The mysticism of St Francis permeates Messiaen’s work

One might legitimately ask what purpose music festivals serve today, and even regard them as a senseless vanity fair, or perhaps a display of futility. It is hard, however, to imagine any place other than Salzburg where Olivier Messiaen’s immense "Saint-François d’Assise" (1983) could be staged with such lavish resources, and with the same resounding success (all six performances were practically sold out, although at the one I attended there was one person who had opted for a ‘half-price’ ticket). It is, in fact, a summer of headline-grabbing events: at the Innsbruck Baroque Festival, they are reviving Cesti’s "Il pomo d’oro" (1668), eight hours spread over two evenings; in Salzburg, the opera by the pre-eminent Catholic ornithologist lasts six and a quarter hours but with two Bayreuth-style intervals of an hour each, so that the actual hours of music amount to just over four: Saint-François as half a "Pomo", in short. Listening to this final, testamentary work by Messiaen – who also wrote his own libretto – again after many years, what strikes one most is the dramaturgy, which is by no means linear; if anything, it is a selection of the Saint’s ‘greatest hits’. He calls them ‘Scènes franciscaines’, in fact: the leper, the angel, the sermon to the birds, the stigmata, death. The music proceeds through accumulation and repetition, rarely through development, so that one gets the impression Messiaen is constructing a theatre that neither narrates nor discusses but which, as in certain non-European cultures, seeks to transport the audience into a sort of mystical nirvana (though in the decidedly prolix second act, the risk of a blasphemous doze is undeniable). This is a decidedly mystical St Francis: the risk of an excess of irenic sweetness is skilfully sidestepped by Maxime Pascal’s conducting, characterised by a clarity, precision and sharpness of line reminiscent of Salonen’s 1992 performance. As ever, the Vienna Philharmonic are beyond description, marvellous in their cohesion, precision and beautiful sound: there must be at least a hundred of them in the orchestra pit, with the percussion and the ever-present ondes Martenot positioned at the sides of the stage, yet perfectly ‘in tune’. The Vienna Staatsoper choir is also immense, positioned offstage to great effect.

A title like this is a dream come true for Romeo Castellucci, who opts for realism: there is a real wolf, a real peacock, a real old man naked as a leper and, in the finale, a real flock of sheep, whilst the friars bake real bread in two ovens (electric ones, mind you), the aroma of which fills the hall. These elements serve to illustrate Francesco’s gradual detachment from the world: the ascent towards ecstasy is not a rejection of our surroundings, but their acceptance – even when washing the leper’s body or embracing the searing heat of the stigmata. Even the birds fall to the ground, yet continue to sing. Of course, there is no shortage of the usual Castellucci-style puzzles for the more than capable puzzle-solvers, such as the tennis shoe that Francesco wears on his head for half of the first act; but the production is truly beautiful, full of powerful imagery set against the enormous wall of the Felsenreitschule – for the most part left appropriately ‘au naturel’ – and featuring a truly impressive third act. Philippe Sly is magnificent as Francesco. The role isn’t difficult but it is gruelling, especially in such a ‘physical’ production: he is painted, manhandled and jostled about whilst singing – and he does so very well indeed. Also noteworthy are Lauranne Oliva’s Angel, Sean Panikkar’s Leper (or rather, his singing double) and, in general, the entire convent, from which even the glorious Sir Willard White makes an appearance. You reach the end feeling slightly exhausted but definitely ready to applaud. So yes, it was worth the trip.