Frankly, I would be reluctant to run either of these recordings beside the venerable Eisenstein film. But perhaps the strengths and weaknesses of each are best illustrated if I simply spool through key scenes. Kitaienko undoubtedly scores over Masur for atmosphere as we pan across the frozen wastes of the Russian steppes (the bleakest of oboes casts a wintry glow over the snow-covered scene); Masur creates little or no space for himself in and around Prokofiev's lingering tenutos. A ''Song about Nevsky'' brings on the choruses: Masur's Latvians sound authentic enough, but the phrasing (Masur's I presume) is too self-consciously 'artless': short-winded, matter of fact—I favour a fuller, more rolling legato. Kitaienko's Danes don't really provide it either, but then Chandos have set them well back in the frame: this tends to iron out the dynamic differentials and make for a rather bloodless effect—breadth without ballast.
As for the marauding ''Crusaders in Pskov'', neither performance is the equal of their savagery. Kitaienko censors the mounting horror of men, women and children put to the flame: the rising string tremolandos just shortly after the start are indicative—timidly as opposed to aggressively accented: we must feel as well as hear the pressure of bows; Masur's trombones and tuba at least convey a bone-crushing menace down in their lowest registers, though the tempo is still too impatient and the hideous choral chants too lightly articulated. And so to ''The Battle on the Ice''. Masur is far too literal in his evocation of the frozen mist-shrouded Lake Chud: I hear groups of semiquavers in divided violins when I should be hearing the chill uneasy sound of silence. Kitaienko again comes into his own as a scene-setter: the icy crack of sul ponticello violas eerily violates the early-morning silence, the first enemy charge really does emerge slowly and threateningly from the mists.
Alas, the battle is lost before it is won. Neither conductor maintains the feverish heat of combat, the musical challenges and collisions: Kitaienko's rhythms are never compelling enough, his speeds too deliberate; Masur catches the frenetic silent-movie animation but not the clash of steel (the Leipzig timbre is simply too cultured, too benign, even at full stretch). The big ice-busting climax is very tame, and again he's in far too much of a hurry to spirit us from the carnage. Ludmila Schemtchuk (Kitaienko) surveys that with a heavy heart and black Slavic tone-colours to match: her final stanza is very much the big facial close-up, all at once hushed and inward; Carolyn Watkinson sounds decidedly counterfeit by comparison. And speaking of comparisons, choose Jarvi (Chandos) or Abbado (DG) and suddenly Eisenstein's primitive black-and-white images are full-colour and super-Panavision.
There remains the matter of those sinful Scythians. As we've already established, Kitaienko's strength is to be found in his sensitivity to mood and moodiness. He is at his best among the languorous chromaticisms of the opening tableau, where sacrificial flute bathes in sexy but unsavoury string harmonies, or in the deepest recesses of ''Night''. But the barbarism is kept well to heel: where is all that brass (eight horns) in the brazen invocation to Veles, the sun-god? And how sedately Kitaienko paces the war-like Toccata of the second movement: I do so miss the delirium of the closing pages as all five sabre-tongued trumpets propel us into the final frenzy. Masur is meaner and harder-hitting, his recording has greater colour and immediacy; but Jarvi is still the gentlemanly sadist, the man with the pagan touch who pulls no punches. His version of both scores remains a clear first choice.'