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These utterly typical youngsters take them at their face value, not that there is much else they can do. And that means that at the close we, and they, would be close to tragedy if anyone had acquired self-knowledge. This lot think that they end wiser than they began, while all that has really happened is that Don Alfonso has taught them to parrot idiotic lies about how happy you will be if you guide your life by reason.
The Don Alfonso of Henry Waddington avoids the usual clichés of world-weary cynicism, is rather a bon viveur actually concerned to educate his illusioned friends. He runs the show with expert unobtrusiveness, abetted by the frisky Despina of Claire Ormshaw. The sisters are so lovely a pair that to see them distraught as their betrotheds depart for active service is poignant, and to witness their capitulation to the blandishments of the ‘Albanians’ even more painful. The climactic duet, Fiordiligi played with the utmost intensity by Aga Mikolaj, Ferrando the honeyed Andrew Kennedy, takes seriousness as far as it could go without breaking the framework of the opera altogether. But the other pair, the sexy Rodion Pogossov and Jenny Carlstedt, are wonderful, too. And the conducting of Rory Macdonald is beyond praise, with his small ‘period’ orchestra producing miracles of sensuous tone in the great ensembles and the melancholy Act II serenade. The pacing is so acutely judged that the long work has never seemed shorter.
The Turn of the Screw is notable primarily for the Governess of Kate Royal, a performance which demonstrates that she is on the way to being a great operatic artist, with presence, acting ability, looks and a voice which are all extraordinary. As the work moved to its climax it became clear that the only real interest of this questionable work is the insane possessiveness which the Governess acquires towards Miles, something quite as terrible as whatever it might be that Quint has in mind for him. The fearfulness of the human relationship makes the ghosts seem more unconvincing and certainly less frightening than ever; they are a blot on the opera so large that it can’t be reckoned more than a cleverly atmospheric but meretricious piece with one powerful true situation to command our interest. This production is almost swamped by the design of Paul Brown, as elaborate a piece of revolving machinery as the stage can ever have seen, so that uppermost in one’s mind is the question of what it will do next.
Again an excellent cast, with Anne-Marie Owens a sterling Mrs Grose. Miles is sung beautifully by Christopher Sladdin, but there is no hint of guile in his performance, so that ‘I’m bad, aren’t I?’ lacks any chill. Edward Gardner’s conducting is lucid, tense, propulsive, and made one wish that there weren’t an interval. Of all Britten’s mature operas this one seems to me the least satisfactory, though it will always have its appeal for connoisseurs of resourceful instrumentation.
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