It’s relatively rare for an opera company to resurrect a work without a strong history in the repertoire, so a piece gaining traction more than 180 years after its debut feels remarkable. In the case of Benvenuto Cellini, the challenges are manifold: it failed with audiences in its lifetime, resulting in substantially different versions of the score; the vocal intensity is robust for several of the main characters, and there’s a demand for large choruses; the instrumental music is not particularly easy, either. But a first studio recording in the 1970s and the publication of a critical edition in the 90s have encouraged confidence in performing more than the overture, with new productions now popping up every few years.
Cellini, a fictionalised version of the famous Italian artist, is late in producing a work commissioned by the Pope. And he doesn’t entirely care about it, at least not next to his main concern of securing a wife. The young girl he has chosen, Teresa, is the daughter of the Papal Treasurer, who has in mind another man – both for the Pope’s new statue and for his daughter’s husband. An opera semiseria in which the word “semi” does some heavy lifting, the story plays out over the final day of Carnival and the first day of Lent, the plot likewise pivoting from frenzied flights of fancy to the sobriety of moral and practical duties.
In his first engagement at La Monnaie, Thaddeus Strassberger elects a “timeless” approach to his production, dressing characters and the set with enough variety that it is easily understood that the audience should not try to situate the story in any particular era; a beautiful, elaborate rotating “marble” base settles us in Roman glory, while kitschy Vegas-style religious icons and neon lighting signal something vaguely contemporary.
While it seems that the work is being set up with a strongly symbolic visual language, presenting contrast between the white marble and gold that form the structural base of the world and the soft pinks that accompany Teresa’s character and a broader romantic register, whatever it may have been trying to say is quickly drowned out by a cacophony of other visual elements that present no clear relation.
Lack of a distinct concept beyond the chaotic internal tumult shared by the artistic process and love creates a stage environment that ultimately smothers the scene. There is a marked refusal to allow anything to exist off-stage or implicitly, Strassberger turning his production into an attention trap. The grand Carnival scene is overindulgent. Some of the details are entertaining, but there is too much happening on a small stage to keep track. Indeed, the beleaguered vamping of some of the sparkly Carnival characters effectively deflates both the drama and the humour of Teresa’s dilemma.
As for the music, it was simply terrific. Working with the ‘Paris 2’ score as its basis and incorporating elements from other editions, conductor Alain Altinoglu was attentive to both the stage and the pit, making clear contact with singers and actively adjusting the very few dynamic missteps.
Having previously sung Cellini throughout Europe, it was no surprise that tenor John Osborn delivered the role with incredible ease and seemingly as much emotional depth as the production created room for. One of the more remarkable performances of the evening was the duet between Teresa, sung by Ruth Iniesta, and Ascanio, sung by Florence Losseau, both making role debuts. Presented as a prayer foregrounding the parallel words of a chorus of monks, it was both plaintive and hopeful enough to remind the audience that the story had just entered the Lenten Season, the hijinks of the first act behind us and consequences ready to unfurl. The dark quality of Iniesta’s soprano seemed intimately paired with Losseau’s warm, round mezzo, creating the desirable impression that the two had been singing similar songs together long before the story began.
The true highlight, though, was in the choral numbers. Between the glorious scene of housewives armed with a modern enamelled frying pan, a hairdryer and rolling pins, singing out their decree upon an alleged womaniser, and the metalworkers joining together for their incredible, self-aggrandising hymn, there was so much power in their delivery that it felt as if the chorus was double or triple their actual numbers.
In the end, Cellini and his men finally manage to produce his famous Perseus with the Head of Medusa statue, but not before he accepts help from his nemesis, and not before he sacrifices all of his other works to the smelter. The story itself tells us how powerful focus can be, both in life and in art. If it was hoped that the audience might receive that message, it would have helped to have left some unbedazzled white space around it.
