This gleeful production of The Marriage of Figaro made it hard to imagine any dark side at all to the comedy. The ever-mobile ensemble on stage delighted us again and again as we watched the classic story of how the man in power attempts to reclaim his right to deflower the maid Susanna, who is, of course, already betrothed. How can we not laugh when Count Almaviva, in tweed jacket and riding boots, is the lean and hungry-looking Quirijn de Lang, with something of Basil Fawlty about him, and when Richard Burkhard makes such an immensely likeable Figaro, almost a character from a television sitcom?
Our first sight of the set (designed by Leslie Travers) is from the back. It is a huge flat which is twisted around to reveal an expanse of peeling leaf-green paper fitted with the essential doors. Its tatty state indicates the end of era – in this case a vaguely Edwardian one – but any political statements which might be picked out remain in the general background, as was the original intention of Mozart and his librettist Da Ponte. The stage trickery is overt, the theatrical cleverness relished: when Cherubino, well into the performance, hesitates before hiding behind the same old armchair, we are sharing a joke about the blocking.
This is beautifully done by director Jo Davies, more elaborately than what is often considered necessary for the farce in this opera, and the timings are just right. When, in Act I, Figaro teasingly consigns Cherubino to the military life, in a subtly understated, well-sectioned rendition of the famous “Non più andrai”, Cherubino is gradually fitted out with cushion armour and chamber-pot helmet, and in Act III the weddings are immaculately organised, complete with bridesmaids perched on a rather dangerous-looking, decrepit staircase.
A lot of the production’s impact is owed to the witty, flexible translation of Jeremy Sams, first written for English National Opera. All previous versions now seem clunky in comparison. “You’ll be boring us rigid for hours,” Figaro accuses boozy Antonio (Jeremy Peaker), the gardener, who turns out to be a gruff Yorkshireman. Later, when he deals with mythological matters in Act IV, his register changes: he becomes a master of accommodation in line with the character’s craftiness.