By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
By Tom Sellar
Leaving such matters aside, it's easy to see what the late Mrs. Harrington wanted when she phrased her bequest so specifically: She wanted to avoid the kind of absurdity I was describing in last week's essay. Whether she was entitled to tell the artists involved how to do their work simply because she wielded a hefty checkbook is one of the debatable questions the lawsuit raises. Another is how one defines such terms as "traditional" and "standard fare." Being allergic to Wagner, I've never seen the Tristan that riled her estate, but descriptions make it sound like the kind of highly abstract staging that has been attached to Wagner's operas since his grandsons Wieland and Wolfgang took over the Bayreuth Festival after World War II: a "tradition" half a century old.
The Met's repertoire offers many such paradoxes. John Dexter's mounting of Poulenc's Dialogues of the Carmelites is generally agreed to be one of its finest productions, but Dexter's powerful, stripped-down staging violates many of the specifics in Poulenc's stage directions. Is it traditional? Could the beloved opera itself, less than 50 years old, be called a standard work? The same director's Don Pasquale, in contrast, was on the surface a perfectly traditional rendering of a standard work. But Dexter's staging was a merciless subversion of Donizetti's touching little comedy; he drowned every action in a blizzard of props and gimmicks. During the pivotal quartet, he seated the Notary, who takes no part in it, center stage, where, while the four principals sang their hearts out, we watched this fellow unwrap and eat his lunch. Could deconstruction have done much worse?
Conceived and directed by Rina Yerushalmi
Lincoln Center Festival
Song cycle by Franz Schubert
Mostly Mozart Festival
As this suggests, there are many ways for a director to louse up a work without defying tradition. Unlike Semyon Kotko and Kitezh, the production of Khovanshchina that the Kirov brought to Lincoln Center was perfectly traditional in look: realistic courtyards and palaces, historically accurate costumes. What killed it was the leaden staging: Leonid Baratov's 1960 production, as restored by Yuri Alexandrov, followed the overall shape of the scenes, but never seemed to find movements that matched the music or pointed the action in any but the most generalized ways. Moussorgsky's powerful but disorderly work, left unfinished at his death, is set in a time of violent change in Russia; its plot is full of political infighting, religious conflict, power grabs, and betrayals. In the Kirov version, the people carrying on this hectic affair, however gorgeously many of them sang, seemed physically hemmed in and stodgy; the few exceptions spent their stage time busily signaling their villainy to the audience. If that's tradition, bring on the red Kleagle costumes, and the virgin forest that looks like an abandoned brickworks; the old deadly theater is the explanation of the new one.
Yet theater, old or new, doesn't have to be deadly. To function it simply has to be in balance, just as a human being must be in balance to stand upright. Directors who follow a set of old conventions without examination trap their performers in an aesthetic coffin: Khovanshchina's cast often looked like arm-waving automatons. Performers in a new-style nonsense-laden production, by contrast, often seem less trapped than shoved aside by murk and machinery. I might have had many favorable things to say about Liev Schreiber's Henry V had I seen him play the role in a real production. Amid Mark Wing-Davey's festoon of gadgetry, as in the gimmick parade that Andrei Serban made of Hamlet at the Public Theater a few years back, the good and searching work Schreiber was doing seemed only a whimper drowned out by a whirlwind.
In fairness, both Wing-Davey and Serban have done better-grounded work, and the latter has real stature as a visionary. One problem here was that their choice of play overwhelmed them. In 2003, Shakespeare's pro-patriotism, pro-war drama (useless to pretend that Henry V is anything else) would inevitably tie an intelligent Englishman resident in America, like Wing-Davey, into emotional knots; Hamlet, formerly an Everest for actors, has become so much a directorial showcase that it did tie Serban into such knots. I know because he stopped me on my way in to review itto apologize for using a device that he had subsequently learned another eminent director had already used. "I don't care," I said, "if it tells me something about Hamlet."