas. Les vêpres siciliennes isn't a rarity. It's been staged several times in Europe in recent years (including Christof Loy in Amsterdam) and was heard in London in 1968 at the Camden Festival. These operas change casual assumptions about opera history. Verdi is enhanced, as an international figure and as a composer for orchestra.  Les vêpres siciliennesis a long, unwieldy creature as was the style of the era. Meyerbeer's Robert le Diable confused London critics whose knowledge of period probably isn't vast. The challenge, for the Royal Opera House, is to present antique repertoire in a way that modern audiences can relate to. I was privileged, last night, to sit beside a lady who had never been to an opera before. Les vêpres siciliennes is a daring choice for a first opera, but this lady was thrilled! Which goes to prove that audiences should listen with open minds and open hearts.

Stefan Herheim's Les vêpres siciliennes may not be as astoundingly brilliant as his Salzburg Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg (see review here), but Verdi isn't Wagner and this isn't, perhaps, Verdi at his best. But Herheim develops the innate ideas in the drama. The set, designed by Philipp Fürhofer, reminds us that we are watching an opera, most certainly not a historical document. It was frightening how some London critics were unable to cope with La donna del Lago  (more here) as Rossini's vision of Scotland as opposed to the reality of Scotland's past.  Until audiences in our time drop the silly notion of setting specificity - which didn't exist until very recently - we need sets like this to remind us that opera is art, not history. Theatre-within-theatre sets might be a cliché is inept hands, like Robert Lepage's taxidermy Adès Tempest (reviewed here) but Herheim has always been interested in the process of creative development, and we need to focus on Verdi or miss the point of this version of the opera in French.

The Overture unfolds to a scena where soldiers attack ballerinas. It's absolutely in keeping with the brutality of military occupation, and validated later in the libretto. It also connects to the use of ballet in French opera, and perhaps to the way artists are screwed by those who want mindless entertainment, not art. The auditorium lights up and we see the punters in the boxes in the stage theatre laughing. At the very end, when peace seems possible, good people are massacred. So much for "patriotism" and easy answers. It's not easy to stage a massacre in the limited time the music provides, so throwing light back onto the ROH auditorium throws responsibility onto the audience. Like Verdi, we too have to be creative and enact the horror in our minds. The story doesn't end when the music stops.

Herheim shows how dance is integral to the opera. Dancers don't just appear for the beautiful Four Seasons ballet (as was planned) but are incorporated as silent figures at many points in the drama, again  reinforcing the idea of art as opposed to reality. In the final act the ballet has more dramatic purpose than many expect. The celebrations are delightful but the charm is artificial, just as the plot at this stage is hopelessly fanciful. The music and the dancers are pretty but the opera will end with blood. hence the constant tension in the undercurrents in the music. Appearances are illusion. Henri (brilliantly sung by Bryan Hymel) turns out to be the long lost son of Guy de Montfort (equally brilliantly sung by Michael Volle).On these sudden changes, the opera pivots, much like the movement of a ballerina.  The vast choruses sway: who are the patriots, who are the persecutors? Procida (Erwin Shrott) is initially a sympathetic character, whose "O Palermo!" rouses us to his cause. But he's more interested in killing than compromise. At the wedding ball he appears in disguise, dressed as a ballerina in black tutu, with red sequins that suggest blood. It's in keeping with the text and also reinforces the theme of dance as metaphor. Even the distorting mirror walls in the set reflect the distorted images in the drama.

Herheim productions are so detailed, and so thoughtful, that images repay careful consideration. The skull masks the chorus wear, for example, hide their faces but also remind us that, even in the midst of a party, Death awaits. When the invaders attack women, a small boy stands up to them, waving a toy sword. Later he becomes a Cupid. Artists often have signatures. This child figure is typical Herheim, suggesting purity amid conflict, and the ultimate validity of idealism.  Bear this image in mind, carefully, because this production generated nasty speculation from those desperate to disparage Herheim and Holten. Even the change of choreographer was construed as anti-Herheim, even though the background to the dispute was much more complex and not related solely to the production. This Les vêpres siciliennes fully vindicates itself. Go, listen,. learn and enjoy.

Jim Sohre  has reviewed this in Opera Today
photos : copyright Bill Cooper, courtesy Royal Opera House

Herheim's perceptive Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg Salzburg

Stefan Herheim's Wagner Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg in Salzburg will transfer to the Met. Will audiences collapse in hysteria? Not if they know and care about the opera or about Wagner. Herheim focuses on Hans Sachs himself, as individual and artist, not the "public" displays of civic pride. This Meistersinger is exceptionally werktreue and perceptive. It engages with Wagner's ideas on creativity and the purpose of art.  Herheim deals with the true meaning of "die heil'ge deutsche Kunst" and with Wagner in the context of German tradition.

The Overture unfolds showing Sachs (Michael Volle) in nightcap and gown, surrounded by relics of his long dead family.  Herheim shows us Sachs the man who was once happy with a wife and children. Perhaps that's why he acts as father figure to others. But it also shows how "Wahn, Wahn, überall Wahn" grows from deep emotional scars. Life is short, and unfair. It shouldn't be wasted on things that don't really count. There's nothing silly about seeing Sachs playing with toys. This gives depth to Sachs's personality, and also connects to the idea that creativity is instinctive. References to youth and renewal run throughout the opera. The congregation in church are witnessing a baptism. Herheim's toys remind us to play with our imagination. Beckmesser thinks art comes from rigidly following rules. Sachs doesn't. Do we approach Herheim's Meistersinger as Beckmessers or as Sachs?


Throughout the opera, there are references to craftmanship and the process of creation. "Schuhmacherei und Poeterei", as David says.  Understanding Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg  as a work about art and the making of art can't surely be too difficult a concept to grasp. So there's no need to sneer when the set turns into a giant desk.  So the characters in the narrative spring to life on Sachs's workstation. The Meistersingers make much fuss about proper seating. Herheim has them sit on upturned giant thimbles, which are later revealed as empty buckets. When Walther (Marcus Werba) sings his first "Fanget an!", the Meistersingers collapse like skittles. It's funny but also very apt.

By defining the concept of art as imagination, Herheim is able to release much more esoteric levels. The imagery of sleep is important, too. By day, Sachs is busy making shoes. At night he's alone. Sleep releases the unconscious, creative mind. Sachs solves the dilemmas in his art as a craftsman, just as he fixes shoes so they function properly. In Act Two, the desk is shrouded in darkness. We catch a brief glimpse of the lilac tree through Sach's window, but we don't need to see it again on the desktop "stage". Its fragrance perfumes the music. Johannistag coincides with Mid Summer Night's Eve, the shortest night in the year when magical things can happen. When the townsfolk awake, they're literally surrounded by "Gespenstern und Spuk". Fairy tales, as Bruno Bettlelheim said, mask subconcious fears under a guise of comic figures. Ghosts and spooks would be hard to depict in a more literal staging. We laugh, but take the point. There's even a group of trolls! Herheim's wry sense of humour is deliciously wicked.

These images also bring together several periods of German culture. Herheim's costumes suggest the Early Romantic period, when German intellectuals like the Brothers Grimm, Brentano and von Arnim and Gottfried Herder were rediscovering premodern tradition. Without the Romantics, we might not have the modern world with its interest in the darker side of life, and in creative freedom. Nor would we have Richard Wagner. He knew very well what he was doing when he chose Sachs for his subject, since Sachs lived robustly in the Reformation, another important flowering period of German culture and identity. At Glyndebourne in 2011,  David McVicar's Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg (review here) was set in the period of Wagner's youth but to little effect. It romanticized without connecting to the savage spirit of the Romantiker.There's a huge difference.

Herheim's staging is much more literate, and intelligently thought through. The Romantiker fascination with Nature was often seen through the prism of the drawing room, so Herheim's indoor setting is wittily ironic.Things seen through the imagination are often hyper real. When David sings of "der rote, blau' und grüne Ton" we see wild flowers held aloft. The final scene on the banks of the Pegnitz isn't shown literally. But there's a train! This isn't director whimsy. Without railways, industrialization and the rise of the middle class, modern Europe wouldn't have developed. Trains represent change, just as aristocratic Walther represents change when he joins the good folk of Nuremberg.

The townsfolk are draped in flowers: if these were real their scent would fill the hall. The women wear white aprons, so dazzlingly bright they light the stage. Herheim's having a merry little dig at the idea that costumes "make" an opera. Although there's a lot of detail to reward repeated viewings, the visuals aren't there for their own sake but to intensify the fundemental drama in the music. The critical moments, like the quintet and the Prize Song are shown with simple clarity. Those who hate modern productions on principle often claim that directors should "respect the work". But that argument can be turned completely on its head. A really good opera is strong enough to withstand multiple interpretations, and perceptive interpretations like Herheim's show us how much there is yet to discover. "Verachtet mir die Meister nicht, und ehrt mir ihre Kunst!".

Michael Volle's Hans Sachs is excellent. It helps that he looks like the historic Sachs, and that he himself grew up in the Lutheran tradition. Volle gives the character grit and gravity, mixed with a genuinely warm humanity. Volle's diction highlights the couplets and phrasings so typical of German tradition. When  he sings "ehrt eure deutschen Meister! Dann bannt ihr gute Geister" he infuses the words with positive feelings, banishing  memories of wartime Bayreuth.

Markus Werba's Sixtus Beckmesser quivered with nervous energy. He sings with more colour and charm than we'd expect from Beckmesser, but that enhances his portrayal. Beckmesser's weak rather than evil. He wouldn't be a Meistersinger in the first place if he was incomptent. He just doesn't get it, that true art comes from being original. Werba makes the part sympathetic. This Beckmesser is deluded rather than a troll. Peter Sonn's David is delivered with strength and conviction. This David is no ingénu, and justifies his master's faith in him. Herheim's blocking of ensemble also shows how the apprentices connect to David.

Rather less rewarding were Roberto Saccà's Walther and Anna Gabler's Eva. Saccà's voice finally did him justice in the Prize Song but it was a little late. As for the orchestra ? What was Daniele Gatti doing? The pace kept slackening. Sachs is a cobbler, not a carpenter. Wooden playing like this just doesn't work. When Herheim's  Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg transfers to the Met, with a different cast and conductor, it should be a success.