We’ve had a long wait – nearly nine years – for the return to Covent Garden of Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin, so last night’s new production was eagerly anticipated. You can’t fault The Royal Opera for lack of adventure: this was a house debut for American director Ted Huffman and the cast was packed with relatively young singers compared to the Covent Garden norm. The outcome, however, was mixed, both dramatically and musically.
The greatest joy in Eugene Onegin lies in its melodic outpouring, and in this area, Henrik Nánási and the Royal Opera Orchestra certainly delivered. Our heartstrings were tugged every time that big Tatyana theme returned – and it keeps coming at you throughout the opera – whether in swelling strings or in plaintive woodwind. For the whole evening, we could revel in the sheer gorgeousness of the orchestral sound.
But that’s not a sentiment most of the singers would have agreed with: so powerful was that orchestral backdrop that several of them had a lot of trouble competing. The principal casualty was Gordon Bintner in the title role, who has a pleasant, elegant baritone voice that started well but became increasingly stretched as the opera progressed. As Tatyana, Kristina Mkhitaryan did the opposite: she kept power in reserve and finished strongly, but didn’t impose herself in the letter scene. She sang it beautifully, with heartfelt phrasing, creamy timbre and top notes of great clarity – but she couldn’t draw enough attention to herself, away from the powerful motifs coming out of the orchestra.
There were exceptions. Liparit Avetisyan gave us the outstanding singing performance of the evening, with Lensky’s aria “Where have you gone, O golden days of my spring?”, sung as he awaits the duel at which he will perish, coming across with all the pathos and anguish at what might have been that you could ever hope for. At the other end of the age range, Brindley Sherratt intoned Prince Gremin’s aria with power, serenity and immaculate legato; native Russian speakers will probably cavil at the accent, and the odd high note was stretched, but given that Sherratt had been drafted in at the very last minute as a replacement, it was an impressive sing.
We know what Eugene Onegin looks like when it’s period costume drama. Huffman and set designer Hyemi Shin aren’t interested in that and pare it down to absolute minimalism – a blank stage and just a few props (tables and chairs in various configurations, bowls of apples, balloons for Tatyana’s name day party). Costumes are mostly modern dress, with occasional oddities like Zaretsky’s white military greatcoat. And that’s fine for the one-on-one scenes when we’re focused on individual characters and their musings and interactions. Where it falls down is in the crowd scenes. The opera’s opening scene has a big celebration of the harvest festival, with elaborate dances and tributes paid by the peasants and carefully choreographed graciousness on the part of the Larina family. Shorn of any harvest context or delineation of rank, it all falls rather flat. The grand Polonaise is usually a show-stopper, a magical opening to the Gremins’ ball. Here, it was hardly more than background music for a scene change: the chance is lost to emphasise the luxury that Onegin has missed but has fallen on Tatyana.
Huffman puts in various other ideas, some of which work. Having Monsieur Triquet as a clown in whiteface is a neat solution to a scene that can be as embarrassing to the audience as it is to Tatyana. In the latter part of the opera, we see Tatyana playing with Olga’s children as the ghost of Lensky watches, which gives a poignant answer to Lensky’s pondering of how he will be remembered.
But other staging quirks ring false. In the letter scene, Tatyana summons Olga to help her write her letter to Onegin: this reduces the scene from a dangerous obsession to a girlish prank. Onegin and Olga simulate sex (albeit fully clothed) before the ill-fated party, very much at odds with Onegin’s description of his own behaviour. In the duel, we’re shocked to find that Onegin doesn’t kill Lensky at all: he lays down his pistol, which Lensky grabs in order to shoot himself. Does it improve the opera if Onegin is somehow exonerated from guilt as a murderer? Maybe, but I couldn’t see it.
There is much to love in this production, which is worth seeing if only for Avetisyan’s Lensky, Avery Amereau’s acting as Olga, some superb chorus singing and the eloquence with which the orchestra poured out all those melodies. But I can’t help feeling that an opportunity has been missed to show Eugene Onegin at is very best.
