Leave the swan, shoot the director - Parsifal at the Royal Opera House

Parsifal - Royal Opera House, 6 December 2007

An origamied teatowel skids down a washing line and flops to the ground. I am reminded of Laurent Pelly's tittersome lines of dancing underpants in La Fille du Régiment, but no, this is Parsifal, and these are, in theory, the death throes of a wounded swan. Beyond gluing feathers to a jack russell terrier (which I wouldn't put past the ROH these days) it's the crappiest way to handle the swan issue I can possibly imagine. Sir John Tomlinson's face registers the proper shock and disgust. It is a notion typical of this production, which alternates the cheap and the ridiculous, and now and again, as here, combines them. It was the first of many moments I found myself sniggering inappropriately. The next was seconds later, as Christopher Ventris, a man with the hulking build of a Norwegian truck-pulling champion, appeared -- squeezed into stretchy green pyjamas, like a grotesquely overgrown baby ready to be put down for the night.

Parsifal is not an easy opera to stage, and it seems as if this production team barely bothered to even try. It moves through a succession of bleak and ugly tableaux where the mostly static cast simply declaim their lines downstage centre. The staging attempts little in the way of communication or contact -- when one of the cast touches or even looks at another, it's an Event. It's virtually a concert performance in (silly) costume.

But the upside of this is that the singers are mostly optimally positioned, facing the audience, and able to concentrate on the singing rather than the 'business'. And with this cast you really want to hear every word, because they are without exception fantastic. 

Starting with the Gurnemanz of Sir John Tomlinson, a characteristically detailed and generous performance that saw him in fine voice. OK, so the vibrato is on the wide side and the top rather bare, but he has all the power and fullness he needs. And he remains the finest actor on the opera stage, even when he's not singing -- his slowly unfolding realisation of the identity of the stranger in the third act was perfectly nuanced and utterly riveting. This performance just further cements his position as the Queen Mother of British opera, as loudly recognised by the audience at the curtain call.

Falk Struckmann's performance as Amfortas was hampered by a silly floor-length table leg covering one arm, which not only looked twitty, but also made disruptively loud clicking noises every time he moved. Some of his performance was a little dry, but his tortures in the presence of the Grail were alive with pain and despair, truly riveting.

The third ex-Wotan of the night was Sir Willard White as Klingsor. Not even a red velvet bathrobe and a knuckleload of pimp rings can rob him of dignity. His magic garden looked like something Captain Kirk might have landed on in 1966, complete with wobbly rocks and wacky mobiles, but the bottled energy of his performance successfully evoked his evil empire. The sheer power of his voice remains a thing of wonder.

As does Gwynne Howell's. Trussed up in a full suit of medieval armour, including full-face helmet, it's a wonder any sound escaped at all, but he made a gravely imposing Titurel.

Christopher Ventris might have been forgiven for fading into the background amongst all these elder statesmen of opera, but instead he proved a commanding stage presence, vocally and dramatically. Restricted of gesture, his Parsifal was a serene and self-contained character. I could have done with some more contrast between the impetuous youth of the first two acts and the enlightened knight of the third, but it wouldn't have sat well in this arid production. He sang wonderfully throughout, secure and well-placed, not a hint of strain or even effort.

Any dramatics in the production were left to Petra Lang's Kundry. Her eye-rolling and grimacing struck a somewhat false note, but her voice was fabulous -- bright, plummily full, with none of the screechiness often found in singers of this role.

Some of the smaller parts were less successful, but the Flower Maidens, cryptically marooned on the floor in chaste nightgowns, sang beautifully, if without any convincing sensual allure.   

Conductor Bernard Haitink was in many ways the real star of the show. He tortoised through the Vorspiel, and generally took it slow, but the reward was an account of gravity and serenity, no histrionics in sight. The Royal Opera House Orchestra played with great finesse, some ugly brass sounds here and there aside, with some wonderful timpani work in particular. Crucially, Haitink achieved balance, an orchestral equilibrium that made his subtly nuanced shifts as powerful as big dramatic gestures. A production this silly on the visuals needed nothing less on the musical side to make it work.