English Touring Opera’s autumn season offers us a brand-new production of Rameau’s masterpiece Dardanus, the first full staging of the 1744 version of the opera and presented with a revised edition of the score edited by Oxford musicologist Gilles Rico and directed by Douglas Rintoul. This new version, commissioned by the European Opera Centre, incorporates elements of all three iterations of the opera – 1739, 1744, and the 1760 revival, but strips back a number of scenes from longer versions, whilst elongating others. The result is a work of dazzling intensity and compression, whose emotional and dramatic energies were focalised through Jonathan Williams’ conducting.
The story of the opera pitches the more tender of human capacities – love and clemency – against the horrors of state violence. Dardanus, son of Jupiter, has won a bloody victory against King Teucer, who renews his offensive against them with his ally Anténor; the Phrygians want vengeance, but Iphise, daughter of Teucer, is in love with Dardanus. Dardanus is captured after going behind enemy lines to find his love, also the object of Anténor’s affections; Teucer preaches clemency in the face of the mob, though a final battle then puts Dardanus’ forces back in the driving seat, and Dardanus in turn shows mercy to Teucer, and the opera ends with Venus celebrating the union of Dardanus and Iphise, who, in this production, emerges from the chorus of guerrilla fighters itself.
The action unfolded on a raised central rectangle. This platform was covered in fine grey ash or dirt that clung to costumes, bare feet and wrists (the latter bound in Dardanus’ searching Act 4 aria “Lieux funestes”, begun on his knees); the effect was to dust the stage with the granular detritus of perpetual war. Combat fatigues and AK-47s have, in some productions, become a rather tiresome way for directors to ameliorate their anxieties about relevance. In this Dardanus the setting was mercifully unobtrusive, and successfully scaled down the epic and mythic dimensions of a text adapted from Charles-Antoine Leclerc de la Bruère, leaving the social and personal dilemmas propelling the drama.
‘Make Love Not War’ might sound a lightweight directorial take, but the production articulated a clear sense of moral and psychological transformation. Venus slipping a flower into the barrel of an AK-47 might sound alarmingly twee, but in context it lifted, with gentle comedy, the fog of war and fate. The opera opened with the partisans and soldiers lighting candles at the boots of the fallen – a Phrygian mausoleum – but this act of mourning generates only further retaliation and violence, with Iphise standing apart. But the final tableau saw the soldiers shed their uniforms and assemble the shattered fragments of the palace into a memorial for the fallen. Here, acknowledgement of loss catalysed a renewal of the capacity to love even our enemies, a particularly compelling aspect of a production that earlier featured a mob baying for the blood of Dardanus who was brutalised, in a juicy onstage beating, by his captors in Act 3.