Night to remember

Il barbiere di Siviglia; Tosca
Royal Opera House

The Royal Opera hasn’t had much luck or judgment in recent years in presenting Verdi, though, for various reasons, some of them interesting, his operas do seem to be at the present time recalcitrant to great productions, or for that matter good recordings. Pre- and post-Verdi Italian opera, or to be accurate Rossini and Puccini, have been faring rather better, and the round-up of Italians with which the season has concluded has landed one triumph and another near-triumph, though both have the disability of annoying sets and not particularly helpful producers.

The first night of the revival of Il barbiere di Siviglia has already passed, and rightly, into operatic history. Joyce DiDonato, who was giving the most glorious account of Rosina, tripped and fell in Act I, but unobtrusively enough for me not to notice (nor did anyone I’ve spoken to), and carried on just as gloriously. Before Act II someone came on to announce that she had sprained her ankle, but would continue, using a crutch. The audience, which had been very excitable from the start, applauding most arias as though they were present at an especially impressive Murray rally on the Centre Court, erupted ecstatically, and we were rewarded with an impeccable display of coloratura and naughtiness.

A couple of days later the papers informed us that she had actually broken her fibula. DiDonato is a major star, and we should see very much more of her, though it’s hard to envisage her singing any role better than this one. Yet the audience seemed even more enraptured with the pyrotechnics of Juan Diego Flórez, who certainly has a nonpareil technique, but a voice which is to me unpleasantly nasal and unarguably very limited in expressive range. His Almaviva is excellently acted, though.

The whole cast, right from the start, showed a zest and involvement that is rare on these international occasions, and speaks highly for the conductor Antonio Pappano, who elicited a precise and frothy account from everyone, with marvellous effects from the orchestra. While unperceptive people, performers and spectators alike, take Barbiere to be the paradigm of a harmless piece of fun, it is far more subversive than Figaro, since Rossini is concerned to undermine not so much a whole set of social relations, but our usual comfortable view of human nature. His characters are all obsessionals, and mostly of an intensely unpleasant kind. Malice brings them more enduring pleasure than anything else, with the joys of romance and affection nothing more than a passing respite from the ecstasy of undermining other people’s self-esteem. Ferruccio Furlanetto rightly played Don Basilio as a lunatic, though in Rossini they are less easy than usual to spot, since that is the common condition.

Brilliant as almost all the arias are — but not Berta’s: do we need it? — I think ‘La Calunnia’ the most devastating of all, in its depiction of the hysteria that lies just under the surface of almost everything that anyone achieves. Furlanetto, in far better form than for years, quite put in the shade the Figaro of Pietro Spagnoli, fine as he was. But one realised that Figaro, sanest of the characters, is not a big role, though his entrance aria has had so much virtuoso treatment that one tends to overestimate the part. Alessandro Corbelli is the agelessly malignant Bartolo.

The Leiser–Caurier team is lazy yet again in Barbiere, with little to show that they have given any instructions to anyone. And to have the set becoming airborne and oscillating wildly in the finale to Act I is a more serious betrayal, as if the situation and its musical treatment aren’t quite enough to show that the world is being shaken to its foundations. But this was a genuine Sternstunde, to be remembered for an opera-goer’s lifetime.

The revival of Tosca, in the hideous sets of Paul Brown, elaborate to a degree but unfunctional and hard to negotiate, brought back Angela Gheorghiu, whose performance of the part in 2006 was alarmingly underpowered. This time round she is tremendous, with only ‘Vissi d’arte’ short-winded and to be seen more than heard. One had always expected this diva to suit the title role ideally, and her intensity and playfulness were in ideal balance in Act I, and the other elements in Tosca’s character only slightly less so thereafter. Marcello Giordani is another of those tolerable Italians of whom Covent Garden has a limitless supply, hardly worth murdering for. Bryn Terfel reached his full potential as Scarpia, less loutish than before, smoothly detestable. The young Canadian Jacques Lacombe, conducting, found many new things in the score without sacrificing momentum. Tosca should never be much more thrilling than this.