All the world’s a jest: Falstaff returns to Glyndebourne

“He who laughs last laughs best,” counsels Sir John Falstaff in the tricksy fugue that concludes Verdi’s final opera. The laughs come thick and fast when Richard Jones is directing. The last time his 2009 production played at Glyndebourne (2013), it was revived by Sarah Fahie. Now Jones himself is back at the helm and, meticulously rehearsed, the piece just flies.

Shakespeare’s comedy, as set by Verdi and Boito, is brilliantly translated by designer Ultz to 1946. Jonesian whimsy abounds: animatronic cats populate each scene; a swan glides along the edge of the orchestra pit. Brownies embroider the frontcloth, a Windsor landscape. The middle class Fords live in a mock-Tudor house. The Merry Wives are the practical champions of rationing, growing their own vegetables. Mistress Quickly is a Land Army officer.

Among the men, Dr Caius becomes an Eton College don and young Fenton is an American GI. Falstaff, a Boer War veteran, is sexist and entitled. He’s not overly huge – Renato Girolami sports a modest bodysuit belly – but is funny because he largely plays the whole thing so seriously.

If only there was seriousness is Ford’s monologue. His anger on learning (falsely) that his wife is about to cuckold him has a direct correlation in Verdi’s previous opera, Otello, when Iago sows the seed of jealousy. It is the one dramatic moment in the comedy, punctured when Falstaff reappears, ridiculously costumed to go a-wooing. Here, Rodion Pogossov is asked to play it for laughs, which feels wrong, lessening the impact of Falstaff’s safari-suited re-entry, although Verdi’s brassy musical joke still lands.

Buffo expert Girolami imbued Falstaff with a warm baritone. He’s not as vocally incisive or as scene-stealing as the likes of Ambrogio Maestri or Bryn Terfel in their pomp, but his “Honour” monologue bristles with outrage and his Thames ducking humiliation draws a realisation that he is out of step with the times.

Pogossov’s Ford sounded lean and mean, with just enough vocal heft for Ford’s praise of jealousy. As his wife, Alice, Anna Princeva made an impression with her lyric soprano, vocally matched by Stephanie Lauricella’s fine Meg Page. Mariam Battistelli was an appealing, girlish Nannetta, silvery voiced though suffering occasional intonation issues.

Like Girolami’s Falstaff, Gregory Bonfatti downplayed some of Dr Caius’ ridiculousness, although the comic duo of Colin Judson and Callum Thorpe as Bardolph and Pistol drew laughs.

Two cast members stood out. Filipe Manu’s ardent Fenton was sung with Italianate panache, his moonlit aria “Dal labbro il canto estasiato vola” – sung halfway up Herne’s Oak – a vocal highlight that always turns magical when Nannetta steals the final phrase. And then there was Valentina Pernozzoli as a no-nonsense Mistress Quickly. Still in her twenties, the Neapolitan self-identifies as a mezzo-soprano, but there’s true contralto richness in her lower register that makes her an exciting prospect. Jones gets incredible results from her – every movement, every look is beautifully weighted for comic effect: a real find.

Sian Edwards and the London Philharmonic didn’t sparkle as brightly as Mark Elder and the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment did last time out. By the third performance in the run, pit-stage co-ordination problems really should have been ironed out – the nonet nearly derailed – and several singers, if only briefly, seemed at odds with Edwards’ tempi.

The LPO nevertheless relished the rich orchestration, none better than the prelude to Act 3 as Falstaff is dragged from the Thames, double basses scrabbling up the bank, building to a mighty climax as the knight lands, spurting water from his mouth. If all the world’s a jest, as Falstaff sings, then Verdi’s miraculous opera still provides the musical gags.