George Frideric Handel was born 340 years ago, and he’s still as fresh as a rose. Fresher. Actually, come to think of it, there is a climbing rose named after him…
For one thing, the standard of Handel performance has gotten so much better in recent decades. I guess you really don’t hit your stride as a composer until after the first 300 years.
For as much as I hold a nostalgic affection for Hamilton Harty’s ponderous take on the “Water Music” – a concert staple for over half a century – a modern orchestra gives little indication of just how thrilling Handel can be. At its best, his vocal stuff, in particular, can be sublime.
I didn’t always feel this way. When I attended a performance of “Ariodante” in Philadelphia, back in the 1989, even with the dream pairing of Benita Valente and Tatiana Troyanos, I was afraid I was going to give up the ghost. When it really doesn’t connect, three or four hours of Baroque opera can easily start to feel like too much of a good thing. My girlfriend at the time wanted to leave after the second act, but I insisted we stick it out. I was eager to witness the climactic swordfight, described in the synopsis – which, in the end, amounted to a single, slow-motion riposte. The weak pay-off earned me an evil glare.
The experience had the effect of putting me off Handel opera in much the same way that downing a bottle of Inver House whiskey in my teens put me off Scotch. Just as I later discovered, to my surprise and delight, how much I truly appreciate a fine single malt, when I had occasion to reacquaint myself with “Ariodante” at the Princeton Festival in 2010, I was astonished to find that I actually liked Handel opera after all.
A few years ago, when I wandered into a library book sale, I discovered that someone had dumped their entire collection of Handel operas and oratorios. I don’t know how many there were to begin with, but I walked out with everything that was left. Who knows if I’ll ever get through all of them before I die, but I am very happy to have them.
That said, I do find Handel’s operas work best when encountered live, in performance – whether seen in person or on screen – which is the opposite of what I would say about most of the operas I prefer. The images that are formed in my mind by the music far surpass anything that can be realized on a stage. When attending opera, it is the experience of the orchestra, the voices, and the sense of “theater” I enjoy. But the visuals are too mundane for my grandiose vision.
I also tend to get annoyed at modern stagings, with concepts that too often seem forced and undercut the vitality of the music. Again, Handel is different. David McVicar’s production of “Agrippina” must be one of the best things in the Met’s current repertoire.
Of course, there is always the possibility that it is not so much Handel who has changed – despite a pronounced shift toward “authentic” performance practice over the past 40 years or so. It could be that even a paragon such as myself, sprung fully-formed from the head of Zeus, might have evolved. I’m reminded of the famous Twain observation that, when he was 14, his father was so ignorant he could hardly stand it; but when he was 21, he was astonished by how much the old man had learned.
I’ve come a long way since my friends and I spent an ouzo-soaked 24 hours celebrating Handel’s tercentenary back in 1985. I recollect even now the six-mile round-trip I made with one of them, on foot, on a cold February evening, from Temple University campus to Center City Philadelphia and back, with a bottle nestled in his bag to keep us warm for an in-town performance of “Judas Maccabaeus.”
Everything old is new again. Handel grows wiser with the years, but also more thrilling.
Happy birthday, G.F.H.
Amanda Forsythe and Apollo’s Fire, with an aria from “Giulio Cesare”
Danielle de Niese with the same aria, staged:
Of course, there’s always Thomas Beecham, bringing it old school, to prove me wrong:
