Verdi without dignity

Simon Boccanegra is distinctive, among all Verdi’s operas, for its darkness of tone, and for abjuring the vitality which, in his other works, the characters display, despite or because of the desperate situations which they are in.

Simon Boccanegra is distinctive, among all Verdi’s operas, for its darkness of tone, and for abjuring the vitality which, in his other works, the characters display, despite or because of the desperate situations which they are in. One comes away from this opera with the sound of baritones and basses in one’s head, no melodies — there are hardly any — and the sense that reconciliation between old foes can only be truly resolved when one of them dies. It is an impressive work, but I can’t help feeling that it owes some of its very high critical esteem at present to its sheer difference.

Even great performances of it have left me feeling depressed, while English National Opera’s new production, directed and designed by Dmitri Tcherniakov and conducted by Edward Gardner, energised me mainly by its perversity, and dismayed me mainly thanks to the provincial mediocrity of most of the singing and acting.

Verdi’s opera is set in Genoa in the 14th century, so one could take it for granted that Tcherniakov’s production would locate it in squalid surroundings in the 1960s. The curtain goes up on a street with a bar occupied by trilbied mafiosi, and with a large car, whose lights continue to flash for the whole of the 25-minute long Prologue; in the back is the ‘pirate’ Boccanegra, in jeans and a leather jacket, drinking whisky from the bottle. In such a setting no dignity is possible, though that is a key element in Verdi’s drama.