“Tom and I wanted to position Antarctica as a fable for the 21st century: a made-up story that has, at its heart, a ‘mythic quest’ that examines human motives.” Australian composer Mary Finsterer’s programme note is a bold claim for the work that she and librettist Tom Wright premiered at the Holland Festival last year and have now brought home to Sydney. But, set in 1822, the motives behind the quest by three Enlightenment figures – a cartographer, a theologian and a Natural Philosopher aboard a sailing ship captained by a doubting Thomas and his daughter (who miraculously survives the whole disaster to tell the tale in the present) – remain mysterious as we luxuriate in Finsterer’s gorgeous music.
There are hints of Glass and Pärt as the composer conjures the blinding ice, the heaving sea (pace Peter Grimes), the shatter of stars in the night sky and the plunge of the crushed ship, and its captain, below the ice. But Finsterer can also surprise and mix Middle Ages and Renaissance musical practice with electronics and serial composition techniques without breaking step. Liesbeth Steffens’ amped viola d’amore being a peculiarly effective accompaniment for the Captain’s cursing of the “beliefs that torture” that have lead them so terminally Southway.
Antarctica was co-commissioned by Sydney Chamber Opera and Amsterdam’s Asko|Schönberg ensemble. And its team of transported soloists, conducted by the SCO’s Artistic Director Jack Symonds, gave the music total support, none more so than multi-percussionist Niels Meliefste whose caterwaul of bongo drums aurally illustrated a fight between the cartographer and the captain. The latter, sung bitterly by Simon Lobelson, has every reason to be angry. For the cartographer (Michael Petrucelli) has lead us astray from the start by claiming the voyage is guided by the mysterious (and genuine) Piri Reis map of 1513 that predicted an Antarctic continent, before eventually admitting that he’d drawn it up himself. So much for science.
But neither theology nor natural philosophy come off any better. Each of the trio is given an extended solo in which they might have amplified their motives. But, in the first of a series of three solos, Anna Fraser’s marvellously-sung philosopher introduces us to the strange metaphor of a challengingly unopened door from her childhood. Jessica O’Donoghue’s sweet theologian also had a door, wind blowing through its keyhole. The cartographer kicked his down. Were these parallel oddities supposed to lead us to O’Donoghue’s conclusion that the only significant door was that between “our teeming world” and the next? Perhaps each tale will emerge as significant stand-alone songs in their own right.
But will they feel as effective musically when separated from Antarctica’s extraordinary setting? Designer Elizabeth Gadsby and director Imara Savage have placed all the inaction in a white, mist-filled box a third of the way up the backdrop. That is mostly black, allowing for a typographic dance of latitudes, sub-Antarctic names and, increasingly, nonsense. But as the end approaches, blinding white light replaces everything. Never do we see the icy continent... but we certainly sense it. And sound design by Bob Scott ensures that we hear those mist-shrouded songs perfectly.
Tom Wright’s text contains some evocative lines, and begins with engaging speculation from the trio about their chances of discovering the secrets of life – accompanied by mist and sparse gongs. But his allusiveness thereafter is too extreme to achieve the “vastness of thought” that the creators intended, leaving too much to Finsterer’s music to carry the day. Perhaps it does.
