Norma, by Vincenzo Bellini, belongs to a school of opera known as Bel Canto which, to translate somewhat freely, could be said to mean “it’s all about the singing”. Some of the music can be a bit humdrum and the plots bizarre, but the pulses of the opera-loving public are set racing so frantically by the dazzling vocal firework displays that we are prepared to forgive almost anything. Luckily.To set the scene: Norma, daughter of chief-druid Oroveso, has been a naughty high-priestess having borne two children to Pollione, an invading Roman general, thus breaking all her vows, twice. And when Pollione falls in love with another priestess, Adalgisa, things get really complicated. Someone’s going to end up on the funeral pyre.
When I learned that, in this production (the first at ENO in 85 years), the action was to be transplanted from ancient Gaul to a rural 19th century community, still mysteriously practising druidic rites, I had hopes that director Christopher Alden might have found a way to make the story more relatable for modern audiences. Sadly, when these quaint country-folk started singing about conquering Caesar, I began to feel this might not work for me, and so it proved.
The set consists of a shed, containing some chairs and a Big Stick (which turns out to be the sacred altar, I think). The Big Stick is so big that it has to be flown up and down to allow action to take place, leaving us with a mostly empty shed, which the director fills by having his performers stagger and writhe around the floor, throw chairs about, and wander randomly and noisily through scenes that they are not in. Meaningless and irrelevant dumb-show abounds. This is the theatre of empty gesture.
It’s all about the singing, and I’d go again just for that
Yet, despite being burdened with a one-star production, the cast and ENO’s stalwart (and sadly threatened) chorus and orchestra manage to deliver some four and five-star performances. In the title role, rising star Marjorie Owens (making her UK debut), delivers with assurance every sparkle and flash of the vocal pyrotechnics required of her, with dramatic ff’s and intense pp’s and, in the vital but potentially thankless mezzo-soprano role of Adalgisa, Jennifer Holloway is at least her equal. Their duets are worth the ticket price. Peter Auty as Pollione, a role in which it is very difficult not to be overshadowed, makes his mark strongly, heroically even, and, like the chorus, never displays less than 100% commitment, whatever the director throws at him. James Creswell (currently also giving his Sarastro in this season’s Magic Flute) finds anger and torment in the character of Oroveso, and expresses it physically and vocally, finding motivation for every word, action and note. Conductor Stephen Lord (who knows his Bel Canto and his Italian opera generally) works with the singers to keep things bubbling along, and manages to make even less effervescent sections of the score seem to fizz like a freshly poured bath of Prosecco.
The Big Stick spontaneously combusts in the end, which is at once satisfying and unintentionally hilarious. But it’s all about the singing, and I’d go again just for that.
While we here in Britain were listening to The Rolling Stones, The Beatles and Cliff Richard and The Shadows, most of America was listening to the extraordinary output and music of Berry Gordy, the founder and owner of the (Tamla) Motown label.