“They may not mean to, but they do.” If only Christopher Alden could have borrowed a leaf or two from Philip Larkin’s directness. Alas, no. When the post-opera discussions on the Toronto subway hover between “What did that represent?”, “Where did that scene go?” and “Was it all a memory?” rather than reflecting on the emotional impact of the drama, you know something has gone awry. And this was a seasoned opera-going audience, familiar not only with the plot (a must for this production) but also, for some, Alden’s production. First shown in Chicago as early as 2000, the show had to pack its bags and leave after only one outing and a tide of negative responses. Somehow COC and English National Opera decided to give it a second chance (2011 in Toronto and 2014 in London). Both events again met with mixed responses.
Once again it is the singers and the orchestra under the baton of Johannes Debus who were the highlights, in particular Hawaiian baritone Quinn Kelsey returning to the title role who was mesmerising and heartbreaking by turns as he inhabited the humpbacked jester in both voice and body. Canadian soprano Sarah Dufresne, a late replacement for Andrea Carroll, made a starry COC debut as his ill-fated daughter, Gilda. She too both looked and sounded the part; her angelic voice came without a whiff of excess in its vibrato, yet dazzled in the acrobatic pirouettes of “Caro nome”. Equally believable was Ben Bliss’ Duke, the epitome of braggadocio, with a resonating voice that nevertheless didn’t quite nail the clarion top B at the end of “La donna è mobile”, depriving him of the routine ovation.
The sublime Act 3 quartet was a masterclass in balance. Many of the secondary roles were also class acts, in particular Peixin Chen’s menacing Sparafucile. Gregory Dahl’s Monterone missed the venomous edge in his curse that is supposed to set the whole tragedy in motion. Or perhaps that was part of the concept, since Alden in his notes considers the malediction (which Verdi original considered the title of the opera) to be just an excuse for Rigoletto’s abusive behaviour towards his daughter. The entire production seems to have been designed as a long punishment for the jester, symbolised by his confinement for much of the time to a leather chair. Or is it all just a memory, since during the prelude the shadow of Gilda’s wake appears briefly behind the scrim? Just one of a number of head-scratching moments.
The action is moved from the original Renaissance context to the time of the composition around 1850. For the first half of the evening there is plenty to admire, not least in the luxurious setting: a Victorian gentlemen’s club, which Alden and his designer Michael Levine call “the gaming room”. Dark wood panels and heavy green and burgundy colours are further weighed down by the circling smoke from the cigars of the Duke’s insouciant entourage. Among his enablers is a malevolent Giovanna, whose role is here extended to a Ghislaine Maxwell prototype (the affinity is coincidental but certainly jarring). Both the Duke’s ‘court’ and Rigoletto’s domicile are within the same ‘gaming room’ space, and both feature the bystanders rather more so than does the opera itself. In between, the decor change is covered by silent interaction between Rigoletto and his daughter on the avant-scene and a rather implausible thunder. Confused? You certainly will be as the opera continues.
By the second half, the stylishness of the setting and the peculiarity of the concept start to lose their novelty, especially as Alden throws more gratuitous interventions into the mix. The incongruity of the kidnapping scene, staged with an almost slapstick ridicule, has already rung alarm bells. Distractions and incongruities between what is being sung and the visual action mount up, at the expense of the emotional interaction of the characters, above all the father-daughter relationship so important to Verdi. There is no growth in Gilda’s character, diminishing the power of her final sacrifice – no wonder Alden has to bring in the silent character of Monterone’s daughter to deliver Gilda to her assassin.
The final scene in particular lacks emotional punch, not helped by Rigoletto moving the dying Gilda as if she is a puppet. It is hard enough to make a dead person suddenly singing believable, but having her then walk off into the light is pure cliché. Given that the tragedy of fate has been excised, Rigoletto’s final howl carries little dramatic power, despite Kelsey’s visceral intensity. Ultimately, Alden’s ideas overwhelm the drama they are meant to serve.
