1 The stance remains with me, that baleful stance. The feet apart, the torso, the head, the horns. Strength, power. Ready and always inclined to do what bulls do, though in this instance the bull’s needs are met by the killing of people, young and old, who are the annual tribute from Athens to Crete. An opera about a bull, an unusual opera, all the more unusual because the bull is the leading character, a character who is a natural force but is one who is self-aware, who reflects on his condition and finds it wanting. A bull who dies, a bull whose death prompts our sympathy. A remarkable opera.
2 The setting and the music also remain in the memory. The slow-moving sea, continually dipping and rising. displayed on a backdrop, was a reminder of the inexorable power of nature, and so of the Minotaur’s insatiable appetite for fresh provender. The sunlit Crete, the arrival beach for the latest of the black-sailed cargoes, was evoked. Below was the domain of the Minotaur, a corrida in which the Minotaur was master, the killing ground, an arena where, in a contest as unequal as that between a deer and a lion, the Athenians were killed, to the cheers of the underground spirits in the balcony. Powerful stuff.
2.1 Ah, the music. Undoubtedly, it was original; and it would have been easy to determine the composer. A 100 years ago, the younger Mr Strauss assaulted the Viennese sensibilities which had been accustomed to the older man's compositions and to the compositions of young Mr Mozart and his kind. An evening with Mr Birtwhistle must be something like those evenings with the younger Strauss. Discordant, tuneless are two terms which come to mind. Yet it was worthwhile to give the ears a chance, to attend to the sounds; it was worthwhile to receive them along with the sharp lighting, the set, the shrieks of the underground scavengers, the underground spirits, who were subordinate companions to the ravaging of the bull. Give the music a chance.
3 The originality is apparent. It is an opera about the familiar story of the annual delivery of Athenians to their certain, terrifying death in the underground realm of the uncaring beast, the Minotaur. A monster, we shudder, one who, in the dark, will be indifferent to the terror, to the screams of the living. A dark, underground place. Yet the bull is no mere automaton. This bull is conscious of his dark place and of his recollection of another place. We are accustomed to thinking about the living beings who will constitute the Minotaur’s food; we now think about the Minotaur’s imprisonment within the maze. He too seeks a release.
4 Of course, he has to die. The myth requires that Theseus must triumph, that Theseus must kill the beast. Yet when he does, as surely he will, it will be a step-brother who kills his step-brother, an inter-familal killing. Whilst the myth must be honoured, there is a time in the combat when Theseus seems to be vanquished. His step-brother, simultaneously magnificent beast and imprisoned human, could have been the one to strike his step-brother. Yet the myth requires that Theseus should retrieve his stabbing sword, should be able to outwit the human beast and plunge the weapon ito the beast’s chest. The beast, now victim, dies slowly, alone, in the darkness of the underground. And we are affected. We feel the death. We feel that we have been spectators not to the triumph of Theseus but to the destruction of the Minotaur. Theseus, meanwhile, escapes from the maze by following the Ariadne trail. He, alone, returns from the dead. They sail to Athens, white sails billowing.
5 And, in reflection, what remains. Ah, the bull remains. An animal, a beast, which gives it name to the opera and which is the main performer. The destructive, reflective bull. A tale which, in the re-telling, enables us to hear a voice, a roaring voice, which is otherwise never heard. The world of the above-ground and of the under-ground. The complementarity of the music (the sounds), the settings, the backdrop, the new language - all components of an opera which is about the Minotaur. 'Explain clock-wise', said the master. The acolyte did so. 'Ah', said the master, 'but explain it from the point of view of the clock'.
