Excellent cast let down by lifeless conducting and a confusing Salzburg production of Les contes d’Hoffmann

Austria Salzburg Festival 2024 [8] – Offenbach, Les contes d’Hoffmann: Soloists, Concert Association of the Vienna State Opera, Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra / Marc Minkowski (conductor). Grosses Festspielhaus, Salzburg, 24.8.2024. (MB)

Production:
Director – Mariame Clément
Designs – Julia Hansen
Lighting – Paule Constable
Video – Étienne Guiol and Wilfrid Haberey
Choreography – Gail Skrela
Dramaturgy – Christian Arseni
Chorus director – Alan Woodbridge

Cast:
Hoffmann – Benjamin Bernheim
Stella / Olympia / Antonia / Giulietta – Kathryn Lewek
Lindorf / Coppélius / Dr Miracle / Dapertutto – Christian Van Horn
Muse / Nicklausse – Kate Lindsey
Andrés / Cochenille / Frantz / Pitichanaccio – Marc Mauillon
Mother’s Voice – Géraldine Chauvet
Spalanzani – Michael Laurenz
Crespel / Luther – Jérôme Varnier
Hermann / Schlémil – Philippe-Nicholas Martin
Nathanaël – Paco García
Wilhelm – Yevheniy Kapitula

Tales of Hoffmann, Offenbach’s unfinished, arguably unfinishable opéra fantastique, inevitably poses questions concerning performing versions and choices, in its subject matter going further in blurring boundaries between artist, character, and audience, just as many German Romantics, ETA Hoffmann himself included, had done. That is part of its enduring interest, as is Offenbach’s final, spirited approach to the ‘serious’ world of opera from his ‘home’ world of operetta. It is more complicated than that; it always is. And so on… It would be less odd than impossible not to confront such questions, whatever role(s) one might play oneself in a performance — and again, that certainly includes the audience. Here, the supporting programme materials are in many ways impressive: interviews with director Mariame Clément and, to a lesser extent, conductor Marc Minkowski make important points, as does Heather Hadlock’s essay. The problem – and here responsibility lies with the first two – is that so little of that comes across in performance.

Perhaps I only have myself to blame; I was given a copy of the programme beforehand, but only read it afterwards. I might well have made more of Clément’s production had things been otherwise, though I cannot imagine I would have of Minkowski’s lifeless conducting. I know, moreover, that it is often too easy a retort to say ‘I should not have to read the programme to make sense of a production’. Indeed, but because I did not, it does not necessarily follow that I was not at fault in failing to pick up on what was there. Hand on heart, though, I am not sure it would have made that much difference, in what continues to strike me as a confused and confusing way of presenting ideas that are either mostly straightforward, indeed downright obvious, or not really there at all. Programme essays and interviews can be very good things; I have written a few myself, after all. They are not, however, substitutes for staging. If the director’s role involves anything at all, recognition of and response to that truism is surely part of it.

Clément depicts Hoffmann as a filmmaker: fair enough, though the constant obeisance other art forms must make to film and television has begun to wear thin by now. It is a strange teleology that has everything lead towards film, not least for a theatre director, yet to many it seems beyond question. To be fair, even Adorno fell prey to it at times. Surely the world of live performance is in many ways more interesting, more human, or at least differently so. It is not clear – like much else we see – where that leaves the work’s own, more interesting framing device of a performance of Don Giovanni. Is that also a film, or has Hoffmann moved to theatre? Does it matter?

Let us skip over the compendium of clichés that has led us there, including the inevitable Prologue shopping trolley. A couple of dustbins, from one of which the Muse emerges, does not alas suggest a move towards the endgame, let alone Endgame. As we move from the works canteen to the three central acts, we quickly realise that what we are seeing is what Hoffmann has made his current cast watch on a television somewhere nearby: a conspectus of his career to date, moving from a tacky science fiction B-movie in which Olympia stands with a raygun that might have been a child’s toy – if there were such things as Z-movies, this might be one – through a more expensive, ‘period’ musical drama for Antonia, with an apt if banal nod to the ghostly; to a Giulietta act in which your guess will almost certainly be better than mine. Actors step in and out of character, inviting us to partake in the less-than-breathtaking insight that they are people too and, like Hoffmann, bring parts of themselves to their work.

Quite why one should care about any of these people or their roles I do not know. The voice of Antonia’s mother from beyond is simply another singer standing there singing a part. Perhaps that is the point, but the lack of emotional involvement or engagement, alongside the insistence, albeit more thoroughly pursued in the programme than on the stage, that the characters are mere projections of Hoffmann’s ego, has one continue to wonder whether there is any point in performing this work at all. The overriding note, ultimately, is of tedium, which again, if it is the point – I doubt it – is not enough to justify the experience.

It might and should have been lifted by the musical performances, yet, despite good and, in some cases, outstanding singing, Minkowski’s grey, sub-Kapellmeister-ish meanderings accomplished nothing here. Basic competence in coordinating pit and stage, especially when it came to a chorus estimable in itself yet left cruelly exposed, eluded the conductor, let alone any sense of colour, irony, or drama, let alone lightness. The Vienna Philharmonic struggled through and sometimes shone; one can hardly blame the players for imparting a sense that their hearts were either not in it or at least not in alignment with what was going on elsewhere. That the Barcarolle passed for vanishingly little was a remarkable achievement, but hardly one to hymn. Minkowski received a good number of boos: an uncivilised practice in which I should never partake, yet if it were not quite deserved, it was perhaps understandable.

If the orchestra and chorus deserved better, so did the soloists. Benjamin Bernheim, as tireless as he was stylish, made for an ideal Hoffmann. With apparent – doubtless only apparent – lack of effort, he had us believe in him despite enveloping disarray. That he was onstage even more than usual only added to his commitment and achievement. The same should be said of Kathryn Lewek in her multiple roles, as impressive in coloratura, of which there is much, as in more impassioned romantic feeling; that she had in addition to step in and out of ‘character’ again seemed only to inspire her. Christian Van Horn’s Lindorf cast due shadow over the action. Kate Lindsey’s Nicklausse proved as triumphant a success and as true a spur to emotional engagement, as any portrayal I have heard from this ever-impressive artist. Other roles, including Geraldine Chauvet’s rich-toned Mother’s Voice (here, also actorly presence) and the several assumed with great spirit by Marc Mauillon, were all well taken. The team of Salzburg extras did what was asked of them well too. As for the rest, back to the drawing-board, I fear.

Mark Berry