There’s virtually nothing new under the sun. In its crisp, swift and precise speeds and articulation, and the slim sound of its orchestra, Szell’s reading resembles nothing so much as Gardiner’s almost 50 years on. Szell, always admired for his disciplined, spry conducting, draws the most refined detail and translucent textures from the VPO, his classically strict, small-scale view an antipole to Furtwangler’s warmer, more romantic 1951 reading at Salzburg.
Yet although some of Szell’s tempos are unwontedly swift, such as the Queen of Night’s Act 2 aria and the Act 2 Quintet, he is quite willing to relax into a yielding speed when he deems it right, as in Pamina’s aria, where he allows his soprano the utmost licence to phrase broadly. As that soprano is Lisa della Casa, reportedly singing her first Pamina, the extra space is advantageously used. Her portrayal is predictably lovely in tone, thoughtful in phrasing, but distinctly cool, presenting a dignified yet paradoxically girlish princess contrasting with Seefried’s mellower, less calculated portrait for Furtwangler, and indeed Gardiner’s sympathetic Oelze; but della Casa’s serious approach pays dividends at “Die Wahrheit” and “Tamino, mein”, dispatched with total conviction and appropriately forthright tone.
Her Tamino, Simoneau, is a paragon of Mozartian style, suggesting a heroic, ardent prince, though his German in the dialogue was rightly criticized at the time. There’s not much to choose between him and 1951’s Dermota. Berry is a delightfully naive, unaffected, charming Hanswurst of a Papageno, lighter, more youthful in timbre than Erich Kunz (EMI), less knowing in his comic effects, his speech projected with engaging freshness and point. His singing, one or two moments of uncertain pitch apart, is as naturally phrased as one could wish. Koth manages easily to pip out her coloratura, given Szell’s fiery treatment of the Queen of Night’s arias. At the other end of the vocal spectrum Bohme is a suitably grave but rather wooden Sarastro, Hotter wonderfully sensitive and philosophical as the Speaker. Donch is a really vicious Monostatos but one too inclined to resort to Sprechgesang. Sciutti is a delightfully fresh-sounding Papagena. The Ladies are average to good. For the first time at Salzburg, I think, the boys were taken by trebles rather than sopranos.
The excellent mono sound takes us to the heart of a live performance in an ambience that cannot be simulated in the studio, and superior to what is heard on the privately made tape of 1951 for Furtwangler. Applause and stage noises are there but neither is intrusive. Furtwangler offers a uniquely spiritual experience that Szell doesn’t match, but Szell’s own finely shaped account has its own validity.'