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The Telegraph, 07 Apr 2014 |
By Rupert Christiansen |
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Schubert: Winterreise, London, Royal Opera House, 6. April 2014 |
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Winterreise, Royal Opera House, review
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***** |
Jonas Kaufmann's Winterreise proved the performer is at the peak of
his artistry, says Rupert Christiansen |
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The sudden dip in the weather over the weekend set the right mood for Jonas
Kaufmann and Helmut Deutsch’s trek across the bleak spiritual terrain of
Schubert’s tragic song-cycle: a musical journey that ventured close to the
cliff-edge of death.
Kaufmann, let it be said at once, was in
wonderful voice. He may have accrued an unenviable reputation for
virus-related cancellation, but here he was in perfect command of his
instrument, steady yet supple, shaping every phrase meticulously and
pitching perfectly judged pianissimo in his head register.
Anyone
hoping for anguished howls or Wagnerian grandstanding would have been
disappointed: moving his hands no higher than his chest and only rarely (for
example, at “Da ist meiner Liebsten Haus”) flourishing the clarion trumpet
that has defied Scarpia and brandished Nothung, he scaled his performance at
a level of introverted intensity that avoided any hint of tenorial preening.
Kaufmann’s Winterreise is emphatically that of a young man - the same
sort of young man who narrates Die schöne Müllerin, bursting with optimism
until the girl he loves proves false and life is suddenly drained of all
meaning and beauty. A romantic dreamer, prone to reverie, he discovers in
“Rückblick” and “Frühlingstraum” that memory is not so much sweet escape as
sharp pain.
By the time he reaches “Die Krähe”, sung here with
exquisite refinement, Kaufmann’s sensitive young man is clearly turning
neurasthenic: despondency turns to suicidal madness in the unhinged “Der
Leiermann”, but not before “Das Wirtshaus” and “Die Nebensonnen” has plunged
him to the midnight of depression - “Im Dunkeln wird mir wohler sein”, he
moans: “I would be happier in the dark.” The veteran Helmut Deutsch,
formerly the pianist for Hermann Prey, must have accompanied these songs
hundreds of times, but there was no sense of routine on this occasion: he
matched Kaufmann’s determination to keep it quiet with playing of an eerie
translucency that at times seemed almost recessive - as though the piano was
itself not so much a companionable friend as a haunting ghost from the past.
Too recessive? If I have a criticism of this profoundly thoughtful and
cumulatively moving interpretation, it is only a doubt as to whether it
would have resonated sufficiently in the less acoustically favourable parts
of the auditorium. Privileged with a seat in the Stalls, I knew that I was
in the presence of one of the great singers of our time, at the peak of his
artistry.
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