The Turn of the Screw

Why Benjamin Britten was over tempted to build an opera, on Henry James's unattractive little post-Gothic and pre-Freudian shocker, The Turn of the Screw, I confess I cannot easily conceive: James's novella, I have always thought, could only be dramatized by someone experienced in the nuances of psychological muck--a writer of the Grand Guignol, say, or perhaps even Mr. Alfred Hitchcock.

But my editors have not given me room to speculate on such matters (I should also like to know sometime why the directors of the new American Festival chose The Turn of the Screw for their "Gala Opening Event" rather than Mr. Britten's truly gala Midsummer Night's Dream) and I must indeed admit at once that Mr. Britten certainly has made the best of a bad business. James's ambiguous suggestions of the governess's own insanity have necessarily been ignored: Peter Quint and his cohort Miss Jessel are accepted as real enough apparitions of evil, and governess is affirmed. But this is, perhaps, all for the good.

The Score

In one particular, the score adheres, if anything, somewhat too closely to the text: the persons of a Jamesian narrator remains, and a gentleman in Victorian evening dress is required to deliver a dull and quite uncalled-for prologue, and then to disappear abruptly and permanently. A bit upsetting, that.

For the rest, however, I have little but priase. Mr. Britten has skillfully caught the governess's apprehensiveness and growing terror; Peter Quint is magnificently and compellingly evil--particularly in his first wordless and almost muezzin-like wall; and the children sing tunes and the new English music that is Mr. Britten's specialty.

The production, happily, is worthy of the music. Patricia Neway, whose presence the Festival was fortunate enough to secure, suffered (at least on opening night) from a slightly husky voice; but her acting was ample compensation. Richard Cassily, as Quint, was severe and impressive in his evil; and to the part of Mrs. Grose, the housekeeper, Ruth Kobart brought a warm understanding. Especially impressive, however, were the children, Bruce Zachariades and Michele Farr, who somehow managed to avoid both dooms awaiting most child actors: self-consciousness and cuddly cuteness.

The sets, by Jac Venza, tried to be terribly Gothic, but only managed to look faintly dismal.

But, in all, a fine performance. If the Festival continue to produce such excellence, maybe some day (who knows?) the University's Preoccupation with its won cultural activities can be brought to an end.