Liparit Avetisyan / Reseñas

Another double helping of a Verdi classic.

As El Padre used to say, there are two things to see at an opera. The first is the opera — the second is people watching the opera. Never is this more true than at the opening night of a fresh rendition of La Traviata; the Royal Opera House’s latest outing, lovingly directed by the usually excellent Richard Eyre, attracts an audience as mosaic and unknowable as Boris Gudunov. White tie mixes with tattered mesh jackets; the oldest of old money rubs against ruddy-faced scions of European commerce. Opera — the great leveller. La Traviata — the ultimate draw. All of which is to say, in a roundabout sort of way, that this, like Tosca, is an opera that does not need to be perfect to be adored — and that this truth is a vital feature of the experience. An elderly man at the bar, for example, complains to me before the show even begins that he has seen La Traviata “at least ten times this year”; yet, when the bell is rung, he bounces in as quickly as anybody. Verdi transcends — but will Richard Eyre?

Laurent Pelly’s glorious take on Donizetti’s masterpiece is now back in its fourth revival, and it remains a winning formula, with Pelly’s transposition of the plot – an ingenious send-up of the love-potion idea in Tristan and Iseult – to the Fifties Italy of Fellini’s Amarcord. The joy is in the detail, with the chorus turned into a believably real community, and little dashes of colour – for example, a real dog suddenly belting across the stage – to enliven the rustic charm of the village perspective. There are moments when the revival direction gets a shade clunky, but the differing levels of the giant haystack dominating the set are still very cleverly exploited, and the Dad’s Army duo taking the place of Belcore’s usual platoon remain a sight gag one doesn’t tire of.This time we have new principals, and if Paolo Bordogna fails to find the appropriate swagger for Belcore, Alex Esposito’s Dulcamara is hugely commanding. And in Armenian Liparit Avetisyan and South African Pretty Yende we get a pair of lovers whose rocky path to felicity is portrayed with wonderful freshness. Yende’s singing has a silvery brightness and purity, while Avetisyan’s sweet bel canto remains flawless no matter how much he hurls his india-rubber limbs about: I’ve never seen a funnier Nemorino.Later in the run Roberto Alagna and Aleksandra Kurzak – also married in real life – will take over these roles. That should be a knockout too.

This was meant to be Pretty Yende's night. The South African soprano, praised for her bel canto feats at houses like The Met and Paris, was making her much-anticipated Royal Opera debut as Adina, the beautiful landowner playing hard-to-get in Donizetti's joyous comedy, L'elisir d'amore. In the end, it was the Armenian tenor singing country bumpkin Nemorino who stole hearts. Liparit Avetisyan wasn't quite making his Royal Opera debut, having performed in a single La traviata earlier this season. His appearance here saw Avetisyan replace the originally scheduled Rolando Villazón. Avetisyan could well have studied Villazón's Nemorino, one of his better roles, right down to his expressive eyebrows. He played the lovesick puppy to perfection, doting hopelessly around Adina, clambering the giant haystacks of Laurent Pelly's production with the eagerness of a mountain goat. His sense of bravado, inspired by Dulcamara's “love potion”, was very funny and his little jump when Adina finally admits she loves him was completely endearing. Avetisyan's tenor is a good fit for the role – large enough for bel canto and with a sweet, easy top which made “Una furtiva lagrima” the highlight of the show that it deserves to be.Pelly's at his best in comedy, even if he refers to the Ministry of Silly Walks too often. Revived by Daniel Dooner, this infectious show bursts with sunshine, reflected in the pit, where Bertrand de Billy conducts with a sense of beaming joy. Just the thing to raise the spirits.

The occasion demanded something special and this new production of Rigoletto delivered the goods perfectly. Oliver Mears, the new overall Director of Opera at the ROH, delivered a confident and highly effective display of what a good director ought to bring to a classic such as this. All too often, even at the ROH, we have seen directors trying too hard to bring something different to an opera, rather spoiling the original intentions of the composer and librettist by imposing too much of their viewpoint into it. Mears gave us plenty to look at and think about, but the effect was to emphasize and enhance the original rather than distract from it. The plot of this opera is violent and tragic. Great staging, including a terrific storm scene where flashes of lightning seem to come from all parts of the auditorium, and Verdi's magnificent music, superbly played by the ROH Orchestra conducted superbly by Antonio Pappano, we are treated to some stunningly good singing.Armenian tenor Liparit Avetisyan brings a gorgeously mellow tenor voice to the role of the dastardly Duke, while Spanish baritone Carlos Alvarez is equally impressive as Rigoletto. The real star of the evening, however, was Cuban-American soprano Lisette Oropesa whose show-stopping solo arias were stunningly good and her duets with the Duke and Rigoletto were almost equally impressive.With the highly respected British bass Brindley Sherratt in splendidly sinister form as Sparafucile, American baritone Eric Greene making an excellent Royal Opera debut as Monterone, and Romanian mezzo-soprano Ramona Zaharia giving a striking performance as Sparafucile's slutty sister, this was a cast of outstanding talent and no weaknesses.The applause from the audience at the end was as thunderous as the storm of the final act, and it was not just in appreciation of the fact that the ROH was at last playing to a full house. This was a terrific performance of a fine production of a great opera. Welcome back, Royal Opera.

This is a society tacitly united by misogyny and violence, towards which Carlos Álvarez’s Rigoletto is at once dangerously complicit and supremely mistrustful. Women are literally lined up for the Duke’s pleasure at his party, while the men at his court form a male-bonded unit, moving in aggressive, stylised unison. Ramona Zaharia’s Maddalena, treated abusively by Brindley Sherratt’s Sparafucile, can only face a client when drunk. Occasionally, Mears misjudges the tone. In a gesture towards Shakespeare’s blinding of Gloucester, the Duke exultantly gouges out the eyes of Eric Greene’s Monterone, which is totally at odds with the score. And the simulated sex between the Duke and Maddalena distracts us from the more important scene between Rigoletto and Sparafucile going on below. It all sounds terrific, though. Álvarez’s voice may have lost some of its lustre of late, but his interpretation, by turns tender, obsessive and strikingly bitter, is utterly compelling. Oropesa makes a matchless Gilda, singing with an extraordinary beauty of tone and understated depth of feeling: this really is one of the truly great performances. Though occasionally ill at ease with Mears’s view of the Duke as sadist rather than immoralist, Avetisyan brings real seductive poetry to his music in ways that are beguiling. Pappano, meanwhile, lets the score unfold with measured intensity and sensual, yet baleful, beauty.