Since its premiere in 2007, Laurent Pelly's production of Donizetti’s La Fille du régiment has become a modern classic, staged to great acclaim across the globe. Its unique blend of whimsy and freshness remains as captivating as ever, even in the face of curmudgeonly critiques about its age and lack of depth (especially, I suspect, from certain quarters at La Scala). The cast and chorus performed with infectious energy and obvious delight, clambering over giant maps and dodging clotheslines of drying long johns.
Pelly's interpretation is unapologetically lighthearted, pitched with a playful, almost childlike wonder where the comedy leans into deliberate corniness. He sidesteps the libretto's darker undercurrents, such as the tragedy of a Marquise forced by her family to abandon her child, or a young Marie being bargained into a loveless marriage to protect her mother’s secret. Yet, these themes are hardly what has kept the opera so vibrantly alive for nearly two centuries. Pelly presents the French soldiers as a band of golden-hearted, boisterous comrades, consciously avoiding any commentary on the horrors of war. Similarly, the class conflict between aristocracy and commoners is mined for humour – the gavotte of the ancient, trembling nobles shuffling aimlessly through the Marquise's palace remains hilarious.
The director's decision to shift the setting from the Napoleonic era to World War 1 feels primarily like a bold stroke of theatrical flair to allow for the coup de théâtre of Tonio rumbling onto the stage atop a tank to rescue Marie from her dreaded wedding – a moment that feels like The Graduate on steroids.
The La Scala orchestra launched the performance with an electrifying overture, capturing a martial spirit with precision and without a hint of bombast. Under the baton of Evelino Pidò, the score unfolded with meticulous detail, his reading a vibrant tapestry that lovingly highlighted Donizetti's diverse instrumental colours, even if, at times, one might have wished for more effervescent sparkle. It was in the lyrical passages, however, where Donizetti's genius truly shone through, with the orchestra producing a sound of such sweet, transparent beauty that it was nothing short of remarkable.
Julie Fuchs embodied a delightfully bubbly Marie, the regiment's beloved daughter. She commanded the stage with an irresistible presence, her native French sparkling with wit in the dialogues and perfectly capturing the essence of a teenage brat clashing with her ‘fathers’ while experiencing first love. While her silvery soprano was a touch light for the vastness of La Scala, it was deployed with brilliant effect: high notes sparkled, her coloratura was precise and graceful, and she expressed a sincere, utterly infectious joie de vivre. She proved her dramatic range in the more mournful arias like “Il faut partir”, weaving a beautiful legato line filled with deep emotion, and then showcased a gift for comedy by boldly singing a whole stanza of her music lesson song completely off-key. She capped the performance with a thrilling and brilliant rendition of the final patriotic aria, “Salut à la France”.
As her lover Tonio, Juan Diego Flórez demonstrated why he is a true veteran of the role, having honed it for over two decades. Though announced as ill with a cold, he nonetheless delivered his usual masterclass in bel canto. His pièce de résistance, “Ah, mes amis!” with its legendary nine high Cs, was nothing short of enthralling. The notes emerged with clarity, full-bodied and still ringing with a thrilling squillo that ignited a rambunctious, prolonged ovation. A connoisseur might have detected a new layer of caution in his approach, a meticulous care in every phrase that differed from the devil-may-care bravado of his younger years – or perhaps it was simply the mark of a professional battling through illness. This more measured artistry was even more apparent in his second-act aria, “Pour me rapprocher de Marie”, where his innate elegance and musicality shone brightly through the aria's challenges.
Paolo Spagnoli, a seasoned expert in buffo roles, brought Sulpice (the regiment's sergeant and Marie's favourite ‘father’) to life with a solid, beautiful baritone that perfectly defined the character. While his comic timing was impeccable, he never allowed the gags to intrude upon his singing, which remained a model of remarkable elegance throughout.
As the Marquise de Berkenfield, Geraldine Chauvet employed her uniform, bronzed mezzo to delightful effect. She avoided broad caricature, instead finding a sincerely funny and nuanced portrayal, particularly during her charmingly sung couplets in the first act. The production upheld the tradition of casting the speaking role of La Duchesse de Krakenthorp as a special guest. Often filled by a veteran star or a celebrity, this performance featured the beloved soprano Barbara Frittoli. While, to our slight disappointment, she did not grace us with an impromptu aria, her presence was a welcome nod to operatic tradition.
