I wish I could be more positive about this new recording of one of the true masterpieces of 20th century opera, but the sad fact is that this is as cold and unaffecting a performance as anyone could possibly imagine. The principal attraction for many will be the Peter Quint of Ian Bostridge. He sings beautifully, no doubt about it, but he makes about as terrifying a ghost as a child in a white sheet dressed up for Halloween. Strangely, he’s at his most expressive in the prologue, which he (inappropriately) fusses over as if it’s a “grand scena” all by itself and not simply a narration to set the stage for what is to come. His offstage cries of “Miles” sound neither threatening nor especially seductive (merely pretty), and he blows the letter scene completely, whispering rather than singing “Take it!” and so failing to convincingly establish his power over the child (in general there’s far too much whispering and not enough red-blooded singing going on here). Certainly Britten built in much of the necessary expression with his fabulous gift for text-setting, but that doesn’t excuse Bostridge’s lack of character.
As the Governess, Joan Rodgers is more persuasive. Her voice floats attractively over the ensembles and her sense of panic on first meeting Quint comes across well. But again, in her final encounter with Miles and Quint you miss the almost hysterical desperation that the role requires. Jane Henschel makes some remarkably ugly sounds as Mrs. Grose, and boy treble Julian Leang fails to impress as Miles. The final scene finds him vocally rather than emotionally frayed. Vivian Tierney is simply miscast as Miss Jessel: a darker voice with a more mournful and hollow quality is absolutely essential for her big scene in Act 2 (“Here my tragedy began”). Here, there’s hardly any contrast in timbre between ghost and governess! The role of Flora isn’t terribly important, but Caroline Wise fills it well nonetheless.
The biggest disappointment, though, comes in the conducting of Daniel Harding. He seems completely immune to the music’s color and atmosphere, underplaying everything. There isn’t any point that isn’t more vividly realized in every one of the opera’s three prior recordings (Britten’s on Decca, Davis’ on Philips, and Bedford’s on Collins). Take one example: the moment when Mrs. Grose describes how Peter Quint died. Under her monotone, solo strings play a sickening little variant of her “Dear God!” motive that should make your skin crawl. Here, it’s scarcely audible. Similarly the first scene of Act 2, which culminates in the two ghosts’ cries of “The ceremony of innocence is drowned”, has no palpable tension. Partly it’s a question of timing: Harding seems to linger over every pause, letting tension seep away. The recording also places the instruments too far back and renders them curiously intangible (Britten’s own mono version on Decca offers much better balances and far greater impact), though this also may stem from playing as immaculate yet coolly featureless as much of the singing. Still, the fundamental problem lies with Harding’s apparently conscious decision to limit the score’s dynamic range and minimize all contrast to the greatest possible extent. The result, dramatically speaking, is simply fatal.
Finally, Virgin has seen fit to supply a theoretically scholarly note by Philip Brett that begins with the sentence: “Benjamin Britten occupies a special place in the history of sexuality”, and ends with “Our culture’s battle over sexuality is everywhere in this music, once we learn how to hear it.” What occurs between these statements you really don’t want to know. (Okay, just one sample: Brett compares the melodic shape and scoring of Miles’ “Malo” tune to the images contained in late Victorian anti-masturbation literature.) Had enough? Indeed, it rather makes you wonder when the last time was that poor Mr. Brett himself got–well, never mind. It’s appalling to consider what Britten would have thought about the cottage industry that has grown up in the U.K. dedicated to reducing everything meaningful or disturbing in his music to a manifestation of his sexual proclivities. Be that as it may, there may be some people out there who actually want to experience a musical representation of our culture’s battle with sexuality, and to them perhaps this recording offers a good place to start. Music lovers (remember them, Mr. Brett?) wanting to hear Britten’s The Turn of the Screw, should stick with any of the three recordings previously mentioned. [8/19/2002]
