For a composer of Massenet's known predilections, Griselidis addresses an unexpected subject. The tale, related by Petrarch, Boccaccio and Perrault concerns itself with a woman's unswerving fidelity. Various composers have set about making an opera of it, including Vivaldi and Bononcini, but Massenet's Griselidis probably just has the edge in public awareness today. It has been staged both at Wexford and Saint-Etienne, from where this generally acceptable live performance was taken in 1992.
A complete recording of the opera comes fairly late in the day. As we tick off the rare Massenet operas arriving in the record catalogue, Griselidis has more musical substance to it than the frothy Cherubin and a stronger score than Cleopatre, each of which has received a warm welcome on disc in the last couple of years. The fact that he is dealing with constancy as the central issue does not restrain Massenet from indulging his most languorously romantic vein: the music for Griselidis is barely less sensual than that for Manon or Thais, two ladies who were not exactly known for their monogamy.
The weakest aspect of the opera is its dabbling with the supernatural, since Massenet introduces the Devil into the story as a laughably mundane figure, henpecked by his nagging wife. Although that provides scope to lighten the opera's stern moral atmosphere, the music fails to uncork the requisite hellish fizz. Jean-Philippe Courtis invests the role with some character, but could do more, it needs the lip-smacking relish that Chaliapin might have brought to it. Claire Larcher is more lively as his wife, Fiamina.
By contrast, the scenes between Griseldis and her husband, the Marquis, are written with deeply touching seriousness. The most original scene is the close of Act 1, when the Marquis leaves for war: he bids a heart-rending farewell and then a lady-in-waiting reads from the story of Penelope and Odysseus, while warlike trumpets fade into the distance. All this is expertly handled (the leitmotiv of their child throbs in the mind for hours afterwards) and in the theatre has seemed very moving. It does not quite have that effect here. The recorded sound is drab, robbing orchestra and voices alike of vibrancy and colour.
For Griselidis herself, one wants a lyric soprano to fill out those long, lyric Massenet vocal lines. Michele Command is not a light, warbling French soprano in the old style, but a singer with real body to her tone. Unfortunately, her style is apt to be gusty; there are moments in the score which look as though they should make a beautiful effect, but in the event do not. Didier Henry starts in dry voice, but rises to better form for the closing scene where husband and wife affirm their trust. It is a shame—but hardly unexpected—that their duet fails to dispel memories of the seductive music in the Second Act, when Griselidis is tempted by the shepherd Alain, a well-written tenor role sung with a fine balance of strength and poetry by Jean-Luc Viala. It is a bonus that the cast was entirely French-speaking, even if it did not equal Wexford's for vocal quality and panache. For some reason the orchestra in residence was the Franz Liszt Symphony Orchestra of Budapest, a modest band conducted here with appreciable feeling for the Massenet style by Patrick Fournillier. For those who have had no chance to see the opera in the theatre, this recording should fit the bill well enough, but if another comes along, I do not promise—pace Griselidis—to stay faithful to it.'