Thrilling mix of Broadway and Britney
Giulio Cesare Glyndebourne
Despite an initial notoriety relating to the Britney Spears dance routines that accompany some of the arias, David Mcvicar’s 2005 production of Handel’s most popular opera has become a copper-bottomed Glyndebourne classic, as this smashing revival proves.
Deftly balancing formal baroque tradition with free-form Broadway pizzazz, the Victorians-in-egypt setting is sketched through the lightest of comic touches, with Mcvicar moulding vividly witty characterisations that hover just the right side of blatantly subversive camp. The action moves at a lick, and it all looks absolutely gorgeous in the glowing designs of Robert Jones, Brigitte Reiffenstuel and Paule Constable. If only Handel opera was always this much fun.
Mcvicar has returned to redirect the show, and the result is a flawlessly crisp and slick performance in which every little visual joke, every spectacular scene change, and every exit and entrance runs perfectly on cue. (Bravo, stage management.) A largely new cast is more than a match for previous line-ups, while in
the pit William Christie once again waves his arms over the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment to demonstrate his magical ability to bring the baroque repertory to pulsating life.
Joélle Harvey makes a captivating debut as the skittish kitten Cleopatra, singing with an airy grace matched by her accomplished disco jives.
Se pietà, the moment when things turn serious for her, was beautifully done, vying with Anna Stéphany’s exquisitely poised account of Sesto’s Cara speme as the evening’s vocal highlight.
Further down the line, there was nothing but excellence. Patricia Bardon was a dignified but never pompous Cornelia, beset by the machinations of counter-tenors Christophe Dumaux and Kangmin Justin Kim and baritone John Moore – all three terrific – as the Machiavels of the Egyptian court.
The only slight disappointment was Sarah Connolly, pallid in the title-role. She is always the artist, of course. Nobody impersonates masterful male swagger better than she does, and there was never any doubt about the musicality or elegance of her phrasing.
But where was the tiger in the tank? The sound simply didn’t project powerfully enough, and in the runs and roulades, meticulously articulated though they were, she became almost inaudible. Was she holding something back to conserve her energies, or was she suffering from the high pollen count?