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Albergo Almaviva, ossia la giornata noiosa! Dresden
Semperoper
09/03/2024 - & September 26, 28, October 1, 2023
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Le nozze di Figaro, K. 492
Neven Crnic*/Michael Nagel (Figaro), Elsa Benoit*/Anna El‑Khashem (Susanna), Danylo Matviienko*/Christoph Pohl (Il conte d’Almaviva), Elena Gorshunova*/Julia Kleiter (La contessa d’Almaviva), Cecilia Molinari (Cherubino), Ildebrando D’Arcangelo (Bartolo), Simeon Esper (Basilio), Michal Doron*/Christa Mayer (Marcellina), Gerald Hupach (Curzio), Anton Baliaev (Antonio), Rosalia Cid*/Fernanda Allande (Barbarina), Beate Apitz, Heike Liebmann (Contadine)
Sächsischer Staatsopernchor Dresden, Jan Hoffmann (chorus master), Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden, Andrés Orozco-Estrada (conductor)
Johannes Erath (stage director), Katrin Connan (sets), Birgit Wentsch (costumes), Fabio Antoci (lighting), Francis Hüsters (dramaturgy)
(© Semperoper Dresden/Matthias Creutziger)
The entire plot of Mozart’s fabled opera Le nozze di Figaro (1786), based on Beaumarchais’s play La Folle Journée, ou le Mariage de Figaro (1784), takes place in one day. The frenzied action in Lorenzo Da Ponte’s exceptionally well‑written libretto makes it one of the most dramatically compact and successful operas of all time. A brilliant staging of the work makes one feel the quick pace of the action. Sadly, despite a promising start and some excellent singing, this Dresden production quickly fizzled into a bore, which is quite a feat for such a brilliant work.
Le nozze di Figaro has five major characters: Figaro; his soon‑to‑be wife Susanna; the Count and Countess Almaviva; and the adolescent page, Cherubino. It also features six secondary roles: the intriguers Bartolo, Basilio, Marcellina and Barberina; the gardener Antonio; and the notary Don Curzio. Playwright Beaumarchais wrote the play as a warning to the upper classes of the drastic winds of change in society and of the working class’s ever increasing assertiveness and ability to outmaneuver their “superiors.” Beaumarchais’s caustic comedy was indeed premonitory of the French Revolution, which was to eventuate just a few years later, in 1789.
In this production, the opera opened with Figaro measuring out the dimensions of the room in which he will live with his future wife Susanna. Using a saw, Figaro cuts off a part of the wall to create his future dwelling. The message is clear: this servant is not awaiting his master’s bequeathing him a room, he cuts it out with a sharp saw himself. More fascinating were the costumes of the future couple: they were dressed as Arlecchino and Colombina, stock characters of commedia dell’arte, who usually represent servants. In the background, the young page Cherubino, dressed as Pierrot, played on a swing, without a care. The Count was also dressed as Pierrot.
Later on, the intriguers Bartolo and Marcellina also appear as Arlecchino and Colombina, which is odd, as Bartolo is a doctor and not a domestic. However, the other intriguer, Basilio, is appropriately dressed as a ridiculously greenish‑hued Pantalone, a stock commedia dell’arte character representing a dotty old man who thinks highly of himself. This worked brilliantly and generated some levity in the flippant exchange between Susanna and the matron Marcellina, who covets Susanna’s future spouse. Their duet “Via, resti servita, Madama brillante... Non sono sì ardita, Madama piccante” was rendered amusingly, as the two women held between them the piece of wood Figaro had carved out to make his room. The two women mimicked each other’s gestures while caustically exchanging similar lines, making the piece of wood serve as a virtual mirror.
The commedia dell’arte was even more effective when Cherubino – dressed as Pierrot – hid himself on an adjustable chair, raising himself near the ceiling to hide from Count Almaviva as the latter entered Susanna’s chamber with lustful intent. The ascent and descent and eventual capture of Cherubino/Pierrot was well done and appropriately funny.
However, the excessively gratuitous sexual humour was offensive to many. Alas, we were far from innuendo and decidedly parked into blatant lewdness. As Figaro blurts out the measurements of his future bed “Cinque, dieci, venti, trenta, trentasei, quarantatré”, he lies on the floor and obscenely simulates the sex act. One could make allowances, as commedia dell’arte historically resorted to crude sexuality for audience appeal. Throughout the opera, in most scenes where the Count is with either Susanna or Barbarbina, vulgar sexual acts are the norm. Even the dignified Countess is in various stages of intercourse with young Cherubini on occasion. Sex, especially in the form of innuendo, can enhance humour, but when excessive, its effectiveness is lost.
Alas, the vague use of commedia dell’arte, without the full usage of its stock characters such as Brighella, Pulcinella, the braggart Scaramuccia, the all‑knowing Dottore, and the stuttering statesman Tartaglia, was limited to just the first act. Pity, as this could have otherwise been an amusing and subtle way of reinterpreting the opera.
Act II opens with the Countess in conventional period dress, but wearing sunglasses. These were subsequently passed from person to person, to indicate the person wearing them is blind to some event (the Countess, unaware of the Count’s infidelities, for example). The finale of Act II, possibly one the greatest acts in all opera, did not generate a single spark in this lame production. The sets are partially to blame, as was the director’s fascination with stage hands being visible, and with the performers moving a cabinet doubling as the door to the Countess’s chamber. I can imagine the confusion of one seeing the opera for the first time. As for the window through which Cherubino jumps, it was a latch to a cellar, even more confusing. Visually, the Countess’ non‑descript chamber was hideous. Its only benefit would be a possible explanation of her depression.
Act IV is the hardest to pull off as the two secret trysts (the Count with the Countess disguised as Susanna; and Figaro with Susanna disguised as the Countess) can be confusing. Most difficult is to create the space and lighting to imply the two amorous rendez‑vous are secretive, visible to the audience, and most of all credible. Alas, the subterfuges were too obvious to the public, and only a visually-impaired Count and Figaro could have been fooled.
Possibly inspired by Fellini’s 8½ (Otto e mezzo; 1963), the director felt like inserting himself in the story. A middle‑aged actor impersonating him in casual attire (shorts and a T‑shirt, when not bare chested) remained on stage throughout Act IV, as if to check things were in order. But why? Isn’t Da Ponte’s libretto good enough to see us through the action? Or is the director’s narcissism that immense?
The sets in Act IV did evoke the spa in Fellini’s 81/2 and were visually pleasing, but also ineffective. The spa set‑up confirmed suspicions that Erath had set the act in a hotel. Possibly, the Count was a guest in a posh hotel (though nothing was luxurious about this establishment) or possibly the Count was merely the owner of an average hotel. The latter bourgeois alternative goes against Beaumarchais’s plot of aristocrats vs. their servants. In Act III, the chorus of peasant girls who laud the Countess and the Count, “Ricevete, oh padroncina,” so they may force him to publicly renounce his droit du seigneur (of deflowering the girls on his estate prior to their wedding night) are replaced by hotel chambermaids. In Act IV, the chorus of villagers is replaced by hotel bell boys (both men women wear the awful uniform). This either confirms the hotel set‑up or that someone has a uniform fetish.
As for the singing, it was mostly excellent. The most brilliant was Russian soprano Elena Gorshunova as the Countess. She conveyed the neglected wife’s ennui. Despite the oversexed depiction concocted by the director, she maintained her dignity and noble deportment. Mercifully, she didn’t sufficiently evoke a cougar in heat when she pounced on Cherubino as per Erath’s mise en scène. Her interpretation of the Act II aria “Porgi, amor, qualche ristoro” was melancholy and moving. The Act III aria “Dove sono i bei momenti” was even better interpreted. One wished the Countess had several more arias so one could enjoy her elegant singing and beautiful voice.
Ukrainian baritone Danylo Matviienko was a convincing Count, thanks to a naturally aristocratic deportment and immense charisma. His Act III aria, “Hai già vinto la causa!” conveyed his haughty stature and disdain. The strophe “Vedrò mentr’io sospiro” was menacingly phrased, though without excess. He managed to convey a certain charm in his Ac III duet with Susanna, “Crudel! perché finora farmi languir così,” but somewhat lacked a nobleman’s authority in his flirtation.
Bosnian baritone Neven Crnic was a delightful Figaro, endowed with a rounder voice than the Count, which is desirable to distinguish the two men. Both had good diction, but Crnic managed to sound more plebeian in his enunciation. His Act I aria, “Non più andrai,” that sees the admonishing of the young Cherubino on his way to military service but with a defiance of his own master, Count Almaviva, was memorable. One could feel Figaro’s message being directed to the Count even more than it was to Cherubino. It was amusing, though nonsensical, to replace Cherubino’s new uniform with a toreador’s outfit. His Act IV aria, “Tutto è disposto... Aprite un po’ quegl’occhi” was a highpoint in the performance, thanks to his temperament and beautifully virile voice.
French soprano Elsa Benoit was the opera’s weakest link, despite her charm and commendable acting. Her voice was simply too shrill to give the listener much pleasure. Her soprano leggero lacks warmth and would probably be better employed in coloratura roles. Her leggero voice contrasted with Gorshunova’s regal spinto in the Act III duet “Canzonetta sull’aria”. She was best in the light‑hearted Act II aria, “Venite inginocchiatevi,” where she dresses Cherubino in the Countess’ clothes, despite the director’s supposed vulgar humour of having the Countess on her knee (iginocchiare) rather than Cherubino. Given her shrill timbre, her Act IV aria “Giunse alfin il momento... Deh vieni non tardar” was forgettable and lacked sensuality.
Italian mezzo Cecilia Molinari was a superb Cherubino, vocally reminiscent of the young Teresa Berganza, and as dramatically spirited as the young Maria Ewing, two singers who have marked this role. Her light mezzo is perfect for this travesti role, evocative of youth and vulnerability. Molinari, despite her good looks, was credible as an adolescent male. Both her Act I “Non so più cosa son, cosa sento” and her Act II “Voi che sapete che cosa è l’amor” were a true joy, replete with the requisite adolescent petulance.
Veteran Italian bass-baritone Ildebrando D’Arcangelo was a superb Bartolo. His delicious Act I aria “La vendetta, oh la vendetta” was impressive, both vocally and dramatically. His diction was a masterclass in proper enunciation, especially in the fast passage, “Se tutto il codice dovessi volgere, se tutto l’indice dovesse leggere...” Too bad this was his only aria.
Israeli mezzo Michal Doron was delightful as the old maid Marcellina. This talented singer has a beautiful velvety timbre and a natural comic verse. The other minor roles, Basilio, Barbarina, Antonio and Don Curzio were more than adequate.
Colombian Andrés Orozco-Estrada seemed cautious in his Semperoper debut. The tempo of the overture was rather slow and heavy. His tendency to adopt slow tempi persisted, though the singers did not seem in need of such support. Nonetheless, the Sächsische Staatskapelle Dresden produced a beautiful, albeit at times heavy sound. Astonishingly, Sächsischer Staatsopernchor Dresden fared less well in this often-performed opera than in either Benvenuto Cellini or Der Fliegende Holländer a couple of nights earlier.
An almost perfect cast, some half-baked staging ideas and an inability to produce humour do not make for a great Figaro. I will try to forget my visual memories and retain those of beautiful singing. Beaumarchais’s play is called La Folle Journée, ou le Mariage de Figaro. Accordingly, Mozart’s opera is sometimes dubbed Le nozze di Figaro, ossia la folla giornata. Johannes Erath’s production merits another sobriquet: la giornata noiosa! (the boring day).
Ossama el Naggar
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