Fernand Cortez is sometimes described as a propaganda opera that went wrong. Napoleon wanted a work that would inspire enthusiasm for his war in Spain, and the Spanish conquest of Mexico was considered an appropriate subject. Never had so much money been spent on an operatic production, and never had the Parisians been treated to such a spectacle on stage. The Emperor attended the grand premiere on February 28th, 1809; there were 12 further performances and then no more. Spontini revised the piece in 1817, and again (for performances in Berlin) in 1824 and 1832. It retained a place in the French repertoire for a while, reaching New York for a single season at the Metropolitan in 1888 and given a hearing at La Scala, Milan, in 1919. But, like most of Spontini, it has become little more than a name in the history books, and, in the history of Napoleon, scarcely a footnote. If he had hoped for an opera that would glorify the victories of war, he found himself with one which more effectively urged the blessings of peace; and if he identified himself with the eponymous conqueror, it was, in operatic terms, as a hero without an aria.
The central figure is neither the Spanish general nor the Mexican king, but the heroine, Princess Amazily. Hers is a formidable role and, sadly, it requires a better singer than the one we have here. Cecile Perrin, a former pupil of Regine Crespin, made her debut in 1992, so may be taken to be presently in something like her prime: an ample voice, but unevenly produced and of already compromised quality. Her appearances in this recording become increasingly unwelcome events. As Cortez, the Greek tenor Melena Marras uses his incisive voice to express a truly heroic indifference to the best and worst that love and war can do to him: and that is all he expresses. The disagreeable High Priest has a voice to match, and the smaller parts are no better than they should be (in fact, rather worse). It is left to the baritones, Thierry Felix and Jean-Philippe Marliere, to provide vocal reassurance, which might have been enhanced had they exchanged roles.
The score is famous (in the history books) for its large-scale juxtapositions and off-stage effects, which the recording does very little to capture. Jean-Paul Penin conducts with the conviction also expressed in his introductory essay. He explains why the 1817 revision is the version chosen for this premiere recording; and the enterprise deserves gratitude. Even so, it is difficult, on present evidence, to share his enthusiasm. When, for instance, he writes, of the four movements of the Ballet, that ‘Far from being musically weak, they attest to a fine thematic vigour’, a happy mistake on the translator’s part (‘Far from attesting to a fine thematic vigour …’) might have come closer to the truth.'