2 hours ago
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Oliver Mears’ 2021 production of Rigoletto opens with an emphatic nod to the original target of Verdi’s opera, the historical Vincenzo I, perhaps the most reprehensible of the Gonzaga Dukes of Mantua. A womaniser and murderer, Vincenzo was nevertheless a generous patron of the arts, employing Rubens and commissioning Monteverdi’s L’Orfeo. Here the curtain rises on a still-life tableau, Fabiana Piccioli’s chiaroscuro lighting visibly inspired by Caravaggio, revealing Mears’ art-loving Duke posing as an armour-clad minotaur, sword poised for the kill. Later we see him leafing through folders of Renaissance art, his tastes, it would appear, leaning toward soft porn and rape imagery.
While Simon Lima Holdsworth’s stonework set suggests Renaissance Mantua, it quickly becomes apparent that this is a court where dress-up is the order of the day. The Duke’s followers are decked out in flamboyant loungewear, modern in feel but designed by Ilona Karas to echo their master’s artistic tastes. They are a singularly rotten lot, regaling him in fawning dances to choreography by Anna Morrissey. In the wake of the Epstein files, it all too readily evokes a gilded world of privilege, entrenched misogyny and complicit abuse.
Physical violence is played up throughout. The Duke’s blinding of Monterone on a whim is as shocking as the parallel scene in King Lear (and not unlike the startling execution in Mears’ recent Tosca). Sexual violence, on the other hand, remains mostly implicit. While complex scenes are clarified through careful blocking, there is an occasional over-reliance on operatic gestures and romantic clinches that undermine expressive truth. The tumultuous Act III rainstorm, on the other hand, is a marvellous splash of theatrical realism.
George Petean’s beetling Rigoletto is a shot-nerved bundle of guilt with a touch of the Tony Sopranos about him. Cortigiani, Vil Razza Dannata is sensitively judged, his steely baritone pointing up the jester’s bitter humiliation. As Gilda, Aida Garifullina paints a convincing portrait, from girlish naivety to conflicted victim of trafficking. With her creamy soprano and elegant phrasing, Caro Nome becomes far more than a coloratura showcase.
Iván Ayón Rivas, while occasionally wayward, is an impetuous, shamelessly preening Duke, his bright tenor bursting with Italianate charm. It’s a pity La Donna è Mobile is set in such an awkward corner of the stage. William Thomas sings with a dark beauty and supple heft, his cadaverous Sparafucile blending ruthless killer with self-satisfied artisan. By way of contrast, Anne Marie Stanley’s booze-soaked Maddalena cuts a sympathetic figure, forced to ply her trade in an especially rancid bedroom.
Steering the ship is Mark Elder, an immensely experienced Verdi conductor whose measured pacing of the score and attention to instrumental detail is frequently revelatory. His thoughtful approach guarantees emotional weight and lyrical flexibility while never failing to bring home the dramatic bacon.
