Parthenogenesis

James MacMillan's Parthenogenesis
London LInbury Studio Theatre
A ROH2/Britten Sinfonia co-production
Thursday 11 - Sunday 18 June

The Guardian
The Times
The Evening Standard

The Guardian
ParthenogenesisLinbury Studio, London
3 / 5 Stars
By George Hall
Monday 15 June 2009

James MacMillan's opera tells the bizarre story of a young German woman caught up in the Allied bombing of Hanover in 1944, who subsequently gave birth to a daughter apparently without sexual intercourse having taken place. The premise of the piece, as its title suggests, is an instance of virgin birth, presumably induced by shock, "irrespective of its documentary truth or falsehood", as librettist Michael Symmons Roberts cautiously puts it in his programme note for this new production by Katie Mitchell.

The action takes place at two different times in two distinct places, both presented realistically in Vicki Mortimer's designs. In the centre of the stage, Anna, the daughter born to the bomb-traumatised Kristel, lies dying of cancer in a Hanover hospital ward in 1968, trying to come to terms with her identity as her mother's clone. In her imagination we see her mother's flat in 1943, where Kristel engages in a duet with the opera's third character, a "fallen angel" called Bruno, whose visit explaining the circumstances of her child's birth parodies the Annunciation.

Mitchell's production is deft, but it can't flesh out a slight scenario that may be a scientific, psychological or even theological puzzle, but which offers little genuine drama to spread out over its 50-minute span.

As Kristel, not enough of Amy Freston's words come over. The enigmatic Bruno is well-handled by Stephan Loges; but the greatest impact comes from the non-singing role of Anna, movingly delivered by Charlotte Roach.

MacMillan's score is an able and effective piece of work, though much of the musical material is ordinary, and some of it crude. With Britten Sinfonia in the pit, he secures a fine performance as conductor.

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The Times
Saturday 13 June 2009
Parthenogensis, Linbury Studio, Royal Opera House

Shell-shocked by a bombing raid in 1944 Hanover, a German woman apparently conceived, or cloned, a child entirely by herself.

When such a process occurs, rarely, in insects and flowers it is known as parthenogenesis — literally “virgin birth”.

The story may not, of course, be true. But in the world of opera the facts never spoil a good myth, and this latter-day “immaculate conception” clearly has mythic potential. Not just in its echo of that other Virgin Birth, but because it seemingly happened in a Germany where scientists were already tampering with genetics.

You can see why James MacMillan, the most overtly Christian of modern-day British composers, would be attracted to the story.

And for the one-act opera he wrote in 2000 (after discussions with the Archbishop of Canterbury) his librettist, Michael Symmons Roberts, supplied a text rich in biblical Annunciation references. Indeed, the whole piece is a dialogue between the woman and a “fallen angel” — called not Gabriel, but Bruno.

Bruno seems at first to harbour sexual designs on her, but then brusquely declares that she will give birth to a daughter who will have no father.

It’s that daughter who, on her deathbed, acts as an ironic narrator (Charlotte Roach, gamely attached to life-support tubes) — mulling bitterly over her weird life as her mother’s doppelgänger.

Clearly there’s a strong “don’t play God with genetics” message lurking here, and that’s reflected in MacMillan’s music.

The desultory electronic plinky-plonk we hear before the curtain goes up is apparently based on the letter sequence of the human chromosome. It’s been unravelled by science but (MacMillan seems to ask) to what soulless purpose?

But most of MacMillan’s score, which is superbly played by the Britten Sinfonia under the composer’s direction, is much more jolting, visceral and jittery: harsh, quickfire bursts of instrumental dissonance, or sweet, smeary consonances that are, if anything, even more disconcerting.

On top of that the two singers (Amy Freston and Stephan Loges, both admirably intense) are given histrionic melismas — richly expressive, except that they often obscure the very words they are meant to illustrate.

Happily, Katie Mitchell’s staging — the opera’s first — resists the temptation to pile more symbolism on to a piece that already totters under elliptic nuances. Instead she plays the work, in Vicki Mortimer’s ingenious dual-era set, as a kind of theological film noir — Raymond Chandler meets Dan Brown — with spookily blowing curtains, flickering lamps and frenetic bursts of activity.

Bewitched, bothered or bewildered, you’re in and out in 50 minutes.

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The Evening Standard
Virgin birth needs divine inspiration in Parthenogenesis
By Kieron Quirke
Friday 12 June 2009

It means virgin birth, don’t you know. Premiered in 2000, this relentlessly profound take on the Annunciation from James Macmillan with words by poet Michael Symmons Roberts now gets a Katie Mitchell production. Musically, it’s great but you can’t call it drama.

It’s based around a modern case of parthewotsit when a German mother’s near scrape with a bomb apparently made her fertilise herself. Roberts gives us the progeny, Anna, dying slowly in hospital 24 years later, imagining an angelic visit that might have proclaimed her birth.
The piece feels like an oratorio, with Anna’s portentous ramblings acting as recitative between sung episodes from Angel (Stephan Loges) and mother Kristel (Amy Freston). Macmillan’s music, provided by the Britten Sinfonia under the composer’s own baton, is all chaos intermingled with grace.

Shivering textures and drums that barrack away like panic or bombs give way to moments of serenity.

The Angel, in particular, is a confused figure — his graceful, noticeably consonant theme persistently undermined.

The standout section of the night is Freston’s second aria — a thrillingly sung, stutteringly set text that mixes libidinous frustration and terror.

What the words were, though, I barely guessed: opera vowels. The action doesn’t help — Vicki Mortimer’s set splits the two protagonists: they face us while theoretically responding to each other with unfathomable gestures.

Roberts provides a guide to how deep it all is in the programme. It’s clear that this is a piece where things are touched and ruminated upon rather than, well, happen. It should find its place in the concert hall.

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