Encountering some artists in concert for the first time is always intriguing. There are no preconceived expectations, no colouring of anticipation beyond curiosity, no tired cliches to have recourse to. The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra’s Artist-in-Residence during the current season is Zlatomir Fung, the youngest ever cellist to take top prize at the International Tchaikovsky Competition. He has a warm, big-boned sound, rich in nuttiness. Accompanied by Shiyeon Sung, with just a modest body of strings grounded on two double basses and with only pairs each of oboes and horns for additional sonorities, he gave a stylish account of Haydn’s Cello Concerto no. 1 in C major.
What stood out for me was Fung’s careful attention to dynamics, emerging at the start and at later junctures too from the body of orchestral sound with a beautifully sustained high line, yet also exploiting the full range of his instrument with dazzling leaps of virtuosity and full-fat chords played on all four strings. In the central Adagio he found a rapt, nocturnal quality to the score, where the shadows of the night cede effortlessly to the magic of moonbeams, the soulfulness of the minor key moving the music into much deeper emotional territory. In the romp of the Finale there was a robust earthiness to Fung’s playing, which never lost its burnished sheen, but also an impish delight in the mercurial shifts of mood, always respectful of the classical form yet making it glow from within. Sung ensured a neat-and-tidy, supportive accompaniment.
Of her ability to stamp her own personality on the pieces she conducts I’m less sure. Beethoven’s Leonore Overture no. 3, heard these days more often as a stand-alone item rather than in the theatrical context, still retains the smell of greasepaint. It is redolent in atmosphere and dramatic strokes of interest, like the off-stage trumpet, suitably distanced for the first entry from the second call. It also needs a flexibility of approach for the transitions to sound organic, bringing together all the operatic elements. Sung’s metronomic beat elicited little in terms of orchestral refinement, the eloquent woodwind solos apart, and the playing frequently had a metallic edge to it.
Schumann’s Symphony no. 2 in C major is a much greater test for any conductor. Sung’s characteristics tended more to the technical side of things. Her cueing was exact, rhythmic precision was there, dynamic shadings were present, and good internal balances ensured a transparency to the textures. Indeed, she effectively dispelled all the stuff-and-nonsense perpetrated by some about the composer’s supposed inability to orchestrate properly. A lot of wind and brass detail gave an aerated feel to the performance as a whole. However, Sung’s angular, often martial-like handling of the baton led to a feeling of regimentation, at odds with the Romantic sweep of Schumann’s melodic inventiveness.
If the woodwind and brass captured Sung’s interest, I wish the same had been true for the strings. The hymn-like nature of the introduction to the first movement, with its homage to Bachian counterpoint, was insufficiently conveyed. Nor was enough made of the opportunities for hushed dynamics, those achingly beautiful moments where the words of the Quaker poet come to mind, “O still, small voice of calm”. Where was the surge of heady excitement which should preface the coda to the first movement? Come the Finale, where there ought to have been an outpouring of sheer joy, we had a kind of enforced rejoicing which would not have been out of place in Shostakovich, with violins acting more like scythes than angelic harps, and touches of goose-stepping as this majestic work neared its end.
