When I interviewed Antonio Pappano in Rome in 2011, he jokingly admitted that he was a cultural traitor. “I did productions of Wagner, Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Britten and Birtwistle at Covent Garden,” he said, “but maybe I didn’t do as many Italian classics as they expected me to.” During his second decade as music director of the Royal Opera House, he made amends with new productions of Bellini, Rossini, Verdi and Puccini, and now he bids farewell with a revival of Giordano’s red-blooded Italian style. Andréa ChenierHe conducts with both boisterous energy and tender empathy, spurred on by three singers who deliver their own fireworks display of balletic B-flats and dazzling high Cs.
The characters are operatic archetypes, bouncing between heaven and earth, metaphysical ecstasy and shattering despair. The poet Chénier, who was guillotined during the Terror in 1794, is a majestic tenor here whose role consists mostly of lyrical tirades that he claims to have improvised on the spot. His soprano partner, the aristocrat Maddalena, writes him anonymous letters that are unsung arias, then consummates their abstract relationship by sacrificially attending his gallows. Gérard the Doctrine occupies lower ground, specializing in evil rages suited to the baritone’s vocal range. The cover in David McVicar’s 2015 production quotes Robespierre’s justification for executing Chénier: Plato, he declares, also exiled poets from his republic. But here it is these obsessively passionate, high-flying opera singers who question the egalitarian credo of the revolution and must be eliminated.
Italian opera is as much sport as it is art, and this is a championship match
Chénier’s first aria, in which he denounces the old regime at a rococo party, presents a vocal challenge so dangerous that once at Covent Garden I saw Plácido Domingo open his mouth to initiate it and then suddenly move towards the back of the stage. The curtain opened, a panicked call was made for a doctor in the house, then after 20 tense minutes Domingo returned; he had, we are informed, not nervous apprehensions but a spasm of indigestion from the impending high notes. After the cancellations of the previous two seasons, Jonas Kaufmann does not hold back this time, excitingly challenging with subtle diminutions that confirm the poetic mastery of the character. Kaufmann is also a subtle actor, and his reactions always seem to beg for a close-up: See for yourself when the production is transferred to the cinema.
In typical detail, Kaufmann’s Chénier staggers, stumbles, and is picked up by Sondra Radvanovsky’s brave Maddalena to a heroic death as he heads for mayhem in the opera’s final triumphant bars. Radvanovsky is always at his best when he is most imperious, such as Donizetti’s Elizabeth I. Roberto Devereuxor the sorcerer in Cherubini Medea; Here her voice inflames the revolutionary tribunal at which Chénier is condemned, ending the scene with a wild but precisely calibrated cry of protest. Gérard is Amartuvshin Enkhbat from Mongolia; is an indifferent actor but a striking vocalist; his lament about his descent from political correctness to prurient greed prompts applause midway through the film. There is a star’s expectation of respect in Enkhbat, and after his anguished cry he solemnly retreats to his courtroom table, where he waits for a stagehand in a butler costume to bring him a glass of water and wets his throat for the next magnificent solo. . It deserves a renewal: Italian opera is as much a sport as it is an art, and this is a championship match.
Rossini’s Barber of Seville It displays a more cheerful version of the Italian operatic temperament, which can be heard when Figaro, arriving to open his barber shop, shouts “Lalalalera”, a series of nonsensical syllables synonymous with pleasure. At Opera Holland Park, conductor Charlotte Corderoy uses her raucous overture to wake up a town whose residents have piled into the streets after last night’s revelry. Waiters are busy collecting empty plates from cafe tables, fruit sellers accompanied by an orchestra play juggling games with Seville’s famous oranges, and Figaro stops to caress the hair of the disheveled audience members sitting in the corridor on his way to work.
Cecilia Stinton’s production, Dr. It transforms Bartolo and his ward Rosina into Victorian tourists, both terrified and elated, from the scorching south. A decrepit academic with a flaming case of sunburn, who faithfully salutes the portrait of the old queen he brought with him on holiday. She is wary of breaking free from the restraints of her corset, and becomes thrillingly flustered when a local exhibitionist dresses to her taste, unbuttoning her clothes to cool off in a fountain. Courting him, Almaviva adds some pelvic movements to the early morning serenade she sings outside his hotel. Equally ambitious, he beckons her to the couch for sex before their planned escape at the end of the opera. With a good cast, Heather Lowe’s Rosina is a standout; She fearlessly scatters her coloratura flowers as she runs from place to place in the madness of a rebellious desire.
Holland Park was damp and cold last Tuesday, but it will take more than harsh English weather to dampen Rossini’s manic vivacity. This is new Barber of Seville He spreads Brio and Bravura, words too inherently Italian to have any other equivalent in our solemn and plain language.
Star ratings (out of five)
Andrea Chenier ★★★★★
Barber of Seville ★★★★