Inspired and thrilling
Michael Tanner
Le nozze di Figaro Royal Opera House
The first night of the latest revival of the Royal Opera House’s Le nozze di Figaro I count among the dozen, or perhaps fewer than that, most glorious evenings I have spent in the theatre. Figaro is the opera that a critic sees most often, and it is right that it should be, since it is not only an incomparably great work, but also one which can survive performances of very different levels of achievement. What one hopes for from the Royal Opera, and on this occasion gets in fullest measure, is a superb amalgamation of the arts of singing, acting, producing, conducting. The cast is almost flawless, and so are the other ingredients, but what matters is not perfection but inspiration, and we had that above all from Sir Charles Mackerras. I have heard him conduct Figaro many times, and he has never been less than good, as well as, of course, pioneering in the delicate art of ornamentation, which was here ripely displayed. But this was the first time I have felt that he was conducting a performance notably superior to any other I have attended, even from Colin Davis. Tempi were on the whole rapid, or seemed to be, but actually that was an illusion, created by the incredible amount of detail that he managed to elicit from the orchestra, at the absolute peak of its form, so that with so much heard to be happening the opera seemed to be moving faster than it was. Yet where expansiveness is required, as in the Countess’s first aria, it was provided; and it occurred in some places where it rarely does, for instance in that magical passage midway through the helter-skelter of the finale to Act IV, when Figaro briefly draws breath and sings ‘Tutto e tranquillo e placido’, framed by some of the most moving wind music Mozart ever wrote. Usually this passage, which provides a whole different perspective on the action, is glossed over, but here it was distended to poignant effect, and sung marvellously by Ildebrando d’Arcangelo. Throughout, Mackerras gave the impression that this score, which he must know as well as anyone ever has, has been an object of renewed study for him, and that he has imparted all he has discovered to a delighted orchestra, thrilled to share his pleasure.
For the first time, too, I found that the production, now quite extensively modified by the revival director Leah Hausman, but originally by David McVicar, was convincing, even though there are still irritants such as the acting out of the Overture, where the music tells us all we need to know of exuberance and rebelliousness without the scurryings on the stage. It’s important that the first people we see are Figaro and Susanna, but here we have already seen many others. Fortunately, d’Arcangelo and Aleksandra Kurzak are such an ideal pair from their first moment on that one soon forgets what precedes them. Kurzak is petite of figure, but not perky or pert of voice, and whenever she has something especially lovely to sing she makes the most of it: her ‘Deh vieni’, described by McVicar in a most perceptive article in the programme as ‘the still, rapt climax of Figaro’, was just that. She even made her lengthy aria in Act II, as she dresses up Cherubino, into something more vital than it normally seems to be.
There really was not one lifeless bar in the score (fortunately Marcellina’s and Basilio’s arias in Act IV were omitted). Peter Mattei, making his Royal Opera debut as the Count, is a young giant, and could easily lurch into caricature, but he played the role with fierce directness, even going so far — too far (but this has been in the production all along) — as to slap the Countess’s face hard in Act II. He made, all told, a powerful study of lust and impatience, crowned by a stupendous account of his Act III aria. Sensibly follow ing the Raeburn–Moberley ordering of that act, the Countess’s supreme aria of memory and resolution showed more clearly than anything why this pair of lovers is hopelessly unstable. Barbara Frittoli was as fine here as in ‘Porgi amor’, an unusual feat.
The oldsters were a fire-eating Marcellina from Ann Murray, again avoiding parody by the narrowest margin; and the Bartolo of Robert Lloyd, still a commanding presence but with a voice which has lost its centre. The mincing quean Basilio of Robin Leggate is brilliant, if in a way that would have mildly surprised the creators of the role. And the pinnacle of the work’s eroticism, Cherubino d’amore, is another major acquisition, Anna Bonitatibus. Her voice is luscious, disturbingly so, and her acting — this role has been superbly cast each time — convincing, like all the rest excellent in itself but, above all, part of the kind of team effort that international opera hardly ever is.
Superlatives are exhausting to read, easy to write. Still, anyone who doubts that when the greatest of operas is treated to a performance that does it as much justice as human beings can manage, then what we have is an experience which no other art can offer, should go to this and enjoy eating his words.
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