Anthony Minghella's 2005 staging of Madam Butterfly remains a hit with ENO's audience. A combination of Japanese lacquer and Hollywood gloss make for a stylish production, opulently costumed by Han Feng. Now receiving its sixth revival, it doesn't always tug at the heartstrings. In the same way the bunraku puppeteers bring Butterfly's child Sorrow to life, one consciously feels manipulated. Puccini's music manipulates the emotions too – he was a wily fox – but it's music that still touches deeply. However, it requires a far better performance of the title role than it received this evening.
Michael Levine’s steep raked set allows most of the characters to make their entrances and exits over the brow of a hill, often to spectacular visual effect. And striking visual effects are what mark this production. Minghella, in what tragically turned out to be his sole opera, brought his skilled film director’s eye to proceedings, creating a cinematic widescreen frame in front of which veiled kuroko actors wheel the paper screens (shoji) round to create the house Pinkerton has purchased on a 999-year lease. Dancers are skilfully employed, choreographed by Carolyn Choa; a dumb show at the beginning, where a single silhouetted dancer flutters a pair of fans and is swathed in streams of scarlet (anticipating Butterfly’s suicide) while, later, another, representing Pinkerton, dances with a puppet Cio-Cio-San as origami swallows herald the dawn during Butterfly’s ‘dream’. The close of Act I is a touching ballet of floating lanterns before a backdrop of cascading cherry blossom.
Reactions vary to the controversial decision to have Sorrow, Butterfly's child, played by a puppet (courtesy of Blind Summit). The puppeteers quickly become invisible, but you may find the antics of the child distract the eye away from the singers. It is so artfully done though – plucking flowers, staring enraptured at the birds – that I succumb each time. The other, more detrimental, decision splits the two scenes of Act II with an interval. It's a solution which Puccini himself reached in Brescia in 1904 after the opera’s disastrous première, but later reversed. The flow of the action is quite needlessly interrupted, even if you accept that the Humming Chorus will inevitably draw applause anyway.