The climactic central scene of Benjamin Britten’s Billy Budd ends unexpectedly. The naval court has reached a verdict of death, and Captain Vere must depart to tell Billy his fate. Voices fall silent, the stage empties, and for two whole minutes the unseen drama is distilled into just 34 chords. And not sprawling elbowfuls of notes either, but plain old triads — the child’s building blocks of harmony.
It’s wilfully, maddeningly ambiguous and utterly inspired. It’s also a touchstone for any performance — the moment the opera reveals itself either as a parable, groping gradually but surely towards redemption, or a darker tale of the indiscriminate cruelty of fate.
Deborah Warner’s Billy Budd cruises into Covent Garden from Madrid and most recently Rome, its sails billowing full with praise and awards. You can see why. Michael Levine’s designs, lovingly lit by Jean Kalman, are airy and architectural — less a ship than the idea of a ship.
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