It was quite the occasion at Covent Garden last night: Jakub Hrůša’s first season opener as Music Director of The Royal Opera, the replacement of a long-running production of a top ten title – we reviewed Jonathan Kent’s Tosca no less than eleven times – by a new staging by Director of Opera Oliver Mears. Last, but certainly not least: the return of Anna Netrebko for the first time since 2019 prompted much anticipation inside the house and a small but vociferous demonstration outside it, festooned with Ukrainian flags.
And there we were, in medias res, lights out, curtain up, no pause for applause for Hrůša and that huge three-note brass motif with Ossian Huskinson’s Angelotti staggering on stage into a Roman church – but not the original Sant’Andrea della Valle. Simon Lima Holdsworth’s designs are inspired by the smaller Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza (which he says is more architecturally interesting), a five minute walk away. Ilona Karas’ costumes are modern and the church is a wreck: the invading army is clearly a lot closer to Rome than the three week march it would have taken Napoleon’s army to cover the distance from Marengo, as evinced by the church chorus flinching at the sounds and flashes of explosions.
Mears’ staging ticks a lot of boxes. Holdsworth’s sets are visually arresting – the bombed out church, the fascist marble architecture of Scarpia’s headquarters, the stage compressed into a white box for Cavaradossi’s execution chamber. Sensibly, Mears decides that the concept and rhythm of Puccini’s original drama is so perfectly crafted that there’s no need to mess with it; rather, he paints details drawn from the libretto: a cheap takeaway box for Scarpia’s “poor supper”; the prison clock ticking gradually up to 4 o’clock, the time set for Cavaradossi’s execution; the jailer’s venal bureaucracy as he demands signatures from the condemned and then pockets their valuables.
The acting was uniformly excellent but, unquestionably, the night belonged to Netrebko. She was rivetingly credible in every persona: the caricature of her own off-stage diva presence in Act 1, the trapped rat of Act 2 changing to victorious but weirdly devout murderess, the loving girl believing herself freed of cares at the start of Act 3. Her voice was in extraordinary form, dark and luscious in the lower register and effortless in the higher. But what struck most was the way that voice incarnated the ebb and flow of every musical line, her judgement of when to push or relax perfect at every time, joined at the hip with the orchestra and creating a direct link to the audience’s emotions. The only improvement I could have asked for was in her candlestick-swinging skills (if you were there, you’ll know what I mean).
Her Cavaradossi, Freddie De Tommaso, couldn’t match that surefootedness and nuance. His voice is huge and muscular and he certainly produced the thrills for some of the big moments. But the timbre was not especially warm, he pushed the voice too often in the wrong places and there were times, most notably in “E lucevan le stelle” where he lost accuracy when pushing it too hard.
Gerald Finley’s Scarpia is a known entity: smooth-tongued malevolence with a stalking gait that verges on the comical, a sleazeball rather than a brute. As wonderful a singer as Finley is, it’s not my favourite interpretation of the role.
The lesser roles displayed the strength in depth that The Royal Opera usually brings to these things. Alessandro Corbelli’s vocal power may no longer be what it was, but his comic timing remains of the very finest and his muttering fusspot of a Sacristan was a delight. A particular nod goes to 13-year old Raphy Laming’s melodious Young Shepherd. And the Royal Opera Chorus and Orchestra blew the roof off in the Te Deum, aided by Fabiana Piccioli’s impressive lighting effects of the church under attack – perhaps, in these times, by drone blasts.
That was one of only a few moments when Hrůša really let his forces rip. For the most part, the orchestral performance was highly precise and somewhat restrained, allowing the instrumental colours and contours to shine through as well as giving precedence to the singers. It was an interesting reading, albeit one that will have disappointed lovers of the great heart-tugging Puccinian swell.
Mears’ production is a banker, though, and I expect it to have a lifetime at least as long as Kent’s that preceded it. But this was Netrebko’s night. I doubt I will ever see a better performance in this title role.
