Despite excellent cast, Falstaff falls short and fails to scintillate
Falstaff Royal Opera House
Iconfess to a problem with
Falstaff. In the abstract and my mind’s ear, the opera clearly ranks in many respects as Verdi’s supreme achievement – he composed it when he was in his 80s, the fruit of a lifetime’s experience, it is as rich in the mellow wisdom of old age as it is in the mercurial energy of youth, as well as being astoundingly inventive, melodically and technically ingenious in its structure.
But for me it never quite measures up to its promise once it materialises in the cold light of the stage. To reach the supreme level of ensemble singing and acting called for by the supremely sophisticated score and libretto would require months of rehearsal that no opera house could now afford, and the result is that I’m always slightly disappointed – it’s never quite sharp or fast enough, it doesn’t scintillate. Only Toscanini’s 1950 recording catches the elusive note of devilry and ridicule, and even that is marred by some rather indifferent voices. So how goes it in this latest revival?
Updated – like so many recent stagings of its Shakespearean source
The Merry Wives of Windsor – to the Fifties, Robert Carsen’s production (rehearsed here by Daniel Dooner) is by and large a jolly and inventive affair that milks laughs from the audience without excessive vulgarity.
The Garter Inn is wittily reimagined as one of those ghastly panelled country-house hotels I remember from my childhood, where leathery roast beef was served from a trolley on Sundays: Falstaff is holed up here, running up a huge bill for room service and infuriating the soporific retired Colonels in the lounge. Ford comes across as a thrustingly arriviste car dealer or estate agent, married to Alice, a desperate housewife proud of her Formica-covered kitchen in which Falstaff meets his first humiliation.
So far – despite three protracted scene changes that drag the pace down – so good. The third act, however, comes as a disappointment. All one’s attention in the first scene is unproductively distracted by a real horse nuzzling a bag of hay through a stable door, while the second scene at Herne’s Oak lacks any numinous forest spookiness and the masquerade is clumsily done – why, for instance, does Falstaff not simply run away?
Nicola Luisotti is the conductor. No Toscanini, as his reading tends to the pedestrian, with the scampering chatter of the second scene sounding four-square and the fairy music lacking in eerie poetry. He probably did not have enough rehearsal time – no conductor of this opera ever does – and perhaps the orchestra is whacked at the end of the season and its recent Wagnerian exertions over Lohengrin. But, no, once again Falstaff didn’t scintillate.
Still, there is much pleasure to be had from an excellent cast. Anna Prohaska and Frédéric Antoun radiate much charm as the young lovers Nannetta and Fenton, and Ana María Martínez, Marie Mclaughlin and Marie-nicole Lemieux make very merry wives. Simon Keenlyside has fun with Ford’s bluster, and sings his jealousy monologue expertly.
Then there is Sir Bryn Terfel as the Fat Knight. He’s had this role in his repertory for nearly 20 years, and I have read somewhere that he considers it his favourite assignment.
Recently he’s taken some time off to recover from “vocal exhaustion” and I wouldn’t say that he’s bounced back as fresh as a daisy – there was some roughness round the edges in the early scenes and a shortage of the ideal full-bodied tone.
But what a marvellously rich characterisation this is, balancing Falstaff ’s venal appetites and sly calculation of self-interest with his charm and pathos. His miniature aria Quand’ero paggio was beautifully done too – sparkling with a light crisp touch that was the element otherwise missing in the performance overall.
‘All one’s attention in the first scene is unproductively distracted by a real horse nuzzling a bag of hay’