Revenge tragedy

OPERA JOHN HIGGINS

The hero of the current Covent Garden revival of Don Giovanni is Ottavio. Anna's pallid

consort, entrusted with little but two beautiful arias—or only one, according to the version and the tenor used—has been banished. In his place Stuart Burrows puts a man of flesh and blood, an aristocrat out to avenge a murder in the family into which he will marry.

A vendicar io vado. mio tesoro' becomes

what it really is, a vengeance aria, instead of the piece of mere tenorising that occurs when

it falls into the wrong larynx. Earlier, `Dalla sua pace' had been phrased with beauty and

exquisite control, its second verse decorated with extreme delicacy. This was Mozart sing- ing of a high order; it was also coupled with

an instinctive feel for the house and for just

how much pressure to put on the voice, both remarkable in a man who has been singing at Covent Garden for less than two years. This

is simply the best Ottavio I have heard since Wunderlich's memorable performances at the

Munich National Theatre just before his death:

But, you will say, isn't there something wrong with a Don Giovanni in which Ottavio

takes pride of place? And you will be right.

Zeffirelli's 1962 production, perfunctorily re- hearsed by Ande Anderson to judge from the first night, needs grand interpretations. These distant castles and impossibly wide, lowering Seville streets, these heavy Goya costumes cry out for the opulent manner. And the audi- ence paying £4 6s a stall might have felt a similar entitlement. They did not get it.

Wladimiro Ganzarolli, the new Leporello, seemed determined to cut the evening down to size. It was a chirpy, cock-sparrow 'approach to the part, lots of life with a little bottom- pinching here and even a tiny cuddle for Elvira

there. In a jolly, lightweight Giovanni it might have been perfectly acceptable: but in Zeffi- relli's production it looked rather as though Max Miller had wandered into the Matthew Passion. And here, surely, Mr Anderson is to blame : if he allows Ganzarolli to milk a

few laughs in the dinner scene, by hopping bull-frog style around the stage in imitation of the Commendatore's approach. then he cannot expect anyone to take that final apparition very seriously and he is doing a disservice to his bass (Joseph Rouleau). But, in fairness -,to Wladimiro Ganzarolli, his was a cleanly sung Leporello, and he had the artistry to continue through the Catalogue Aria against a burst of applause from the audience, who, taking their cue from a descending curtain adjudged it all over when it was halfway through.

Possibly irritated by Ganzarolli's perkiness and occasional scene-stealing. Gobbi decided to have a sulky evening. In the last revival of Don Giovanni here a couple of years back, he was in superb form—this, indeed, was the per- formance which marked the return of the volcog; to true health. Now all the dash and sparkle have vanished; the jaunty kiss curl over the,..

forehead is only an ornament to divert atten- tion from middle age.

Elsewhere matters were better. Stafford Dean (Sadler's Wells' Leporello) and Elizabeth Robson presented a highly attractive, home- grown pair of peasant lovers, cooing prettily over the prompt box in `Vedrai carino.' Teresa Zylis Gara's Elvira was delivered with just that vocal alternation of poise and dash the role demands. She is a very 'safe' singer and the runs of 'Ali twit" hold no fears for her. A pity, though, that she is such a safe actress, always declining to show emotion on stage; this is the one element which stops her from being an outstanding Elvira.

London's hunt for a Donna Anna goes on. Enriqueta Tarres, the latest in a disappointing line, is not right for the part. Like Zylis Gara, she tends to be an uninvolved artist—the cast- ing of the pair side by side was surely a mis- judgment—but there are far fewer vocal compensations. The lady we would like, please, in this role goes by the name of Gundula Janowitz.

David Atherton is Covent Garden's youngest conductor and, perversely, he is the one usually favoured with the deep end. Last season he had charge of a glossy and, I imagine, rather sticky Trovatore revival; now he has a Don Giovanni with seven out of the eight principals new to the production. All credit to him, then, for keeping his forces together—indeed, the trio of the masks, which so often goes awry, pro- vided one of the peaks of the evening. What was lacking was a sense of urgency, of daemonism. Perhaps this will come.