Prokofiev: War and Peace
Anna Netrebko (soprano) - Natasha Rostova
Gegam Grigorian (tenor) - Pierre Bezukhov
Dmitri Hvorostovsky (baritone) - Prince Andrei Bolkonsky
Samuel Ramey (bass) -Field Marshall Kutuzov
Vassily Gerello (baritone) - Napoleon
Elena Obraztsova (mezzo-soprano) - Maria Akhrossimova
Victoria Livengood (mezzo-soprano) - Hélène Bezukhova
Oleg Balashov (tenor) - Anatol Kuragin
Thursday 14 February 2002
Metropolitan Opera House, Lincoln Center, New York City
Prokofiev's War and Peace is about as subtle as a
May Day Parade in Red Square: powerful, spectacular,
overwhelming in its numbers — and interminably long.
If the first three qualities are presented with enough
conviction, they can compensate for the fourth. There are
occasions when Prokofiev's operatic transformation of
Tolstoy's novel can convince you that it is almost as
great as its literary original. The Met's unveiling of
its first production of the opera on 14 February
wasn't one of them.
All the ingredients were there. Valery Gergiev was in the pit; the mostly Russian cast — more than 50 singers in nearly 70 different roles — was, with perhaps a few exceptions, the best that could have been assembled; George Tsypin's huge set — spherically shaped and sharply raked — was able to accommodate every member of the cast as well as the 150-member chorus, a horse, a goat and some chickens.
This was the biggest production in the Met's history and it seemed that the right man, Russian film director Andrei Konchalovsky, had been selected to stage it. As a young man, he had been a screenwriter for two of the greatest Soviet films of the 1960s, both directed by Andrei Tarkovsky: the lyrical My Name is Ivan and the pageant-like epic Andrei Rublev. And as director of his own admired films, particularly Siberiade (1979), Konchalovsky had an undeniable talent for big historical subjects on an epic scale. But he has been working in Hollywood since 1985 with ever-decreasing artistic results, and here he gave us a Disneyfied version of history, which in turn led to some ridiculous errors in judgment.
In the second scene, the formal ball at which Prince
Andrei's stern and disciplined exterior is melted by
Natasha's youthful unspoiled charm, for example, one
could only gape in astonishment when Natasha (Anna
Netrebko) and Andrei (Dmitri Hvorostovsky) conclude
waltzing by throwing themselves — from sheer
exhilaration — on the floor, presumably in front of le
tout St. Petersburg. This was War and Peace
dressed in the garb of The Sound of Music.
Perhaps even more gratuitously stupid was the decision in scene 12 to have Andrei, delirious as he lies dying in Natasha's arms, struggle to his feet. With the reprise of waltz theme from the second scene in the background — one of Prokofiev's greatest inspirations — Konchalovsky has Andrei attempt one last waltz with Natasha. What should have been a moment of exquisite pathos became instead an occasion for comic bathos.
There were other annoying features of the staging — among them, lighting effects that were too clever for their own good and a set that made the skyline of Moscow, circa 1812, resemble that of the Magic Kingdom. Suffice it to say that this was a production that made even someone who loves this opera keep consulting his watch.
What a shame it was for the superb cast. I took exception — decidedly a minority opinion — only to Dmitri Hvorostovsky's Prince Andrei. His creamily produced, finely grained baritone seemed a little light for the role and his characterization too bland. The evening belonged to Anna Netrebko, an Audrey Hepburn look-alike whose firm, free high soprano has sufficient roundness and a steely focus that, without straining, makes it seem larger than it is. Gegam Grigorian sings Pierre just as beautifully as he did 11 years ago in the Kirov's touring production — with untiring virility of tone, flexible phrasing and intelligence. Victoria Livengood was fine as the debauched Hélène (though these ears missed the more voluptuous sound and characterization of an Olga Borodina); Oleg Balashov was suitably whining and oily as Hélène's even more debauched brother, Anatol. The hard-bitten, common-sensical Kutuzov has likely never been sung more beautifully than it was by Samuel Ramey. For the rest, conductor Valery Gergiev owns this piece and the Met's magnificent orchestra responded enthusiastically and skillfully to his inspired and fiery direction.