Prima la musica, poi le parole

Il Signor Bruschino

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. 

Albert Herring

It has been pointed out to me that I've neglected — forgotten might be the more honest term — to say anything here about the Sydney Conservatorium production of Britten's Albert Herring, which I saw just over two weeks ago. I'm too late now to encourage anybody else to go — but I believe it more or less sold out, so that probably doesn't matter too much anyway, and in any case, the show is definitely worth a mention.

I blush to confess I arrived with more or less zero prior knowledge of the music of Albert Herring. But it's Britten, and Britten and I are very close friends, so as soon as it started it was as if I knew it already. Perhaps I expected something a little lighter — a little sillier, even — but it was all kinds of thrilling to discover the richness and dark corners of this quirky little opera. 

David Commisso seemed born for the title role: the moment he shuffled out, everything about him simply was Albert, and he made his way through the part's increasingly taxing music with clear, sweet tone and excellent diction. Nor was he the only excellent male in the cast. Simon Halligan was a marvellously well-acted, kindhearted Sid, Simon Gilkes very convincing as the stuffy Mr Upfold, while David Hidden's beautifully sung Mr Gedge was especially striking, with a talent for making himself understood in even the most tangled ensemble. There was also a gorgeously gruff turn from John Donohoe as Superintendant Budd. Anna Yun sang with rippling, silky tone as Lady Billows. Admittedly she didn't sound at all English or especially matronly, but it was a very appealing performance even so, and she managed, despite her youth, to look the part exceedingly well. Yun was flanked by the dour and officious Florence Pike of Celeste Haworth, who I suspect was not very well; she usually sounds much better. Simone Easthope's Miss Wordsworth was a delight, sung with sparkle and wit, and acted to utter perfection: the scene in which she rehearses the children for their roles at the crowning ceremony was especially hilarious. And speaking of hilarity: Erika Simons, Ali Manifold and Jennifer Bonner as the children in question (Emmie, Cis and Harry respectively) were, individually and collectively, shameless scene-stealers — in the best possible way. Rachel Bate was absolutely lovely, in voice and presence, as Nancy; Agnes Sarkis had a few diction issues but was still suitably blustery — and I understand English is not her first language, which makes her performance here all the more impressive.

Standards of production are generally high at the Con and this was no exception. Tom Healey's production was smart, straightforward and very funny, and made clever use of the Music Workshop stage. Gabrielle Logan's sets were fabulously evocative: a parlour and then a grocery store, brought to life before our eyes and framed by a giant map of England. I was especially impressed by the slickly choreographed set changes, which happened in full view of the audience — the stage has no curtain — without detracting from the orchestral interludes which accompanied them. And above all, let us all hail Stephen Mould, who conducted the SCM Chamber Orchestra with his usual quicksilver brilliance and deep-digging lyricism. Is it mere coincidence, do you think, that every time I run into Stephen Mould, he's conducting one of my favourite composers? First it was Poulenc (La voix humaine in Melbourne), then Janacek (the last two performances of The Makropulos Secret) and now Britten. He's now at OA conducting The Mikado — perhaps he's just the Arthur Sullivan revelation I need. 

Like all Con operas, this one was double cast. I wish I'd had a chance to see the other cast: not just for comparison, but for the chance to see this terribly charming show a second time. By way of consolation, however, there's another slice of comedy on the horizon: Il Signor Bruschino opens in just eleven days. I'll be there. Will you?

Les mamelles de Tirésias

I love Francis Poulenc madly. I haven't entirely forgiven him for only writing three operas, but he's still one of my top six operatic composers. Alas, chances to see any of those three operas staged in this country are pretty maigre on the ground. Opera Australia did do a short, Melbourne-only season of La voix humaine in 2006, but they haven't staged Les dialogues des Carmélites since 1984 and I don't know that they've ever done the zaniest of the trio, Les mamelles de Tirésias. But there is, of course, life beyond the national company, and the Sydney Conservatorium proved the point this weekend with its own staging of Les mamelles. 

I think even a less than wonderful production of this opera could still have made me happy: ordinary Poulenc is still Poulenc, after all, and the libretto of Les mamelles is so magnificently mad that you would have to work very hard indeed to ruin its humour. Maybe that's true and maybe it's not — I can safely say all of this because the Con's production was wonderful. Director Narelle Yeo did a beautiful job of animating everything that is fabulous and surreal about this opera, proving along the way that a low production budget is no obstacle to brilliance, and Philip Chu led the orchestra through a lively reading of the score, any lack of polish nicely compensated by the sheer sense of fun. I adored every moment. I laughed till I cried. I wish I could tell you why but I'm it won't translate. You had to be there.

And that's only one side of the story. An utterly delightful production only takes you so far — you need a strong cast of singers, too, and the Con happily provided this in spades. Tenor Michael Butchard was simply gorgeous as the Husband, singing stylishly and resplendent in his housewife drag. I loved his helpless perplexity in the face of his wife's sudden transformation, and he was hilarious as an overworked mother of thousands, alternately cooing at and throwing his babies. Simone Easthope was a suitably glamorous and over-the-top Thérèse, and pulled off her spectacularly demanding Act I aria with aplomb. Jonathan Alley showed off a striking stage presence and equally striking baritone in his delivery of the Theatre Director's Prologue. David Commisso (in a pink hat) and Simon Halligan (in a fat suit) had a rollicking good time as M. Lacouf and M. Presto respectively, a pair of cartoonish cowboys; Commisso's singing in particular was some of the most impressive of the evening. There was a variety of ever more surreal cameos: Celeste Haworth as a literally (and disconcertingly) two faced Newspaper Vendor; Lorenzo Rositano as the incredulous Reporter; Jennifer Bonner and Eleanor Lyons as the latest Son (a pair of tuxedoed hoofers); Rachel Bate as a very diva-ish Elegant Lady; and Alison Manifold (Large Woman) and David Hidden (Bearded Man) as a good, child-bearing couple who looked like something out of Punch and Judy. 

But as usual, I'm ignoring conventional review hierarchy and saving my personal favourite till last — the show-stealing John Donohoe as the Gendarme. I loved John in Rodelinda last month but this performance was even better. His singing was rich and expressive and he was outrageously funny, playing both the Gendarme and — through the miracle of costuming — his own ostrich. Yes, ostrich: that's what he rode in on, not a hobby horse as in the libretto. It was a stroke of genius and Donohoe exploited it to perfection — even in the background, his antics were hard not to watch. The memory of this burly baritone tiptoeing about in silver tights (ostrich legs, you understand) while fixing a lascivious eye on the housedress-clad Husband is not likely to fade anytime soon; likewise his superb vocal assurance. This is a bit of a rave: giving a singer a paragraph to himself is generally a sign that I've officially become a fan. John Donohoe is definitely going on my Watchlist. 

The illegible surtitles were a bit of a drawback. But this wasn't their fault — the Music Workshop is clearly in need of a better projector — and frankly, what good are surtitles in an opera as nutty as this? It still wouldn't make much sense and nor should it: that's part of its charm. My only other problem isn't really a problem at all: I just wish the season could have been longer. There were just two performances — one for each cast — and I wasn't able to make it to the second. I would love to see this show again, with either cast. It was a total delight. And I'd still very much like Opera Australia to have a bash at it — but whether they could beat this one for sheer joyous insanity, I don't know. 

[Meanwhile, you might be wondering what became of the other young singers' concert I attended recently. So I'll just be upfront and tell you now that I won't be blogging about it. Sydney Lyric Opera is what it is and can do what it likes, but on the basis of that gala, it's not something I can write about without coming across as either far more gentle or far more brutal than is entirely fair. We'll see what the future brings, but that's how things is for the time being.]