San Francisco Classical Voice

Semi-staged presentations frequently offer a pleasing compromise between dramatic vitality on the one hand and logistical simplicity and frugality on the other. Not surprisingly, music director William Christie and his ensemble Les Arts Florissants didn't pack costumes, scenery, and make-up when they traveled across the Atlantic to present Henry Purcell's unique musico-theatrical creation King Arthur at U.C. Berkeley's Zellerbach Hall last Saturday. But the trappings of lavish production weren't the only things missing; the ensemble also left behind its characteristic dramatic focus and conviction.

Certainly it wasn't helped by the stylistically indeterminate and desultory staging of Ana Yepes, members of whose dance troupe, Les Fragments Réunis, participated. In jarring contrast to Christie's remarkable attention to the quality and flow of every musical gesture, Yepes' concepts rarely set off the details of a drama rich with nationalistic sentiment, winking innuendo, and sylvan sensuality.

Dealing with baroque music drama is tricky. The director must decide how much "historical" theater to revive and when to create fresh alternatives. The loosely connected, multimedia format of a work like King Arthur really needs a "hook" to hold it together or at least generate enough momentum to move from one tableau to another. But Yepes' direction only emphasized the disjunction. This was evident from the first chorus, when the singers, portraying a bloodthirsty lot of Saxons, performed a puzzling array of stylized gestures in the manner of a post-modern drill team. Had Yepes fully developed this idiosyncratic staging during the presentation, the result might have been gratifying and at least would have established a clear dramatic relationship to the work from which the players could operate. Instead the singers alternated between such hyper-choreographed "effects" and awkward, dull improvisation.

Even soprano Ga”lle Méchaly, an exuberant performer who revitalized the show on a couple of occasions, faltered for lack of steady direction. Her flippant posture and suggestive saunter were engaging as Cupid, but lost their relevance and appeal when they reappeared during her turn as staunch Honor.

The choral ensembles showed the greatest lapse in imaginative representation, with several "tableaus" looking suspiciously like a chorus standing (or sitting) around at rehearsal. In the standard pastoral scene, for example, John Dryden's libretto offers plenty of familiar tropes on rustic sexuality, including the traditional double-entendre about flutes and pipes. Counting his blessings at having been spared a soldier's fortune, a shepherd notes how that "when we die ‘tis in each others arms" (a famous euphemism for achieving sexual climax) and then advises the shepherd lasses to "let not youth fly away without contenting," for "age will come time enough for your repenting."

Echoing his words, a chorus of shepherds and shepherdesses gathers around, eager for idle pleasures. Yepes assembled the singers on the floor, but failed to form a convincing baroque tableau or venture into a sensual modern alternative. Watching the singers lounge casually on the floor, I waited for some genuine desire to ignite, so as to make the audience wish we were shepherds, too, but the tone remained maddeningly non-committal in this scene and beyond. The one exception to this tepid approach was the raucous men's chorus "Your hay it is mow'd," in which the lads, including the orchestral players, put on their best pub/football fan demeanor.

The singers presented the numerous choruses with vigor and accuracy, but, thwarted mostly by an overzealous tenor, never achieved a satisfying choral blend. Overall, the English pronunciation by these French singers was impressive, even in the chattier bits. Solo efforts however, were largely lackluster, excepting a few favorites. Soprano Rebecca Ockenden (Venus) offered an ethereal, delicately phrased interpretation of the gorgeous tune, "Fairest Isle." In the battle call, "Come if you dare," Iain Paton's robust tenor rang with confidence. Bass François Fauché skillfully used his voice to evoke the shivering stiffness of the Cold Genius. Matthieu Lécroart's consistently fine singing culminated with "Ye blust'ring brethren of the skies," in which his mellow, winsome baritone captured perfectly the mystical creation of the Queen of Islands.

The orchestra gave the evening's outstanding performance, however, playing with flawless precision and matchless expressive unity. (Take notes, chorus!) Utilizing a reduced string section, far up-stage, the ensemble produced an unexpectedly luxuriant sound, easily filling Zellerbach's formidable space. The orchestra also enlivened the drama with a variety of colors, including fife-like sopranino recorders, tambourine, and a wind-effects gadget played by superb percussionist Marie-Ange Petit. More dazzling still were subtle numbers like the gorgeous final-act "symphony," featuring the resplendent playing of violinists Hiro Kurosaki, Mihoko Kimura, and Simon Heyerick. Exquisite, too, was the continuo accompaniment of Brian Feehan (theorbo), Anne-Marie Lasla (viol), and David Simpson (violoncello).

Actors Satara Lester and Patrick Cremin, who provided the spoken narrative, helped to move the story forward with a balance of well-enunciated theatricality and comic sparkle. Lester fought occasional vocal hoarseness, but still gave an amusingly affected reading of Dryden's prose, while the agreeable Cremin masterfully juggled several characters, nimbly transforming from hero to villain and back again.

(Kristi Brown received her Ph.D. in musicology from the University of California, Berkeley. She is currently a Contributing Editor for the Music section of the Encyclopedia Britannica Internet Guide. She spends the rest of her time lecturing about music, singing, and playing with her two children, Caterina and Stefano.)

©1999 Kristi Brown, all rights reserved