Critiques de productions passés
14Not all choreographers are good directors, but Christopher Wheeldon is. Even when dealing with a tricky text such as Laura Esquivel’s magical realist novel Like Water for Chocolate, his is a steady hand. His choreography seems in a telepathic relationship with the melody and mystery of Joby Talbot’s score, while Bob Crowley’s designs, inspired by Mexican architect Luis Barragán, give a sense of heat and isolation, and some visually arresting coups de theatre.
Another double helping of a Verdi classic.
As El Padre used to say, there are two things to see at an opera. The first is the opera — the second is people watching the opera. Never is this more true than at the opening night of a fresh rendition of La Traviata; the Royal Opera House’s latest outing, lovingly directed by the usually excellent Richard Eyre, attracts an audience as mosaic and unknowable as Boris Gudunov. White tie mixes with tattered mesh jackets; the oldest of old money rubs against ruddy-faced scions of European commerce. Opera — the great leveller. La Traviata — the ultimate draw. All of which is to say, in a roundabout sort of way, that this, like Tosca, is an opera that does not need to be perfect to be adored — and that this truth is a vital feature of the experience. An elderly man at the bar, for example, complains to me before the show even begins that he has seen La Traviata “at least ten times this year”; yet, when the bell is rung, he bounces in as quickly as anybody. Verdi transcends — but will Richard Eyre?
Verdi's opera of love and politics returns in Nicholas Hytner's production
ixteenth-century Spain resembles a prison or a madhouse in Nicholas Hytner’s Royal Opera production of Don Carlo, first seen in 2008, now on its third revival. Though it has its flaws, it reminds us of the innate bleakness of Verdi’s vision, with its irresolvable clashes between church and state, liberalism and oppression, politics and desire.
The Royal Opera House’s latest revival of Richard Eyre’s version sees three different casts used during its run. The initial trio of Venera Gimadieva (Violetta), Samuel Sakker (Alfredo) and Luca Salsi (Germont) all pass muster on a difficult opening night: the original Alfredo Saimir Pirgu came down with a throat infection and was replaced on the day by the Australian tenor. Sakker, unsurprisingly, takes a little while to find his feet but absolutely nails his character’s pathos in the final act. In contrast, Salsi is a tour de force from soup to nuts, his acting perfectly complementing his character’s emotional arc. Russian soprano Gimadieva makes for a subtle Violetta whose impact is only truly felt from the second act onwards; her excoriating two-hander with Salsi is a no-holds-barred tearjerker which will stay long in the memory. Eyre’s production is a considerate and powerful piece. The set design is an expressive beast which ranges from the sumptuous opening party scenes to the denouement’s spartan mise en scène. Direction is fluid and punchy, especially towards the end; conversely the lighting makes a major impact on the first scene but adds comparatively little after. Down in the pit, Yves Abel conducts Verdi’s gorgeous music with verve and aplomb.
Bakanova is undeniably the star of the show. Her voice, pure and clean, dips and rises above the orchestra. She exudes a simmering balance of gentility and intensity, weakness and strength. Her dramatization of Violetta is as brilliant and vibrant as her voice, and the emotion she injects into her arias, particularly Amami, Alfredo and the haunting Addio, del passato, is palpable. Ayan, in comparison, is less remarkable, as Bakanova is so mesmerising, but he is also a fine actor and an even better tenor. He is commanding and forthcoming as Alfredo, and perhaps with a little more warmth towards Violetta, the chemistry between the pair wouldn’t have felt as flat in the first act. However, their interactions improve in vigour and sincerity towards the end of the piece, and it becomes devastating to listen as they make plans in vain in Parigi, o cara at the end of the third act. Baritone Nicola Alaimo as Giorgio Germont sometimes goes unheard beneath the orchestra, while Doctor Grenvil (David Shipley) performs his few lines with surprising power and clarity. Designer Bob Crowley’s set is simple and understated, and not at all overbearing. During the final act, the wide-open space and Parisian shutters, with peeling walls of washed-out grey make the perfect space for Violetta. The lighting design by Jean Kalman is stunning, from the ominous shadow cast over Giorgio during the second act, to Violetta’s apartment awash with blue light as silhouettes of carnival revellers are seen passing by outside. La Traviata is so tragic it is almost painful, but in the most exquisite way. The tale of a fallen woman, struck by an incurable affliction in the prime of her life, is sure to pull at your heartstrings. If you’ve never been to the opera, as I hadn’t before seeing La Traviata, then I whole-heartedly recommend it. It’s grandiose, it’s a spectacle, and the cast and orchestra are obviously sublimely talented. Don’t be put off by the running time of three hours and forty-five minutes, as it’s all over far too quickly. This production of La Traviata is tender, heart-breaking, and simply beautiful.
Kristin Lewis, making her Royal Opera debut as Elisabetta at relatively short notice to replace Krassimira Stoyanova, cut a girlish figure dashing through the snowy forests of Fontainebleu in Act 1. Her soprano was a little cloudy at first, consonants swallowed, and nervousness doubtless played a part in a couple of forgotten words and skipped cues. After a few cranky gear changes between registers, Lewis rose to the challenge of her demanding Act 5 aria “Tu che le vanità” well, with good pianissimo high notes and long phrases blossoming. Christoph Pohl, stepping in at even shorter notice for Ludovic Tézier, made a fine impression as Posa, his noble baritone having just enough bite to wound Philip in their Act 2 confrontation. After a curiously low-key Veil Song, Ekaterina Semenchuk made her mark as Eboli.For a performance which ended a good ten minutes ahead of the advertised timing, Bertrand de Billy's reading felt ponderous in places, the final Carlo—Elisabetta duet in danger of grinding to a complete halt. The Orchestra of the Royal Opera House played well though, the brass on its better behaviour, and the Chorus gave the auto-da-fé plenty of mob mentality. Hopefully individual performances will bed in during the run, but this was an evening where it wasn't just the heretics that failed to catch fire.
