Elijah Moshinsky's Rigoletto revived splendidly at Opera Australia

Is it at last time to say a fond farewell to the great Australian-born director Elijah Moshinsky, who died in 2021? Internationally renowned, he directed twelve productions for Opera Australia between Wozzeck (1976) and Don Carlos (1999). Last year his La traviata was wheeled out for the final time; now his Rigoletto – first seen in 1991 – is restaged. But as Lyndon Terracini departs as Artistic Director, his temporary replacement Lindy Hume has been permitted four new productions in the OA's summer season... including a new Traviata. Let’s hope that the new permanent AD, Jo Davies coming in from the UK, will also be afforded the freedom to innovate.

But it’s clear why the OA has clung to Moshinsky’s Rigoletto – it works. Known as his ‘Felliniesque’ interpretation, it remains surprisingly believable that the louche Duke, the Brazilian Atalla Ayan repeating his 2019 performance in fine voice, still has the power to execute Monterone when he demands satisfaction for the deflowering of his daughter. For the sycophantic court of dinner-jacketed aristos is clearly in total thrall to him. And Ayan never doubts his authority.

Meanwhile Ernesto Petti – in a powerfully acted and sung role debut as his licensed fool, Rigoletto – takes out the pain of his deformity on all around him in unquestioning support of the Duke, until he’s cursed as a father by David Parkin’s adamantine Monterone – “La maledizione” – bringing shades of the Commendatore in Don Giovanni. Verdi surely had that execration in mind from the prelude to the tragic ending of his opera.

All familiar so far. But I suspect revival director Shane Placentino has added a dressing room for Rigoletto to remove his clown’s warpaint, become introspective and first encounter the Mephistophelean Sparafucile (veteran bass Roberto Scandiuzzi), as I don’t recall it from two viewings in the 90s. But it makes good sense for him to be alone indoors rather than be so exposed to doubt on the street in front of his house.

Placentino’s past as a ballet dancer is also apparent in the superbly drilled men’s chorus – moving and singing with impeccable precision. I also suspect his touch in Rigoletto’s entrance to the limping rhythm of “La-ra-la-ra” after Gilda’s abduction, music and movement in harmony, especially when Petti descends stairs on his knees to plead for his daughter’s return, so emotionally vulnerable.

And then there’s the innocent/guilty Gilda. Stacey Allaume has been here before and managed an appropriate appearance of naiveté while bottling up her unlimited passion for the disguised Duke. “My last breath will be yours,” she quietly gushed – a line given all the fateful subtext it deserved. Perhaps the power required to produce some of her coloratura notes were a reflection of her ambivalent actuality?

There was barely a flaw in the singing and none in the pit under conductor Renato Palumbo. And not a dry eye in the house as a newly unchaste Gilda breaks down to an anguished cor anglais accompaniment and Rigoletto forgets himself to offer the deep comfort of “Piangi fanciulla” to his daughter midst the deserted coffee cups and balloons of the tattered court. All this led up to the miracle that is the Act 3 quartet, an extraordinary prelude to utter tragedy.

Farewell then, Elijah, and many thanks.