Think well of the bull

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'.

Mr M was right

1 During a rummage through old papers, I came across a review, dated 18 March 2006, of Eugene Onegin at the ROH. It was the production which Christa and I attended on my recent birthday, a production which prompted the subsequent disapproving comments. So how did Richard Morrison's views compare with our ones? Read on.

2 'Perhaps opera bosses give half-time pep talks, like football manages. That would explain why, after an Act 1 as lively as washed-up seaweed, this Royal Opera's new staging of Onegin mustered a few late flickers of drama.' was the opening sentence of Mr M's review. The singer who sang the title role 'sang with customary suavity ... and acted with customary impassivity. A broom might have been livelier'. The sets? '..a mishmash of wimpy Romantic paintings and Hollywood sunsets'. The onstage pond? A novelty. And the staging? 'Otherwise, the staging seemed desperately old-fashioned (peasant girls doing dull dances in immaculate smocks), orr inept (the ball scene squashed on to a finy strip of stage), or simply under-directed.'

3 As you can see, I was sufficiently struck by the congruence between Mr M's views and C's and mine to record it on the blog. We choose to attend without recalling the two-year old production - there's been many an opera in between; if we had recalled, if we have our comments on recent productions in front of us as we select our operas for next year and the year beyond, would we have decided not to attend. Maybe. Just as likely - or perhaps more likely - would be the inclination 'give the production a second chance'.

4 And what about the status of Mr M's reviews? Are they to be read before the production or are we to attend the production untainted? A choice. The pre-reading may steer our perception: we may be looking out for what Mr M touched upon. A subsequent reading, that is, a reading subsequent not only to attendance but also to the posting on the blog, is a sterner test - is it? - but we have a foundation for a confidence in our judgement, compared to Mr M's

Don

1 The day's programme began well with lunch in Fortnum & Mason. We took our seats opposite one and other at the long, refrectory tables. We chatted, undisturbed by the neighbouring conversations, selected, and continued to chat and to eat. Two hours passed companionably. By the time we left, the tables had been laid for tea, and the first of the places had been taken.

2 To Hatchards, to Hatchards, to browse and to browse, and even to buy. So many possibilities. So many books to add to those already on the shelves, each waiting its turn to be read. Rather like a harem where each of the women, bought or donated, wait on the Great Man's pleasure. From the books on offer, two were selected. The Thirty-Nine Steps will be given to a grandson. If he likes it, then there could be more from the same pen. A book of its time, I wonder how the young man will take to it. The Adventures of Don Quixote will be by the bed, there to be read a chapter at a time. The exemplary picaresque novel?

3 Simon Russell Beale spoke Milton's lines in corresponding exemplary fashion. Claire Tomalin spoke about the poet, whilst her colleague gave voice to them. Forty-five minutes of pleasure, listening to both. The pleasure of the lines being delivered remains with me. So does Milton and Shakespeare, for the former was born just a few years before the death of the latter. The overlap. The connexion across the centuries. I also registered that Milton secured a European reputation as a poet. And the creation of the heroic Satan, the angel who was thrown out of heaven as the result of a cosmic struggle and who sought a revenge by interfering with the divine order of the Garden.

4 And what of Onegin? He had flown from Germany to take the part. We agreed that the first Act had failed to engage. Tatiana, the dreamer, the vulnerable, the young woman who declares her love in a message to the new man. The new man who was so distant, who was insensitive to the young woman's feeling. The return of the love-letter, the advice to be more discreet. How unfeeling. And we were left without feeling for the exchanges.

4.1 Things were livelier in the second Act. The name-day, Lensky's distress as Onegin flirts with Olga. The quarrel, the challenge, the setting for the duel. Yet, whilst things were livelier, there remained the feeling, as we left, that the opera might be weak, that the failure to engage was not just the result of the particular performers. Before the evening, the opera had been amongst the preferred Glynbebourne ones. After the performance, the ranking for Glyndebourne has to be re-thought.

5 But what a high-cultural day, a tribute to London and to the companionable, shared tastes. Such a day gains from company. Of course it does. There is someone with whom to exchange the thoughts. And it's only when I speak that I know what I think. True?

No, it's not

1 Insofar as we thought at all, we guessed that it would not be La Fille du Regiment, nor would it be Don Pasquale. Still, we could expect a few tunes. After all, the opera had been composed by Donizetti. Now we know. Now that we've seen the opera, now that we've thought about it, now that your correspondent has spent read some of the reviews (on the web), I'm (we're) ready to say what was going on. A dark opera.

2 Yes, indeed. Ravenswood castle was an inhospitable place. There were no comforts there for a young woman. We sensed that straightaway as we took in the setting, the empty rooms, the windows (and the sense of constantly being seen), the men's (especially her brother's) concern for power and fortune. Money, and power, were the drivers. The exercise of a brother's power over his sister was to drive her into a marriage entirely of convenience. It had already driven her, it was clear, to comply with the brother's incestuous directions. As we watched the games, the first scene, in which Lucia lay, in white, upon a bed whilst her brother sat, in grey broadcloth, at a business desk, made sense. The castle was a place in which humanity and care, with the exception of the young woman's companion, had no place. It was no place for a fragile young woman, perhaps no place for any young woman.

3 If there was a breath of fresh air, if there was a person of natural good-will, then it must be the dispossessed owner of the castle, the man from the heather, as it were, Edgardo. He, in leather coat and kilt, be-sworded, was able to love the young woman, to express that love, and to be rewarded with hers. Alas, a man, even a man from the heather, with natural good-will, has to do what a man has to do. He must go about public business and leave the young woman (to the mis-handling of the others).

4 Those others continue the imprisonment. In concert, they sunder the link between the lovers. The young woman, in ritual white, is brought to the culminating submission of a marriage with the man, who seems aimably indifferent to the woman, before the audience, grey and indifferent too. She signs the marriage contract. Her sentence is life.

5 There was no surprise when the leather-coated, kilted, still sworded lover enters through a window. Bravura, bravado, sword against pistol. The man from the heather, and men such as he, must fail before the new men, the members of the dominant commercial class (who have done well out of the change of monarchs and who will remain in power for years, and years).

6 There has been a sense of the Gothic throughout the opera. The lighting, the Wolf's Tower, the sense of awful things in remote castles, madness in those castles. Now we come to the Grand Guignol. The young woman returns from the marriage bed in a bloodied white gown. Her husband is dead in the bed, killed by the young woman. She is mad. The man who loves her kills himself.

7 Such was our night at the opera. Ah, had we known what to expect, we should have been more receptive. Still, we know now, and we will be ready for a later production. In the meantime, we have also been reminded of the benefits of a review immediately after a performance. We have been reminded not just to ask 'Now, what was all that about?' but to treat the question seriously and to undertake the process of developing an answer.

What's going on?

1 Well, it's a dance. Her step-father, seriously Numero Uno, asks her to dance. She refuses. He asks again, and again. He offers big, big money. He swears that he will give her what she asks for, up to half the kingdom (just to see her dance). So we listen to the preparatory music, and then she dances.

2 Now on a stage a seven-minute (or so) solo dance is a challenge. It's probably a particular challenge to opera singers. So far as I have seen, the performer can go round in circles, can go from side to side, and from front to back. Clothes on, clothes off? A question, and we're all waiting for the answer. Years ago Maria Ewing took off seven coverings and then stood naked, hands in the air. All in the cause of the development of the narrative, you understand. You see if Salomé was dressed for the part then it does look as if she expected the lascivious old step-dad to ask her, doesn't it? And not only that because it also looks as if she was prepared and knew what to do. It wasn't the first time she had danced for the old sod. Oh, no. Just listen to Herodias.

3 So she's dancing. Everyone is looking on. There's no talking on stage. And there's no talking in the auditorium. So what about the opera? What's going on? A mid-opera entertainment, according to the fashion of the ballet in La Traviata? What do we learn from these seven minutes, about seven percent of the total performance-time? Read on.

4 Yesterday evening, we learned what was going on. The on-stage onlookers were removed from our sight as the stage revolved. Undistracted, we watched the young woman and her step-father. We watched as she put on a dress and, with his help, took it off. We watched as he watched her and as they joined. A private display, a private pleasure. Lest we failed to read the performance, the backdrops explained. The libation too told us about soiling, about who had been soiled. So we learned that the invitation to 'Dance for me, Salomé' was not a first invitation. No, indeed. There had been previous dances, previous displays, previous pleasures. The presentation of the dance made sense. It was part of the development of the opera.

4.1 And it made things so much easier for the dancer. Instead of being required to perform a solo dance for seven minutes, the actor was now part of a duet, both members of the duet having a contribution to make to the developing story of a step-father's abuse of his power over his step-daughter.

5 Now, think afresh about the relationship between Salomé and the Baptist. Think afresh.

Preparing for Salomé

We are about to visit a shocking opera, shocking even for the worldly-wise. After all, the central line of the narrative is the abuse of a young girl by her father. Herod, most worldly-wise, is so keen that she should dance for him that he offers her anything she asks for, even half his kingdom. Of course, it will not have been the first time that she has danced for him. He knows what to expect; he knows that, if she does dance, the performance will be worth the price. And remember, she will dance for him in public. Herod's court is that sort of place.

Alongside the eroticism place the Baptist. The profane and the sacred. From the depths the Baptist thunders against the lasciviousness of the court. It is the young woman, brought up in the court, abused there, who responds. The one-sided contest begins. The young woman is armed with bare flesh and the prospect of unconstrained eroticism. The Baptist is armed with the certainties of the Word. Of course, it is the young woman, so lightly armed, who loses. Both lose, the Baptist his head, the young woman her life.

And we are to witness the contest, played out within the cruelities of the court.

Another fine bike ride

1 In Westerham, in the sun. In the sun, sitting outside a café, by a table on which rested a pot of tea, scones, butter, and jam. Yes, you’ve guessed. We were on our Sunday bike ride. A Sunday ride with a difference. At 0900, the time when a Forest Row Bike Club member, is preparing to leave the house, it was cold. A well-prepared biker was a well-covered one. No shorts, you understand.

2 Still, for some of us, as we awaited the main body, there was time to notice East Court, the Town offices, as it stood in the sunlight. A house, just as well sited on the rise, must have been enveloped in sunshine. And the large pig who came to the fence, and whose nose was tickled by one of us, also seemed to be at ease in the sun. Sunshine, bright light, bare trees, and a penetrating cold as we rolled down the first of the hills – we were on the way which would lead, eventually, to that time in the sun in Westerham.

3 Besides the cold, we had the ice to worry about. Once or twice, it made sense to walk carefully where it would have been impossible to ride carefully. Still, the swans on the lake seemed to be at ease with the lake. For a moment, it was possible to believe that the three of them had been caught in the ice, that they were waiting for the sun to bring them back to life.

4 Along familiar and unfamiliar lanes and narrow roads somewhere in Surrey, then in East Sussex, and then in Kent – a Three Counties ride. Easy riding, in the sun, the initial coldness having given away to a comfortable warmth, whilst moving. A horse was ahead, with a groomed tail that almost reached the ground. What a fine animal. Along the road by a reservoir. Bird-watchers on either side. One elderly man walked along with a large tripod and telescope; he was followed by an elderly woman – an evident pair – with the binoculars. The herons, meanwhile, just got on with whatever they were doing.

5 A T-junction. Doleful choices: Ide Hill to the left, a steep hill; York hill to the right, a steeper hill. Of course, our way was to the right. There was a long lead to the hill itself. We climbed about 100 metres, with the bulk of the rise being concentrated in a short horizontal distance. A large cog on the back wheel enabled one elderly rider to climb slowly to the point where the top was visible; from there, the only way really was up for to hesitate, to falter was to fall into the road.

6 To Westerham, to take our places, in the sun, outside the café. Churchill sat before us. He was 65 when he became Prime Minister (and Minister of Defence) in May 1940. Two years later, in late 1942, he was flown from London to Alexandria in a bomber, from there to Teheran, and on to Moscow. And back again. Long, noisy journeys for a man in his late 60s, but he carried them off well. He also had a 15-hour flight in a flying boat, an altogether different flying experience. He insisted, by the way, on being served his meals according to his ‘stomach time’. Beyond him, with his back to us, General Wolfe faced the oncoming traffic with a sword held high in the air. For the French, the loss of Quebec, in 1759, was a decisive event in the destruction of the French empire in North America. (The Peace Treaty, 1763, allowed the French to keep two small islands off Newfoundland, two islands which remain French to this day.)

7 For two of the group, the return journey began with a climb up Crockham Hill, then the vibrant swoop down the other side. To Edenbridge, to Marsh Green, to Dormansland, and the sharp climb up to East Grinstead. Fortyone good miles, 65 km. What another fine ride we were lead into. Many thanks to our leader.