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Piotr Beczala (Lensky) and Gerald Finley (Onegin) |
Those that can, do, those that can’t, criticise
REVIEW: EUGENE ONEGIN
ROYAL THEATRE HOUSE
IN the year or so that I’ve been living and going to performances in London, I’ve noticed something about English audiences: their complete unwillingness to give a standing ovation, regardless of the quality of entertainment they’ve just been lucky enough to witness.
From the Coliseum to Covent Garden, from the Roundhouse to the Hammersmith Apollo, audiences remain stuck to their seats – clapping, in fairness, but resolute in their refusal to give that most traditional form of thank you to the artist.
On the opening night of Eugene Onegin, again, the only people standing up were the journalists leaving their seats, scurrying to an early exit and back to a cluttered desk where they cranked out their few hundreds words of “criticism”.
Much of what has been said about this production in the pages of the nationals has been, on balance, negative.
“A theatrical blunder,” said one. “Cumbersome and vapid,” said another.
The general theme that unites all the major reviews is that this is an inauthentic version of Tchaikovsky’s lyric opera, based on Pushkin’s novel in verse; oh, and the set was too distracting, the actors wooden, the costumes garish, the orchestral colours “diluted and indistinct”.
If you want aural perfection and visual authenticity, stick Semyon Bychkov’s version on a pair of headphones and head for Russia.
Listen to Acts I and II while meditating before a vista of wheatfields, and then jump a train to St Petersburg for the final act.
What all of these critics seem to have missed is that, while there may have been flaws in this production, the overall effect was spellbinding.
The whole point of going to see a live performance is to see something different, something that electrifies because you never quite know what’s coming next.
If opera producers slavishly stuck to the established routine – and this goes for everyone involved in the arts – then they would stagnate and the medium would die.
Art survives because of people that are willing to take chances, to make changes and explore new avenues.
Who cares if Tchaikovsky didn’t use Pushkin’s weird dream sequence and Steven Pimlott’s version does? It may not have worked particularly well as an idea, but do we really want to go along to theatres, opera houses and art galleries to see the same thing over and over again?
To desire such conformity of art seems cowardly.
Musically, the production was strong from start to finish; the final scene with Gerald Finley (Onegin) and Hibla Gerzmava (Tatyana) was breath-taking, while Hans-Peter Konig gave a rousing performance in the sadly diminished role of Prince Gremin.
But to heap praise amidst such a quagmire of journalistic buffoonery and willful naysaying is difficult.
On that note, it seems wildly ironic – having watched an opera in which the protagonist’s downfall comes from an inflated sense of self-importance that blinds him to the “bigger picture” – that so many critics can arrogantly think themselves to be so far elevated above the artists whose fate, all to often, is in their hands.
To leave a three-hour production wishing that there had been a fourth is, in my book, a rare thing.
And to hell with any hack, paid to find fault, who can pick the smallest of details and portray a triumph as a travesty.
• March 18, 20, 26, April 1, 4, 7 at 7.30pm. 020 7304 4000 |
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