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Thursday 20 November 2008

Make do and mend

Otello
Welsh National Opera, Cardiff

La fanciulla del West
Royal Opera House

Otello, for me the most perfect though not the greatest of Verdi’s operas, continues Welsh National Opera’s survey of his late works, in a new production by Paul Curran. The first night was a much tamer affair than it should have been, though the performance wasn’t cautious or underprepared. Nor could one say that it was under- or miscast. Carlo Rizzi conducted a rapid but detailed account, with the orchestra on good form, though one could have wished for a stronger string section. The chorus was tremendous, with plausible movements during the opening storm scene, where often there is a lot of meaningless milling. Yet this opera, which should be one of the most upsetting in the repertoire, left me unmoved except for some moments in the latter half.

It has to be said: Dennis O’Neill, though in excellent voice in the title role, doesn’t, any more than as Radames a few months ago, convince as a warrior. He has a limited range of gestures, and none of them communicates Otello’s sovereign passions, of pride, love and jealousy. And though his voice can still ring out, he does little to inflect the words, so that a passage which is as inward and anguished as ‘Dio me potevi’ was not only taken at a surprisingly brisk tempo, but was also virtually uninterpreted. The last thing one wants is for Otello to be a crude melodrama, which is how it’s often treated. But there is a place in it for sobs, shrieks, and so on, as well as for plenty of expressive coloration of the text, and all that was wholly absent.

Amanda Roocroft seemed, at the start, as if she might be developing a controversially original characterisation of Desdemona. She was to be seen chatting intimately with Cassio in the background in Act I, and appeared to take the great duet with her husband as a chore required by marriage, keeping her distance until the last moments — where O’Neill sang his notes in a commendable pianissimo, unique in my experience in the theatre, though required by the composer. Later on she stormed round the stage, waving her hands above her head, as Otello accused her, but you’d never have guessed it if you’d only heard her singing, in a detached, cool way. Iago, the admirable David Kempster, sounded just as unengaged, but that suits the role, and he sports an effective curled lip, so, as often, Iago stole the show. There wasn’t, unfortunately, all that much to steal. Certainly no one would want to make off with any of the scenery, as ugly as it was exiguous. Suddenly, for the Grand Opera finale to Act III, we had a blaze of colour from the costumes and the Lion of Venice, but for the rest we had to make do with an ailing orange tree and some tatty rocks, which would have embarrassed an impecunious touring company.

More articles from: Michael Tanner | this section

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