Asides from Glyndebourne

Asides from Glyndebourne

The first thing one notices on arriving at Glyndebourne is the beauty of the place, a series of wonderful large flower and tree gardens and vast lawns, all set in the South Downs. Beyond the gardens are fields and lovely hills. Perfect on a sunny, but not sweltering, summer’s afternoon. (A slight reservation must be registered over the large wind turbine at the back of the house and the big water tank-like structure on the roof where house joins concert hall – presumably containing the stage machinery.)

There is a preliminary experience to be had if one travels by train to nearby Lewes. For each performance the Glyndebourne authorities designate a particular train. It will be met by coaches for complimentary transfer to the Opera. Effectively this means that the designated train becomes a sort of school train  (as in Harry Potter books), except that the, by and large, elderly “pupils” (nearly all in a uniform of formal black tie, for this is the “advised”, but not enforced, dress code) are not in exclusive occupation. They have to mix it, somewhat incongruously, with local passengers and bemused travellers on their way to Gatwick Airport.

At Lewes station the spectacle grows stranger. A crocodile of the evening-suited and –gowned forms in the shabby carpark, waiting for the obliging coaches. The Glyndebourne people don’t know the numbers coming on the train. They guess the capacity needed and then recycle a coach or two as necessary. We were towards the back of the crocodile, and under the early afternoon sun, and in formal wear, the temptation to share one of the idle taxis standing just across the carpark was great.  But there is a catch. One can’t get the coach back in the evening unless you take the coach out. So wait it out we did.

The scene in the grounds at Glyndebourne resembles a gilded mirror-image of some disorganised migrant camp. Instead of pathetic possessions and wretched improvised tents scattered about some rubbish-strewn wasteland, you have sumptuous hampers, picnic tables and ice buckets scattered randomly throughout the beautiful gardens and the outer precincts of the concert hall.

The Opera we saw/heard was Britten’s The Rape of Lucretia. (There’s a certain pedantry or music snobbery about the choice of verb. An opera is intrinsically both aural and visual. But as it is more visual than a concert, which one “hears”, I prefer to “see” an opera.)

I don’t get TRoL, though I very much like Britten’s music. In general the plot lines and libretti of most operas are pretty thin, dramatic effect relying on the emotional intensity of music and singing. TRoL is about male military boastfulness. Impetuosity and, frankly, misogyny one the one hand and the hard emotional lot of virtuous upper class Roman women on the other. So far, so unexceptional. Then Britten adds in a perplexing pair of choristers (ie a Chorus of two, man and woman), who comment (inaudibly to the dramatic protagonists) on the action from a modern, Christian perspective.  So Lucretia’s agony, and eventual suicide, is succinctly swallowed up in, and redeemed by, Christ’s agony. Britten’s point being…? Irony? Straight piety?

There was one bit of the Opera which hit home with the Glyndebourne audience, which otherwise listened/watched in rapt if puzzled silence. The Chorus commented that one of Lucretia’s household attendants greeted the arrival of Prince Tarquin, the eventual rapist, with a servant’s studied “rude politeness”. A subdued chuckle came from the Glyndebourne assembled at this: they connected across the dramatic centuries with this sort of servant problem.

Finally, a sartorial tip. If, like me, you don’t possess a dinner jacket, don’t hire - improvise. I felt comfortable in a smart suit, white shirt and red bowtie (£10 from Moss Bros). The bowtie is key, because outside jackets are mostly off in the sunshine, and inside it is mostly dark.

July 2015