Muti's Prokofiev is of excellent pedigree: I've heard outstanding accounts of the Third Symphony and Nevsky from him, on disc there is his compelling Ivan the Terrible and, best of all, highlights from Romeo and Juliet (both EMI) to have one wishing he had undertaken the complete ballet. This account of the much-recorded Fifth Symphony is certainly not in that class, though plainly cut from the same cloth (meaning, of course, a preponderance of fine silks and satins). Essentially my overriding impression here is of poise, slickness and sophistication. One almost craves a sudden lapse in Muti's self-control, just a hint of passion ruling reason; the old Muti fire. It's a reading which never quite adds up to a gripping, spontaneous experience—precision and calculation rule. Superficially, colouristically, Prokofiev is handsomely served: the low registers brood (bass clarinet a particularly sly presence), Muti's violins taking up the first subject with grave, stately intent. Transitions are smoothly effected, the textures (suitably overripe) surge and swell impressively, and I like the way Muti doesn't compromise the harmonic density of the score: the leading trumpet line at 3'48'' has to contend with insistent trombone dissonances (how often the trumpet has it all his own way here). But more could be made of Prokofiev's little animatos, a quickening of the senses, a feeling of intrigue, uncertainty. The big ice-breaking climax is splendid (if a shade reticent in its mighty tam-tam crashes), but I've heard more alarming pay-offs to the movement: the crunching resolution of that final cadence can never be decisive enough.
Strangely for Muti, the opening page or two of the scherzo sounds rather too tightly reined, plentiful of detail (suave, characterful woodwinds) but lacking bite, over-cautious in its articulation of the busy ostinato. After a suitably streamlined, laid-back trio (Prokofiev's mind clearly somewhere on Sunset Boulevard), the reprise does gather urgency and there is the requisite sardonic deliberation in that notorious l'istesso tempo passage with Muti leaving his accelerando tantalizingly late. But even so, I don't feel strong inner-convictions at work here, rather the motions of a meticulous commentator. At least the twilit slow movement comes with an embarrassment of sheen and some really expensive sounding sweeps up the finger-board from the Philadelphia violins. The breathless atmospheric tensions aren't quite there, but the closing pages of the movement duly bring ravishment. Muti's finale bides its time: I appreciate the understatement, the lightness of touch and relaxed charm with just a hint of acidity (those low clarinet colours again make their presence felt). All the more effective, then, the frenetic automaton-like coda with wood-block and side-drum hammering away like some monstrous machine mechanism. That, of course, never fails to set the pulse racing, and Philips's imposing engineering doubly enures impact. All in all, then, an abundance of style and brilliance, but too little in the way of spontaneous rapture and too few risks taken. Jarvi (Chandos) and Karajan (DG), in one of his finest hours, still top the current list of recommendations, and I trust RCA will be restoring the excellent Slatkin to the catalogue without delay.
Muti's fill-up constitutes something of a special attraction, albeit of greater novelty than musical value. This festive overture-cum-tone-poem was written to a state commission (or do I mean order?) in 1951 to celebrate the opening of a canal joining the Volga and Don rivers—hence the somewhat literal title. The exposition is promising: a vibrant trumpet summons ushers in the bright and breezy first subject—a likeably banal tune with something of a cheap ceremonial air about it (do I detect the tongue firmly lodged in the cheek?). The contrasting second idea has a ring of genuine affection—a haunting and immediately more personable clarinet lyric garlanded in Prokofiev's most evocative string colours. But where to go from there? Prokofiev would seem to be at a loss, gesturing aimlessly from one musical non sequitur to the next only to arrive at a particularly clumsy transition back to the clarinet tune, sung now in the chest register of the strings with telling obbligato key-glockenspiel in sprightly counterpoint. The hectoring finish is sufficiently off-beat to be surprising, but curiosity apart (and for all Muti's salesmanship), this is hardly a piece to bear too much scrutiny or repetition.'