Acis et Galatee was Lully’s last completed opera, and one of his greatest. A pastoral heroique performed in 1686 to entertain the Dauphin during a hunting party at the Duc de Vendome’s chateau (and so without the elaborate machinery with which it would have been staged had Mme de Maintenon not banned the debauched Lully’s operas from Louis XIV’s court – though the work was dedicated to the king), it employs many features of his tragedies en musique – vocal ensembles, instrumental movements and an enhanced use of the orchestra in general; and each act contains a divertissement with choruses and dances. One of the glories of the score is the concluding passacaille, which with instrumental sections builds up from single voices to chorus: I remember that when I conducted the work for the BBC more than 20 years ago the whole studio was overwhelmed by the emotive power of this movement, which lasts more than 13 minutes. There is also a small but affecting chaconne for Galatea in Act 2; but another glorious moment is the lengthy scene in which she discovers the body of her lover and calls on her father, Neptune, who guarantees Acis immortality by transforming him into a river.
The opera is prefaced by a prologue in which various gods and a personification of Abundance flatter the king and his son: points of special interest are the riches of the scoring at Apollo’s entrance and the charm of the dances – in fact the whole prologue is permeated by dance rhythms, reminding one that when Lully had entered Louis XIV’s service over 30 years previously, it had been as a ballet dancer. The classical story of the cyclops destroying his young rival was given a typically French slant and topical moral by making Galatea initially play hard to get, in contrast to the simple, unaffected love of shepherds and shepherdesses (though the haughty Scylla is an exception). In the main body of the opera Lully ensures vitality by constantly, and extremely effectively, changing metre. Marc Minkowski brings out all the drama of the work by thoughtful treatment of the verbal text, intelligent pacing and varied instrumental articulation and weight: especially striking are the rough sonorities of the march in which Polyphemus first appears, and the intensity of the lovers’ angry confrontation in Act 2. Jean-Paul Fouchecourt projecting the image of an ardent youthful lover, and Veronique Gens that of a passionate goddess, are both excellently cast, but Laurent Naouri almost steals the scene from them with his fearsomely powerful Polyphemus: Howard Crook contributes valuably in various roles, though he is ill at ease in the very highest register. There is considerable finesse in the chorus singing, and the theorbo continuo, working overtime, is admirable. An altogether splendid performance of a masterpiece.'