Pelleas et Melisande: The Song of the Blind

[Helene]

I just returned from the North American premiere of Philippe Beziat's film "Pelleas et Melisande: le chant des aveugles" at the Vancouver International Film Festival. I've always loved movies whose subject is a behind the scenes of a movie, play, opera, concert, Flamenco show, etc., and this was no exception. Made from a series piano, orchestral, stage, and dress rehearsals of the first production Debussy's opera in Russia at Moscow's Stanislavski & Némirovitch-Dantchenko Theater in 2007 as well as interviews, it wasn't a typical "talking head" kind of documentary. For one, there was more music than talk, including extended scenes from the opera. Where there was talk, it was usually either a musician or singer speaking about the work from a personal standpoint or the director, Olivier Py, talking about the drama. There were a couple of scenes with an elderly string player, probably in her '70's, who spoke about how little was known about Debussy's music before the Iron Curtain fell, and in one very moving scene she talked how she felt when she played the music. She was an inspiration in her openness to enchantment, no matter how late in life or career.

The three main characters were French singers -- Jean-Sébastien Bou (Pelléas), Sophie-Marie Degor (Mélisande), François Leroux (Golaud) -- while the Arkel, Dmitri Stepanovitch, and Genevieve, Natalia Vladimirskaia, were Russian. Stepanovitch had one of the early interviews in the movie, and likened himself to his character, Arkel, which missed the point that while Arkel might have been kind and old, he wasn't particularly wise, and the bass mistook the character for a more positive archtype. Director Py spoke about how the French language is monotonous, and through the monotony, it creates depth. He gave an example that when theater conservatory graduates would do Moliere, they would try to add emphasis and drama to line where neither was appropriate. Stepanovitch decided over the rehearsal period that he needed to imbue his lines with more Russian-like drama, and there was a long conversation, with a translator in the middle, in which he was clearly not happy to be told to sing it the way he started, with a flatter, more authentic intonation. (He argued that there was never a successful production of Pelleas, and the lack of drama was why.) It was fascinating the way in which these two threads in the film came together. It was very much like watching the early Mariinsky Balanchine performances (and some of the more recent ones), as the company tried to learn the nuances of the style, but fell back on what they knew.

The production, conducted by Marc Minkowski, had the kind of design for which I am a total sucker, all steel and stairs moved around by visible stagehands. (My favorite of these was in the Adelaide "Ring", where a circle of steel poles rose from the stage to create Hunding's hut/Sieglinde's prison.) I couldn't find a design credit, but one review suggests (I think) that Py did the set design ("Paradoxalement, cet opéra presque surnaturel, à l’ambiance ténébreuse sublimée par les structures métalliques (du château, de la forêt) imaginées par Olivier Py,"), unless this means he came up with the idea and someone else realized them. I found the set very powerful, and I wish I could have seen it live. Bou, a baritone, and Degor, were heartbreaking in the love scene in the forest.

[bart]

I'm envious of our experience. Pelleas is an opera I have never been able to enjoy, even though I've tried quite hard. I suspect I'm not alone in this. The artistic explorations you describe might be of enormous help to those of us who can't quite penetrate the work and who find it ... so very l-o-n-g.

Director Py spoke about how the French language is monotonous, and through the monotony, it creates depth. He gave an example that when theater conservatory graduates would do Moliere, they would try to add emphasis and drama to line where neither was appropriate.

Interesting point. A similar point was made about the vast differences between the style of playing Racine's verse at the Comedie Francaise, long ago, and Ted Hughes's translation of Phedre, recently performed much more conversationally and emphatically at the National Theater, London. (That's the version simulcast in movie theaters around the world last summer.)

Regarding the following:

[ ... ] the point that while Arkel might have been kind and old, he wasn't particularly wise

Arkel also was written as a kind of meditation on old age: a character who, as he moves towards death, letting go of many of his earthly concerns and delusions. I am probably misremembering, but isn't this part sometimes -- and incorrectly -- interpreted and played as actually a bit foolish and out of touch?

Your story about the aging string player was lovely. It's great to see that the many unofficial iron curtains of the world continue to be lifted, here and there.