by
W.A.Mozart
The Marria Despite the usual directorial fardels of Marshall Pynkoski, Opera Atelier’s version is a frisky triumph—not so much on the opera buffa side but on the vocal. Though Olivier Laquerre’s Figaro is underpowered—at least on the baritone scale—he has charming stage presence and manages to survive his director’s less than inspired comic business and choreography. It helps that David Fallis conducts with brisk flair and that the other singing roles are well delivered. Carla Huhtanen’s Susanna is a pretty blonde in pale blue. Spirited and a little tinged with realism (“We think we’re free but we’re always in chains”), she is pleasingly free of sugary blandness, though no Susanna that I know of could outshine the Countess, a role that is steeped in distress and anguish but that also carries enviable dignity. Peggy Kriha Dye gives the audience immense tonal pleasure, both in terms of singing and acting. Her opening aria is stunning, and she and Huhtanen shine in their duet. As the rancid Count, Phillip Addis cuts a dark, sexy figure, and he has undeniable dramatic presence, but he plays too much on a narrow scale. Laura Pudwell’s Marcellina and Curtis Sullivan’s Dr. Bartolo make sturdy contrasts, with Pudwell adding a little flash. The only problem, apart from Laquerre’s vocally infirm Figaro, is Wallis Giunta’s Cherubino. There is absolutely no surprise when this Cherubino impersonates a village girl in Act Three because there is never any doubt that the singer is female to begin with, so the opera is robbed of one of its comic frissons. Visually, there is much to admire
in Martha Mann’s detailed and exquisitely patterned 18th century
costumes and Gerard Gauci’s set design, simulating the courtyard of a
private country residence, that cleverly moves from locale to locale by a
single change of a backdrop and a few alterations of louvered windows and
furniture, but is there no relief from the repetitive blandness of Jeannette
Lajeunesse Zingg’s choreography that squanders the physical beauty of its
corps in boring circles, little fluttery leaps, and semaphores that are
pretty but not much else. Only the Spanish dances in Act Three give
momentary relief from the blandness.
The largest flaw, however, is Pynkoski’s direction that resolves itself into the broadest bits of farce, while making all the comedy of disguises seem totally unconvincing, and his blocking in the garden scene is amateurish beyond belief.
photos: Bruce Zinger
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