Graham Vick’s Eugene Onegin, commissioned to mark the opening of Glyndebourne’s new theatre in 1994, became the talk of the opera world, helping to further the reputation of the young director and of Glyndebourne itself.
There have been glitzier productions and glitzier casts elsewhere, but none to outrival this performance, thankfully recorded for Channel 4, in its integrity, intelligence or loyalty to the Pushkin dramatic poetic epic on which it is based.
There is an expansiveness in the setting, the piece opening on a languid, sultry, late summer day brilliantly evoked in the dreamy, elegant playing of the London Philharmonic Orchestra under Andrew Davis.
A single head-high row of wheat frames the Larin estate where peasants in rustic browns gather to celebrate a successful harvest. Only the arrival of Wojciech Drabowicz’s Onegin, rather foppishly dressed, is at odds with this bucolic idyll.
Vick’s hand can be seen in so many touches, such as the duel scene that Onegin and Martin Thompson’s Lensky, his former friend, fight out of sight of the audience, leaving the result momentarily in doubt, and the end of Tatyana’s letter scene when Elena Prokina pours a bowl of water over her head in a sort of anointment of womanhood.
And the handling of the ball at the Larins’s is masterly throughout: dancers burst out of the double doors like froth on champagne, recede, then re-emerge nosily to witness the Lensky-Onegin challenge. Finally, Tatyana is left alone as the crowd disappears once again to its gossip and dancing.
Prokina is for me the star of the show, the epitome of adolescent infatuation and impetuosity. She pours out joy, ecstasy and apprehension as she writes that fateful letter, in an aria that she closes with a sound of such soft, ravishing beauty that turns it into a prayer.
Skilfully handled too are the duets at the heart of the piece, those between Tatyana and Onegin bristling with tension. Designer Richard Hudson’s sparse but not quite minimalist sets contribute to the interpretation by giving one party then the other a feeling of aloofness, without reducing the intensity of the exchange.
In contrast, there is a delightful natural playfulness in the early relationship between Louise Winter’s flighty Olga and Lensky, both of whom are in fine voice, Thompson closing his Golden Days of Youth aria on an extended pianissimo to sigh for.
Among a strong supporting cast, Yvonne Minton is an excellent Mme Larina, with outstandingly clear diction, Ludmilla Filatova an endearing nurse, John Fryatt the absurd M. Triquet and Frode Olsen a sympathetic, rich-sounding Prince Gremin.
As often with Opus Arte, the accompanying booklet is disappointing, containing only synopsis, cast and chapter headings, and the video quality is no better than one would expect in a 1994 recording.