Sergei Prokofiev had long planned making Tolstoy’s epic novel into an opera. Two defining factors spurred him into feverish composition: love for the young Mira Mendelson, who would become his second wife, and Hitler’s invasion of Russia. As Welsh National Opera’s new staging opens, Tolstoy’s handwriting is seen – the Russian script being laboriously formed, white against a black background – as peasants and soldiers congregate. Their patriotic chorus erupts with the ferocity of an aural bombardment. As they sing, Tolstoy himself is seated among them, recording his nation’s resistance to Napoleon’s invasion. Pierre Bezhukov, wonderfully portrayed by tenor Mark Le Brocq, is essentially Tolstoy’s reflection of himself. The final image will be of Bezhukov, quill in hand, passing sheet after sheet to his beloved Natasha. They are also Tolstoy and his Sonya, and Prokofiev and Mira.
The opera’s sequence of lyric-dramatic scenes – peace in the first half, war in the second – reduces Tolstoy’s rich tapestry to bare threads while making huge demands on any company, and has generally gained more detractors than admirers. Yet director David Pountney’s boldness and Tomáš Hanus’s impassioned marshalling of WNO’s musical forces should help tip opinion in Prokofiev’s favour in a production that uses a score based on Katya Ermolaeva and Rita McAllister’s new critical edition of the composer’s original, together with later material.
Pountney’s conceit is that Russian society joins together to tell the story of its survival. The collective ethos is borne out by the fine ensemble he has nurtured taking multiple roles. Jurgita Adamonytė and Leah-Marian Jones bring distinction to the vile Hélène Bezhukova and Madame Akhrossimova, respectively, but they also bring vocal colour and intensity to other vivid vignettes. Designer Robert Innes Hopkins has upcycled the wooden set of Iain Bell’s In Parentheses to contain, and confine, the action: there are always observers level with the players or looking down from the curved gallery. Compensation for the obvious limitations comes from the use of back-projected imagery, while footage from Sergei Bondarchuk’s 1966 film of War and Peace lends elements of grandeur and deep perspective, most notably in the battle scenes, where the vast numbers of soldiers and horses rush by, the smoke of cannon fire and guns billowing and acrid. This is the horrific theatre of war.
Sung in English, it is frustrating that long spiels of dialogue – neither recitative nor arioso nor sprechtstimme but a mix of all three – sound stilted. The very soul of the people, articulated so brilliantly in Russian in WNO’s Khovanshchina a year ago, sometimes seems to become just more decibels. But there is no doubting the sincerity here, and there are plenty of contemporary frissons when the words resonate chillingly with today’s world politics.
Jonathan McGovern’s expressive baritone makes of Prince Andrei Bolkonsky a noble and sympathetic figure, while Lauren Michelle’s Natasha has impetuosity and charm, realising a touching warmth as a nurse finding Bolkonsky on his deathbed. Her toy rabbit is an unnecessary accessory, but Pountney has matched many witty details to Prokofiev’s sardonic, quirky style. David Stout is impressive in his several roles, as is Simon Bailey’s General Kutuzov. This is a rare and welcome opportunity to see War and Peace, any weaknesses outweighed by the concerted strength of WNO’s massive commitment.
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