It
may seem strange in our urtext-minded age that Gluck’s
most famous opera is still generally known in a hybrid version,
the excuse being that the original Vienna edition (in Italian)
is more succinctly dramatic, and so deserves to be followed
in the main, but that some of the extra music added for Paris
in 1774 (notably the “Dance of the Blessed Spirits” with its
famous flute solo) is too good to lose. The hybrid had its origins
in Berlioz, whose 1859 version became standard in the late 19th
and early 20th centuries, but even those who today
return to the Gluck original often pick and choose among versions.
Another major difference is that the original had a castrato
Orpheus and the Paris
version a high tenor; it was Berlioz who assigned the part to
a contralto.
Here,
then, is a fairly rare opportunity to here the Paris version unadulterated, played by an expert band of period instruments
whose open sonorities at the beginning of the overture are a
joy to hear. Particularly effective are the braying sounds from
the brass at the beginning of Act 2, showing that Gluck could
be quite as powerful and original as Berlioz, even without Berlioz
to help him out.
However,
the news is not all so good. It quickly becomes evident that
this is another of those period groups for whom actual long-term
musical phrasing is a romantic accretion, to be substituted
with a heavily regular ONE two three, ONE
two three. This can be got used to, up to a point, especially
when the orchestra is in an accompanying role.
And
then there is the question of tempi. At 85:43, the Paris version, though considerably more extended than the Vienna one, is made to appear so short as
almost to require the opera to be presented in a double bill.
Timings are fairly useless when different versions are used,
but for what it’s worth Pierre Monteux’s 1957 recording (the
conductor’s interesting conception ruined by Risë Stevens’s
blowsy Orpheus) takes 130:21. He appears to be basically following
the Berlioz version, translated back into Italian; comparing
the librettos of the two sets there doesn’t appear to be that
much difference in the actual music included except that
Monteux doesn’t give the final aria of Act 1 (probably not by
Gluck) but does give the Act 3 pantomime, all 18:32 of
it, which was written for Paris, but in 1776 and so is not included
in this “pure” 1774 version. So having accounted for a fifteen
minutes’ difference or thereabouts with extra music on the Monteux,
the remaining 30 minutes would seem to be a matter of tempi.
I haven’t reinvestigated exactly what Furtwängler played at
La Scala in 1951, presumably some form of Berlioz with cuts,
but he took 108 minutes over it.
Blowing
the cobwebs away or taking the substance out of the music? The
“Dance of the Blessed Spirits” is almost unrecognizable at times,
played at about double the tempo of the Fritz Reiner performance
I got to know the piece by. Gluck’s marking is “Lent et trés
doux”, which is not the same as “Trés lent et doux”, but to
my ears this is Allegretto. At the close of Act Two Orpheus
is conducted towards Eurydice to the strains of a courtly minuet
and the aria we used to know as “What is life without thee?”
gambols along amiably and elegantly. The idea that Orpheus should
sound at least a wee bit sorry at having had his wife
die for the second time is evidently considered another cobweb
to be blown away.
For
better or worse, the result is a perfect counterpart to the
French art of Watteau or Fragonard, all very calm with the
emotions stylised and set in a frame, and very rococo with its
frills and fripperies. In the air “Quel
nouveau ciel” Orpheus is borne on the
delicately hued orchestral backdrop like a cherub on a puffy
white cloud.
Into
this conception the mellifluous tenor of Jean-Paul Fouchécourt
fits perfectly. Unfazed by the highest writing or by the abundant
virtuosity required in the first act aria, his is a beautifully
considered, restrained neo-classical assumption (allowing a
touch more emotion in the recitatives than in the arias), just
about as far removed as anything can be from the deeply felt,
emotional interpretations of the Ferrier-Baker tradition. Suzie
Le Blanc’s Amour matches him well but Catherine Dubosc, whose
curriculum shows her not to be an early music specialist like
the others, offers a more conventional operatic style.
This
is, after all, the French version, and it can only be salutary
to be made to think again about a work we might think we know
well. Given the interpretative viewpoint it is carried through
with consistency, style and a great deal of thought. The trouble
is that, having duly thought about it all, I remain perplexed.
Gluck’s
aim in his “Reform Opera” was to revive the ideals of classical
tragedy, to remove the frills of operatic convention and replace
them with straightforward, direct emotions. Or so we have always
been told, and such discerning admirers as Berlioz and Brahms
believed he had succeeded. The first edition of Grove stated
that “He grasped the idea that the mission of music was not
merely to afford gratification to the senses, and he proved
that the expression of moral qualities is within her reach…
He aimed at depicting historic or legendary characters and antique
social life, and in this work of genius he put into the mouth
of each of his heroes accents suited to their sentiments, and
to the spirit of the times in which they lived…. All his French
operas show him to have been a noble musician, a true poet,
and a deep thinker”. In the early 20th Century Stanford
wrote that “He had assimilated all the vital points of Greek
tragedy … Opera, instead of being a mere mannequin to
show off the airs and graces of the performers, became a living
entity in which the language, the action, the scenery, and the
music went to make an artistic whole” (Stanford/Forsyth: A History
of Music, MacMillan 1916).
Romantic
twaddle? If it is, the uncomfortable feeling remains that in
the days of the Ferriers and the Furtwänglers (not together,
alas) this opera provided an altogether deeper experience. What
we get here is a nice little performance of a nice little opera,
and if you think this is really no more than a nice little opera
then it’ll suit you fine. For me, the baby’s gone out with the
bathwater.
The
sound is excellent and there is a complete libretto with translation
– not something to be taken for granted with Naxos
who more usually provide just a synopsis. However, certain other
features of the production require comment. Having listed individually
every member of the orchestra and chorus, it seems odd not to
tell us who sings the part of the Ombre Heureuse. I’ve
never encountered an operatic recording with so few tracks –
just two for the Third Act, the first lasting 17:03 and containing
all sorts of airs and duets, notably “J’ai perdu mon Euridice”,
which the listener might wish to have indexed. One doesn’t make
too much of short playing time at the Naxos price but, while
respecting the purity of the 1774 version, might we not have
had the 1776 Pantomime as an appendix?
Christopher
Howell
see also Review
by Göran Forsling
