|
Back
Weeping for Hecuba London
Coliseum
01/27/2003 - and 31 January, 5, 12, 15, 21, 25, 27 February 2003
Hector Berlioz: The capture of Troy
Iain Paterson (Pantheus), Susan Bickley (Cassandra), Robert Poulton (Chorebus), Victoria Simmonds (Ascanius), Carole Wilson (Hecuba), John Daszak (Aeneas), Gerard O'Connor (Priam), Pavlo Hunka (Ghost of Hector), Fiona Canfield (Polyxena), Barry Martin (Greek Captain)
ENO Chorus and Orchestra
Paul Daniel (conductor), Richard Jones (director)
Berlioz' last opera, The Trojans, deals with global events, the founding of modern civilization, no less, but it is about the personal consequences of the fall of Troy and the founding of Rome. Although he lived through a tumultuous period, Berlioz never quite experienced war: the opera is his massive response to the emotional impact of Virgil's Aeneid, an intense meditation in classical form. Richard Jones' production of the first part of the opera, The capture of Troy, presents the war in an utterly everyday context, creating a space for a response to grow imperceptibly into overwhelming horror and pity rather than evoking predetermined emotions by gesture. (The second part, The Trojans in Carthage, follows in May, and the complete work next season, apocalypse permitting.) The setting is clearly American, but, more important, contemporary and urban. The absence of a visible enemy is the same as the invisible presence of enemies. Jones touches on many sources of modern anxiety: part of a burned aeroplane lies in the abandoned Greek camp, the gods of Troy are transported in shell cases and Hector appears in a film as a JFK-like lost leader while Andromache and Astyanax resemble Jackie and John John. The horse, though, is pretty much as it appears in illustrations.
The eye of the storm of anxiety is Cassandra, the prophetic daughter of Priam who rejected Apollo and was doomed never to be believed. Susan Bickley's stunning and engrossing performance carried the entire first act. She was depicted as a batty relative, full of tics and in need of compulsory medication, but with enduring dignity, even grandeur. Isolated in the crowd in public, her only human contact was her love for Chorebus, sympathetically portrayed by Robert Poulton. Their shared music was deeply moving, standing out from the muted celebrations of the Trojans.
In the second act, the focus moves on to Aeneas, torn between the desire to fight and die and the possibility of hope in flight. The ghost of Hector (a powerful Pavlo Hunka) emerged disconcertingly from the furniture in Aeneas' room, in a scene that exploited John Daszak's amazing expressionist style. His singing was always dramatic and anxious, never ingratiating, suggesting a personality in dissolution as much as his acting. This isn't going to be a wimpy Aeneas in Carthage.
The ENO chorus, who must have a strong sense of doom themselves, sang gracefully in the first act. They gained in force and fervour in the second act when they divided into the men, aroused to hopeless defence of their city and the women, steeling themselves for suicide rather than shame. They played guitars instead of lyres, but the gathering and deliberation had a timeless sense of ritual, of individuals losing themselves in collective action when they cannot go on. The end, when it came, was a masterpiece of understatement: as the orchestra stopped suddenly, a curtain fell. The silence was shocking and shattering.
HE Elsom
|
