As tied up in Borough gossip I have been, I haven't been so completely consumed as to prevent my making the odd brief excursion to an oasis of sunshine and, well, lighter fare. One such was Rossini's deeply silly one act opera Il Signor Bruschino, staged at the Sydney Conservatorium last Friday and Saturday.
There was time when I thought I'd never want to hear this opera again. That time was December 2005, when it was paired with Poulenc's La voix humaine in Melbourne. Yvonne Kenny sang the Poulenc, and since my terror of being late wouldn't allow me to arrive just in time for the second act, I sat through the Rossini five times. Twice would probably have sufficed. However, that was a long time ago, and I came to this production thoroughly refreshed, and willing to be confused all over again by the plot, which I never really understood in the first place. (You know something's awry when it takes more than a page of program notes to explain a one-act opera.)
I can say without hyperbole that I enjoyed — and laughed at — this Bruschino far more than I ever did at Opera Australia's. If there's one thing the Con does exceedingly well, it's comedy, and this show (directed by Brendan Carmody) was no exception. I did have the sense that the humour here was somewhat self-directed — that less comically gifted singers might have made less of the show — and it wasn't the tightest staging on the planet (though it was just about the sparsest), but honestly, when you're in tears of laughter over coloratura and a Tim Tam, what do rough patches matter? And History's Tiniest Rossini Orchestra, under Sadaharu Muramatsu, played with real sparkle.
As with all Con operas, there were two casts for Bruschino. I saw Saturday's, for the simple reason that I was determined to see soprano Saira Luther again, having loved her in Rodelinda and missed her in Albert Herring. And since Saira herself very kindly (full disclosure moment here) provided me with a ticket, off to the Saturday performance I went, with no idea of the rest of the cast. I think I did well. Saira lived absolutely up to my expectations, with an adorably arch Sofia. Coloratura for miles, beautifully even production, and, every now and then, crystalline high note which could bring tears to a girl's eyes. I like her more than ever. And then there was the bonus of the afternoon. What do I find, upon opening my program, but that John Donohoe is our Bruschino padre (read: John Bolton Wood role). John's gendarme in Les mamelles de Tirésias is still one of the funniest things I've ever seen on a stage, and I also happen to rather like his voice, so to find he was not only in the opera, but essentially its star, was a total delight. He gave a superb performance, the best of his I've seen: desperately funny (his face when he lost the Tim Tam was priceless) and also exceedingly well sung. If he wasn't already high on my watchlist, he would be now. David Kymdell did the Rossini tenor thing quite impressively, holding his own between not one but two scene-stealing baritones, and his stage presence loosened up as the performance progressed. Javier Vilarino (the other scene-stealer) made an entrance-and-a-half, singing his opening aria from the audience, resplendent in white suite and red bow tie. I thought in fact that he might have sung himself out of voice by the end of it, but, the odd suspect moment aside, he got through nicely to the end of it, and he seemed to be having a ball with his fabulously camp take on Sofia's guardian (not, one suspects, father) Gaudenzio. Agnes Sarkis was a lovely Marianna, making much of what little Rossini gives her to sing. (He obviously hadn't discovered his mezzo fetish when he wrote this one.) David Hidden was a perfectly drawn Filiberto, sung with strong, flexible voice and impeccable comic timing; he and his fellow David also did a brilliant job of dancing daggily to their duet. (Have I mentioned how much I love it when characters dance to their singing? Directors, take note.) And Michael Butchard turned a nifty double turn, first as a useless Police Commissioner, and then, best of all, as the loutish Bruschino figlio, collapsing onto the stage with aplomb.
It lasted just over an hour. Afterwards, I shopped idly for a couple of hours then went to be ruined again by Peter Grimes. A curious pair of operas, I know (although no more curious a pairing, perhaps than was the Poulenc, and at least I had a proper break between) but in a funny way they went well together. At the Rossini, I laughed till I cried; at Grimes, I cried till I cried. Both are good. I love the Con more than ever after this show, and can't wait till next year's shows.
