I became more and more convinced that the greatest performances of Fidelio on disc are those that have been caught off the stage in broadcasts and issued 'unofficially'—Toscanini's, Walter's, Furtwangler's (Vienna and Salzburg), Krauss, with Klemperer's studio version (EMI, 1/90) the exception that proves the rule. What those live versions achieve is the tension of the theatre—and the need to live dangerously with this score, which is something a studio producer will not or cannot allow. Here we have another example to prove the point. Bodanzky, on this and other evidence, a grossly underrated conductor, produces a taut, searing account of the piece that makes the recent Haitink/Philips set (1/91) seem tame by its side. Bodanzky was firmly in command of the German wing of the repertory at the Metropolitan, but left no commercial records of opera, apart from overtures. This performance evinces scrupulous preparation, especially regarding the orchestra, which shows a precision of attack and a care for inner parts quite out of the ordinary. The reading, like those of Krauss and Walter (also at the Met), is lean, unsentimental, concerned to convey the fervour of the drama in unvarnished terms. Bodanzky doesn't make Haitink's mistake of taking ''O namenlose Freude'' too slowly: here it's a real expression of ecstatic release. It is followed by a finely shaped and phrased, thrilling Leonore No. 3, rivalling Toscanini in pace and intensity, which shows the orchestra's calibre and also its respect for its conductor who had been loyal to the Met for 24 years.
Bodanzky was blessed with at least three principals who put most of their successors into perspective. Flagstad, in easier, more flexible voice than for Furtwangler at Salzburg in 1950, sings a broadly phrased, grandly sung Leonore with Innigkeit when that's needed (canon quartet), dramatic passion when that's called for, as in ''Abscheulicher!'' and the whole dungeon scene, where here singing is incandescent. The Florestan of Maison, whose voice has beauty, biting power and an almost limitless upper register, proves how inadequate Goldberg is for Haitink. His recitative and aria are heart-rending, and he keeps up his form throughout the Second Act. Schorr is at his most arresting, Pizarro's aria delivered with even more biting attack than on his famous, old 78rpm version (now available on Pearl—to be reviewed later), and he leads the dungeon quartet, itself the rightful centrepiece of the drama, with the daemonic strength it calls for. Emanuel List sounds a little past his best as Rocco, but brings a wealth of experience to detail (his Gold aria is sadly omitted). The Marzelline and Jacquino are decent, the Don Fernando no more than adequate.
Of course there are drawbacks. The most serious is the use of recitatives, composed by Bodanzky, to replace the dialogue. These were used between the wars in New York for an audience that never quite accepted Fidelio into the regular repertory. The opening chorus of the finale is inexplicably omitted, a pity when the choral singing is so committed and precise. Then the sound, though satisfactory enough for those used to these off-the-air recordings, is afflicted with a good deal of static and shellac noises, although much has been done to alleviate these. For me these reservations are as nothing before a reading that in essentials seems so close to Beethoven's vision. Recitatives apart, if we were left with this single version to represent the work on some new Ark, we could be assured that we were as close to the composer's spirit and intention as we are likely to get.'