La Calisto is the best known Francesco Cavalli's 40+ operas. Whether it be the slightly lustful tone of the plot or the irresistible liveliness of the characters, there have been many modern revivals of the work. From Raymond Leppard in 1970 to the legendary production under René Jacobs in 1985, Cavalli's opera marked the birth of the Early Opera renaissance. It has been seen in a licentious vein, but what can you expect from a plot where Jupiter falls in love with the nymph Calisto who, being a follower of Diana, is devoted to chastity, so he transforms himself into the figure of Diana in order to seduce her. But the same Diana – goddess of virginity! – lets herself be drawn to the young Endymion. The other characters will not be outdone: Juno burns, as is her wont, with rage at her husband's escapades and Pane (Pan) is jealous of Diana, who prefers the tender sapling Endymion to his advances. Then there are the fretful satyrs and the juvenile yearnings of the nymph, Linfea. In short, none of the characters in La Calisto seems to escape from erotic attractions featuring a dizzying mix of genders: in Faustini's text the word “kiss” recurs 46 times and often means something that goes much further, like the French verb baiser...
However, there are those who read the widespread licentiousness of the text as a metaphor for freedom of thought in a century in which the scientific method was affirmed. In Endymion, one can see the person of Galileo Galilei, the astronomer who had to renounce his knowledge before the Inquisition. This is why, in Sir David McVicar's new production for the Teatro alla Scala – the opera's debut in this hallowed house – the stage before us represents the octagonal interior of an astronomical observatory with its walls full of books and a towering telescope in the centre. While Nature, Eternity and Fate debate Calisto's fate in the Prologue, Endymion – an astronomer Endymion – busies himself with celestial maps. Charles Edwards' beautiful set opens with large windows depicting exteriors representing the four elements – fire, earth, water and air – of the settings in which the story unfolds: arid fields and a forest in the first act, Mount Lyceus and the River Erymanthos in the second, the Ladon basin and Empyrean Heaven in the third. Doey Lüthi's costumes are truly astonishing: Jupiter with wig, haloed in feathers like the Sun King; Juno as Walt Disney's Evil Queen with a Damien Hirst diamond-studded skull purse; Diana as a dark Valkyrie.
In consultation with conductor Christophe Rousset, McVicar did not want to push the grotesque pedal too far and Jupiter-transformed-into-Diana is sung by Olga Bezsmertna (Diana) – it seems impossible to find a bass who can reach the high notes required by the role, as was the case with the original singer, Giulio Cesare Donati. it was less convincing, though, to have Linfea sung by a female soprano instead of the male tenor male who commonly enhances the humour of the role.
However, one does not know whether to admire more the British director's learned references or the singers' performance skills. A few examples: Diana/Jupiter and her exhilarating macho attitudes ironically interpreted by Bezsmertna; the exuberant Mercury of Markus Werba; the feral behaviour of the irrepressible satyrs. The other main characters prove to be excellent specialists in this repertoire: Chen Reiss was a delightful Calisto; Luca Tittoto a fiery and majestic Jupiter; Christophe Dumaux a lyrical Endymion; Chiara Amarù a sanguine Linfea; and the regal Juno of Veronica Gens.
Venetian opera in the 17th century was for voices. At the premiere on 28th November 1651 in the tiny Teatro Sant'Apollinare, there were only six instrumentalists in the 'orchestra pit': two violins, a viola, a theorbo, a spinet and a harpsichord, played by Cavalli himself. Since it would be out of the question to employ this same ensemble in a theatre as large as La Scala, realistic demands prevailed over purely philological reasons: René Jacobs had already increased the number of instrumentalists to 19 in his aforementioned production, and here Christophe Rousset added nine members from the La Scala orchestra to the fourteen of Les Talens Lyriques. Including the harpsichord, played by Rousset himself, the number of instruments amounted to 24, the very minimum to be heard in an opera house with 2200 seats. Rousset's reconstruction of the score also includes the introduction of two pieces of music not present in the original: Cavalli's Orione overture for the ballet that concludes Act 2 and a passacaglia by Frescobaldi to underline the tragedy of the nymph transformed into a bear.
Cavalli's first time at La Scala was a triumph with applause that not even a Bohème or a Traviata can sometimes elicit. Let us hope this is a sign of the return of Italian Baroque opera, a genre which is struggling to find its place here in its own country.
