SEEN AND HEARD INTERNATIONAL

Britten: Peter Grimes (new production premiere): The Metropolitan Opera and Chorus, Soloists, Donald Runnicles (conductor), John Doyle (production), Scott Pask (set designer), Ann Hould-Ward (costume designer), Peter Mumford (lighting designer), Donald Palumbo (chorus master), New York, 28.2.2008 (BH)

Britten: Peter Grimes (new production premiere)

Conductor: Donald Runnicles
Production: John Doyle (debut)
Set Designer: Scott Pask (debut)
Costume Designer: Ann Hould-Ward (debut)
Lighting Designer: Peter Mumford
Chorus Master: Donald Palumbo

Cast:
Hobson: Dean Peterson
Swallow: John Del Carlo
Peter Grimes: Anthony Dean Griffey
Mrs. Sedley: Felicity Palmer
Ellen Orford: Patricia Racette
Auntie: Jill Grove
Bob Boles: Greg Fedderly
Captain Balstrode: Anthony Michaels-Moore
Rev. Horace Adams: Bernard Fitch
Two nieces: Leah Partridge (debut), Erin Morley
Ned Keene: Teddy Tahu Rhodes (debut)
Boy: Logan William Erickson

Peter Grimes: Anthony Dean Griffey and the Boy: Logan William Erickson

Having a crowd stare at you for three hours is unnerving, and that awkward—and powerful—image is at the heart of the Met's new production of Peter Grimes, brilliantly conceived by director John Doyle.  What at first seems a handicap—the huge Met chorus having little space to maneuver in front of designer Scott Pask's enormous wooden wall—eventually becomes a strength, as over and over the cast delivers their lines while glaring out into the audience.  The cast is as trapped in their environment as Grimes is.  Near the end, when the townspeople line up downstage and belt out "Peter Grimes!" it chills to the bone; somehow this crowd is after you.  Doyle got it right: it's an evening of constant accusation.

At the heart of Pask's magnificent set design is the hulking front wall, towering the complete height and length of the Met stage, and built from rough, dark wood shingles modeled after huts used by fishermen on the coast of England to store nets and fishing tackle.  I couldn't help but wonder if Pask admires the black wood landscapes of sculptor Louise Nevelson.  Equally essential is Peter Mumford's lighting: when the wall slowly retreats, the glow from above casts shadows, like moonlight splashing the shingles as they come into view.  Near the end, when Grimes is almost squeezed between two buildings, the light hits the top edges, only emphasizing the now impossible depth to which he has fallen.

The Set

The first act has little in the way of action," and the blocking consists of the crowd generally bunched in the center of the stage.  But by Act II Doyle's idea becomes uncomfortably clear: Grimes is increasingly trapped in an enormous labyrinth of forces well beyond his control.  Windows and doors in the wall magically open without a sound, revealing people standing, gazing out in silent judgment, their ultimate intentions unknown.  While I'm the last person to encourage opera casts to simply stand in one place and sing, here the idea works, with the cast functioning more like members of a jury box.

Musically, I doubt anyone could ask for a more incisive traversal of the score, conducted with sweeping confidence by Donald Runnicles, and executed with great precision by the Met Orchestra (whose members applauded the conductor during the ovations).  The orchestral interludes are presented with very little stage action or embellishment, other than subtle lighting changes washing across the wooden slats, and it's a good call: sometimes "only" a sunrise is all that is needed.  With gorgeous phrases flying throughout the house like sea spray, there's nothing needed to distract viewers from Britten's evocative mini-tone poems.  (Moreover, perhaps this will further encourage behavior changes in some opera fans that feel that when no one is singing, conversation is acceptable.)

So many cast members stand out it is hard to know where to begin.  Even smaller roles are ardently sung, such as Dean Peterson's Hobson and John Del Carlo's lawyer Swallow, first in line in the excellent cast.  Felicity Palmer, whom I last saw clawing through the floor in Tchaikovsky's The Queen of Spades, is like the nosy neighbor you never want, always in your business and never to your benefit.  Jill Grove makes a winsome Auntie, and is part of the extraordinarily haunting quartet in Act II, with the two nieces (Leah Partridge and Erin Morley) and Ellen Orford, in a dramatic turn by Patricia Racette.

Ellen Orford: Patricia Racette

Racette almost anchors the production, providing humanity and heartbreak, and her big scenes—"Glitter of waves" in Act II and the famous "Embroidery" scene in Act III—not only show her lustrous voice but her piercing acting skills.  Anthony Michaels-Moore is equally astonishing as Balstrode, wanting to offer Grimes consolation but ultimately forced to take other measures.  Fine work by Greg Fedderly as a drunken Bob Boles, Bernard Fitch as the pious Rev. Adams and newcomer Teddy Tahu Rhodes as a memorable Ned Keene all help etch a gorgeously sung landscape.

But the production ultimately rests on the title character, and the superb Anthony Dean Griffey offers not only a complex character, not easily fathomed, but couches it in some of the most lyrical tenor work one is likely to hear this season.  Griffey makes Grimes' fate feel pre-ordained by forces larger than his capacity to understand, much less overcome, and as a friend said, he also seems more than a little hotheaded and crazy, to boot.  When he roughs up his new apprentice, played with cowering fear by Logan William Erickson, it's actually a bit scary seeing him hurl the boy into a corner.  Or when Grimes sings the magnificent "Now the Great Bear and Pleiades," let's face it: he basically interrupts what appears to be a cracking good time in the pub, dampening the mood with his soulful philosophizing. And if Grimes didn't actually kill his apprentices, are their fates coincidences? Just bad luck?  Is "hanging around with Peter" automatically a death sentence?  Griffey's portrayal won't allow any neat conclusions.

The members of the Met Chorus, increasingly agile and accurate, are just sounding more marvelous every month under Donald Palumbo.  Britten has composed a chorus-heavy opera, and whether in the intricate "Old Joe has gone fishing" or in the aforementioned climax, the sheer power of the group carries the music aloft like great oceanic winds.  Doyle's vision deliberately doesn't probe deeply into the psyches of the townspeople; they are specks, tiny insects swept up by forces larger than they can comprehend.  Ann Hould-Ward's handsome costumes, in shades of black, brown and gray, discourage treating them as individuals.  Their emotions are at nature's beck and call; the ocean and weather rule their lives.  These may be not literal fishermen but figurative ones, and the opera may work even better as allegory.  Doyle seems awestruck by this possibility, and encourages us to view it in the largest, most disturbing sense.

The opera's final scene will no doubt baffle some: after Grimes has gone out to sea for the last time, the townspeople and cast assemble downstage.  Behind them the towering partitions glide away to reveal a white-lit back wall and a large modern steel structure with catwalks, upon which dozens of people in contemporary dress pose, like silent slackers.  (Or as one person I overheard said, "An ad for the Gap.")  Maybe I'm too charitable, but I cut Doyle some slack here: their appearance and silence acknowledge that Grimes's predicament is one encountered by someone of every generation, and offers scant reprieve from the idea that in some way we are all complicit.

Bruce Hodges

(The Met's broadcast of Peter Grimes will be on Saturday, March 15.  More information here.)

All pictures © Ken Howard


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