My expectations, I'll admit right now, were shamefully low. And I have no decent or reasonable explanation for this — well, not really. Mostly it was on account of the dire ENO Rusalka I watched on TV a while back. Nothing about that production made me want to like the opera and I really didn't relish the prospect of returning to it. I included it in my subscription in part to make sure I felt obliged to go. Neither did the Opera Australia cast set my heart aflame. I've made my distaste for Rosario La Spina pretty clear already; and since her Jenufa — even though it was fine — I've been having rather uncharitable thoughts about Cheryl Barker and didn't expect to be bowled over by her Rusalka.
I wasn't wrong on every count — but I was certainly wrong on enough of them to make last night a truly magnificent experience. First things first — the music itself, which I adored, and I didn't think I would. I remember last time thinking the whole opera just sounded like a two-and-a-half hour extended remix of the Song to the Moon. Which, yes, it kind of does. But now that Wagner-light (or should that be Wagner-leit?) aspect appeals to me much more than it did and I like the musical world which those recurring themes create. Though the constant "Here comes Rusalka, get out your harp" moments do become a bit comical. And of course Dvorak does something which I always love composers for — follows the big hit aria not with a big conclusive bang, but with music which prevents those people from clapping and spoiling the flow. Obviously I don't know the opera well enough to say much about the orchestra under (him again) Richard Hickox — but what I do know is that they all played gorgeously enough to change my mind, which is something in itself.
And Cheryl. I take back everything I thought. Once she gets going, this woman is sensational. It was announced before the curtain rose that she had been suffering from bronchitis and asked for our understanding. To begin with it seemed to me the bronchitis had no effect, she just sounded pretty much as she had in Jenufa. As an actress she was brilliant — unequivocally the star even while her character remained silent — and she looked drop dead gorgeous, but the singing to me was unremarkable, her voice expressive enough but possessing no particular individuality or distinctive beauty. Then Rusalka drank her potion and was mute. And when, in Act Two, she finally spoke again — Cheryl's true voice returned too, in all its high voltage glory. Her Rusalka became as aurally fascinating as she was visually and dramatically, slicing vividly through the sometimes very thick orchestration but retaining all the aquamarine loveliness you could wish for from your not-so-little mermaid. She's won me over.
Not so her Prince, but that's hardly a surprise. Rosario La Spina sings the whole thing as if it's Puccini, and not even good Puccini at that. Most of the music he approaches like a crossover "tenor" and when it's too big for that type of sound, he shouts at approximate pitch instead. Supposedly royal, he displays not one shred of princely dignity — when following the Foreign Princess along the red carpet he actually managed to stand on her dress. The Prince was never destined to be a very sympathetic figure but his is so utterly lacking in any kind of human credibility as to render Rusalka's sacrifice quite incomprehensible — only Cheryl's magic performance keeps it believable.
Elsewhere in the cast, however, the standard is reassuringly higher. Elizabeth Whitehouse is majestic as the Foreign Princess, filling the opera house with a huge flood of sound in a way I've never experienced before. A sort of voice one feels surrounded by, and remarkably fresher and more overwhelming than her Kostelnicka which was in itself a triumph. The Princess' place in the story should be roughly that of the Baroness in The Sound of Music but I liked her. (Actually I like the Baroness too.) I wished she could band together with Rusalka and leave the Prince alone with his ego. Another standout for me was Sian Pendry — a Young Artist this year — as the Kitchen Boy. I don't think every singer would make a star turn out of this role but she did; I suspect she may prove a mezzo to be reckoned with. Bruce Martin is an excellent Water Sprite, a grounded, rough edged voice among all the soprano radiance. Though with his endlessly repeated "Alas! My poor, pale Rusalka" he began to remind me of the Greta Garbo's unbelievably irritating father in Anna Christie, who talks about "'dat old devil sea" until you just want to push him into it. But I digress. Anne-Marie Owens' Jezibaba was slightly patchy but mostly fine — I sound like a weather report — but with a bit too much vibrato and too little pure evil for me. The Wood Nymphs were adorable in their mini skirts (yes) and boots (yes) dancing a quasi-Macarena (yes) while they sang their opening trio.
Olivia Fuchs' production is the kind which will appeal to some and utterly repel others. She rejects the story as a fairytale and re-casts in much starker and more abstract form. Not much of a set — basically an empty stage with a tiny circular pond in the centre and dotted with the odd block of ice, all of it colourless, variously lit in vivid blues, reds and silvers. The boundaries between land and water are constantly blurred and crossed — it's little wonder Rusalka is such a mess. So far, so good — I liked the icy, eerie atmosphere of it. One problem, however — Jezibaba. She's no longer a witch. She's a stout, scalpel-wielding nurse in a white coat, who enacts Rusalka's transformation on a hospital bed. And takes inappropriately comical glee in the process — so that in what ought to be a hushed sort of moment, as Rusalka becomes mortal, instead the audience is full of giggles. This Rusalka is being recorded for Chandos; lord knows what listeners to that CD will make of this without a visual reference. I see, vaguely, the rationale behind all this but I think it's very misguided and just a bad decision. A Jezibaba in keeping with the look and feel of the rest of the production would be miles more effective — we're supposed to see cold, clinical evil but what I see is cold, clinical absurdity. Rusalka on crutches in the final act was just foolish.
Still, even that's not enough to do serious harm to this Rusalka. There are weaknesses, yes — but there are also some serious strengths and it's these which triumph. For me it was bliss to spend an evening just immersed in the complete experience, musical and dramatic, where even the aspects I disliked were at least interesting enough to think about. For once in my life I probably won't go again — not because it doesn't deserve it but because I just don't think I need to; once was richly satisfying enough to last me quite a while.
