Infamously, men in dinner jackets were once all you saw on stage when the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra visited. But on Tuesday it included four women in dresses. Nothing had changed with the playing, though. Bernard Haitink, I’m sure, didn’t need to coax hard to secure that manicured elegance and warmth.
And the same conventional programming. Playing Mozart and Shostakovich this year could not be called sticking one’s neck out. The surprise was a first half of such inconsequence: Mozart’s Symphony No 32, in overture form, and the first flute concerto from his months in Mannheim. The symphony, happily, was a joy to hear, bouncing in with a flourish, pressing onwards with sprightly phrasing, perfect clarity and balance.
The concerto shared some of these qualities, though they kept being clouded over by the soloist. Wolfgang Schulz, the orchestra’s first flute, could not be faulted for finger dexterity or the ease and gracefulness of his decorations: he’d make a great pastry cook. But he failed to demonstrate an individual spark.
After such a lightweight first half we looked to Shostakovich’s Tenth Symphony for ballast. Usually the symphony provides this with ease, but the conjunction of Haitink and the Viennese made matters equivocal. The bright side included the sorrowful opening burr of cellos and double-basses; Haitink’s typically organic approach and his scrupulous sculpting of climaxes; the ghostliest suggestions of a waltz lilt flickering in the strings; some jaw-dropping eloquence from the first violin in the third movement.
The dark side? Never pitch- dark, it’s true. But this was a performance of too much finesse; we needed devilment and rough edges, too. For all Haitink’s admirable steering, the mighty first movement came to rest without enough desolation and chill; and while the scherzo jangled cap, bells, and teeth, the brilliance of the finale appeared mechanical. A conductor’s cool objectivity and an orchestra’s patrician beauty are fine assets — just not in Shostakovich.