When the Glass feels half full
Pity this poor opera critic. There are some things I never realised I had signed up for – one of them being a sentence to endure Philip Glass’s “non-linear meditation on Gandhi’s philosophy of non-violent resistance” Satyagraha, revived for the third time in a decade by ENO and received with rapt attention by a full house.
Why is it such an ordeal? Noise levels are not breached; Gandhi is good. The libretto (in Sanskrit, mind) doesn’t preach hatred or nihilism, and the music’s simple harmonies lull rather than bully. But in my position, I can’t nod off or drift into thinking about my overdue tax return; I can’t let the soapy mush of Hindu high-mindedness wash over me or inhale it while floating on hashish: for your sakes, dear readers, I have to remain alert, sober and vigilant throughout. And that is very hard indeed.
Perhaps if I were less Western in temperament, less impatient and earthbound, I could compare Glass’s hypnotically repetitive arpeggios and their snail’s-pace modulations and monochrome orchestration to the lapping of waves, the susurration of bees, or the scudding of clouds. But these dreary noises don’t make me feel poetic, they don’t calm me or leave me feeling at one with the universe – they merely fill me with a sense of utter, pointless banality.
What makes the evening almost endurable is a very beautiful staging by Improbable’s Phelim Mcdermott and Julian Crouch. Meticulously choreographed and ritualised, it presents a solemn parade of weird and wonderful gods and monsters, magically created out of newspaper and Sellotape, against a background of corrugated iron walls that are finally transcended. Not all the imagery seems immediately relevant to the implications of the text (focused over three acts on Gandhi’s formative years in South Africa, his encounters with Tagore and Tolstoy and his legacy to the Civil Rights movement), but it goes with the flow and introduces an element of surprise and wonder sadly absent from the score.
The chorus and orchestra keep time nobly throughout, calmly conducted by Karen Kamensek: how they manage to avoid mis-counting accidents I do not know. Although some of the solo singing struck me as ragged and ropey, I had nothing but admiration for Toby Spence, making his debut in the title role: his plangent timbre and imaginative phrasing brought something like pulsating life to Glass’s feeble inspiration. But what a waste of his artistry on thin musical gruel.