Resurrecting old opera productions is risky. No matter how nonspecific the concept and design, every production is marked by the taste and physical minutiae of its era. In a tribute to notable opera director Jean-Pierre Ponnelle (1932-1988), Ferenc Anger has revived his production for the 1978 world première of Aribert Reimann’s Lear. The result, painstakingly recreated from a video recording, verifies that the original production has largely stood the test of time. Ponnelle’s set is an ancient heath, with the action playing out among boulders fringed with thirsty shrubs. Pet Halmen’s mythic-medieval costumes are still imposing and effectively differentiate and connect the characters, most lucidly in mirroring Lear in his Fool, a spoken part enigmatically delivered by András Káldi Kiss. Outsize jewels satirise the grotesqueness of power and Lear’s horned soldiers prowl about like legendary beasts. The one aspect that has aged are the stage mechanics. Ponnelle’s heath quakes and heaves, reflecting the turmoil Lear stirs up when he makes the division of his kingdom contingent upon his daughters’ public display of affection. The rising boulders, probably state-of-the-art in the late seventies, now seem technologically unsophisticated. No matter, because the work’s cataclysmic drama springs from the score, and its execution was in trustworthy hands.
Reimann’s serialist opera, one of the 20th century’s most successful, is unremittingly dark and violent. The vocal parts are a varied sampler, from bass to countertenor, and each character is given a recognisable musical imprint. Unusual orchestral colours include a disorientating bass flute solo. The work’s tonal complexity yields astonishing effects, such as the densely layered strings brewing up the storm that buffets Lear after his elder daughters cast him out. A huge percussion arsenal, including seven gongs, metal sheets and bronze plates, pounds out the barbarity that takes over his riven kingdom. One intermezzo sounds like thousands of rodents scuttling through a dark tunnel. The most potent aspect of the score is that it turns the characters inside out and exposes their inner world. Admittedly, it is more successful at expressing fear and brutality than grief and loss. And here we come to the only caveat. The title role, created for – and at the behest of – baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, remained emotionally unfocussed until the final scene, despite fine singing by bass-baritone Tómas Tómasson. Neither the score nor the libretto, which deftly simplifies Shakespeare’s complex plot lines, sufficiently explore the old king’s psyche. It is up to the interpreter to complete the portrait by vocal and theatrical means. In this Mr Tómasson was not helped by his mask-like make-up. Although glimpses of Lear's inner trauma emerged during his duet with good daughter Cordelia, sung with withdrawn fragility by Caroline Melzer, his madness remained a series of gestures and did not illustrate the fracturing of a mortally wounded self. In the last scene, score and staging finally encompassed Lear’s plight, allowing Mr Tómasson’s abject frailty to come through in his lament over Cordelia’s body.