Of Prokofiev's eight operas (not counting youthful attempts he later disowned) only The love for three oranges and The fiery angel have made much headway in the musical world at large and despite valiant efforts by his champions, the neglect of some of the others is not without justification. But what has stood in the way of appreciation of War and peace is, to a large extent, the rarity of opportunities of hearing it. Lasting over four hours, with a huge cast of 72 characters who come and go (performed here, by adroit doubling by 45 singers) plus chorus, and with 13 changes of scene, the problems of mounting such a blockbuster are obviously formidable. This recording is therefore particularly welcome, all the more because it is strikingly well done and has the advantage of being performed complete (which has not often been the case).
The work has had a chequered history. After initial concert versions in Moscow, the first part of the opera was staged in Leningrad in 1945, but by that time Prokofiev had had further thoughts adding two more scenes to the original 11. The unspeakable Zhdanov, however, took exception to the scene in which Marshal Kutuzov decides to abandon Moscow to Napoleon's armies, and so the planned performance of the second part did not take place. A scaled-down version of the opera to last a single evening was then prepared but was not adopted, and thereafter the composer made various other changes and additions: after his death in 1953 two different cut versions were produced before the first complete performance was given in Moscow in mid-December 1959. (This tale of misadventures was continued when the first UK concert performance had to be curtailed at the last moment when a leading singer failed to learn his part; fortunately later performances by the English National Opera were untroubled.)
In adapting Tolstoy's epic novel for his purpose Prokofiev and his second wife elected to present it in a series of separate tableaux—seven for the 'peace' section centering on Natasha and her emotional involvements, and six on the events of the war and their impact on those characters. Quite apart from the total absence of these principals from the stage for about an hour and a half continuity is not easily maintained, especially since individual scenes are themselves often constructed, like mosaics, of thematically unrelated, and often stylistically diverse, sections; the only thematic reprises of importance in the whole work are when the dying Andrei remembers his first waltz with Natasha (most imaginatively recorded here, with the orchestra distanced) and when Kutuzov's big aria in scene 10 reappears as the patriotic hymn at the end of the opera. (Prokofiev, a great one for re-using good ideas, had in fact lifted the latter from his film music to Ivan the Terrible; there are other self-borrowings from the film Lermontov and from his incidental music to Eugene Onegin.) The result is a large number of set-pieces such as the New Year's Eve ball, the quarrel between Pierre (Pyotr) and Andrei, the preparations for the battle of Borodino, the sacrifice of Moscow and the ambush during a snow-storm that frees Pierre and other Russian prisoners: interspersed are some fervent patriotic choruses (one, the 'epigraph' at the start of the score, here logically transferred to the opening of the 'war' part) which, relevant enough in the context, are uncomfortably reminiscent of those figures of impossibly noble and handsome workers on neo-realist Soviet propaganda posters. What is surprising is the way all this diverse material adds up to so impressive a whole. It is perhaps significant, however, that Prokofiev goes into top gear for scene 8 (before Borodino), which is not only the longest (at 41 minutes) but is also underpinned by a pervasive theme.
Rostropovich, who writes that Prokofiev in his last illness begged him to make War and peace known and who first conducted it at the Bolshoi in 1970, gives a deeply committed performance of the work, securing outstandingly fine playing from the orchestra and excellent work from the chorus. He is apt to interpret printed tempos somewhat freely and to make unexpected ritardandos, but the results are never less than convincing and the overall effect is of a broadly conceived and firmly controlled interpretation. He has at his command a strong cast of very mixed nationalities whose words (with remarkably few exceptions) are admirably clear: as the work is sung in Russian, most people will need to rely on the translation in the booklet, which fortunately is a good one. Among the numerous male roles, particularly noteworthy is Eduard Tumagian, who shows a splendidly steady, heroic tone, but also sensitive nuances, as Napoleon. Wieslaw Ochman portrays the romantic Pierre with warm, well-placed lyrical phrasing, Gedda is trenchant as the caddish voluptuary Anatol and Lajos Miller is the ill-starred Andrei, ardent in the initial scene in the moonlight and most moving in scene 13, where he effectively uses demi-voix to convey the dying man's delirium. Ghiuselev is magisterial, if not ideally clean, in the part of Marshal Kutuzov, and Malcolm Smith provides virile singing in the role of Denisov: many of the smaller parts are well taken (a pleasure to find Michel Senechal contributing a vivid character vignette as a fawning French doctor), though some singers (such as Petkov and Topalov-Behar) have too pronounced a Slavonic wobble. Maria Paunova, expressing indignation and sorrow at Anatol's attempted abduction of Natasha, also shows rather much vibrato: noteworthy among the ladies are Stefania Toczyska as the corrupt hedonist Helena and Mira Zakai as Andrei's hypocritical sister. But the only principal female role is that of Natasha. It would be unrealistic to expect Vishnevskaya (who sang the part in the 1959 premiere) to sound like a 16-year-old innocent, but I would have hoped for a less unvarying hard timbre from her—suitable for Natasha's frustration at the foiled elopement but much too loud in her soliloquy after Helena's wily pandering; and in the exchanges with Andrei's sister she makes no attempt (unlike Zakai) to differentiate between asides and normal conversation. Only on the few occasions when she sings quietly, with some indication of character, as when she reads Anatol's letter, does she really fulfil expectations.
Despite a few reservations, then, a feather in the cap of Erato, Radio France and the catering firm which sponsored this recording. A special word of praise is due to those responsible for producing not merely a 'stand-up-and-sing' concert performance but something which, by intelligent and idiomatic use of the sound medium—aural perspectives, placing and movement of characters in the stereo image, discreet and welljudged employment of sound effects (dancing or marching feet, realistic cannons and gunfire, muttering crowds, the collapse of a building, etc.)—makes for real dramatic impact.'