Two operatic stories of transformation – of Actaeon “in the form of a stag”, who would prefer to see his prey rather than feel the teeth of his hounds on his own skin; and Pygmalion, who “once carved a statue of great beauty out of snow-white marble” and the stone became flesh – are separated by nearly three generations. Marc-Antoine Charpentier composed his hunting opera Actéon most likely in the spring of 1684; the exact circumstances of its first performance, however, are unclear. It is highly unlikely that the premiere took place at the Hôtel de Guise, the Parisian residence of Princess Marie of Lorraine, the composer’s patron – the line-up of the instrumental ensemble suggests that it was an outside commission, perhaps from the Jesuit Collège Clermont. It is also difficult to tell whether the eponymous Actéon was played by the composer himself, who apparently had a well-trained haute-contre, a tenor peculiar to the French Baroque with an upwardly extended tessitura. Jean-Philippe Rameau’s Pigmalion is from a different era and represents a completely different style – that of a typical acte de ballet, a short stage form that combines singing, music and dance within a well-structured drama based on a concise, often mythological anecdote. This is undoubtedly the most successful of the eight works of this genre in the composer’s oeuvre, written in the late 1740s and early 1750s. The piece, first staged at the Académie Royale de Musique in August 1748, was rather coldly received. A real success came with a revival three years later and from that moment it was – despite its brevity – second in popularity only to the musical tragedy Castor et Pollux, running for nearly three decades. It was also one of Rameau’s first masterpieces to come back in grace today and now remains one of his most frequently performed compositions. To what extent it is performed stylishly and convincingly is quite another matter.
Strangely enough, Pigmalion opened the gates of Baroque opera to me when I was still a teenager – and in a non-obvious way at that, through Carlos Saura’s ambiguous film Elisa, vida mía. It was only recently that I understood that the Spanish director invoked in it a peculiar variation of the self-fulfilling prophecy, known as the Pygmalion effect. What has stayed with me until now, however, is the aria he used, “Fatal Amour, cruel vainqueur”, performed by the now-forgotten French tenor Eric Marion, whose unique, androgynous, yet still modal voice made me aware of the existence of vocal Fächer, the specificity of which I was to learn many years later.
Laurence Cummings and Bojan Čičić. Photo: Mark Allan
Perhaps that is why I did not hesitate for a moment to go to the West Road Concert Hall in Cambridge for the first of two concerts by the Academy of Ancient Music conducted by Laurence Cummings, featuring the two “Ovidian” one-act works, in which the title roles were performed by Thomas Walker: a genuine haute-contre with a very broad range, dark, meaty and even, not resorting to falsetto even at the highest notes of the scale. His voice must be similar to that of Pierre Jélyotte, Pigmalion at the Paris premiere of the work and Rameau’s favourite singer, who triumphed not only as a heroic romantic lead, but also in en travesti roles, led by Platée, the swamp froggy nymph, to whom the composer entrusted perhaps the most fiendishly difficult role for this specifically French tenor type. Suffice it to say that Walker’s repertoire includes both Platée, Zoroastre and Pigmalion from Rameau’s operas, as well as Pelléas in Debussy’s musical drama, a role intended for a high baritone.
In both one-act operas Walker highlighted the qualities of his voice with beautiful phrasing, stylish ornamentation and sensitive character interpretation – devoid of the hysteria and pathos so common in performers struggling in these roles with the inexorable resistance of the vocal matter. He found an excellent partner in Anna Dennis, as always expressive, captivating with her ease of singing and exceptionally beautiful soprano: especially in the role of Diane in Actéon, although she more than made up for the small size of the “statue animée” role in Pigmalion with graceful acting. Of the other two soloists I was more impressed by the soprano Rachel Redmond (Aréthuze and L’Amour, respectively), who has a voice as luminous as a ray of sunshine, indefatigable energy and a great sense of humour. I last heard Katie Bray (Junon and Hyale in Actéon, Céphise in Pigmalion) live seven years ago – since then her mezzo-soprano has lost a bit of her brilliance and precision of intonation, although some of the shortcomings can certainly be explained by the excessively high tessitura of the roles entrusted to her. There was a magnificent “chorus” of four young singers (Ana Beard Fernández, Ciara Hendrick, Rory Carver and Jon Stainsby), whose soloist ambitions clearly do not stand in the way of splendid ensemble music making.
Thomas Walker. Photo: Robert Workman
The whole was overseen from the harpsichord by Laurence Cummings, who guided the instrumentalists and singers with his usual panache, insight and sense of idiom – both in the modest Actéon, an opera that can be viewed as a kind of practice run to Charpentier’s later stage works, but undoubtedly one that has charm and dramatic nerve; as well as in Pigmalion, a true masterpiece of the genre, full of contrasts and sudden twists and turns, with a level of condensation of material truly on a par with Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Outstanding performances in the small instrumental ensemble – twenty players in Pigmalion and about half as many in Actéon – came from the AAM concertmaster Bojan Čičić (especially in the glorious duet with Simone Gibbs, concertmistress of the second violins, in Charpentier’s opera, where Čičić played the instrument held against his breast below the collarbone, in accordance with the practice of the time); the excellent percussionist Jordan Murray; and the dependable continuo group made up of Reiko Ichise (viola da gamba), William Carter (theorbo) and Cummings at the harpsichord. It is also worth mentioning that what contributed to the success of both performances was not only discreet stage action, but also an excellent “didascalie” prepared by Alistair Baumann, set in a period Antiqua italic font and displayed legibly in the background, without any additional embellishments.
Having found my dream Pigmalion after so many years, I returned to Poland with a sense of complete fulfilment. It was not until a few days later that I came to regret that I had missed the sensation at the concert the following day, at the Milton Court Concert Hall in London, when Walkers, who had lost his voice just before the final, virtuosic aria “Règne, Amour, fais briller tes flammes”, was replaced, much to the surprise of the dumbstruck audience, by Cummings himself. Then, jaded as I am, I realized that he would not have surprised me: during the last Handel Festival in Göttingen under his direction, at the height of the pandemic, Cummings gave a webcast concert in which he played the harpsichord and sang an abbreviated version of the pasticcio Muzio Scevola. And yes, he did that brilliantly. It remains for me to wish all soloists in future AAM ventures good health, while assuring them that Cummings can stand in for anyone, from soprano to bass, if necessary. I do not think anyone doubts any more that one of the best early music ensembles in the world is finally in good hands after years of stagnation.
Translated by: Anna Kijak