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Electra in N.Y.: Demetrios Gemelos (Greek Press), Mikis Theodorakis, Peter Tiboris and Gail Holst (Ph. Maria Tolios)
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The premiere of Electra, Theodorakis' third opera and the second of his classical trilogy, took place in Luxembourg in May 1995, shortly before the composer's 70th birthday. The following night his first opera, Medea, was performed at the old opera house in Meiningen where many of Brahms' works had received their first performances under Von Bülow's baton.
Two days later, Theodorakis conducted his song-cycle Mauthausen on the site of the former concentration camp in a ceremony to mark the 50th anniversary of the liberation of its inmates by the American army. The following day he sang dozens of his own songs at a concert in Stuttgart attended by thousands of Greeks and Germans.
In one week Theodorakis had demonstrated every side of his extraordinary career, from classical composer to politically and morally engaged artist to popular song-writer. And yet these apparently disparate sides of Theodorakis' creative life are not so far apart as they seem. Theodorakis' decision to turn from popular song to opera was not so surprising to those who have paid attention to his musical development, from his early symphony and choral works through the stream of popular songs and song cycles that made him a legend in the 1960s and 70s to the resurgence of his classical writing in the 1980s.
For most Greeks and non-Greeks, however, Theodorakis has remained a popular composer, known principally for his songs and film scores.
Rather than a revolutionary change in his career, the three operas based on classical tragedies marked a return to the themes and poetic texts that had preoccupied Theodorakis even before his ballet score, Antigone, was commissioned by the Sadler's Wells Ballet Company, for the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden in 1959. Not only has he continued to compose music for live performances of classical tragedy and comedy throughout his career, but some of most memorable film scores include those for
Michael Cacoyiannis' Electra (1962) and Iphigenia in Aulis (1976).
Theodorakis' choice of subject, as always, was dictated by moral as well as aesthetic considerations. As the composer stated in his notes for the first production, Electra is the Eklekti, literally, "the one chosen," in this by the Laws of Universal Harmony. It was the chorus of Sophocles' tragedy that provided the composer with the words and phrases that supply the key to her character. She is, above all, alone. Eternally lamenting her father, she is brave and disdainful of death. Her fate is black, but she will be considered wise and virtuous for having kept the laws of nature and respected Zeus. Her qualities are the eternal qualities of the one who dares, one who is capable of finding a way of communicating with the universal laws of harmony.
Electra opens in the half light that precedes the dawn. The majestic rhythm and shimmering chromatic harmonies of the opening create a mood of foreboding as Orestes sets eyes on "Golden Mycenae," the city that is his inheritance. Orestes' stormy solo leads us back into the pounding rhythm of the opening of the drama. He is joined by Pylades and the tutor in a trio that is interrupted, as the scene closes, by the unearthly voice of the lamenting, invisible Electra.
Scene II begins with a lengthy orchestral intermezzo that establishes a mood of enchantment, an unearthly moment crowned by the appearance of Electra. Though she speaks of her sorrows, her lovely aria is a more lyrical than dirge-like.
As she invokes Persephone at the beginning of scene IV, Electra sings a melody in gently rocking rhythm inspired by the folk laments of the Peloponnese. She is joined by the chorus in her curiously peaceful, dance-like lament. The chorus' full weight is felt as for the first time as they recount the terrible events of the past in a rhythmically dramatic sequence. Their agitated fear and uncertainty is expressed in an orchestral interlude that reinforces their advice to Electra: "Where the strong rule, don't start quarrels." Chrysothemis enters quietly but as she and Electra begin to argue the rhythm changes to the agitated triplets that are associated with the stormier sequences of the opera. When she fails to persuade her sister to join her in seeking revenge, the clash of the two sisters, underscored by the orchestra, is interrupted by the sequence in which Chrysothemis recounts the dream that has terrified Clytemnestra. Introduced first by the woodwinds, this sinister little motif of death will be taken up at key points in the opera.
Emboldened by what she takes as a positive omen Electra entreats her sister to refrain from placing Clytemnestra's profane offerings on their father's grave. As she persuades herself that the dream has been sent by her dead father, we hear the motif of death and revenge over an insistent danse macabre meter that will be repeated at the end of acts I and II. This melody represents the essence of Electra's character: her loneliness, pain, hatred, determination.
Scene VI begins with a motif of foreboding that leads into a triumphant choral ode heralding the coming of Justice (Dike). In the scene that follows, the dialogue between Electra and Clytemnestra begins as a recitative which the orchestra interrupts in sudden chromatic passages that become more insistent as the clash between mother and daughter escalates.
Scene VIII belongs to the tutor, whose dramatic recounting of the chariot race where Orestes supposedly died is supported by a colorful palette of orchestral resources. The pounding rhythm of the horses hooves, suggested, initially, by a familiar Theodorakis device of blending of duple and triple meter, picks up speed until it is interrupted by a polyrhythmic, chromatic orchestral motif, first heard from the orchestra alone, that prefigures and accompanies the description of the fatal accident. The chorus is swept up in the tutor's brilliantly fantasy, and their exclamations of horror add another layer to an already highly charged moment.
The hymn-like chorus that follows the Orestes' supposed death is appropriately based on a heroic Cretan folk melody:
Clytemnestra's brief lament for her son, her single tender moment, takes its melodic material, as do many of the melodic motifs of the opera, from one of Theodorakis' earlier compositions, this time a song from the cycle, "The Faces of the Sun," but the lyricism is short-lived and soon replaced by Electra's hopeless despair expressed in yet another lament, this time a characteristic Theodorakis melody beginning on a falling minor third. This is Electra's darkest moment in which she admits her loneliness ("Now I am
alone...without a father and without you...")
The chorus echo her lament, and a musical bridge leads from the grand lament to the theme of death.
The music of the opening scene is recalled in the second dawn scene that begins Act II. A joyful Chrysothemis enters, her aria reflecting the lightness of her mood in contrast to the dark and tragic Electra. The dramatic contrast of the two sisters is played out above the Mycenae motif until Chrysothemis learns of Orestes' death and the chorus joins the two sisters in another lament for Orestes.
Electra, who has not abandoned her desire for revenge despite the death of Orestes, attempts to persuade her sister to join her. The tension gradually rises as Chrysothemis reminds Electra she is a woman and tries to dissuade her. Over an escalating pattern of triplets, Electra's mood of grief shifts to one of rage and she dismisses her sister forever.
In a semi-recitative over a grand and solemn rhythmic bass, the chorus comments on the debt Electra must pay, the strength of her character, and the glory she will win by fulfilling her obligation to her father.
The entry of Orestes and Pylades in scene XII is marked by a surreal, dream-like release from the dramatic tension of the previous scene. A lyrical duet between Electra and Pylades is interrupted by Orestes who begins to pity the mourning stranger and has Pylades place the urn in her hands. Electra's lament over the urn begins as a lyrical lullaby. At last she has something in her arms to cradle as she cradled the young Orestes, but her mood quickly changes as she reminds herself of her true situation: "Now in a single day all is lost!" Over a rapid passage of chromatic chords in triple rhythm the storm breaks out with renewed frenzy. Electra's aria is now jagged and hysterical as she makes wordless exclamations of grief that the orchestra responds to with soaring arpeggios.
Suddenly the mood breaks again and Electra takes up her opening lyrical theme, as she imagines joining her brother in the hereafter while the chorus gently remind her of her mortality. In the trio that follows, Orestes and Pylades realize that it is Electra who still mourns over the ashes. The changing rhythmic patterns of the orchestra reflect a mood of growing excitement that mounts to a climax at the end of the scene. The recognition is crowned by the hymn-like "Blessed Day" in which the chorus join.
Scene XIV opens with Orestes making his plans for action in short broken phrases, as the orchestra underscores his decisive tone. In the scene that follows a galloping rhythm supports the tutor's call for action.
The tension is broken by a brief lull as Electra recognizes the tutor and addresses him directly. As the single
member of the household loyal to the king, his recognition provokes a choral hymn of praise to the dead Agamemnon. Orestes' call to action is marked by the rapid arpeggios and triplets that have become the acoustic signals of violent action, but before he can act, a prayer must be offered to Apollo. Over the long sustained notes of the quartet, the motif of Mycenae is briefly heard.
Then, in scene XVI the galloping rhythm resumes. It will pound on with brief interruptions to the end of the opera. As Orestes kills his mother, the orchestra echoes the frantic cries of Clytemnestra with violent interruptions of woodwinds, horns, and strings played con legno. Aigisthus enters, heralded by a repetition of the death motif. Unaware of what awaits him, his utterances still have the sharp ring of authority while Electra's responses flatten into a monotonous imitation of resignation. The chorus, now baying for blood, cries "Yes! Yes!" above the motifs of death and the pounding of the tympanum. Aegisthus and the choir then cry out to Zeus, and the tension builds to a ghastly climax as the dead face of Clytemnestra is uncovered.
In the final scene of carnage the theme of death recurs and merges into a final fortissimo shriek, leaving the orchestra to gallop on, riding the opera to its terrible end.
© Gail Holst, 2000
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