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The Times, June 22 2017 |
Neil Fisher |
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Verdi: Otello, Royal Opera House, London, 21. Juni 2017 |
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Opera review: Otello at Covent Garden
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Jonas Kaufmann’s introverted portrayal is countered by macho
performances from the Royal Opera orchestra and chorus |
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British opera fans are teeming with green-ey’d monsters this summer, since
tickets for Jonas Kaufmann’s performances in the title role of Verdi’s
Otello are as few on the ground as upbeat cabinet ministers. And with every
appearance by the German star, expectations rise another notch.
Kaufmann’s imaginative first take is true to the tenor’s instincts: power
deployed alongside studied moments of stillness, the voice sometimes thinned
down to a whisper. In Keith Warner’s production we first see him raised up
from the crowd, motionless in his armour, eyes to Heaven, a Titian portrait
come to life.
Having delivered his trumpety cry of victory,
Kaufmann’s switch to vulnerable ardour in the love duet that closes the
first act is beautifully done. Muttering of his bloody deeds to Maria
Agresta’s soothing, generously sung Desdemona, he seems half in trauma from
his martial exploits and half panicked that the battle is over. Later,
trapped by Iago’s lies, Kaufmann delivers his great lament, Dio! mi potevi
scagliar, seated downstage as pure Shakespearean soliloquy. The combination
of his mostly soft-grained singing and this lost-soul interpretation,
however, is perhaps less Othello, more Hamlet.
That this introverted
portrayal is countered by such macho performances from the Royal Opera
orchestra and chorus is part of the alchemy of opera. Both are on blazing
form, with Antonio Pappano drawing thick coal-black textures from the
strings, rapier thrusts from the fevered brass. Even some faltering double
basses in the final act didn’t detract from the total, pulverising effect.
The momentum mainly slips because of Warner’s messy staging, which
wrestles with naturalism and symbolism and falls down a black hole.
Literally so: Bruno Poet’s eccentric lighting shrouds everyone in gloom with
occasional nightclub spotlights. Kaspar Glarner’s costumes are 16th century
(ish), but Boris Kudlicka’s clunky designs give us sliding grey walls with
spyholes and pop-out platforms, a set-up that looks like the Barbican centre
on a bad day. A group of tumblers provide dubious and distracting
diversions. Much of the budget has been splurged on a huge winged lion,
which is wheeled on, wheeled off, and then promptly smashed up so that
Otello, the “lion of Venice”, can implode in front of a giant metaphor. But
he also strangles Desdemona on a bed that looks as if it was bought in from
Zara Home and made up with White Company sheets.
The result is a
mish-mash: in the shadows, Marco Vratogna’s Iago, malevolent and spidery
(although monochromatically sung), makes his presence felt, but others feel
like ciphers, and who Kaufmann’s Otello really is in this society (outsider?
Muslim?) isn’t clear enough. From the rest of the cast, there are vocally
strong contributions from Frédéric Antoun’s dashing Cassio and Simon
Shibambu’s imposing Montano. I would definitely hear more from this Moor —
but let’s hope he finds a better showcase.
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