Simon Boccanegra - Royal Opera House, 4 May 2008
After the last disappointment (which wasn't the first), I swore off Sunday matinees at Covent Garden. But this ended up as the only Simon Boccanegra performance which fitted in with my schedule. And at least it featured the unexpected bonus of a starry late substitute in Ferruccio Furlanetto.
This time, the problem wasn't so much the performance as the production itself. Inexplicably revived after ten very understandable years on the shelf, it's like a Primark version of Zeffirelli's Metstravaganzas. The gorgeous Caravaggio-coloured costumes and simple multipurpose set aren't objectionable, just rather unimaginative. But it's desperately short on dramatic purpose, virtually inert, reliant totally on whatever sparks of enlightenment the singers can dredge up if it's to have any life at all.
It reminded me of those semi-staged concert performances which sink or swim in line with the performers' enthusiasm to step out from behind the music stands. Had the singers been abandoned to their own devices here too? There was no lack of enthusiasm, and once they'd moved beyond the cliched cape-flouncing monotony of the first half, the second was far more vital and engaging - but most of the credit here must go to Verdi and Boito for packing the last hour with an disproportionate share of death and denouement.
The late replacements Anja Harteros and Ferruccio Furlanetto had the least rehearsal time and the most impact. There was nothing girlish about Harteros. Her Amelia had a powerful dramatic presence and a big-boned sound, veering towards the coarse-grained a little too often. She wiped the floor with every man present, including Lucio Gallo, a hugely likeable but rather lightweight Boccanegra, and Marcus Haddock, an energetic but desperately un-Italian Adorno.
Ferruccio Furlanetto is of course a complete legend. It seemed almost as if he'd been dropped on to the stage to show the lesser mortals how it's done. He imposed his presence in the subtlest way, without any attention-grabbing antics, grave and noble. Impeccable legato and the the most elegant colouring made his Fiesco a delight to the ear. A pity for anyone not there that he's only scheduled for this one performance, but I'm now looking forward even more to his Philip in next month's Don Carlo.
And there was always the music. John Eliot Gardiner isn't the obvious Verdi choice, but he drew a lucid and polished performance from the orchestra, with the sort of candlelit warmth that few of his fellow period practice dudes can muster.
And all the passion and excitement was there for the big moments, the effect magnified in fact by his comparative restraint elsewhere. The orchestra played immaculately for him, scarcely a wobble, and he was remarkably attentive to the singers, every entrance neatly cued, and a perfect balance between stage and pit.
And check out that opium smokin jacket! A Shanghai Tang velvet pyjama I think, but how practical and elegant.
Recent Comments