Davis’s new version of Fidelio commends itself in many ways. The recording is probably as clear and wide-ranging as that on any set to date, taking full advantage of the faithful acoustics of Munich’s Herkulessaal. The various Munich-based choirs are exemplary in every way, as luminous and accurate as Harnoncourt’s smaller band of singers but more involved in the drama. The Bavarian Radio Symphony, always responsive to Sir Colin’s beat, uncover every corner in the orchestration as clearly and significantly as Harnoncourt’s Chamber Orchestra of Europe, and provide string and wind playing of the highest class: particular credit is due to the horn player in the exposed writing in Leonore’s “Komm Hoffnung”.
As for Davis’s interpretation, as one would expect, it comes much more closely into comparison with Klemperer’s classic set than with Harnoncourt’s pared-down, period-conscious reading. As with Klemperer, slowish speeds, thickish textures and traditional allargandos are favoured. A reading that has developed over the years, from numerous performances when he was in charge at Sadler’s Wells and Covent Garden, it goes to the core of the drama, nicely balancing the Singspiel and romantic elements in the score, but here – away from the theatre – the drama of the opera house sometimes goes missing.
Often, though by no means always, there are tell-tale signs of studio caution. The march before Pizarro’s entry is stodgy and lacks menace. The immensely slow introduction to Act 2 is staid where Klemperer, at a similar tempo, suggests an inevitable progression towards Florestan’s cry of “Gott! welch Dunkel hier”. Ultimately my reactions were similar to those on listening to Davis’s Beethoven symphonies (Philips, 12/95) – that we have a sane, weighty, middle-of-the-road but not quite an elevating or inspiriting enough performance. A fair amount of dialogue is included, but curiously not the famous exchange before “O namenlose Freude”.
As Leonore, Voigt gives a sincere, straightforward performance, marred only by some strain around the break, but because she is without long experience of the role or native German, one misses the elation of “Noch heute”, the sense of real desperation in “Abscheulicher!”, and her dialogue seems learnt by rote. Compare her with Klemperer’s Ludwig, Harnoncourt’s Margiono or, best of all, with Nilsson on the reissued Maazel set and the point is surely made beyond doubt.
Her transatlantic partner Ben Heppner suffers from none of these faults. His is a firmly, confidently delivered and movingly articulated Florestan. I caught his first-ever assumption of the part in Vienna a couple of years ago. Good then, his account of the role has improved into a strong-limned reading. If I say Seiffert (Harnoncourt) is vocally more intense, Vickers (Klemperer) and McCracken (Maazel) more involved in Florestan’s dire predicament, that hardly detracts from Heppner’s sterling achievement.
The Marzelline and Jaquino are good average interpreters, no more. Listen to just a few bars of Frick’s Rocco, for Klemperer or Fricsay, and you hear that generation made words, in conjunction with music, mean something. Von Kannen as Pizarro is the sole member of this cast to have that gift but – always a qualification! – he hasn’t the vocal security of Berry (Klemperer), Krause on the Maazel version or Fischer-Dieskau (Fricsay). Quasthoff is a sympathetic Minister.
When a set such as the Maazel has lain in the shadows of deletion for such a long time, it deserves serious reassessment. With the exception of his doubts about McCracken’s Florestan, Alec Robertson gave a cordial welcome to the performance when it first appeared, but it was generally and inevitably given second place to the then all-conquering Klemperer version. Like Fricsay, Maazel has a clear-eyed, piercingly vivid view of the work, Toscanini-like in its fierce accents, insistent rhythms, refusal to linger in the cause of sentiment, not as aware of a metaphysical dimension as Davis. The Vienna Philharmonic’s playing faithfully seconds their conductor’s view.
In 1964 Decca made one of their most elaborate attempts at ‘staging’. Characters can be heard approaching, receding, moving about the spectrum in the Culshaw tradition (Erik Smith was the producer), and, controversiallly, an echo effect was used to suggest the dungeon, an effect much disliked by Desmond Shawe-Taylor at the time in his January 1965 “Quarterly retrospect”. I don’t find it unduly disturbing since, apart from Florestan’s opening “Gott”, which sounds artificially contrived, the echo is confined to the dialogue (here greatly foreshortened), but as a whole the sound has little of the warmth found on the new RCA set.
When we have been so starved of sopranos of her kind in recent years, Nilsson seems something of a paragon in her effortless vocalization, better focused than Voigt’s, but there’s not only the gleaming voice to admire. Her well thought-through characterization, though not quite as moving as Ludwig’s (Klemperer) or Rysanek’s (Fricsay), combines heroic resolve with womanly vulnerability. McCracken’s Florestan, as I have already suggested, seems to have been underrated. His vibrant, heroic tenor is equal to all the demands placed on it and if he occasionally over-emotes he never sentimentalizes his role as Klemperer’s Vickers is inclined to do.
Krause is an incisive, boldly sung Pizarro. Bohme is a paragon of a Rocco, on a par with Frick. Sciutti makes an appealing Marzelline but one not always able to sustain a line to the end of a phrase. Grobe is a decent Jaquino. Prey makes much of little as Don Fernando; that is even truer of Kurt Equiluz who offers a touching cameo of the First Prisoner. The Pitz-trained chorus excel themselves. Praise too for the choice of van Gogh’s Exercise Yard on the booklet cover, but none for the omission of text and translation.
As truthfully conducted as any reading the Fricsay would remain my mid-price choice, but for anyone wanting a larger-scale reading than Fricsay provides I would certainly suggest the Maazel. At full price, Harnoncourt offers a challenging alternative view to Klemperer and Davis. Among the latter two, Davis has much the broader, fresher sound. You may be further swayed by Davis’s bonus of Leonore No. 2 (played at the 1805 premiere of the work’s first version, Leonore), given a typically thoughtful reading. But the remastered Klemperer set still shows the virtues of Walter Legge’s production methods, especially as regards singers, and remains a deeply felt, all-embracing interpretation.'