Review

Not the ideal end to Covent Garden's operatic year - Rigoletto,  Royal Opera House, review

Sofia Fomina and Dmitri Platanias in the Royal Opera's Rigoletto
Sofia Fomina and Dmitri Platanias in the Royal Opera's 'Rigoletto' Credit: Mark Douet

 

This performance was dedicated to the memory of the Russian baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky, who died from a brain tumour last month at the sadly early age of 55. He was a popular and frequent visitor to Covent Garden, bringing all the power of his peerless technique (marked by full steady tone, warm legato, immaculate breath control) to a superb revival of David McVicar’s production of Rigoletto in 2005. That production, still going strong after 16 years, now returns yet again, short of singing of Hvorostovsky’s distinction.

In the title-role is the Greek baritone Dmitri Platanias, who returns to play the hunchback jester as a Raging Bull too relentlessly sullen in demeanour to earn the audience’s sympathy. His singing is correspondingly forceful but unengaging – he can render impressively the black rage in his third-scene tirade but not the gentler pathos of the widower father, and at times one felt he was merely going through the paces to earn his fee, heedless of emotional nuance or the colour of the words. His Gilda is Sofia Fomina. She has a pretty voice, projecting at its best in “Tutte le feste” and her impassioned contribution to the final scene: one’s only worry is that her sweet, bird-like warble might teeter into a nasty wobble.

Sofia Fomina as Gilda in the Royal Opera's Rigoletto
Sofia Fomina as Gilda in the Royal Opera's 'Rigoletto' Credit: Mark Douet

The supporting cast is a very mixed bag, distinguished by Andrea Mastroni’s baneful Sparafucile and a couple of promising cameos from members of the Jette Parker Young Artists scheme.

The big disappointment is Michael Fabiano as the Duke. I am a huge admirer of this fiery young American tenor, but this cannot count as one of his successes. Is he very tired at the moment, one wonders? Whatever the explanation, I have rarely heard this music sung so loudly or coarsely, without a hint of Verdian elegance – you’d think he was auditioning for the Arena di Verona.

After a sapless account of the Prelude, Alexander Joel went on to conduct jauntily enough, though sharp glances in his direction from the singers suggested some disagreement about tempi. The chorus of drunken rapist lads sang with Saturday night lustiness.

McVicar’s ominously dark staging holds up well enough, though the opening orgy – toned down in terms of its original quota of nudity, I think, but madly over-active and screechy – went way over the top and landed in the realms of farcical silliness. Not, in sum, the best possible end to Covent Garden’s operatic year.

In rep until Jan 16. Tickets: 020 7304 4000; roh.org.uk

 

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