Tale of two operas: ENO round-up

English National Opera - or ENO - has now come to the end of its 'main' 2016/2017 season at the Coliseum. What with all of its widely-reported behind-the-scenes woes making the programme slightly shorter and sharper than before (fewer productions, under-use of the chorus) ... I still came away from my last two visits of the season feeling happy to support - and hugely grateful for - such a fine company.

Although the two operas in question are vastly different, in their own ways they each represented some of the best ENO has to offer. One, 'The Winter's Tale', was a brand new work by composer Ryan Wigglesworth (based - for the best, I would say - on the Shakespeare play rather than the David Essex Yuletide hit), while the other was a revival of Christopher Alden's production of Handel's 'Partenope'.

Rory Kinnear directed the new opera, and one thing I suspect his involvement guaranteed was that the piece kept total faith with the original's 'problem play' status. While this is one of several late Shakespeare works that explore the hinterland between comedy and tragedy, the laser-sharp focus of this tight two-hour adaptation underlines how full the story is of tension and suspense. The cylindrical set emphasises the royal family's 'shut-in', ivory-tower insularity (besieged by the chorus's disgruntled mob), breaking open at moments of trauma and revelation.

(Production photo from ENO website, credit Johan Persson.)

The end of Act I in particular - where great disaster befalls Leontes as he loses his wife and son, then banishes the daughter he doesn't believe is his - was utterly nerve-jangling, with the mighty ENO chorus on audibly intimidating form, ratcheting up the intensity with every line. The score (conducted by the composer) was a co-conspirator - at one crisis point, when I thought I'd reached my limits of excitement and unease, a drum-kit jazz break burst into life, pushing me further towards the edge.

The production as a whole brandished a cruel wit in keeping with the story's dark tone. Statues to the king's vanity foreshadowed the image of the queen Hermione that will mercifully come to life at the opera's close. Shakespearean purists may have been disappointed that Antigonus didn't 'Exit, pursued by a bear' - except that as he retreats from the Bohemian cost, the stars of the Plough - 'Ursa Major' - twinkle above him. In a nice casting touch, the superb Neal Davies sang both Antigonus and the role of the Shepherd, as if he never actually gave up his duty of care to Perdita at all.

Iain Paterson - who gave such a tremendous performance as Hans Sachs in the recent ENO 'Mastersingers' - was on blistering form as Leontes, showing how monumental anger can give way to all-consuming grief. The whole cast in fact - Samantha Price and Anthony Gregory endearing as the young lovers, Leigh Melrose as Polixenes - who comes so close in his own rage to repeating Leontes's mistakes, and Sophie Bevan as a wounded, defiant Hermione - all in terrific voice, but at the same time, clearly directed with as much attention to acting as singing. As a result, we experienced something very raw and immediate: human, domestic emotion under attack from enigma, coincidence and magic.

If 'The Winter's Tale' showed us the questing, challenging, 'contemporary' ENO, then 'Partenope' gave us its irreverent capacity to innovate and delight. This production places Handel's soldier-queen into Paris of the twenties, highlighting that the opera is surely far more concerned with matters of the boudoir than the battlefield.

(Production photo from ENO website, credit Catherine Ashmore.)

It allows for some brilliant commentary on the costume and cross-dressing: Partenope dominant in top hat and tails; a woman playing a man in a 'trouser' role (Arsace), alongside a woman playing a woman playing a man (Rosmira). Emilio, the invader/observer, is styled as the photographer Man Ray, whose surreal aesthetic gave the staging much of its beauty and humour: from the use of masks (not just as symbols for concealed identities, but also a kind of protection and reluctance to engage), to the 'big reveal' as Emilio's nude photo helps Arsace to realise how to, er, expose Rosmira...

The six-strong ensemble were all at perfect ease in their roles. Sarah Tynan was an electric, exquisite Partenope, nonchalantly prompting everyone else in the opera to fall head over heels for her; Rupert Charlesworth combining a really powerful vocal presence with a clever, consistent and edgily comic demeanour as Emilio. The women in drag were both wonderful: I'm in awe of Patricia Bardon's versatility (having seen her before as the Princess in 'Suor Angelica' and in the lead role in John Adams's 'The Gospel According to the Other Mary'), here as the torn Arsace, and Stephanie Windsor Lewis seemed to be having the time of her life as Rosmira, in disguise as the bluff and at times heroically sweary Eurimine. Matthew Durkan as Ormonte and James Laing as Armindo were winning foils, with the latter in particular squaring up to some demanding physical comedy - including delivery of a key aria while hanging from a staircase.

While it will be hard to handle the ENO withdrawal symptoms, I should add here that there are other opportunities between now and next season to hear the great chorus and orchestra in action.

• If you like musicals, the 'big ticket' at the Coliseum across April and May is 'Carousel', starring Katherine Jenkins and Alfie Boe. ENO's chorus and orchestra are the backbone. While anything from the 'fact' of the production to its starry casting has excited plenty of social media opinions, I really rate 'Carousel' - so I'm taking my folks, and an open mind.
• 'ENO Studio Live' is a new initiative, presenting more modest, but still fully-staged operas at Lilian Baylis House. Particularly exciting to my mind is its remit to cast chorus members in main roles. There are two productions this year: Jonathan Dove's 'The Day After' (which I'm definitely going to), and Gilbert & Sullivan's 'Trial by Jury' (which I fear I may have to miss).
• And there are two performances at the Southbank of Elgar's 'The Dream of Gerontius', with the company supporting a Dream cast: Gwyn Hughes Jones, Patricia Bardon and Matthew Rose.

I've focused on company performances here but there's still more - from Silent Opera's Janacek adaptation to a new work about jazz giant Charlie Parker at the Hackney Empire - so please take a look at ENO's website and support them if you can.

Carolyn Sampson: in song and on stage

As regular readers (thank you, darlings, thank you) will know, there are certain artists I try to champion whenever possible on this blog. And in some cases, it can be agonising to miss an opportunity to do so, through not being able to make a particular run of performances, or catch a local enough gig. So it was sheer pleasure to have the chance to see and hear one of my favourite singers, Carolyn Sampson, not once, but twice in a single week - in very different contexts - and be reminded all over again of both her brilliance and versatility.

We begin on a gratuitous Monday off work, at the Wigmore Hall lunchtime concert. Accompanying CS was lutenist Matthew Wadsworth. They are longtime recital partners, and to my shame I'd only come across MW's playing previously on a Wigmore live disc the duo had released some time ago. The programme for this concert was a lovely exercise in balance: to begin with, it presented the artists very much as equals, with MW performing several instrumental pieces solo. It also mixed old - 'usual suspects' Dowland and Purcell bookended the gig - and new. Brand new, in fact, as MW gave the world premiere of a charming new suite of pieces for theorbo, 'The Miller's Tale', composed by Stephen Goss. (For those unfamiliar, the theorbo is the giraffe of the string instrument family - lute-like body, but with a long neck rising well above the player's shoulder: extra strings to provide more bass.)

Bridging ancient and modern, at the centre of the recital, were three of Britten's folk song settings. Just as Stephen Goss tuned his guitar like a theorbo to compose the new pieces, Britten's arrangements are more often heard on the modern instrument, but here were rendered beautifully on MW's theorbo, eliding two eras seamlessly, as if we were suspended in a unique time and space just for that hour in the auditorium.

CS is absolutely in her element with this material. While the pristine beauty of the voice is in evidence throughout, her ability to communicate the spirit of each song makes her superb to watch as well as listen to. Thanks to her sensitive but never over-serious approach, it's a thrill-ride to be transported from a tender heartbreaker to one of the more cheerful and somewhat bawdier choices - performed with a customary flirtatious brio that hopefully didn't accelerate too many pacemakers in the Wigmore or Radio 3 audiences!

I was in two minds about mentioning this - in terms of his performance, it should be irrelevant - but I'll go ahead. MW is blind. While this makes me admire his abilities all the more (for example, my mind boggles at the effort that must be involved receiving and learning a new premiere score), it also illuminates the generosity and attentiveness they must both possess to work as a duo. So often, the singer is seen as 'leader' and the accompanist tends to be the one visibly 'following' - but here, the exchange seems far more mutual, even telepathic, with MW clearly listening for breathing and movement at a level I could no doubt barely imagine, and CS watching his every move. I actually felt privileged to watch: what might have been an 'obstacle', something to be overcome, in fact results in a next-level partnership, something to aspire to.

Fast forward to the end of the week, to an event I had been looking forward to for months. CS was singing Melisande in Scottish Opera's production of Debussy's 'Pelléas et Mélisande' - and we had decided to treat ourselves and make a special trip to see it in Edinburgh (where Mrs Specs also has People, conveniently enough). The pilgrimage was made even more worthwhile by the opportunity to hear the marvellous bass Alastair Miles again, after seeing his extraordinary performance as Claggart in Opera North's 'Billy Budd' last year.

[Slight spoiler alert: the run of 'P&M' has now finished, so I will be mentioning below some features of the staging, simply so I can talk about how haunting and clever I found it. You have been warned!]

As one might expect from a story that attracted Debussy, 'P&M' is an elusive, mysterious tale. I won't try to summarise every detail, but in brief: Prince Golaud - grandson of King Arkel of Allemonde - loses his bearings while hunting, and stumbles upon a lost young woman, Mélisande. She shows signs of escaping abuse from her former life (initially she won't let Golaud near her), but he is besotted and takes her with him. They marry. However, Golaud's half-brother, Pelléas is also staying at the castle, as his father is ill. Pelléas and Mélisande spend time together and become close. While Pelléas seems to fall more openly in love - arranging 'final' meetings of great import and making overtures to Mélisande beneath her window - she seems to reciprocate but holds something of herself in reserve. Meanwhile, Golaud's jealousy intensifies from spying to violent rage (dragging the pregnant Mélisande across the floor). Interrupting the tryst where Mélisande finally admits her love for Pelléas, Golaud kills his half-brother. Shortly after giving birth, Mélisande also dies (even though she is barely injured), with Golaud still torn between believing her faithful and pressing her to admit her guilt.

Trying to outline the plot in this way inevitably means passing over the opera's rich symbolism and ethereal approach to storytelling and 'reality'. Its events feel cumulative - we're aware of time passing and unseen exchanges between, and sometimes during, the acts - and we build our overall picture from what can feel like impressionistic scenes. This sense of 'disconnect' allows the characters to remain unpredictable throughout, their feelings and motives sometimes shifting, never letting us fully second-guess their intentions.

Here the performers really came into their own. CS was a revelation (I had never seen her in a fully-staged opera before). Her ability to convey lightning mood changes and complexities of character - so useful in song recitals when a protagonist's fortunes vary wildly from verse to verse! - made her an ideal Mélisande. It felt like we could simultaneously read her mind, yet never truly know her. She was especially hypnotic to watch during the scene, when - during a lighter-hearted exchange with Pelléas - Mélisande loses her wedding ring in a well. As you'd expect, we saw shock and regret, but also a half-smile as if the loss could fleetingly represent a release or escape. CS also gave us a Mélisande who could really move: sliding and balancing across beds or benches in the early scenes with an agile grace, she seemed of nature, of the forest - which I'll come back to shortly. And whatever the physical demands of the role - including leaning upside down from a window having her hair pulled - her singing never left perfection-level.

(A stunning Scottish Opera production photo, credit Richard Campbell.)

The rest of the cast also shone. Like CS, whose purity of voice can also carry a hint of more earthly, sensual sparkle when needed, each singer was a skilfully-cast tonal match for their role. I've already mentioned Alastair Miles, his warm bass emphasising Arkel's sympathy and stability amid the slow-motion chaos around him. Again, he gave a lower-key, but intensely physical performance. Arkel's literal blindness constrained AM's gestures but he was able to demonstrate the irony that, while the old man must gently lean on others for actual support, he is the one who so often provides it. Andrei Bondarenko fleshed out Pelléas admirably, his flexible baritone capturing the character's mix of assumed gravitas, blurred motives and sometimes perplexing diffidence. And Roland Wood gave a searing performance as Golaud, knotted up with relentless anguish, directing his rage inward as much as out towards his wife and half-brother.

The uniformly fine performances extended to Scottish Opera's Orchestra, conducted by their music director Stuart Stratford. In their hands, Debussy's score - which I am probably the 6,275th person to describe as 'ravishing' - waxed and waned like a kind of ceaseless, shimmering mélodie, somehow finding a way of dramatising constant change: not just the trademark water, but beneath human surfaces, shifting emotions and loyalties.

This brings me on to the staging - directed by Sir David McVicar, who must share a great deal of the credit with Rae Smith (design) and Paule Constable (lighting). The essential appearance of the background and characters takes its cue from the paintings of Danish artist Hammershoi. From the very start, we see both trees - to the left - with walls / panels centre and right, as if somehow the forest and castle are already merging. Golaud stands with his sword, a little distance from a bed where Mélisande lies. However, he - the interior in turmoil - is lost on the forest side, while she - apparently 'of' the forest, is already seemingly trapped, attached to the furniture. As the action progresses, nature starts to gain the upper hand - more and more trees 'grow' across the stage, and the caves, pools and wells spring up within the rooms.

I found this fascinating on several levels. The extraordinary lighting and set design placed the characters in a constant shadow world, whether light or dark, mirroring their emotional repression. As each scene ended, the curtains closed in from left, right and above, heightening the claustrophobic atmosphere. The overlap between interior and exterior seemed a carefully thought-through and - appropriately enough - watertight metaphor for what can be said and acted upon, and what can't. Mélisande, who once might have been a literal 'free spirit', has clearly suffered in the past, and the clearest symbol of that unrestrained nature, her hair, becomes a tool for abuse - not just from Golaud, who grabs it to drag her across the floor, but from Pelléas, who in his love seeks to entrap and control her, binding her tresses not only to himself, but to the tree by her window.

The production ends on a truly breathtaking coup de théâtre: as Mélisande fades away on her deathbed, surrounded by doctor and servants in a room full of trees, the folk onstage recede and some of the trunks lift off gently into the air. Mélisande has brought nature, the outside world, into the castle, and it will leave with her. However, stage left, Golaud's young son hands him his sword, and leaves. We realise that the two are left alone onstage, exactly as we first saw them: Golaud in identical pose by the few remaining trees, and Mélisande in the same bed. So many thoughts crowded my head as I reeled from this - it felt at once like a heart-rending reminder of the cycle of abuse that men can visit upon women; it seemed to symbolise our ongoing violence against nature (personified by Mélisande), that whenever we come into contact with it, we try to overpower, crush and ultimately ruin it... let alone the fact that it was simply a glorious visual idea, alive with intelligence and imagination, a refresh and repeat for the eyes that matched the motifs and patterns already bewitching our ears.

*

So often I have to write about past glories on the blog, but as long as you can access BBC's iPlayer Radio, you can hear both of these performances. For the Wigmore Hall concert, go to this link - at the time of writing, there are 25 days left to listen.

'Pelléas et Mélisande' was recorded during the Glasgow run and will be broadcast on BBC Radio 3 on Saturday 25 March. After that, it will live for another 30 days on iPlayer Radio. Don't miss!

Song journeys at Wigmore Hall

I realise that I'm very lucky to be able to say this - but I've enjoyed a run of activity lately which, once you factor in all the other work/life stuff, has meant that I've been to see and hear things faster than I've been able to write them up. I'm conscious there's a bit of a backlog building... so please forgive me if I go back in time a few weeks or so to tell you about a couple of great concerts I heard at the Wigmore Hall.

Both were song recitals, both shorter programmes performed without intervals, and both featured the same pianist, Gary Matthewman. That aside, though (and this is testament to GM's versatility), the experiences could not have been more different.

The first was a highly unconventional performance of Schubert's great song cycle 'Winterreise', with bass Matthew Rose in the lovelorn wanderer role. MR and GM have already released their interpretation of 'Winterreise' on disc - a desirable artefact, not just because it's such a sensitive recording, but also a beautiful object in itself. I mention this because, live, the rendition gained an extra dimension as the duo collaborated with artist Victoria Crowe (whose paintings adorn the CD package) and designer/video-maker Kenneth Gray to create an animated film that played 'in sync' throughout the entire 70-odd minutes of the cycle's duration.

I've never seen anything like this at the Wigmore. It's amazing how we just become used to song recitals running in a certain way - singer in the centre, pianist a little to the left, lights left up a little so we can choose to bury our heads in the song text... Not this time. We were in near-darkness, the performers right over to the side of the stage to give us the clearest view possible of the visuals. Although I've reached a point where I know 'Winterreise' quite well now, I wouldn't say I had anything like a complete translation lodged in my brain. But this offered a totally new way to experience it - the music guides you through the emotional twists and turns of the story, as you lose yourself in the perfectly timed images.

I've thought Matthew Rose superbly convincing in any setting I've encountered him in - recital, sacred music or opera: most recently, he shone as a highly complex, hilarious yet vulnerable Ochs in the recent Royal Opera House 'Rosenkavalier'. However, he does not 'grandstand' as a performer, immersing himself wholly to produce exactly what's needed in service of the piece, or role. Here, he was all but invisible to the audience, allowing us to focus on his voice alone, strangely 'disembodied' in these conditions. But - and I may be alone in this - there is something about listening to 'Winterreise' for the bass voice. Somewhere, when it is sung and played 'higher up', it feels like it lets in more air, but something about the combination of the 'wide', rich lower notes seems to increase the intensity for me - a more dense, claustrophobic sound. MR was truly impassioned, articulating every mood swing and providing the most chilling, resoundingly terrifying close to the cycle I've heard to date. Experimental, then, but utterly sure-footed: a confident step forward into a new way of hearing - and seeing - an established classic.

Fast forward to a few days later, and a Sunday afternoon recital with GM accompanying soprano Louise Alder. This was the kind of gig where a personality lights up a room. Here's the programme (apologies for the authentic 'on-the-train-home' bendiness of the photo - it's as if you're actually there!):

After hearing LA for this all-too-brief hour, I could have happily sat there and kept listening for the rest of the day. Clearly, the selections were calibrated and balanced for maximum delight. Seasoned Specs readers may not be surprised to learn that the Debussy songs were my personal highlight, but part of the concert's overall joy was being carried through this range of fascinating material in such pleasurable company.

In contrast to the wanderer in 'Winterreise', locked into perhaps permanent, frost-bitten darkness - in Louise Alder's programme, we broadly edged our way into the light. From Sibelius's 'Nordic noir', through Larkin's grey repression captured in gripping settings by Huw Watkins, we travel through Debussy's ever-elusive middle ground into the colourful, characterful songs of operatic titans Puccini and Verdi.

LA is a member of Frankfurt's Opera Ensemble, so it's perhaps no wonder that, while her shining tone effortlessly resounded across the Wigmore acoustic throughout, she brought her acting skills to bear on every number, upbeat or downcast. Visibly adjusting her persona between songs, and even verses - she made each selection its own mini-drama. The sequence allowed for more light-hearted antics towards the recital's close, and sent us out into the afternoon in buoyant mood.

It's also no surprise that LA is currently a finalist for the 2017 Opera Awards 'Young Singer', as well as this year's Cardiff Singer of the World. Best of luck to her in both, and we should only hear more and more of her - thank goodness.