Surging energy
Michael Tanner
Rigoletto; Mitridate
Royal Opera House
Of the Royal Opera’s Verdi productions of recent years, David McVicar’s seems likely to be the most durable. It evokes and sustains an atmosphere which is entirely suited to the particular tinta of the music that pervades this work, a combination of levity and desperation, glamour and sleaziness, ardent love and lechery. The extraordinary set by Michael Vale, a huge metal revolve which shows on one side the squalor of the Duke’s palace, and on the other the squalor of Rigoletto’s dwelling, the former glinting, the latter matt, transformed in Act III into the squalor of Sparafucile’s inn, manages to be confusing enough to make less implausible than usual the episode in which Rigoletto mistakenly breaks into his own house, under the impression that the blindfold that has been put on him is only the night’s darkness. With absurdities as extreme as that, the only thing is to highlight the intensity of the characters’ feelings and motives to the utmost, and let the plot look after itself. That is what McVicar does, and this is one of the productions which shows his gifts at their most flamboyantly effective.
For this revival there have been two largely different casts, with only Eric Halfvarson’s Sparafucile among the major performers, blackest of contemporary basses, in all the performances. As in most Royal Opera productions, the minor roles have been consistently cast from strength. Edward Downes has conducted all the performances, and has returned to form after conducting the work’s exceptionally dull first revival two years ago. This year he has maintained concentration, and there’s been no doubt from the opening bars that the piece’s ferocity would get its full due — or almost: even now I wish he would let things go wilder in the thrilling last-act trio and subsequent storm, some of Verdi’s most effectively barbaric music. But there has been no lack of vitality in the music accompanying the Duke, and fortunately both Dukes have had all the requisite qual ities to make them the star of the show. The constant element in all Verdi’s work, with the possible exception of the strange, great Simon Boccanegra, is surging energy, and in Rigoletto it’s unquestionably that which carries the day. The first Duke was the young Pole Piotr Beczala, seen earlier in the season as Faust, but here in his lusty element. He was libido incarnate, and with such effortless production of tone you could only be delighted that the character triumphs over all scruples (ours, not his) to have his way with Gilda and anyone else who takes his fancy. Paolo Gavanelli, now a veteran Rigoletto, is so creepy a presence, more insectile than human, with such bleak colours in his voice, that the Duke’s victory over him seems that of light over darkness. The object of their desire, in slightly different ways, was the heavily sex-bomb-promoted Anna Netrebko. She seems to know more than a thing or two, and Gilda’s music is only convincing if its performer sounds as if she knows nothing at all. Still, Netrebko undeniably is cute and her voice is winning, if not to justify the hype it has been getting. Marina Domashenko as Maddalena seemed to offer a most plausible alternative for the Duke, as she needs to. This was a thrilling evening.
The second cast didn’t add up to quite so satisfying a whole, though the Duke of Rolando Villazon was if anything still more exciting, vocally and in acting, than Beczala. Ekaterina Siurina’s Gilda was a more wan specimen than Netrebko, which is suitable but does emphasise what an insipid creation she is. The major weakness, however, was the Rigoletto of Dmitri Hvorostovsky. He was in better voice than I have heard him for a long time, but creaminess isn’t what one associates with this character, and that was all we got. Where Gavanelli seemed in desperate need of his two sticks, Hvorostovsky waved them around in fury as if they were instruments of aggression rather than support; he is not a deep interpreter even of such straightforward roles. But as long as productions are kept in such good trim, we have little cause for complaint.
My only serious complaint about the Royal Opera’s revival of Mozart’s Mitridate, re di Ponto is that it’s performed at all. The 14-year-old was unquestionably a master of his craft, but genius had yet to strike, or emerge. This is opera seria at its deadliest, and they don’t come much longer either. A distinguished cast did everything that could be done, with nil results, though the audience was enraptured. Bruce Ford in the title role is so gifted a tenor that it would be good to see him in some things worthy of his talents — he has specialised in operas that aren’t before he retires. Sally Matthews put on a virtuoso display, and I hope to see her soon in something non-seria, too. Richard Hickox did what can be done with a score which offers no incentive to anything except accuracy.
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