Boris Godunov
Covent Garden, London WC2
Proms 23 & 25
Royal Albert Hall, London SW7
Russia, like the past, is another country. They do things differently there. Sometimes they may seem to live in the past, as with the Kirov production of the prototype Russian blockbuster, Mussorgsky's Boris Godunov, centrepiece of their summer visit to Covent Garden. But that's not always, by definition, A Bad Thing.
An eternally troubled country, ever gloomy and oppressed, Russia even gave its own composers considerable grief with their own works. Frustrated by the censors (who sensibly told him to write in some female roles), alternately cheered and cajoled by friends and admirers, Mussorgsky went through several versions of the Boris saga before finally getting it right. Or did he? The Kirov's presiding genius, Valery Gergiev, wisely decided to return to his original 1869 version.
Not content merely to conduct, Gergiev also shared the credit for the staging, or the 'conception' behind the staging. This opted for the highly traditional, embellished with heavy symbolism derived from the onion-shaped domes of Russian cathedrals. Props from wine-bottles to chandeliers were large and onion-shaped, the silvery arms of the latter opening at the end like those of a giant spider, come down to scoop the tsar into the clutches of death.
At times heavy-handed, as in the bejewelled cage suggesting the true plight of the tsar, these symbols could also be jaunty, as in the large collection of weird-shaped glass objects denoting the bar of an inn. In the first of the work's seven scenes, the huddled masses of the chorus were reined in by vast red ropes, spun from giant pulleys at either side of the stage. In the west, this kind of device can seem rather dated; coming from Russia, so proud of its distinctive traditions, it all seemed to me rather moving.
Much the same can be said of the singing, which was again distinctly Russian: the usual emoting from an impressive chorus, while the soloists were more inward than their western counterparts, less concerned to make big, beautiful sounds than to convey the deeper feelings of their characters. Vladimir Vaneev's Boris was the supreme example; exuding absolute power, after beginning with apt uncertainty, he varied his range according to the development of his character.
Sergei Alexashin's Pimen, the 'holy priest' at the heart of the saga, also opted for expressiveness over mere strength. Only Evgeny Akimov's messianic-looking Simpleton, another stock Russian type straight out of Dostoevsky, could let his soaring tenor rip throughout his one big scene. Oleg Balashov's Grigory, the novice monk-turned-pretender to the throne, was the one player who failed to confront the dramatic transitions required of his role.
He was the only real disappointment in an absorbing evening, conducted by Gergiev with all the energy and command which always belie the permanently bag-eyed look of this musical workaholic. At two hours 20 minutes without an interval, it was all over far too quickly. But the visitors had to move on to an even larger-scale Mussorgsky epic, Khovanshchina, not to mention Puccini's Turandot. For this critic, they cannot come back soon enough. One real Russian Boris is worth a hundred pale western imitations.
At the Proms that night, I was sorry to miss the UK premiere of Hans Abrahamsen's Four Pieces for Orchestra, performed by the fine Scottish Symphony Orchestra under Ivan Volkov. For the previous evening they had given a thrilling performance of Berlioz's 'dramatic symphony' Romeo and Juliet, realising the full potential of a score brimming with orchestral invention, from the warring factions of the turbulent introduction to the exquisitely painted 'Love Scene'. The Queen Mab scherzo was especially feisty, detail darting from strings and wind in another variation on this Prom season's fairy motif.
Watching on BBC 4, I was pleased to be reminded by Berlioz nut John Sessions that the composer was enthused to write the piece by the first performance of Shakespeare he ever saw, in a language (English) he did not understand. The thought was still with me two nights later, when the German-born Handel showed more taste than most of his English counterparts by choosing to insert Pope's 'Where'er You Walk' into Congreve's libretto for Semele
The Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra of San Francisco, under Nicholas McGegan, had already given us some rather pallid Rameau, the suite from his opera Les Paladins, as if to offer a dispiriting reminder of how difficult it is for small period bands to reach the further flung corners of the Albert Hall.
On came the British tenor John Mark Ainsley to confirm our worst fears: that, for all his elegant ornamentation, the piece probably sounded far better on radio than if you'd taken the trouble to schlep down there to seats much removed from the front.
For the second half I moved nearer the stage, where the filigree detail finessed by the PBO in more Rameau, followed by Handel's trusty Water Music, was far more evident, as it no doubt will be in Wednesday's Radio 3 repeat. In a hall significantly less than full, this is an option open even to non-critics. But it's still not an argument for riding the bus and tube to the real thing rather than staying home to savour it all with a glass of good claret. By the end of this year's rich and diverse Proms season, I'll hope to have come up with one.
