Verdi’s jester used to be so much zestier
Rigoletto Royal Opera House, London Until September 29 ★★★
After an undistinguished lockdown, the Royal Opera returns with a new production of Verdi’s Rigoletto that ultimately promised more than it delivered.
The star of the evening was Antonio Pappano, whose account of the opening bars of the Prelude had the brooding intensity and foreboding of a master conductor. Astonishing, then, that a piece he so obviously loves hasn’t featured on his agenda in almost 30 years.
Oliver Mears, in his first production since becoming director of opera, begins magically during the Prelude, with the cast in costume standing stock-still in a Caravaggio-esque tableau.
But then the contemporary dress appears, and much of that magic disappears. A lot of Act One is dull; some just downright boring. Not an accurate reflection of Mears’s talents, as is apparent in a deeply dramatic, sexually charged Act Three. He should perhaps look at Act One again.
Act Three is much enhanced by some splendid singing from Brindley Sherratt as Sparafucile – perhaps the best of the night. Good to see a Brit getting a look-in now and again at Covent Garden. A promising debut, too, from Ramona Zaharia as a sleazy and sexy Maddalena.
There was a time when Covent Garden’s Rigoletto principals were at, or near, best in class. No longer. Carlos Alvarez has the biggest reputation, but his Rigoletto sounds a bit worn these days after more than two decades on the road.
Liparit Avetisyan has a pleasing lyric tenor voice as the Duke of Mantua but is almost entirely devoid of charisma and star quality. At the great moment in Act Three when Rigoletto discovers his daughter dead in a bag, and offstage the Duke sings a reprise of La donna è mobile, Avetisyan brings no magic whatsoever to bear. Just another of the second-rank tenors the Royal Opera rather specialises in these days.
The Gilda of Lisette Oropesa has all the notes but is still, at best, a work in progress. She has little of the assurance and presence of Covent Garden’s great Gildas of the past. Her grotty little charity-shop dress does her few favours. Not her fault, of course, but I can’t imagine Joan Sutherland in that.
As for the American Eric Greene’s Monterone, he’s a good singer but miscast. The casting director could have found half a dozen better Brits on the Northern Line but, as so often, didn’t trouble to look.