This production of Puccini’s masterpiece was delivered on the identical monochromatic set as the Cavalleria rusticana of the previous day, with only a difference in the colour: red for Cavalleria, white for Butterfly.
The latter setting, though, was designed in a more than traditional scene: the story of love and despair of Cio-Cio San for Pinkerton, the US navy officer who unscrupulously deceives the little geisha, is delivered on a stage which, though unadorned, finely evokes a Japanese landscape. Sergio Tramonti’s austere, pretty essential scene preserves all the piece’s melancholy and fascination.
Also Giusi Giustino’s costumes are kept simple: the heroine is dressed all in white in Act I, when she gets married and happily accepts to be disowned by her family because of her love for Pinkerton. In Act II, her outfit is red, while the anguish and the hope for her spouse's homecoming unceasingly mix up. Finally, the Act III finale is braved by a woman in a funereal black costume.
The theatre was packed, the applause was deafening, and yet a perplexity remains for this production and its director, who seemed to underrate the value of the opera, with the banality of ideas like a rain of red petals. What is more, there is Delbono's continuous presence on stage, along with his double, the little deaf-mute actor Bobò: they are often at the centre of the stage and in the focus of the action, Delbono angrily moving around like a tiger in a cage, Bobò holding Butterfly’s child’s hand or simply being there, motionless.
The movements of the principals and the chorus are as little as possible, to magnify the actions of the director. His narcissistic interferences, trying to keep the focus on himself and his double Bobò, have the effect of distracting our attention from the real protagonists. You could almost hear him grunting to himself: “Madama Butterfly, c'est moi”. In his delusion of omnipotence, Delbono also showed up in the parterre before each act began, apparently trying to give a non-orthodox reading to the opera as he unconvincingly declaimed a poem by J. Prévert, one which was dear to teenagers in love some decades ago.