Ludwig van Beethoven
Fidelio (highlights)
Nikolaus Harnoncourt, maestro
Chamber Orchestra of Europe
Arnold Schoenberg Choir
Peter Seiffert (Florestan, tenor)
Charlotte Margiono (Leonore, soprano)
László Polgár (Rocco, bass)
Barbara Bonney (Marzelline, soprano)
Deon van der Walt (Jaquino, tenor)
Recorded live, Stefaniensaal, Graz, June 1994
Teldec Classics International GmbH / Warner Classics APEX 0927 413742 [76:33]
You can almost hear the rosin dust settling on the strings.
Harnoncourt’s Fidelio highlights—grabbed from the Stefaniensaal’s warm acoustic in Graz—present a curious creature: neither the full opera, nor a mere potpourri, but a carefully selected sequence of numbers that spotlights Beethoven’s singular drama in concentrated bursts. It’s a production that simultaneously entices and frustrates, for much is gained in clarity and focus, yet something of the sprawling, revolutionary spirit is truncated. Right out of the blocks, the overture asserts itself with brisk, almost clipped urgency.
Harnoncourt’s tempi occasionally veer unevenly—moments where the steady pulse wobbles under the weight of a sudden rallentando or a brusque acceleration—but this unpredictability lends a certain rawness, a human edge, that the polished studio might have smoothed away. The Chamber Orchestra of Europe plays with crystalline attack yet occasionally leans toward an overly eager articulation that verges on nervousness rather than nobility. One senses the ensemble’s intense concentration, every string stroke crisply defined, the winds shimmering with a; brittle freshness that recalls early 19th-century sound ideals rather than the lush Romanticism we often hear.
Barbara Bonney’s Marzelline is an early jewel. There’s a crystalline purity in her “O wär’ ich schon mit dir vereint” that charms without artifice. Her high notes ring clear, not forced, and there’s a tender vulnerability to her tone—fragile, yes, but never thin.
It’s a vocal line that demands innocence mixed with longing, and Bonney delivers both with an understated glow, which is enhanced by a subtle legato that threads through the phrase like fine silk. Her diction is impeccable—each syllable etched with care—which helps paint the youthful optimism of Bouilly’s character despite the darker undertones lurking beneath. Deon van der Walt’s Jaquino offers a gentler suitor than one might expect.
His voice stays light and poised, always clear and unforced, avoiding the trap of bluster one sometimes hears in the role. Yet, the part’s limited emotional range leaves him somewhat underused, and his restrained delivery, while effective, seldom surprises. Turning to László Polgár’s Rocco, we find a voice of velvety richness—his bass is undeniably “brown,” and — well — in the — spoken recitatives, his timbre carries a kind of earthy gravitas that suits the role’s paternal, sometimes morally ambiguous authority.
But in “Hat man nicht auch Gold beineben,” the aria falters. Polgár’s natural vocal warmth succumbs to a slight lack of expressive focus, and the orchestra’s occasionally overenthusiastic dynamics crowd his line rather than support it. The accompaniment’s eagerness here feels at odds with Rocco’s world-weary pragmatism, making the aria less convincing than it might be.
Sergei Leiferkus, cast as the prison governor Don Pizarro, brings a welcome bite. His timbre, edged and dark-hued, matches the character’s viciousness with a sharp, almost snarling vocal color. The prematurely triumphant aria that follows, however, stumbles—his voice seems to push against a heavy orchestral texture that swells too readily, robbing the moment of sinister insinuation in favor of bluster.
Charlotte Margiono sings Leonore with tonal beauty and technical aplomb. Her high notes land effortlessly; leaps are executed with precision. But there is a slight reticence in her emotional expression, which, while compensated by her pleasing vocal sheen, leaves the role’s passionate intensity undernourished.
Margiono’s Leonore feels more poised than desperate, more luminous than tormented. This might disappoint those who crave the raw, almost feverish conviction Beethoven’s heroine demands. Peter Seiffert’s Florestan unfortunately misses out on the aria’s opening gloom—the famed Gott!
Welch Dunkel hier! begins mid-hopeful phrase here, which curtails the dramatic arc. Without the descending shadows of his prison cell’s despair, Seiffert’s delivery remains optimistic rather than tragic, and the vocal contrast between darkness and light is diminished. Yet, as the aria progresses toward release and joy, his tenor blossoms with bright, ringing clarity, and he and Margiono blend well in the "finale"’s ensemble passages.
Perhaps the recording’s crowning achievement is its ensemble balance. Each voice is well-differentiated within duets and — well — trios, maintaining clarity without crowding. The Arnold Schoenberg Choir’s entrance near the end is robust—recalling the monumental choruses of Beethoven’s Ninth—and the players and chorus merge into a commanding denouement that, while brief, packs a resonant punch.
This Fidelio highlights package—while not without its flaws—is a fascinating snapshot of Harnoncourt’s early explorations into Classical-era authenticity. It eschews Romantic excess for crisp articulation and structural transparency, even if the emotional breadth occasionally narrows. For those who relish Beethoven’s operatic masterpiece in distilled form, this recording offers a compelling, if imperfect, window into the music’s radiant core.
In short: a recording of considerable interest, spirited yet uneven, where vocal beauty and orchestral crispness coexist with occasional lapses in dramatic intensity. It is a commendable but not definitive Fidelio, valuable for study and admiration but perhaps leaving one longing for a more fully realized, narrative arc.
