Dantons Tod is that rare phenomenon, a popular contemporary opera: it has been in the repertoire in German-speaking countries virtually uninterruptedly since its premiere at the Salzburg Festival in 1947. It is immediately apparent from this recording how effective it would be on stage: it has an urgent dramatic pace, aided by firm, onward-moving rhythms that underlie virtually every scene; it has a pungent sense of theatre (the split stage of Scene 4, in which a prison cell in the Conciergerie and the square outside are simultaneously present, is but one example of this); and the musical language is direct and approachable, tonal but by no means backward-looking. There are obvious kinships with Stravinsky, rather less often with Hindemith or Prokofiev, once or twice with Weill or Orff, but much of the writing is individual, sometimes arrestingly so—the curious but striking use of Latin-American rhythms to characterize the volatile Paris mob, for example, or the bony gallows-waltz that follows Danton's condemnation to death.
It is a swift-moving opera, with restless rhythms well conveying a sense of events happening too quickly for them to be comprehended or controlled, and it may be inevitable that the characterization of the central figure should proceed more slowly, but the result is that the listener may find himself more drawn to, even more interested in, the secondary characters before the personality of Danton himself is established. For me this only happens in the fifth of the six scenes, Danton's trial before the Convention, where his leaping pride has a certain magnificence to it (this scene is, in any case, perhaps the best constructed in the whole work, a long and complex ensemble with chorus that builds to a formidable climax). But the attractive figure of Camille Desmoulins, more a lover and a dandy than a revolutionary, his touchingly simple-witted wife Lucile (she loves to watch him make speeches but has not the faintest idea what his fine words mean), even the codly fanatical Robespierre, hypnotizing the crowd with his preacher's high monotone, are already more real to us than the ostensible subject of the drama. This may be intentional—Buchner, on whose play von Einem based his libretto, wanted to portray the progress of a revolution, not that of a particular participant in revolution—but it does mean that the opera is rather slow to grip the imagination, and the event that gives it its title ( ''Danton's Death'') is a mere incident, immediately over-shadowed by a distinctly Viennese sinister-comic duo for two executioners and by the moving, haunted chorale that the now deranged Lucile sings on the blood-spattered steps of the scaffold.
It is an opera, in short, that ideally needs the stage and does not quite emerge at full voltage in the absence of it—some of the most dramatic moments of the scenario are not accompanied by music that, on its own, is of sufficient power to overcome the lack of a visual image—but the performance has enough conviction and vehemence almost to make up for this. Theo Adam is eloquent and selflessly full-voiced in the title-role, Werner Hollweg is an ardent Camille, Horst Hiestermann a penetratingly forceful, dangerous Robespierre, Krisztina Laki an affecting Lucile. The smaller parts are cast from commanding strength and the chorus and orchestra are in splendid form under Lothar Zagrosek. The recording, although of a concert performance, also gives a strong sense of theatre. Well worth investigating: even if you share my reservations Dantons Tod can still make a compelling impression—the cold, almost casual way that references to Julius Caesar's assassination and the betrayal of Christ are thrown into the scene in which Robespierre encomapsses Danton's downfall is just one indication, despite its inequalities, of what a thoroughly ingenious and intelligent piece of musical theatre this is.'