Tristan und Isolde - Teatro alla Scala, Milan, 28 December 2007
The first night of Tristan und Isolde at La Scala was recorded for broadcast, so I was able to check out some quality clips on YouTube (here) before my own visit. This turned out to be quite useful, as my second-row box seat, though hugely €€€, didn't have the greatest of views:
Though with the whole run sold out weeks in advance, I was lucky to get anything at all by booking a mere few days ahead. I just grabbed the only return available.
The square outside the theatre was lit up for the holidays, with falling snowflakes and multi-lingual messages of festive cheer projected on to the buildings' facades :
La Scala really went to town on the programme, a 400 page brick of a hardback book (left) complete with full libretto, 100 pp. of watch ads, cast lists for every La Scala Tristan production evah, etc, etc. Irresistible - so I dropped the required €20.
Before curtain up, an announcement that Ian Storey (Tristan) was indisposto generated an audible collective sharp intake of breath - hope perhaps that he might be replaced by someone the audience had actually heard of? - followed by a collective sigh as the announcer went on to say he was going to soldier on bravely. Bah.
Vocally, though he was rather uneven, the crux of his ailment seemed to be amnesia - he was loudly prompted through a chunk of the last act.
From the expression on his face at the end, you'd think he was being handed a twenty year sentence without parole rather than the warm applause he actually received. I don't think he's anyone's ideal Tristan, but given the world heldentenor shortage and the barrel-scraping other houses have been forced into, he's really not that bad. And it's hard to fault him as an actor - he hardly twinkles with star quality, but he's a solid and credible performer.
Waltraud Meier made a rather more reliable Isolde, only the very highest notes eluding her. Her steely presence was arresting, though it lacked the vulnerable edge that would have made it touching. Perhaps the curiously well-rested appearance of her forehead (as first spotted by the eagle-eyed OperaChic) creates difficulties in projecting the necessary emotion, hmmm.
A surprise weakness in the cast was the normally reliable Matti Salminen, whose König Marke was more like a befuddled grandad woken inopportunely from a nap than the wronged husband and betrayed friend.
Patrice Chéreau's ohso predictable production caused no offence, but other than camouflaging a few corpulent Wagnerian frames in flattering overcoating, did no real favours either.
The only really interesting touch was in the detail of the set. Chéreau's usual grim indeterminate wharfside environment was tweaked into a fittingly North Italian ambience with ruddy clay Roman walls and pointy cypress trees. It reminded me of those Italian Renaissance paintings where everything from the birth of Jesus to St Jerome in the wilderness seems to be taking place on a small hillside outside Florence.
If only we could have had some Piero pastels for the costumes instead of, once again, the drab Echo & the Bunnymen rags. Once, this style must have looked new and exciting, but now when every other Wagner production borrows it, isn't it time to try something different?
At least Barenboim was there to save the day (sort of). His long acquaintance with the score paid off in a monumentally structured orchestral performance of immaculate Wiener-like finesse. If at times Barenboim's tempo seemed languorous, it was justified later in framing the contrasting sections, forever inching inexorably to the finishing line.
It was sometimes hard to believe this was 'just' an opera house orchestra, with their lush string sound, polished brass and exquisite balance. The three Vorspiele were an opportunity to just sit back and luxuriate in the sound of the orchestra without the distraction (and that's what it often was) of singers and movement. These were for me the only truly engaging episodes in the whole evening. The orchestra joined Barenboim on stage to take a bow at the end, something they deserved rather more than certain of the singers.
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