By the 18th century, opera had become so deeply entrenched in European cultural life that it began turning inward, examining its own conventions with a self-referential – and often satirical – eye. This gave rise to a wave of meta-operas, works that humorously depicted the chaotic process of staging opera. A prime example is L’opera seria (1769) by Florian Leopold Gassmann, set to a witty libretto by Ranieri de’ Calzabigi, best known for his collaborations with Gluck on the composer’s famed operatic reforms.
Gassmann’s music straddles the late Baroque and Classical eras, exuding a charm that often feels distinctly Mozartian. Listeners will recognise the elegant cadences, harmonic progressions and orchestral treatment in the accompanied recitatives, while his use of coloratura still bears traces of the Baroque... although it’s hard to tell how seriously to take such flourishes in an opera that mercilessly parodies the genre itself.
The plot follows the hapless impresario Fallito ("Bankrupt"), who struggles to steer his dysfunctional troupe toward the premiere of L’Oranzebe, a grandiose, Metastasian opera seria. Predictably, the opening night descends into disaster, Fallito flees without paying a soul, and the furious cast and crew vow eternal vengeance against all impresarios they may ever encounter.
The opera is a delightfully absurd affair, with a genuinely humorous libretto that excels in mocking Baroque conventions, both in text and music, yet director Laurent Pelly appears hesitant to fully embrace its farcical spirit. The staging (sets by Massimo Troncanetti) is dominated by an austere palette of white and light grey, featuring vast, mostly empty spaces. White doors open onto a black-floored void, where mimes in black (doubling as stagehands) shuffle minimal props (a harpsichord, chairs) and even rearrange walls and floor panels. The singers’ costumes, in pearly greys, riff on 1760s fashion but with ‘modernised’ touches: slashed skirts revealing legs and oversized bows. The effect is undeniably elegant, enhanced by Marco Giusti’s soft, diffused lighting, yet the overall aesthetic, while beautiful, grew monotonous, leaving the production feeling sterile.
The third act, depicting the disastrous premiere of L’Oranzebe, leans further into this monochrome refinement. Sets become white papier-mâché sketches in ink, while the singers shimmer in immaculate white. Unfortunately, many of the libretto’s funniest scenes were cut – likely for runtime, but at the cost of the opera’s vivacity. Most notably, Pelly replaced the audience’s riotous booing (as scripted) with a literal theatre collapse, a choice that felt emblematic of the production’s tendency to sanitise the work’s silliness. The result? A visually striking but oddly subdued take on a comedy that thrives on chaos.
Christophe Rousset conducted a hybrid ensemble of La Scala musicians and his own Les Talents Lyriques on period instruments. His reading of the score was both effervescent and propulsive, never allowing momentum to sag. The orchestra emerged as one of the evening’s standout performers, their sound thrillingly alive, with the natural brass instruments adding particular brilliance.
Baritone Pietro Spagnoli delivered a masterful performance as the beleaguered impresario, his voice effortlessly smooth and elegant. His arias were a masterclass in diction and textual interpretation, bringing both charisma and nuance to the role. Julie Fuchs stole the show as the hilariously exaggerated prima donna Stonatrilla, her silvery soprano perfectly suited to the style, coloratura sparkling with precision, comedic timing impeccable.
As her rival Porporina (a trouser role in the opera seria within the opera), Serena Gamberoni charmed with her warm, golden-toned soprano, effortlessly agile in the upper register. One of the production’s cleverest moments came during her Act 2 aria rehearsal, where the orchestra deliberately dragged through the coloratura passages, though whether this was a witty gag or a sly cover for technical difficulty remained deliciously ambiguous.
Andrea Carroll, as the seconda donna Smorfiosa, proved a delightful surprise, her bright, secure soprano erasing any lingering reservations from her earlier Don Pasquale. Here, she was radiant and utterly convincing, a testament to her versatility. The Primo Musico was brought to life with irresistible flair by Josh Lovell as the delightfully vain Ritornello, a character as pompous as he is clueless. Lovell’s tenor, with its bright haute-contre timbre and impressive projection, was matched by impeccable stylistic command.
Mattia Olivieri’s velvety baritone lent gravitas to Delirio, the librettist perpetually at odds with Sospiro, the composer, a role sung by Giovanni Sala, whose light, elegant tenor occasionally struggled to fill the theatre. As the choreographer Passagallo, Alessio Arduini deployed his rich, mellow baritone with charisma and wit. In a final comic flourish, the mothers of the three female singers make a memorable appearance, played with visible relish by countertenors Filippo Mineccia and Lawrence Zazzo, and tenor Alberto Allegrezza, who clearly revelled in their over-the-top roles.
Ultimately, beneath Fallito’s curses and the company’s seething resentment, the production radiated something far deeper: an unabashed, heartfelt love for opera itself.
