The production of Carl Nielsen’s comic opera Maskarade at the Royal Opera is the most brilliant we have seen there for a long time, spectacularly so. It’s a pity that the opera itself doesn’t live up to the treatment it receives, but it’s just about good enough not to let the production down badly. Maskarade seems to draw inspiration from the three great operatic comic ‘F’s, Figaro, Falstaff, Fledermaus.
From Figaro we get the figure of the resourceful and agreeably socially disruptive servant, Henrik, performed extremely well by Kyle Ketelsen. From Falstaff we get an intransigent and morose oldster determined that the younger generation shall do what he wants and thus be as miserable as he is. This is the hero’s father, Jeronimus, played with gloomy élan but not enough voice by Brindley Sherratt. And from Fledermaus the central sequence of the masked ball, where members of a family fool one another and are made fools of, and a series of dances, ending in the chill light of dawn, when reality strikes. Reality here takes not merely the form of hangovers, but also of Corporal Mors himself, with a coffin, into which he gets the guests to throw their disguises. That makes a powerful end to the piece: we are given a chill reminder of the end not only of any ball but also of all fun. But since it’s a comedy, the main thing is that the young lovers succeed in thwarting their parents, at the same time as they find, delightedly, that they are in fact just the pair that their parents had wanted them to be. So everyone is happy and mildly abashed. For good Wagnerian measure we have a Nightwatchman, Martin Winkler (also Mors and two other characters), who announces the hour in quivering tones such as his prototype in Meistersinger is instructed to do.
Whether or not Nielsen was consciously courting these elevated comparisons, he can’t help but be judged by them, and comes off poorly. David Pountney the director is responsible for the translation, mainly in rhyming couplets, which suggests a moderately amusing script, but a lack of dramatic momentum. The dance sequence seems to be not, as in Fledermaus, an essential ingredient in the progress of the action, but a way of postponing the premature conclusion of it. And the music here, as virtually everywhere in the opera, is not bad, but obstinately won’t rise to the pitch which would make it memorable and arresting. Without as much colour, movement, visual wit and as many charming conceits as we get in this very glamorous production, this would be thin and unsustaining fare. As it is, everything — the sets by Johan Engels, and the costumes by Marie-Jeanne Lecca — is gorgeous to look at, there are lots of gags which are fairly plausibly grafted on to the action, and the music is moderately inventive and harmless, though quite unmemorable. Michael Schonwandt nurses the score with evident affection, and the young lovers are so good that one wishes they had more than an asexual love duet to show off in — that’s especially true of Emma Bell, virtually unemployed as the heroine.
The CBSO began in style, though I’m not entirely sure which style, with a three-quarter staged Carmen, the work reduced to its bare bones, a few lines of spoken dialogue, so almost no background provided for Don José, a character who needs all the filling out he can get. Sakari Oramo made it abundantly clear that he is a frustrated operatic conductor, nursing the score, indeed mouthing it all, with a love that sometimes nearly smothered it. But he, and his Carmen Katarina Karneus, earned gratitude for a perfect rendering of the Card Song, neither sentimentalised nor overdramatic, just bleakly and quietly resigned. This scene — also with an excellent Frasquita and Mercedes — was the pivotal part of the drama, as it should be. In its sombre light, or shadow, the final scene was agonising, Carmen embracing her destiny from a Don José who would have done anything to avoid being its agent. Gordon Gietz sang this role, full of lovely music but all told irritating, with a warmth which almost earned our sympathy. But that had to go to the magnificently swaggering and sexy Escamillo of Leigh Melrose, who will surely become the great Don Giovanni of the near future. Geraldine McGreevy soared as Micaela: if ever a pair were meant for one another it’s she and Don José.
The CBSO played with sleek incisiveness, and its Chorus and Youth Chorus must have found it a wonderful relief from their usual round of requiems and exhortations. Some of them donned skirts, scarves, capes, with relish. But they only provided a framework for the central drama, which periodically came into clearer focus than usual for the very lack of scenery and props, though José and Escamillo had an uncommonly convincing knife fight.
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