The overture to The Flying Dutchman opens at gale force. There’s nothing like it; Mendelssohn and Berlioz both painted orchestral seascapes but no one before Wagner had flung open the sluices and let the ocean roar into the opera house with quite such elemental power. Garry Walker and the orchestra of Opera North dived into it headfirst, while images of waves were projected on the curtain. If you believe that opera audiences can’t handle an overture without visual distraction (and most opera directors do appear to think this) it’s as good a solution as any. A strong start for a new production.
Then the curtain rose and we were in the Home Office. No trace of the sea: in director Annabel Arden’s conception it looked like a cross between The Matrix and the war room from Dr Strangelove. Daland’s crew were salarymen in lanyards and the storm they’d just weathered was the latest bureaucratic omnishambles. In Wagner’s music, the last squalls eddied and swirled; on stage we saw black costumes, monochrome video projections and designer furniture. Regular operagoers will be able to guess the rest – the affectless lovers, the freaky dancing, the mandatory trench coats. If you were playing cliché bingo you’d have scored a full house.
Arden has taken a drama with a wholly distinctive atmosphere and made it resemble every other recent opera staging. No one’s demanding horned helmets but surely there are colours that aren’t black, and more settings available than Hotel Lounge or Undefined Industrial Space? Her basic idea relates to immigration: we knew this because it said so in the programme and because a member of Opera North’s staff made a pre-curtain announcement.
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