Watching the clocks

When I saw the first performance of this production of Ravel’s two operas at Glyndebourne three years ago, I thought it was the nearest thing to operatic perfection I had witnessed. But this revival is even finer. Whereas I concluded last time that L’heure espagnole was fundamentally an old-time bore that goes on for far too long — only 50 minutes, but it seemed much longer — this time I found it absorbing from start to finish, though I still think it is no funnier than most of what used to be called dirty jokes. The decisive difference, I think, is the conducting of Robin Ticciati (or was it where I was sitting, the front row of the circle as opposed to the centre of the stalls?). In 2012 the conducting was so discreet that the orchestra did next to nothing to add to the fun. This time round the explosive precision, reminiscent of Maazel’s classic recording, is where most of the humour lies, though that is not what caused most of the audience’s laughter. After the first ten minutes of the piece, it’s clear where it is going to go; it’s just that the muleteer Ramiro is too modest or stupid to realise his charms, until he’s propelled ‘sans horloge’ up to Concepción’s bedroom. The main suspense for the spectator is whether Ramiro — in this case the excellent Etienne Dupuis, though he isn’t quite the right vocal type — will manage to get the grandfather clocks up and down the stairs without hitting something in the monstrouslyovercrowded room.