Gestures are of the sort you see every day, and are seldom stylized. Likewise the terrible moment of recognition when Siegmund glimpses Wälse moments before Wotan throws him back onto Hunding’s spear. Their embrace during Wotan’s Act three farewell is so ordinary it is heart-wrenching. For an aching moment it is no longer an epic but a story of a depressed and damaged father and his doting daughter, whose dysfunctional relationship will go on to collapse. In a quiet interlude as Wotan slumps into despondency on the couch, accompanied by solo bass clarinet, Brünnhilde holds him with remarkable tenderness. Jones’ ironic – even witty – approach to the Ring’s mythic character surely rankles with traditionalists, but it does clear the ground for a psychological acuity and rawness that other productions occlude with grandeur or philosophy.Īct one’s tense exchanges between Siegmund, Sieglinde and Hunding had the eloquence and concentration of a play. The most effective sequences came from superb Personregie and relative simplicity of presentation. Jones’ direction makes gods and warrior-maidens feel ordinary, grounded, and their stories recognizably domestic. Some will find this sequence clumsy and immersion shattering – I felt it had a strangely bathetic, ordinary charm, and eerie tenderness. Wotan wrapped Brünnhilde in his padded red anorak and attached her to cables – she was raised above the stage, floating in suspended animation. There was no fire at the end, and no concession was made with lighting or projection to ameliorate it. The final act plays out under black snow – grimly apocalyptic – on a near empty stage the bodies of slain heroes are hoisted into the flys. A huge grey curtain frames the stage, which contains Hunding and Sieglinde’s barren little hut (they sleep in the attic) and then Wotan’s slightly more extravagant timber chalet. The setting is modern – a kind of Nordic noir – with understated costumes and simple sets (the latter by Stewart Laing). His vision is by turns spare and cartoonish, but ultimately one that rests on an acute sensitivity to how gesture and music come together. Surely ENO could’ve sought someone younger and less-established to bring this project to life? One wonders how prudent such a decision is – the Ring is surely too important and significant to be entrusted to a director who has already given it a go in London.
He has returned to ENO to have another bite at the golden apple. Jones last directed the Ring at Covent Garden in the late nineties, in a production widely disliked for its irreverent (though iconic) attitude.
There was also a rather mysterious kerfuffle over the involvement of conductor Anthony Negus, who disappeared from the ENO website only to be lately reinstated.
A head cold afflicted both Nicky Spence and Susan Bickley the former did sing, the latter did not, walking the role instead. One wonders how such problems were not foreseen with over a year of planning – but at time of writing it’s unclear where the fault may lie. The grandiose fire effect planned for the end had been, at the eleventh hour, forbidden by Westminster council for safety reasons (the Coliseum is a grand old building with special status). It seems his spirit was rather haunting this production, which was beset with woe. Misfortune follows poor Siegmund everywhere he goes.
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