Filled as they are with stories about vengeful Israelites in conflict with their neighbours, it takes little effort these days to find sensitive material in Handel’s great Old Testament-based oratorios. Jephtha, which has vengeful Israelites from start to finish, is a case in point. And although preparations for the recent Covent Garden staging will have started long before real-life events exploded in and around Gaza, the Royal Opera took considerable pains to relocate the piece a long way from the Near East and avoid all reference to Jews and Arabs. Visually, at least.
Oliver Mears’ production shunted us into some kind of puritan community at war with cavalier-type libertines. But what it couldn’t do, of course, was change the text – which makes it clear that Jephtha is a hardline Jewish warlord, doing deals with God for victory over the Ammonites. According to the story (from Judges 11-12), he promises to sacrifice the first person he meets after said Ammonites are pulverised. That person proves, alas, to be his daughter. And so, being hard-line, he prepares to kill her – until angels intervene to say God will be satisfied if the daughter devotes the rest of her life to chastity and good works.
So far as Handel is concerned, this is a happy outcome – celebrated in uplifting music. But to modern audiences it seems hard on the poor daughter, who was just about to wed her boyfriend and is maybe less than thrilled by the idea of lifelong chastity. So Covent Garden has her run away defiantly instead (a popular decision, judging by the mood of those around me on the first night who were itching to shout, “Go girl!”). And while joy unbounded reigns in Handel’s score, the staging gives you gritted teeth, recriminations, and a sudden fall from grace for Jephtha as his people turn against him.
That this undermines Handelian expectations didn’t bother me: I’m not sure Jephtha benefits from being staged – it’s not a seriously dramatic oratorio – and any effort to squeeze interesting theatre from the piece can only be applauded. On the contrary, I was concerned that the production didn’t do still more to make me interested: it was static, slow, with good stage-pictures but no action. And although the score has one or two great numbers, there are plenty that are not and make it an uncomfortably long night.
The solo singing here was strong, led by the glorious Allan Clayton in the title role, with Alice Coote as his wife and Jennifer France the daughter. But the choral singing – which lies at the heart of any oratorio – was shabby and stodgy, resisting the best efforts of period-specialist conductor Laurence Cummings to sound anything like period style. It might as well have been your local choral society’s annual Messiah.
Staying with current sensitivities, I suspect there are times when the Jerusalem Quartet regret their name. They rank among the most distinguished string ensembles in the world, and have done so for nearly three decades. But rightly or wrongly they’re perceived as fulfilling an ambassadorial role for the Israeli government, and pay a price for it when things go wrong. Their concerts get disrupted by protestors. And there was an undeniable tension when they appeared in Bath’s Assembly Rooms for a recital in the 2023 Bath Mozartfest – an always wonderful event that eschews razzmatazz, gimmickry or the pretence of being radical, and sets itself instead the unvarnished objective of quality concerts with quality artists in civilised venues. You can ask no more, and audiences don’t: most Mozartfest events sell out. It’s a perpetual hot ticket.
But that said, the Jerusalem Quartet did not sell out: there were conspicuously empty seats as people stayed away – presumably to make a point but also, maybe, fearing trouble. What they missed was an impressive evening of core repertoire done with polish and assurance. But I have to add that the assurance wasn’t always justified. Or loveable. An absence of warmth, of charm, and a rather steely matter-of-factness allowed some edgy intonation and uneven balance into the mix: in other words, they weren’t at their best. And though I’d hesitate to suggest a reason why, anxiety seemed to explain it.
But the next day’s recital by the young Asian-American pianist Eric Lu was an altogether happier affair, restoring the Mozartfest expectations of a packed-out hall with more core rep that wasn’t as cleanly done as you’d hope from someone who recently won the Leeds International Piano Competition, but came with a quiet, unassuming charisma that was hugely attractive.
What’s more, it was a programme that signalled the seriousness of Bath Mozartfest audiences. They know not to clap in the wrong places – like the end of the first movement in Chopin’s B Minor Sonata which plays out so triumphantly it’s almost standard for mind-wandering listeners to think the piece is over. Not in Bath, though. Minds don’t wander there.
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