It might have been worth it even if no one sang a note. The stained glass is fabulous: the hall itself surrounded by bright mosaics - clean enough that you can see the individual tiles - on the usual Masonic themes. Throughout the performance the Eye of God stared at me from a burning pillar, apparently running with blood. The Eye of God is golden. So are the majority of the other fixtures and fittings. And this concert is practically my only chance to see the inside of Freemasons' Hall, since I am Female. I'm surprised I didn't have to wear a veil and take off my high heels.
The seating arrangements had the hallmark of a Masonic conspiracy about them. The hall was divided into eight sections, A to G. There was a foot-high laser-printed letter behind each block of seats. Each seat had a number. One can only assume, then, that some arcane rite had been performed in order that no one might find their proper seat without first sitting in at least three others. On finding one's seat, one concluded the ritual by sneering at straying latecomers.
Harry Christophers has an eighteenth-century face, accentuated by slight plumpness and shoulder-length curls. His benevolent expression mirrors that in portraits of the period. He gestures like a magician, and the magic works. The Symphony of Harmony and Invention is no less than an accomplished magical effect. They played with verve and clarity, and the acoustics were ideal for an orchestra of that size.
The lighting was directed by Jvan Morandi, who has lit numerous rock concerts too. Coupled with a simple, prop-free performance, and everyone dressed in black, the lighting - colours, strobes, swinging spotlights - was dramatically effective and suited the venue admirably. The, presumably occult, objects behind the choir were lit so as to cast shadows of deepest purple. The West Door, which doubled as the entrance to the Temple of Dagon, opened to reveal a hellish orange hue. The fall of said Temple was achieved by whirling lights of all colours, and The Sixteen sounded as though their deaths were upon them. Fortunately they revived enough to sound properly exuberant for the final numbers.
Catherine Wyn-Rogers, singing Samson's sole friend Micah (of whom there was no indication of gender), made it all look and sound beautifully simple, even in stilettos. In contrast, Lynda Russell's Dalila was all steely determination - she has a rather steely voice, too - and managed to look truly malevolent. You could tell she was a scarlet woman: there was a scarlet scarf draped over her shoulder. I couldn't see her shoes, but no doubt they were in character.
Peter Coleman-Wright, whom I last saw as Don Giovanni, hasn't changed a bit. He still maintains a cold expression, mouth turned down, which is perhaps less suited to Samson's ageing father, Manoah. This production was given in the round, which meant that for his first few numbers his face was obscured by a theorbo. Theorbos need a lot of retuning to keep them sweet.
The role of Harapha, Philistine bully-boy, was taken over at very short notice (it says here) by Christopher Purves. You'd never have guessed. He performed very creditably in the duet with Samson, which is basically a dialogue along the lines of 'you think you're so tough, well, come and get some'.
Samson was sung by Thomas Randle.
Ah, Thomas Randle. Well, Mr Randle minus frock coat minus black leather minus long curly black hair (a.k.a. the ENO Oberon in Purcell's Fairy Queen, and the reason for my attendance tonight) equals a very fine voice, real stage presence, and better dress sense (even in black civvies) than Peter Coleman-Wright. During the interval, I overheard a male couple - complete with black leather and lots of piercings - discussing Thomas Randle. They agreed that he sounded excellent. Better than at the ENO. "Oh, he wasn't bad in the Oberon part …" The opinion of those parts of the audience chattering within earshot seemed to be that Thomas Randle's performance was beyond compare.
Considering that it was a semi-staged production, relying on minimal gestures (a clenched fist at the appearance of Dalila, a despondent huddle on the edge of the stage as Micah calls to Jehovah to give him release), Thomas Randle managed an in-depth portrayal of Samson. He didn't lapse from the character, even when the lights were on someone else. (I was sitting less than twenty feet from him, and had ample opportunity to observe). Even when Samson's corpse was carted in, by a quartet of choristers of sadly mismatched heights, there was no more than a twitch when they more or less dropped him on the stage. Anyone who can maintain the fixed, out-of-focus stare of a blind man while evidently reading from the score in his hand deserves applause, if only for their acting.
I didn't miss Oberon's green eyeshadow one bit.