Sex, materialism, a fab soprano and wonderful food

Manon and her brother

“Why shouldn’t there be two operas about Manon? A woman like Manon can have more than one lover,” said Puccini, when challenged over his choice of the same source material as that used by Massenet just nine years earlier.

And he went on: “Massenet feels it as a Frenchman, with powder and minuets. I shall feel it as an Italian, with a desperate passion.”

The story of Manon Lescaut is based own a 1731 novel, L’histoire du chevalier des Grieux et de Manon Lescaut by the Abbé Prévost (all “powder and minuets” – or the literary equivalent of the latter, presumably).

That the libretto was put together by five writers chosen by Puccini, plus his publisher and himself, suggests an early version of US sit-coms by committee, but like some of those, somehow it works. Though it is advisable, as always with Puccini, not to look for any great profundity in the text.

This Royal Opera House production by Jonathan Kent debuted in 2014 and this first revival is directed by Paul Higgins.

Controversial for its suggestions of sex trafficking and prostitution, it’s an entirely modern setting of a work that has been considered troublesome to update.

So does it work? Well, to answer this, we need to take a closer look at Puccini’s version.

The story revolves around Manon Lescaut, a young woman whose father has decreed that she enter a convent and has entrusted her brother with ensuring it happens.

However, on the eve of her entry into the convent, she meets Des Grieux, a student who falls head over heels in love with her and urges her to run away with him.

In the meantime, Geronte di Revoir, an elderly treasurer general, tells her brother, who is escorting her to the convent, that Manon would be wasted in a convent – and her brother starts to have second thoughts about his task.

As her sibling is caught up in gambling, Geronte plots to take her to Paris with him instead – but Manon has already fled with Des Grieux.

Fast forward to Act II, where we find a pampered Manon living in opulence paid for by Geronte, who had hunted her down with the aid of her brother.

And after an initial period of love with Des Grieux, it seems that Manon had realised that love was not enough for her and that she required the material comforts that a poor student could not hope to afford.

Now, she’s putting on sex shows for Geronte’s friends, but when Des Grieux turns up, she has the chance to flee once more for love.

However, Manon’s material instincts come to the fore again and, so determined is she to pack as many jewels as possible, she’s unable to make her escape in time.

Geronte, feeling betrayed and being – here’s a guess – impotent in more ways than one, has shopped her to the authorities as a prostitute, and she’s taken by those authorities to be sent into exile in the New World with other sex workers.

But as the women (they’re all women, of course) brave a jeering crowd, Des Grieux steps forward once more and begs to be allowed to go into exile with her.

Finally, she dies in his arms in the middle of an American plain, realising the error of her materialistic ways and the value of true love – his for her and her’s for him.

It’s not hard to see that, texturally, there are things that modern sensibilities might find difficult. It’s also perhaps predictable that sex is the biggest problem for some – although in the case of both Des Grieux and later, Geronte, Manon makes her own choice to go with them.

Although the libretto uses the word ‘abduction’, she makes her own decisions.

Indeed, if we were going to talk of ‘trafficking’ in terms of Manon herself, then in modern terms, that would most appropriately apply to the initial decision of her father to force her in a convent – without any consideration for his daughter’s own choice.

Of course, hypocrisy about female sexuality is highlighted, but it’s also difficult not to see that, in terms of cause and effect, it’s not sex that gets Manon in trouble, but her devoted insistence upon trying to grab all the jewels possible rather than flee from the authorities after the lovers have been warned that they are coming for her.

It seems reasonable to suggest that what has upset some in terms of this production is that it makes these issues clear – perhaps, to some minds, such uncomfortable questions sully the lovely music?

And oh, the music is lovely.

It never ceases to amaze me how modern Puccini sounds – and while there are moments here that reflect the influence of Wagner (the later stages of Act II specifically), there are also sounds that seem to predict Ravel.

Of the cast in this revival, we were unfortunate that Aleksandrs Antonenko as Des Grieux was struggling with a sore throat (his apologies and plea for understanding conveyed to the audience during the evening, and totally understood), but it certainly didn't ruin the evening.

Sondra Radvanovsky was simply radiant as Manon: what a wonderful, soaring soprano – she hits the heights with apparent ease and is convincing in all other ways that the role demands too.

She creates for us a tragic heroine who is at once earthy yet saint; gritty, yet vulnerable. A wonderful performance – and honestly, I was aware of wearing an expression of delight during some of her singing. 

Ricotta underneath – delicate ribbons of butternut atop 

Levente Molnár’s Lescaut and Eric Halfvarson’s Geronte are both more than up the the task.

In the pit, the orchestra were excellent, with Antonio Pappano demonstrating once more his superb command of Puccini.

But before we got to the auditorium, we also dined in the Amphitheatre Restaurant for the first time, since it was the start of my birthday weekend.

I enjoyed a starter of truffled Westcombe ricotta, with ribbons and roasted cubes of butternut, and toasted pine nuts, micro herbs and a very subtle dressing.

The cheese was utterly delightful and the truffling serious.

The Other Half enjoyed a service of sea bass with fennel and orange – a perfect winter salad.

For a main, both of us opted for guinea fowl.

Now, I love game, but am not really familiar with this bird.

It was advertised as a ballotine, but was not. That was no problem. As a game bird, it was dryish, but the accompaniments of a frankly sensational jus, beautiful creamed parsnip, turned and cooked dessert apple and a bed of baby spinach more than assured that it was not a dry dish.

We had a single side portion of boulangerie potatoes between us.

For dessert, The Other Half went for 'winter fruits' (pineapple, pomegranate, papaya, melon and clementine), while I picked a poached Comice pear with quenelles of what turned out to be an insanely smooth Poire Williams cream.

We haven’t eaten at a theatre restaurant for a good 15 years: that was the Barbican and it was a bad experience – not helped by being far in advance of what we were used to at that stage.

This was not cheap (as we knew when we booked) but it was very, very good food and was also a very pleasant dining experience that made for a perfectly relaxed way to start the evening.

And as for being able to leave your dessert until the interval – well, that’s simply inspired.

I spent several years imagining that the Royal Opera House would be, per se, VERY expensive and also rather intimidating.

In terms of seats, prices are essentially better than those in the West End – and generally speaking, far more so.

In terms of atmosphere, I continue to be delighted and surprised by a friendliness that I have never experienced in any other live performance setting. Covent Garden is the only place where I've found myself engaged in conversation with complete strangers about what we’re going to see – and not in a negative way.

Alongside the Vue cinema in Islington, where we have thoroughly enjoyed deeply intellectual Marvel  and movies this year, the Royal Opera House has become somewhere I feel wonderfully at home.

All in all, this was a close-to-perfect evening.

And if memory serves me correctly, there’s more Puccini coming in the summer season …

Arrival is well worth the cinematic journey

Is it better to have loved than have lost? The question asked by director Denis Villeneuve’s new film, Arrival, is very much along the same philosophical lines, and getting to that point provides viewers with a compelling, grown-up, cerebral cinematic experience.

Based on Ted Chiang’s Nebula-winning short story, Story of Your Life.

Some time after a family tragedy, linguist Louise Banks is visited by the US military, for who she has previously undertaken translation work.

This time, the world is in panic after 12 vast spacecraft appear across the globe, hovering just above terra firma.

With host nations forced into sharing information in an effort to work out what’s happening, Banks is to accompany Ian Donnelly, a military theoretical physicist inside a ship in Montana, where they will face a pair of aliens and try to communicate.

But as they appear to be making some headway, crisis nears, as one host nation after another threatens to attack the unknown visitors.

It’s to Villeneuve’s great credit that a film where linguistics is such an important component never lags, even though it builds up slowly and allows time for some linguistic theory to be explained. And however emotional the story is – and it is – it never leaks into mawkishness or cheap sentimentality.

The aliens are as alien as could be imagined and, even more important, their way of communication is also completely alien, while Bank’s methods of trying to break down that barrier ring completely true.

Amy Adams turns in a superb performance as Banks – quietness, fortitude, fear and grief all conveyed with great subtlety. It would be a surprise if she doesn't feature when the Oscar nominations are announced early next year.

Jeremy Renner (last seen by me in the utterly dreadful Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters) proves a perfect foil – again, this is a finely-judged piece of screen acting.

Forest Whitaker is in fine form as a senior US military officer, weary, under pressure to provide fast answers, but with enough intelligence to be persuaded by Banks, while Michael Stuhlbarg as a smarmy CIA officer lends further weight to proceedings.

The look of it is fascinating, from soft-focus Montana landscapes to the dark, almost monochrome look of the spacecraft interiors – though one could suggest that some scenes could have benefitted from a little more light, but this is being pernickety.

Jóhan Jóhansson’s score is worth noting, but I particularly liked the use of Max Richter’s On the Nature of Daylight, which bookends the film.

Arrival is a fine, contemplative film. It’s in cinemas now.

Fantastic beasts – fantastic fun

If you’re considering taking children to see Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them – be aware: “parents may be more concerned to find that a vaguely religious atmosphere surrounds one of the villains of the piece, anti-wizardry crusader Mary Lou Barebone”.

So cautions catholicnews.com in its review of the latest film to feature JK Rowling’s expanding magical universe.

Since the character in question harks back to the Protestant fundamentalists of Salem, such a warning from a publication of US Catholic bishops illustrates an increasingly ecumenical attitude toward anything that might be seen as even remotely negative about religion per se.

Mind, since the US has seen copies of Rowling’s Harry Potter books burned by some religious extremists – the sort who even condemn Christian allegorist CS Lewis because he used fantasy and magic in his books – this review was tame stuff indeed.

Aimed at a slightly older audience than the Potter films, it is a delightful film.

Set in a superbly realised 1920s New York, it sees former Hogwarts pupil Newt Scamander arrive in the city with a suitcase full of fantastic beasts – despite such critters being verboten in the US.

So what’s he up to?

Before we find out the answer to that question, his tardis-like suitcase ends up accidentally in the hands of Jacob Kowalski – a factory worker who is desperate to escape his soul-destroying existence in favour of opening his own bakery – and Scamander’s troubles begin.

Matters don’t get any better when Tina Goldstein, a local Ministry Of Magic official, reports him to her superiors for a long list of magical crimes.

And all that’s without mentioning the presence of an unknown, destructive force that is wrecking havoc on the city.

It’s a satisfying complex enough plot with a number of themes running through it, from ecological concerns, to fear and intolerance of the ‘other’ and hints of far-right politics. The worlds of both the magical community and the no-majs (that’s ‘no-magics’ – Rowling’s American version of muggles) are flawed.

Past experiences mean Scamander is not particularly good with people, and this might make the character harder to empathise with, but when he’s with the beasts in his care that one sees him fully flower.

Niffler

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is well scripted and produced by Rowling, and directed by David Yates.

There are thoroughly enjoyable performances from Eddie Redmayne as Scamander, Katherine Waterson as Goldstein, Alison Sudol as her sister Queenie (a lovely take on the blonde bombshell/ditzy moll tropes), Dan Fogler as Kowalski, Colin Farrell as a high-ranking wizard (it’s a very still performance from Farrell and all the better for it), Carmen Ejogo as a the US magical community’s president and Ezra Miller as a young orphan living with the anti-magic fundamentalist mentioned at the top of this review.

It eschews sentimentality but has genuine heart – helped by the effects, which are extraordinary, and give the eponymous beasts real character.

And none of them more so than Niffler, a blue, kleptomaniac platypus-alike attracted to shiny things, who does just about manage to steal the whole show.

Throughly good fun and thank goodness they’re going to make more.

I saw the 3D version – and that was certainly worth it.

* And you can read the Catholic News review here.

The gig that cannot be reviewed

In keeping with the recent convention of this blog, it was always my intention to review a gig I attended earlier this week, but for reasons that will become clear, I cannot review the acts, since circumstances decreed it impossible.

The Other Half had discovered Nouvelle Vague some years ago – a French outfit that covers punk and new wave music in a bossa nova style (I shall assume you’ll all get the three-way pun involved).

When it emerged that they were playing a gig at The Forum in Kentish Town, we decided to give it a whirl.

The best thing about the evening was, as it turned out, a pint of proper ale in the Bull and Gate just a few steps away from the venue – and a very nice pub it is too. Though to be strictly fair, The Forum itself – a converted 1930s cinema – is a lovely building with fascinating decoration that uses Roman iconography.

Liset Alea kicked off the gig. One of the lead singers with Nouvelle Vague, she also appears as a support act on their tours.

A singer-songwriter, she played a guitar on stage and was accompanied by a lone musician playing both keyboard and percussion.

Now, I have very good hearing and perhaps it’s become more sensitive in recent years, because I could barely hear a word – I certainly couldn’t hear enough to understand a single individual song.

When she announced that she had just two songs left, I walked out and left the auditorium.

My hope was that the night’s main act would find the sound more balanced.

It was not to be.

Yes – I appreciate that this is ‘rock ‘n’ roll’, but that is not a synonym for ‘as loud as possible’.

The last gig I was at – I’m excluding Pink Martini as they’re not really ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ – was an intimate West End performance by 2 Tone ska band The Selector, and it did not have me wondering whether it would be my eyes or my ears that would bleed first.

Not only did I find myself miserably musing on such a question on Tuesday night at The Forum, I could feel the sound throbbing in my throat and ended up with a banging headache, even though we left early.

I’ve been informed since that some people take ear plugs to gigs. Which seems to me to be utterly daft.

And while that may dampen the sound somewhat, it does not address the issue of not being able to clearly hear lyrics or of every sound being so amplified that it ‘blurs’ around the edges.

So I’m sorry – there will be no review of Nouvelle Vague or Liset Alea. The sound levels were so uncomfortable and distracting that I actually cannot say whether they were good, bad or indifferent.

Schlesinger’s naughty but nice Hoffman bids farewell

Lush – and a little bit naughty

Les Contes d’Hoffman is one of those examples of opera as a lush, romantic, shambolic 19th-century nonsense that somehow – arguably, against all the odds – makes for an entirely enjoyable evening’s entertainment.

Offenbach’s music is light as a feather – and full of twiddly bits: I cannot be alone in hearing it and being reminded of the comment from the emperor in Peter Schaffer’s Amadeus of a piece of Mozart’s music as having “too many notes”.

That, of course, would put him in rather elevated company.

The French composer had only sketched the opera as a whole and orchestrated the prologue and first act before he died: it has been worked and reworked so many times since that it’s difficult to say what is the original – all of which can add to a sense of chaos.

Based on three stories by Prussian Romantic, ETA Hoffman, it uses a heavily-fictionalised version of Hoffman himself to give the tales some sort of cohesion.

Starting with a prelude in a tavern, a drunken Hoffman is moaning about his lack of luck in affairs off the heart.

Then come the three acts proper that give us the stories of his disastrous amors. We begin with the beautiful Olympia, who turns out to be an automaton – was I alone in musing as to whether this begat the scene in Ian Fleming’s Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, when Potts and Truly Scrumptious dress up as dolls to distract the baron?

After the humiliation of being derided for falling for a doll, act two takes us to Venice, where Hoffman finds himself caught up in the sensual shenanigans of the courtesan, Giullietta, who agrees to steal his reflection for Dappertutto, a collector of human spirits.

As it all goes a tad Faustian – and part of what makes it so enjoyable is a darkness and sexiness – Hoffman once more realises that he’s the victim of infatuation.

In the third act, our protagonist tracks down a former love, Antonia, who has been hidden from him by her father, who fears that an affair would prove fatal.

Thomas Hampson as Dappertutto

Having inherited an angelic voice from her mother, but not knowing that every note she sings brings death ever closer, Antonia feels that the greatest expression of her love for Hoffman is through song.

Hoffman tries to make her promise not to sing any more, but the sinister Doctor Miracle, ostensibly a legitimate medical practitioner, uses magic to make her sing until she collapses and dies.

And then, in a epilogue, we find ourselves back in the tavern, where Hoffman’s close friend Nicklausse is revealed as the Muse, who actually only wants to win him for poetry and not love.

It’s all a reminder of just how wafer-thin opera can be on such a score – though that should never be taken as meaning that it has no value beyond being a sort of entertainment bonbon.

It does also serve to remind one just how great was the leap forward that Wagner took in terms of creating psychodramas where the music had to fit a real complexity of human emotion.

But this final revival of John Schlesinger’s 1980 production of Les Contes d’Hoffman is certainly fun. It’s all very lush with delightful sets and costumes – nothing here that attempts to foist some sort of contemporary philosophical idea onto it.

It scores in having Italian tenor Vittorio Grigòlo as Hoffman, who compensates for a lack of subtlety in approach by going at it as you might expect from a one-time a Formula 3 driver (until injury intervened) – an approach that also helps to soften the impact of making the would-be poet a rather unsympathetic figure at the start, possessed by bitterness rather than suggesting vulnerability.

So it bristles with energy and drive.

In some productions – you can, for example, find Joan Sutherland doing so on disc – one soprano has played all the three love interests, plus Stella the tavern singer.

Here, Sofia Fomina as Olympia takes the chance provided by Offenbach’s twiddly bits to display her own prodigious vocal talents, while Christine Rice as Giuletta and Sonya Yoncheva as Antonia also turn in admirable performances.

But special mention should go to Kate Lindsay for her Nicklausse/Muse – it’s a wonderful mezzo-soprano role – and to lyric baritone Thomas Hampson in four roles, but most enjoyably as the wonderfully pantomime villains, Dappertutto and Dr Miracle.

Musically, it could do with conductor Evelino Pidò lifting the tempo a tad in places, although in the entr’acte before the epilogue, when the orchestra gets to play the famous barcarolle, it is superbly judged and glorious in its lilting beauty.

So, another perfectly enjoyable evening at Covent Garden.

Les Contes d’Hoffman from the Royal Opera House is live in cinemas this Tuesday, 15 November, and plays in repertory until 3 December.

To find out more, visit www.roh.org.uk.

• I am now listening to Decca’s 1986 recording, with Placid Domingo, Joan Sutherland, and L’Orchestre de la Suisse Romande, under the baton of Richard Bonynge.