Not much happens in Kaija Saariaho's opera, L'Amour de Loin; Tristan and Isolde is a buzz of activity by comparison. This study of idealised love, with a beautifully wrought libretto by the Lebanese-French novelist Amin Maalouf, is based upon the life and work of the 12th-century troubadour Jaufré Rudel. It unfolds over two hours as a series of contemplative solos and intimate dialogues, spun against an iridescent cushion of orchestral sonorities. Until the last of the five acts it is more hypnotic than gripping, but then becomes intensely, passionately involving.
Jaufré himself is the central character of the drama. At his home in Aquitaine he has reached some kind of mid-life crisis; he composes poetry and songs about happiness, but claims not to know it himself, and dreams of discovering a woman, someone out of reach whom he can love unconditionally. A pilgrim arrives as he is constructing this fantasy, and tells him that just such an ideal woman does indeed exist. She is Clémence, Countess of Tripoli. As the pilgrim shuttles between the two theoretical lovers, Jaufré becomes increasingly obsessed with meeting Clémence, though she prefers the idea of love from afar. Eventually he sets sail to find her, becomes ill on the voyage and dies just as the couple finally meet. Clémence is left alone, determined to enter a convent, yet railing against God's injustice.
L'Amour de Loin was premiered at the Salzburg festival two years ago, directed by Peter Sellars. This concert performance, with the BBC Symphony Orchestra and London Voices conducted by Robert Spano, was the first British performance. What a staging could add to this essentially inward drama is hard to imagine, though perhaps it might shore up the third act, the only point at which the dramatic tension sags significantly. An interval was unwisely inserted at that point, though the five acts are intended to unroll seamlessly. Saariaho's infinitely subtle metamorphoses of texture and colour are full of telling instrumental detail, and the vocal lines are suspended over them: sometimes they echo the melodies of the troubadours, and sometimes the inflections of north African music, but more often they move in a natural unity with the text.
Dawn Upshaw was Clémence; the part was written for her and she sings it with a wonderful combination of resolve and vulnerability. Gerald Finlay was Jaufré, subtle, intense, perfectly modulated, and Beth Clayton was the Pilgrim, caught between these two strangely remote beings. Like all worthwhile operas the story of L'Amour de Loin is simple but its subtexts rich. Whether we need to see it dissected in the theatre, though, is another problem.
