mon 24/10/2016

Hippolyte et Aricie, Glyndebourne Festival Opera | Opera reviews, news & interviews

Hippolyte et Aricie, Glyndebourne Festival Opera

Spectacle and generosity aplenty in this miraculous operatic debut from Rameau

Sarah Connolly as Phaedra and Ed Lyon as Hippolyte Bill Cooper

Jean-Philippe Rameau wrote Hippolyte et Aricie in 1733 at the age of 50. It was his first opera and his greatest. In its five acts, its visits to the woods of Diana, the groves of Venus, the fires of Pluto and the domestic meltdown in the house of Phaedra, is some of the most assured, inventive and stylish music ever written for the stage. As operatic debuts go, it is a miracle. 

That William Christie, the pre-eminent French Baroque specialist of our age, would be capable of summoning up some of the premiere’s dazzle was not surprising. But that Jonathan Kent would be able to match that sense of wonder that greeted 18th-century Parisians with a staging that both channelled a multi-media Baroque spirit but also got to the work’s intimate core was a revelation.

We began, of course, in a fridge-freezer. "Huh?" some cried. Opera’s seen many a fridge-freezer in recent years, from the big walk-in meat storers (Turandot, ENO) to the cheap Dixon’s knock-offs (King Arthur, ENO). This one was exaggeratedly large – large enough to fit the choir and two goddesses – and French. So, who might make this trope of modern consumerism their home? Diana, of course, queen of the hunt, patron saint of the frigid.

Few nights at the opera will be as rewarding as this one

It was neat. But it was by no means the most neat scene we’d see. Next up came Diana’s Maurizio Catelan-inspired abattoir, four real deer strung up dead, blood pouring from their mouths. Even more ingenious was Pluto’s domain in Act Three where we explored the flea-ridden, cobwebbed back of the fridge. For the domestic unravelling in Act Four, the curtain lifted on a cross-section of the ruling family home, the fateful drama unfolding like a frieze across the modish bedrooms and living room.

True to its time, purity is absent. Generosity and spectacle are the order of the day. We get Noughties designs here, 18th-century costume there (designer: Paul Brown). The plot allows it. The fecund music – hungrily zig-zagging across vast, previously uncharted textural and harmonic terrain – demands it. For those expecting Racine’s Phaedra, it will disappoint, maybe even horrify. Rameau’s librettist Abbé Pellegrin subsumes all the sober interior turmoil of Phaedra into a lavish grand opera that takes in several prolonged (and, it has to be said, dramatically static) visits to the Gods. Nonetheless there is time for much intimate activity too. 

Kent is not averse to Racine-ifying proceedings when necessary. Two of the most heart-stopping moments in this production – moments that belie the idea that French Baroque opera is all surface and no soul – are moments of great classical restraint. The first is the breakdown of Phaedra in her bedroom in Act Three, while the object of her desire, her step-son Hippolyte, does his teenage thing next door. The second is at the end of Act Four. The curtain falls to leave Phaedra alone, the lights narrow to a spot and, in silence, she descends to meet her fate, eying us accusingly. The only misstep in the production was in the pat choreography from Ashley Page, who rather than taking on the ravishing dance music, sends them up in moments of half-arsed campness. 


Nothing can take away from

Nothing can take away from the music, especially under Bill's sure and wise hand. But the conceit of the production robs the show of the visual beauty and skill of its age. Hippolyte does not need to be dragged into the 20th century to tell its tale. We can all suspend our disbelief for a few hours and still emerge understanding the terrors of death, the guilt of incestuous desire and the lewd caprice of "love".

I would certainly have liked

I would certainly have liked to see some visual beauty, particularly in the first scene, which I found bizarre! However, I felt the following scenes were acceptable, if one wants to try to modernize it, but I don't see the need to do so. The same with most of the dancing - disappointing.

I agree unconditionally with

I agree unconditionally with every one of Igor's evocative words, having seen the show yesterday. Never did I think I'd be so enraptured by either Rameau or J Kent. Whoever denies the melodic invention, let alone the innovations, of this score, has some severe kind of blind spot. Bravo again, Glyndebourne.

There was a time when the

There was a time when the singers in opera were deemed important. No more it seems. Conductor, director, designer, and even choreographer all get a mention, the singers not at all. Maybe they are just an inconvenience. As long as they don't get in the way of the concept, that's fine.Why Glyndeboure went to the trouble of hiring renowned mezzo Sarah Connolly, Lord knows. Mt Toronyi-Lalic evidently didn't even notice her.

Just turn the 'page', Greg,

Just turn the 'page', Greg, and you'll find plenty about the singers. In any case, you'll see that the first word in the quotation at the side of the first 'page' is 'Connolly'.

Abject apologies. I hadn't

Abject apologies. I hadn't noticed the review continued on Page 2. Now I feel very silly!

Correction: Mr Lyon(s) is in

Correction: Mr Lyon(s) is in fact Mr Lyon.

Dear Mr Toronyi-Lalić - an

Dear Mr Toronyi-Lalić - an ensemble of opera singers is known as a chorus in English, not a choir.

Please do not rush to correct

Please do not rush to correct too soon. In the context of Rameau "Choir" is quite correct. All the singers are referred to as the "Grande Choir", smaller ensembles as the Petit Choir"

Nonsense, alas. Rameau's

Nonsense, alas. Rameau's word is "chœur", since he was French. Translated into English, this is either "chorus" or "choir", depending on context. For opera, it's always "chorus".

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