Farewell to the Island, or A Laddie Who Lunches

How could a month go so quickly? Tomorrow I leave the island, to begin my trek to the Southern hemisphere – in a fortnight I will be at Gerolstein, deepest New Zealand, warming up for this year’s second summer… I intended to do a great deal of resting and writing while in Europe. Well, Berlin had far too many unrestful attractions, and somehow I spent far too much time partying and dining in Jersey, but Wight? Spot on … Here, far away from toil and care (and a bit of a drive from the restaurants and high life), I have rested and written to my heart’s content. Victorian Vocalists has reached its 500th essay (about 200 to go?), and I have lounged in my beautiful suite, overlooking sea, downs and sunrises (and sunsets), day in and day out..

 

Of course, I haven’t been hermetic. Since three weeks out of my four have been sunny, I have ventured out to my old beauty spots … up to the Hoy Monument, from where there is a beautiful view over to Freshwater

 

Up to the famous lighthouse, the ‘Pepperpot’ … Sigh. I used to do the two sights in one breath, as an hors d’oeuvre to a day’s walking. Now I am thankful to be able to manage them one at a time… and without my stick …

 

But I have to admit that most of my sorties have been vehicular, and associated with nice food! Well, I’ve seen so much of the island in previous visits, I don’t need to go sight-seeing (the view from my window is the best sight, anyway!), but I’m a laddie who lunches … So red Fred was awakened from his lethargy every few (sunny) days, and we sallied forth. Having started my gastro-tour of Wight with a splendid new discovery in the Hillside Bistro, I then decided ‘no more chances’: I would simply return to The Best of Former Years: the favourite eateries from my days criticking for the ex-Ventnor Blog, now re-named On The Wight due to its expanded coverage.

 

I was not disappointed. Places rarely get better, usually worse. Not the case here. I actually paid to park – against all my principles – to do lunch at the Bistro. Lunch is not quite the quality of dinner, but I had a splendid fish pie one day, and crisp fish n chips another…

 

I returned regularly to the New Inn. It is so pleasant, so good, so reliable. And it is such a pretty 30-minute drive – through Limerstone and Brightstone, over the hills past Mottistone Downs, past the Moulton Barrett estate at Calbourne … to get there.. And one day, determined to find a new place, I drove right out to Freshwater Bay in search. Finding nothing. I’m just not a pub eater. Especially not at ‘family’ pubs. A coach park, swings and ‘family’ signs send me shuddering away. You know that everything -- in spite of the basically charming architecture -- will be doorstep bread, lettuce, potato crisps and chips! Yes, I tried one the other day, the Buddle Inn: the oldest and toughest chopped lettuce I've thrown away in years.

 

But, on this occasion, I knew I was safe. At Freshwater Bay is lovely Dimbola, the former home of Julia Margaret Cameron, now a photographic museum and gallery. And it has a nice tea-room which serves veritably home-made soup and bread. (I wonder which 'home' half the advertisedly ‘home-made’ stuff on sale comes from), which goes very nicely with my new discovery: slightly alcoholic ginger beer!

 

And finally, yesterday, on a beautiful sunny autumnal day, I went back to the Royal Hotel. Debby and I sat in the sun, under the wisteria, with an extra-dry sherry, amid the quiet, garden surroundings …

 

and then I ordered the famous (partly thanks to my raves of the past!) Gallybagger soufflé. Would it … could it be as good as the first time we tasted it? Answer: oh my goodness, yes! It is still the best single dish I have tasted on this island in five years. Light, crisp, cheesy … oh, yes!

 

Follow it up with a deliciously light and pink duck cassoulet and a glass of chablis, served by a waiter who will be running the joint by the time I get back next time .. why didn’t I come here for lunch sooner? Ah well, a fabulous finale ... the sun, the wine, the sea … then back to the Hermitage … and I slept on my big lavender bed for two hours! In the afternoon!

 

And now it is time to go. Goodbye to my lovely suite, to the Wightish sun, to my Wightish friends (yes, I caught up with them all!) ... to that agreeably unhurried pace one can live at here … until I come again. Footnote: the last photo, taken from the top of the Downs shows Hermitage Court Farm's position. See that dormer, down in the left corner? That's me. Till tomorrow.

All's Wight With the World

Well. I know I said I was covering my favourite Wightish things of previous years before getting on to new discoveries, but sometimes one thing leads to another. I arranged to meet old friend Debby for a pre-twilight dinner (well, you try driving up Dolcoppice Lane – lane, huh! – in the day, much less the dark), and she introduced me to the latest eatery in Ventnor. Let’s face it, the town can do with a goodie. I can’t eat at the Royal Hotel all the time. And the Bay Grill for lunch is deceased.

 

The Hillside Bistro is run by the charming gent who has the Hillside Hotel, where we had had a lovely evening a couple of years ago, so it seemed like a good idea. It was a good idea.

 

Built on the site of an old caff on Ventnor’s main Pier Street, the Bistro is a plain, simple place (nice fabric napkins, but no tablecloth) which serves anything but simple food. I mean that approvingly. I intend to go back, with my camera, but here is what I had for my light supper. Starter: black pudding, pork belly and wild mushrooms. A splendid mixture, and each item, individually, delicious. Main course: guinea fowl: white and dark, moist and soft, with a mixture of baby veg (turnips! yey!). Two very small glasses of a splendid German rosé. I couldn’t have been happier. One of the best meals I’ve ever had in Wight. I am going to have to learn to park, so I can go there more often. Hurrah for something new!

 

I was enjoying myself so much, I failed to notice it is no longer summer and by 8pm it is getting seriously dark. I leaped into Red Fred, found his headlights, and began retracing my way to the Hermitage. Thank God for headlights! I reached Dolcoppice Lane erratically but safely, and peered my way up. Nearly there! Boing! A car coming the other way! Jeff and Sue, my fellow guests. Well, we breathed in and squeezed past.. and then I realised I had to park BACKWARDS in the dark! The rest is silence. Today dawned glorious. I know, I saw it. At 6am I was awake, gazing out my window at the first red rays of sun periscoping up over the sea and the coast. And then – wham! – in an orgasm of light Sol shook himself clear of the horizon and bathed the world – and me in my bed – in gold. I felt like Shirley Eaton in Goldfinger.

 

You have to get up on a day like that. You have to go out. So I woke up Red Fred and set out for Newtown. Thankfully, it’s not changed. I said hello to the wonderful Old Town Hall, skipped the church where a multiple funeral was going on, and headed out on to the Salt Marshes to watch the birds and the boats and the beasts go by. Lovely.

 

Of course, Newtown is right next to Shalfleet, so I had my shandy and British whitebait (not at all the same as Kiwi ones) at the New Inn, and called into the local farm shop for some smoked trout paté. I’m not sure its local, but it looks natural.

 

Then back over the hill to Brightstone. Now its 6 years I’ve been visiting Brightstone and I’ve never been into the local shop. But now Chale Green is off bounds, where do I get my wine and water and things? Well, Brightstone’s store is full of fresh and fine goodies, and after I’ve tasted the wine, it may well become my ‘local’! Now I’m back on the farm, the fridge is working overtime to get my purchases cold in time for the cocktail hour, I’m lounging in little, and eyeing Cassius Clay, the shower … and maybe the big once-golden bed for half an hour. Mmmmm.

The Isle of Wight revisited.

Bis repetita. It’s a dangerous game. The mysterious ‘they’ say ‘never try to repeat a good trick’. But I have never taken much notice of all the things ‘they’ ‘always’ say, and here I am back in the Isle of Wight for the fifth time in six years. It would have been six, but for my year out with bad health. And what have I done? What I usually do anywhere. Started off by revisiting my favourite spots. Three, so far. Result: 2-1 to me. Hermitage Court Farm, of course, was an easy one. But I christened it, years ago, the Best B&B in the world, so it’s got standards to maintain. Answer: it’s the best B&B by miles. If I gave it 10/10 last time, it gets 12/10 this time. Its new makeover and extension (it now has 3 rooms instead of the original one) are a blazing success … well, I won’t go on, or else next time I come to book my month or two, it’ll be sold out. 1-0 to me. 

 

After a mizzly day out for recovery after my cavalcade, today I ventured a small trip to plenish my fridge with fresh picnic goodies. And, of course, I went to the Chale Green Stores. I knew the stores when they were a village shop. I had a memorable fresh roll there … Then they were whooped up into a fair bistro-cum-resto, with a nice little deli and some specialist foodie bits. Good for picnic things, and it meant I didn’t have to pay to park, as I did if I shopped at Goodman’s in Ventnor. Today? Oh dear. It’s obviously changed hands. The deli was empty of anything at all, the nice things were all gone, it was back to being a village shop with things in plastic and a tea-room. And they didn’t like my debit card. I won’t go back: I will have to brave Ventnor. Or Arreton. So One-all. ‘They’ were right this time.

The weather was so glorious, I decided not to go home with my sad looking groceries. I headed on with thoughts of a pint of ginger-beer shandy and a sandwich in a pretty place. Shorwell? With the ducks? I wanted to go further, but I put in on the list for another day. Brightstone? Don’t like the coach party pub, maybe the ‘Seven’ tearooms … Aw heck, I’m more than half way to Shalfleet. I’ll try my old favourite, the New Inn.

I was very wary. The New Inn has become part of a ‘group’, which includes the Boathouse at Seaview, which I cordially dislike. And they were advertising rather freely. Two bad signs. So last night I sent my fellow Hermitage Courters there for dinner. They were much pleased. So I rolled up hopefully. Looks the same, car-park the same, menu similar, staff efficient and pleasant (obviously not from the Boathouse), so I ordered my favourite light lunch: Black pudding salad and my ginger-beer shandy. Can there be good and bad in such a simple lunch. You bet! And the New Inn scored. 2-1 to me. The best ginger beer, a skilful shandy, wonderfully cold, and a simple collection of first-class pudding, tasty green leaves (no lettuce!) and dried tomatoes … no turgid dressing … a perfect lunch.

I am so glad. I like Shalfleet and Newtown, and now I know I can safely lunch any sunny day on the deck at the New Inn.

I’m going to like it here! Again.

A Long Time Between Blogs

Last time I sat down to write anything longer than a facebook message, I was still in Berlin. Now I’m up on the downs in the Isle of Wight. So ...? Well, last days in Berlin were rather hectic. I had to see and say ‘goodbye’ to all the dear everyones to whom I’d said ‘hello’ to a few weeks earlier, and with Paulie moving into his delicious new flat in Wedding (I want one! actually, I’ve asked for one) there was plenty of Ikea-type activity going on. Well, the flat, newly refurbished, didn’t have a kitchen! Friends came to the party, and a month later he’ll be able to boil his own egg!

 

I said I hadn’t been writing, but that isn’t true. From Berlin, I flew (via Düsseldorf, for heaven’s sake, isn’t Berlin the capital?) Air Berlin to Jersey. Not pleasant, but it got better! Alex and Katy picked me up at the airport and delivered me to my cosy garden flat at the Bayview Guest House (again), I dined of course at the Dockyard on Chris Matthews’ delicious cooking, drank their bar dry, and fell into bed. My days in Jersey didn’t vary much after that. Up at eight, breakfast, into the garden (when warm enough) with my computer for a sustained attack on Victorian Vocalists till cocktail time, dinner at the Dockyard (the menu doesn’t bore, even after 40 visits), dally at the bar, bed (with sound-switched-off Olympic Games et al) and then the whole routine again. Victorian Vocalists is now approaching its 500th completed article, and it’s beginning to look as if I may finish it in my lifetime!

 

Of course, there were partial deviations from the routine: a visit to Alex and Katy’s new first house (they have a bed, a couch, a shower and a TV ... and a kitty …now they can get married), three birthdays – Alex, Chris and his Jennifer – the races with Jennie and the girls, dinner with Charlotte, some fine dining and fun in two extra-boozy lunches with my pals from the SCB, the jollity of the Havre des Pas festival (most of my photos seem to be at a table!), a bit of self-improvement with a facial at Elemis and a hair cut and extras from Jenny at Rio, new computer glasses from Howard’s, the odd hot spa tub in the garden .. and I still managed the fullest month of work on Vic Voc yet.

 

It wasn’t all roses and wineglasses, though. One night I came home from the Dockyard to find there had been a flash flood and my garden room was sodden. The carpet had to be ripped up, and I slept on my big luscious bed as if on an island in a comic strip sea. No, I wouldn’t shift (anyway the Bayview was, as usual, full), that room is my ‘home’. It has one fault though. You need two hands to open the door. And, coming home two nights later, bearing my Macbook and rather the worse for wear, I tried to open up with the computer under my arm. It went to fall, I grabbed it ... and I fell. Not a wise thing to do when you are on Clopidogrel. I bled. I bled so profusely that an ambulance had to be called (Thanks, guys!), and I am an un-picturesque Jackson Pollock of scars, bloody patches and red, blue and black bruises to this day. And then it was time to move on. Alex and Katy drove me to the ferry (7.45), I wobbled aboard (8.45) and headed straight for my cabin (169.00 stg!) and my slim bunk and as soon as the wretched tannoy announcements stopped, I slept. 6.30 arrival at Portsmouth, charming taxi driver (7 quid) to the Fast Wightlink Ferry (22.10 return) which set sail at 7.15. On to the cheerful little train at Ryde pierhead at 7.45 (3.90), off at Shanklin, half an hour later, small walk to South Wight Rentals to Pick up Red Fred the Suzuki Alto (480.00 the month) and – after a moment when I forgot how to drive – a careful wind out of the deserted (phew!) town, up to St Catherine’s Downs ... arriving at 9.10. Exactly 12 hours since the ferry had sailed.

 

Hermitage Court Farm. Haven of peace and comfort. Jack and Charlie are two years taller, Jayne and Chris are five years younger, and the house has undergone major changes. It was super-comfy before .. but oh! my first-floor room .. no, suite .. is beautiful! I have a big bed and bedroom, a sitting room for writing, and a bathroom with a Cassius Clay shower. I’ll have more bruises if I’m not careful. And the view from my window, over the downs and out to sea ..

 

Well, this is my home for the next month. Probably the place where Vic Voc will hit its landmark 500 articles … All of which, more anon … I’m off the have a shower..

A Night out with Mike, or Scallops and Vampires

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In October, or was it November, of 1974, the musical Hans Andersen went into rehearsal at the London Palladium. On the bottom line of the chorus was a 27 year-old basso, just back from two years at sea. On the rehearsal piano, and assisting the conductor, was a 21 year-old muso, not long out of the Royal College of Music. The two became good friends, but over the years geography and suchlike meant that they lost contact … 

Last night, they met up again. In Berlin. The musician has turned into Mike Reed, the most prized musical supervisor in the world of musical theatre for decades now, the skinny bass has turned into the author of the largest (and best) reference works on the same subject: yes, yours truly, Kurt Gänzl. Well, Mike now has the embonpoint of the successful man, and I have the traces of my stroke still upon me … but the years rolled back at the speed of Phar Lap, and we were 30 or 40 again, as we picked up where we had left off twenty years ago. 

 Our evening had two parts: first food, drink and chat, and afterwards a trip to the Theater des Westens (my first) to see Tanz der Vampire, the musical about which I had written so favourably in my books, but had not yet seen on stage. We dined on the terrace of Mike’s hotel, the delightful Kempinski in the Kurfürstendamm. And dined very well indeed. My starter, nice, juicy, lightly-cooked scallops with a gingerish julienne was a class one dish, my main course of loup de mer could have been plumper, but it tasted good. I can’t say it looked good, though: purple risotto isn’t my thing. But, hey, food is for eating, not photographing. The meal was accompanied by a very nice light German rosé served by a very nice German lassie, who also delivered me an excellent pear schnapps as a digestif. And we talked. And talked. And talked. I think I talked even more than usual!

 

A quick wander to the theatre. My first Berlin musical this year. Was it going to be as good as I remembered from reading it, a decade and a half ago? I got off slightly on the wrong foot. When you are watching a burlesque musical, you have to remember, always, that it is exactly that. When you see a stagefull of comic opera peasants, led by a sosie of Fagin, overacting a ‘drinking’ chorus in praise of garlic … it is a parody of the genre! (Remember Chess?) Maybe some of the edges of the parody in the opening have got a tiny bit blunted after so long? Or was it me, taking time to get into the 'mood'? Anyway, those edges would soon, as the action of the piece got into stride, be sharp as a sharkstooth. 

This is a funny piece. A fun piece. Its enjoyably staged and designed, with some of the best (not burlesque, unless it’s of Laurey’s dream ballet) choreography I’ve seen in quite a while. It looks good and it sounds good. The music is in the lush modern vein, with plenty of extravagances and some catchy melodies ... I’m sure I heard a few classical quotes. From Sullivan to Wagner. I know I saw a few things more than reminiscent of, in particular, The Phantom of the Opéra. And that’s part of the fun. That’s the burlesque genre. Of course, sometimes burlesque gets very close to the thing being burlesqued … there’s a fine line … but most of the time director and cast kept, sometimes just, to the right side of it.

  The cast. Well, as an old casting director, I’d be proud to have assembled such a cast. Thomas Borchert was a suitably sexy, vocally rich and melodramatic vampire leering (oh! those teeth!) down from his Phantomical perch, or luring sexy little splashabout Sarah (Amelie Dobler) away with a pair of red riding boots and a mega-sponge, to his Schloss, to sing the hit song ‘Totale finsternis’ with him. Miss Dobler looked the perfect little ingenue – oh, shades of Miss Brightman – and sang her music to perfection, even when battling with the entire chorus. She was also deliciously comical in her scenes with Alfred (Michael Heller) who is simply a super-juvenile made in heaven. Looking fifteen, singing with lyric freedom, and playing and interplaying with just the right degree of innocent foolishness … I cannot imagine the part better played.

 

But my favourite – well, we all have favorites! – performance of the night was that of Veit Schäfermeier as Professor Ambrosius. When I first heard the score, I dubbed his music ‘Offenbachian’. But the whole role is pure Gilbert and Sullivan. You could pluck him from this show and put him straight into the Major General’s part in The Pirates of Penzance. His patter singing was superb, precise and truly sung (no cheating Sprechstimme here), his acting quite delicious, and he quite simply made me laugh out loud over and over again. Whatever a Tony Award is in German, that is a winner’s performance. The smaller parts were all well filled, and the chorus sang and danced winningly. I particularly liked the Red Boots Dream Ballet and the 2nd-Act Vampire Song. Oh, dammit, I liked practically everything. Although it got deafeningly loud (for me, already half deaf) at the end.

  So, the second half of my night ended up as enjoyable as the first. Mike rushed backstage for his notes session, as I headed for the Zoo U-Bahn and Nollendorfstrasse. No twenty years ever again. No fear. Same time, next year?

A Tale of Hoffman's

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After my swirl of restaurant stories in Jersey, eating out has rather played second string to theatre, music and friends in Berlin … the best eating out I’ve done here has been at friends’ homes ... Paul, PGB and Olli have all cooked really tasty meals for me, and Thomas and Wolfgang staged another of their wonderful, memorable dinner parties for me at Potsdam …

However, last night it was restaurant time. My wedding present to Thomas and Pablo was ‘dinner wherever you like’. Chuckle, I knew they wouldn’t choose a Turkish takeaway! So last night we – the newlyweds, Paul and I -- repaired to E T A Hoffmann’s restaurant in the Yorckstrasse, Kreuzberg. Half-an-hour’s stroll through the rain-spattered streets from Schöneberg …

It is a pleasant place, discreetly and warmly decorated, we were given a very nice table, in a window bay, and were attended upon very graciously by the team of two young women and a lad who would care for us in a nicely leisurely fashion for the next 2 ½ hours.



The menu immediately gives one confidence. You can have 3 or 4 courses, with their choice of wines (or without), and the choice in each course is sophisticatedly limited to four or five items. I decided to go the whole hog. Four courses. Beginning with a leisurely pernod.

For a starter, I had ‘stunned’ duck. Presumably stunned before being cooked. This is what it looked like. Encouraging, eh?



Well, it fulfilled its promise. The flesh, cooked, as you can see, in three different ways (all delicious), was tender, moist and not duck-fatty, and the purée of ?pois chiche was a grand accompaniment. I even ate the greenery, which I thought a bit under-classy. Something more original than lettuce would have been nice.

I followed up with veal kidney as entrée. One of my favourite dishes, but a weeny bit disappointing. A nice helping, firm and tasty, with a not very significant sauce. I would have just like a little taste tweak (NOT tomato) in there somewhere.



Then the main course. Triumph. I – the New Zealander – ordered lamb. I checked with the lady first: it WOULD come super-rare? She checked. It would. It did. It was beautiful. On the left, braised lamb, soft and falling apart: on the right, the pink-red cutlet … absolutely perfect! A sort of ratatouille julienne underneath I could take or leave (ordinary lentils would have taken the juice better) but that lamb -- from northern Germany it seems -- was some of the best I have ever tasted.
Paul had monkfish, the groom and groom had baby venison, and we were all very happy.

The others ventured into crême brulée and clafoutis (both of which got top votes) for dessert, while I opted for my usual cheese and port. The cheese was unadventurous but palatable, the port nice. But I wished I’d had the very good-looking crème brulée.

Our dinner was accompanied by a selection of German wines: mine beginning with a soft riesling, rising to a stouter chardonnay, and climaxing in an excellent pinot noir. I was pleased to see (chardonnay with kidneys) that the old saw about red with this and white with that has gone.



So all in all, a highly pleasant meal, in pleasant surroundings, pleasantly served, and in very special company. And how does it compare with my Jersey winners?
It serves a different kind of food to, say, Bohemia. Much less adventurous or quirky. Some of the dishes are quite simple. Which doesn’t mean they are not good. The duck and the lamb chez Hoffmann would grace any table … and I will certainly visit chef Thomas Kurt (yes! that’s really his name) again next year..

Oh. Price? Since you ask. 350 euros (inclusive) for four. Fair enough…

We finished our evening by popping round the corner to visit Olli at his (temporary) workplace, the Rauschgold, a tiny little gay bar in the Mehringdamm, and there we nightcapped amid folk having nearing-midnight fun, before diving for a damp taxicab … Paul, after all, is on a 7.50am train to Bayreuth for Tristan …

Offenbach on the Spree

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I’m just home from the Neuköllner Oper. Not really an opera house. Well, not the bit I’ve just been to. A ‘studio’, to be polite. Aw, heck, a room with 70-80 (53 I now discover!) chairs stuck around the side.
And if I tell you, Berlin has done it again? For the third time in a few weeks, I’ve had a superb theatre night out.

It didn’t look promising. A ‘version’ of Halévy and Offenbach’s delicious bit of very French Chinese musical insanity, Ba-ta-clan. ‘Version’ gives me as many shudders as the dreaded German words ‘bearbeitet’ or ‘dramaturg’ or (worst) ‘Regietheater’. I mean, why can’t they do it as it was written? It’s perfect, and has been since 1855.
OK, perfect for France. OK, I can see it might have to be localised (as Karl Treumann did 150 years ago) for Germany. But what’s this? A whole new libretto …?
My hackles were up before I entered the theatre.

Wrong.

I have to deal with this in two halves. The music and the play. The glittering shower of Offenbach music was largely presented as written, arranged orchestrally for a curious 1960s Wersi-Organ affair by md Andrew Hannan. A few funnies, and the swapping of one role from a male to a female (which worked perfectly) … no complaints.


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The play? Well, the zany idea was kept, but otherwise it was wholly rewritten by one named Kriss Rudolph. Mr Rudolph, when I entered the theatre, I was ready to damn you for iconoclasm. But do you know what, in spite of my limited German, I think you utterly pulled it off. Your piece might be about an ‘Uprising in a Fortune-Cookie Factory’ (Aufstand der Glückskekese) -- which Halévy’s’ is not -- , but you have kept the theme and the wonderful ‘bouffe’ spirit of the thing perfectly. And written a wholly successful show around Offenbach’s magical score. I never would have thought it possible.



That ‘bouffe’ spirit – which is the dramatic be-all and end-all of pieces like Ba-ta-clan – was beautifully upheld by director Gustav Rueb and by the four exceptional players who presented the piece. I don’t expect, in 2012, to find young performers who can play with the true burlesque flair of the 19th century ... and sing, too! Who says there are no singers these days who can act? I can immediately point them to four young people who gave us an evening of delirious comic fun, and sang Offenbach’s music with flair, accuracy and point: Alexandra Schmidt (a very funny actress with a voluminous and rangy soprano), Nini Stadlmann (whose role was written for a man) as a glorious komische Alte ... major theatres, watch her ... Nikolas Heiber as a hunky light baritone hero and Dejan Brkic as a super-funny baritone ‘villain’. I regretted the ‘translation’ only once: when his ’Morto’s (the piece's integral parody of the Italian opera) were Teutonised …



What can I say else? I went to slay, and came away praising. Hugely.

The conception, direction and performance could not have been bettered. And oh! what genuine musical theatre fun. Hurrah!

I think I may have to go back next week.

Photos: Lena Kern

LE CHEVAL DE BRONZE or Auber-y splendid!

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Whenever I come for my now yearly stay in Berlin, I always seem to get a treat in the way of productions of interesting, little-performed nineteenth-century operas, and this year is no exception.
I am, of course, a huge fan of the music of Auber, which dominated the most joyful French and foreign comic opera stages of his time, but it does seem odd that the only two productions of his work I’ve ever seen should have been in Germany. And in German. Which is a bit of a shame for me, who speaks French but little German. And in an Auber comic opera, there is a lot of sparkling comedy (written by the great, if by today’s standards slightly long-winded, Eugene Scribe), which it is sad to miss.

So, last night I went to the Komische Oper to see the Auber/Scribe Das bronzene Pferd. Now, there can surely be only one reason for selecting this particular one of the French duo’s many successful operas: extravagant spectacle. Whereas some of their pieces are like drawing-room comedies with songs, others – including this one – were written for the Parisian théâtre à grand spectacle. A Chinese setting, a flying horse, scenes on an extra-terrestrial planet … a rampant designer’s delight. And hundreds of dancers, extras, costumes etc.




Well, I didn’t really expect them to run to a hundred coryphees at the Komische Oper, but I did expect rather more ‘grand spectacle’ than we got. The sorcerer’s planet was white curtains. And while there were some fun effects: the Horse arriving to aeroplane noises, in swirling winds and machine-smoke, and leaving a cartoon cutout hole in the wall … I felt a bit cheated on the visual side. And what do you with all the scene-change music when there is no scenery to change. Here, the time was filled by the antics of pandas and (yawn) bonking monkeys. The hundred chorines would have been infinitely preferable.
I got the feeling that director and designer were fettered by financial constraints. Which you really can’t be when you are doing an opérette à grand spectacle or a grand-opera-bouffe fèerie.



So, reservations on the visual production and on the timid direction, but very few reservations on the performers.

The star of the show was the ‘heavy lady’, ‘the character woman’, the Scribeische ancestor of Katisha and the Fairy Queen, played here wonderfully well by the not at all old and ugly – but infinitely funny -- Swedish soprano, Erika Roos. Dressed like a mixture of Edna Everage and Janet Street Porter – one of the rare examples of an aumusing costume in a piece which would gain much from them – she carried all before her. The thin and pretty indifferent audience finally came awake when she gave Tao-Jin’s big scene and aria, flinging herself about like a demented drag queen while singing (upside down) quite dazzlingly, and they applauded her ten times as much as anything else in the performance.



The other stand-out was the mezzo, Annelie Sophie Müller, as the farmer’s daughter, Péki, the soubrette who dresses as a boy to rescue her country lad from enchantment. She played with sprightly, unforced comedy, made up into an amusing and handsome young man, and sang quite beautifully throughout.
The men of the piece, who need to be as much comic actors as singers, did their parts well: The mandarin, Tsing-Ling (Tom Erik Lie) handicapped by a false chest and belly, the farmer (in a suit?) Tschin-Koo (Juri Batukov) with his big Act 2 song, and the Prince (Sung-Keun Park) who started weakly – and out of tune – but who came good wonderfully once he got dancing around like a windmill. The fourth principal man was off. So a vocalist sang his role from the forestage while the assistant director acted the role. And acted it marvellously, with a true sense of comic timing. He should take singing lessons immediately!
The galactic scenes in the second act introduce two new characters: the femme fatale Princess Stella (Julia Giebel) and her wise-cracking maid (Violetta Madjarowa). The princess was portrayed as a gawky hoyden, which seemed to make little sense plotwise, and had little acting to do but be gawky and fatale. A difficult combination especially with a director who thinks sex is best portrayed by removing clothes, and jabbing with your pelvis. However, Stella also has a brilliant coloratura aria to sing which Ms Giebel managed accurately and enjoyably. I’d have enjoyed it more, however, sung by Theda Bara rather than Joyce Grenfell.
Lo Mangli, the maid, delivered her lines in a nice, quirky, chesty growl. So it was rather a surprise when she gave her little number in a petite soprano. Better to cut it.

If I seem overly critical of this production, it may be that I’ve waited half a century for it, and have very C19th ideas about what it should be. And I really did enjoy seeing it, hearing it, and in particular discovering the two leading ladies. I had a thoroughly agreeable evening. But I didn’t go wow! More directorial flair, much more extravagant staging ... Scribe and Auber are, of course, the forerunners of Meilhac, Halevy and Offenbach … are needed to make this piece all it can be.
But, of course, that means greater resources – financial and manpower –which probably can’t be justified for a production of a little-known piece.

Thank you, Komische Oper, for letting me see Le Cheval de bronze. I see its Monteverdi and Mozart next year, but can we have more French opéra-comique in the future!

PS a little touch of class! My ticket was 87 euros. But I got a complimentary glass of wine, and a string duo in the foyer as extras. Both much appreciated. And a nice front-row box seat … a loge makes one feel ‘in the opera world’.