This new Cav and Pag is doubly treasurable. Not only – as the
label’s blurb loudly but rightly proclaims – does it capture
Jonas Kaufmann singing both Turiddu and Canio for the first time
in this 2015 Salzburg Easter Festival production, but the tenor
also sings them fabulously well. Once we get beyond Tiriddu’s
song to Lola, delivered instrospectively but – in the context –
effectively on stage, there’s none of the self-regarding
over-interpretation that for me can mar Kaufmann’s performances
in the theatre (although many prize his mezza voce more highly
than I do). Instead we have plenty of the thrilling,
untrammelled and ringing sound that the tenor is capable of at
his best, with no loss of sensitivity in terms of musicianship
or acting.
Happily, Kaufmann’s outstanding central
performances are well matched, both musically and scenically.
Philipp Stölzl’s production captures something of the
expressionist feel and period of early German cinema – and in so
doing also underlines the parallels between that stylised
aesthetic and that of commedia dell’arte, exploited in
Leoncavallo’s work. He directs everyone skilfully and makes
ingenious use of a compartmentalised design in each work – six
boxes, three across and two down, that can function
independently, sometimes to have filmed close-ups projected onto
them. It’s an impressive effect that’s very well captured in the
video direction.
There are pros and cons to the concept,
inevitably, and the cool palette of colours in Cav, in
particular, reflects little of the drama’s sun-baked atmosphere
and attendant hot-blooded passions; a heady air of easy
rusticity is replaced with a sense of heavy industrial smog. The
Alfio-as-gangster conceit is more believable (thanks largely to
Ambrogio Maestri’s larger-than-life portrayal) than the idea of
Mamma Lucia as a sort of town clerk. But we get an unexpected
level of detail in the characterisation, particularly when it
comes to the depiction of Santuzza and Turridu’s domestic
situation: a quiet, pervasive sadness hangs over their urban
garret, into which Stölzl has added a choirboy son. It all helps
make the two main characters more than just embodiments,
respectively, of jealous womanly vengeance and immature macho
irresponsibility and narcissism; Liudmyla Monastyrska’s
Santuzza, sung with rich and generous tone, is especially
moving. The filmic nature of Stölzl’s vision, meanwhile, serves
to alter one’s perception of Mascagni’s episodic score by
cleverly aligning its gearshifts with scene changes.
Pagliacci feels more conventional, with Canio’s troupe bringing
muted colour to the same worn-down world. Again there are pros
and cons. Stölzl elicits a terrific central performance from
Kaufmann once more: his clown comes across as threatening,
short-fused and world-weary from the start – given an extra
edginess by the addition of a Mephistophelian goatee – and he
turns in a towering performance of ‘Vesti la giubba’ as one long
crescendo. But I was less keen on the crowd milling around
during Tonio’s Prologue (its members distractingly singled out
in the camera direction), and it’s a shame that Stölzl’s
arrangement for the play-within-the-play sets up no fourth wall
for Canio to tear angrily down at ‘No, pagliaccio non son’ –
watch Vladimir Galouzine in Giancarlo del Monaco’s Madrid
production (Opus Arte) to see how shockingly visceral this
moment can and really should be.
But, on his own terms,
Stölzl creates a drama of real intensity. Maria Agresta is a
fine, exciting Nedda and Dimitri Platanias sings eloquently as a
subtly malevolent Tonio. Alessio Arduini’s Silvio is pleasingly
mellifluous, and his duet with Nedda, played out in a line-drawn
expressionist landscape, is happily uncut – though the hurried
removal of his shirt at the start of it strikes me as
inconsistent with the production.
Underpinning the whole
enterprise is the luxurious support of Christian Thielemann and
his Staatskapelle Dresden. There’s a grandeur and sumptuousness
to the sound and an occasional expansiveness to the conducting
that are some way from being authentically Italianate, perhaps,
but Thielemann is always aware of the drama and the beauties of
the playing are many – the gentle way he has with Cav’s famous
Intermezzo is understated, for example, but no less moving for
it.
Maybe stick with Del Monaco’s staging in Madrid for
a more conventional modern version of both works, but this new
account, built around two of Kaufmann’s finest performances, is
compelling and fascinating. Highly recommended, especially at
Sony Classical’s low price