Hunchbacks don't weep
On my way to bus stop last night, I overheard a bit of an exchange about the character of Gilda in Rigoletto. "I guess she was just stupid," said a young woman. Had I not been rushing to catch the next express, I might've stopped and explained why she might have a bit more sympathy for someone who is, after all, a teenage girl who's led a very sheltered life. Sure, it seems pretty harebrained to throw away your life for someone who deceived you basely and cast you aside without a second thought, but when your whole existence has been as the captive pet of a spiteful and frustrated old man, well, the opportunity of sacrificing yourself has got to seem positively inviting.
It's Rigoletto himself who I have more trouble empathising with. In some ways, you could say he has himself to blame for everything that happens to him. By isolating his daughter, denying her the human intercourse which would educate her how to make wise decisions, he leaves her vulnerable to the first smooth-talker who inveigles his way into her dwelling. By cruelly mocking all those around him, he finds himself friendless in his hour of need. And by indulging his thirst for revenge rather than listening to Gilda's pleas to forgive, he destroys the one thing most precious to him.
Of course, it's Society which is ultimately to blame. Jestering is clearly not a natural calling for him, and makes him a slave to whims of an immoral bastard who feels no more loyalty to him than he would to an insult dog handpuppet. And between the Patriarchy which damns women for the predations of men and a class hierarchy which literally lets the better off get away with murder, he's well and truly screwed.
At first I thought Željko Lučić was too dark for the role of a professional jester, but when you keep in mind how Rigoletto ended up where he is, it falls into to place. It also doesn't hurt at all that he's a fine actor and a terrific singer. He's got to be to hold his own against our Gilda, a young Russian with the fabulous name of Albina Shagimuratova. Listening to her float notes lying stretched out on a cot as if it were no harder than breathing had me almost faint with pleasure.
Really, it was a fine cast all around with one unfortunately prominent exception: the lead tenor. Giuseppe Filianoti was fine throughout most of his range, but he just didn't have the high notes. Far from floating, you could hear him struggling to reach them like a desk jockey clinging to a rope ladder. I should be on the edge of my seat because of the tension in the scene, not because I'm worried the next D♭ will come out as a squawk.
Just in case anyone needed lessons on how to fill an airplane hanger with your voice without breaking a sweat, Silvastrelli was on hand again as the best Sparafucile you're likely to get in an American production. He was well matched with Nicole Piccolomini as his troublingly affectionate sister. I liked our Monterone as much for his burly body as his deep baritone, and the usual faces from the Lyric Opera Centre filled out the minor roles very well.
Fortunately, it wasn't Davis conduction, so I have only good things to say about the orchestra. The production was the same solid traditional staging we saw before with its impressive rotating set, matching Verdi's compositional style for elegance and efficiency. New stage director, though, and I wasn't as taken with his efforts as Nuphy. It didn't help that I read his notes before the opera, particularly his soft-minded claim that "the Duke [is] maybe also trapped in his role as a serial philanderer. I feel he'd actually like to be the poor student and have a pure, sincere love."
Hogwash. I see nothing in Piave's text to support that interpretation--and even if there had been, I don't know that Filianoti would've been able to bring it to the fore. Even Nuphy described his exaggerated reactions to Gilda's dreamy musings in the prelude to "E il sol dell'anima" as "campy", though overall he praised Barlow's direction as "lively". Her carrying on is understandable--as I said at the start, she's a teenager in love for the 1ST TIME EVAHHHH!!!11!! But he's a jaded pleasure-seeker, it'll take more than a silly girl from the provinces to make him all gooey inside.
Funny thing happened on the way to dinner: Nuphy forgot to make reservations at La Scarola so, seeing as we were both already on the Halsted bus, we converged on Greek Islands instead. At first I was bummed--I'd had my heart set on vegetables that weren't cooked beyond all recognition--but it didn't last. A homey place which is nevertheless run with the glorious efficiency of a grand hotel, there aren't many restaurants around that can pull off that combination. The controlled chaos of a Saturday rush there still fills me with admiration while the grey-haired busboy's hand casually at my back as he calls me "my friend" charms me for days.
Somehow, despite arriving at the restaurant crazy early, we ended up having to take a taxi anyway. Despite being named "Mohammad", our cabbie looked and sounded like an ordinary Guido. He asked what we were seeing and when we told him, "Rigoletto" he said, "Oh, right, da one about da sad clown?" "No, it's the one with the song that goes..." and I launched into my rough but recognisable approximation of "La donna è mobile". As we stepped out, I heard him doot-doot-dooting it to himself, and he turned to us and said, "Now ya got da cabbie doing it!"
It's Rigoletto himself who I have more trouble empathising with. In some ways, you could say he has himself to blame for everything that happens to him. By isolating his daughter, denying her the human intercourse which would educate her how to make wise decisions, he leaves her vulnerable to the first smooth-talker who inveigles his way into her dwelling. By cruelly mocking all those around him, he finds himself friendless in his hour of need. And by indulging his thirst for revenge rather than listening to Gilda's pleas to forgive, he destroys the one thing most precious to him.
Of course, it's Society which is ultimately to blame. Jestering is clearly not a natural calling for him, and makes him a slave to whims of an immoral bastard who feels no more loyalty to him than he would to an insult dog handpuppet. And between the Patriarchy which damns women for the predations of men and a class hierarchy which literally lets the better off get away with murder, he's well and truly screwed.
At first I thought Željko Lučić was too dark for the role of a professional jester, but when you keep in mind how Rigoletto ended up where he is, it falls into to place. It also doesn't hurt at all that he's a fine actor and a terrific singer. He's got to be to hold his own against our Gilda, a young Russian with the fabulous name of Albina Shagimuratova. Listening to her float notes lying stretched out on a cot as if it were no harder than breathing had me almost faint with pleasure.
Really, it was a fine cast all around with one unfortunately prominent exception: the lead tenor. Giuseppe Filianoti was fine throughout most of his range, but he just didn't have the high notes. Far from floating, you could hear him struggling to reach them like a desk jockey clinging to a rope ladder. I should be on the edge of my seat because of the tension in the scene, not because I'm worried the next D♭ will come out as a squawk.
Just in case anyone needed lessons on how to fill an airplane hanger with your voice without breaking a sweat, Silvastrelli was on hand again as the best Sparafucile you're likely to get in an American production. He was well matched with Nicole Piccolomini as his troublingly affectionate sister. I liked our Monterone as much for his burly body as his deep baritone, and the usual faces from the Lyric Opera Centre filled out the minor roles very well.
Fortunately, it wasn't Davis conduction, so I have only good things to say about the orchestra. The production was the same solid traditional staging we saw before with its impressive rotating set, matching Verdi's compositional style for elegance and efficiency. New stage director, though, and I wasn't as taken with his efforts as Nuphy. It didn't help that I read his notes before the opera, particularly his soft-minded claim that "the Duke [is] maybe also trapped in his role as a serial philanderer. I feel he'd actually like to be the poor student and have a pure, sincere love."
Hogwash. I see nothing in Piave's text to support that interpretation--and even if there had been, I don't know that Filianoti would've been able to bring it to the fore. Even Nuphy described his exaggerated reactions to Gilda's dreamy musings in the prelude to "E il sol dell'anima" as "campy", though overall he praised Barlow's direction as "lively". Her carrying on is understandable--as I said at the start, she's a teenager in love for the 1ST TIME EVAHHHH!!!11!! But he's a jaded pleasure-seeker, it'll take more than a silly girl from the provinces to make him all gooey inside.
Funny thing happened on the way to dinner: Nuphy forgot to make reservations at La Scarola so, seeing as we were both already on the Halsted bus, we converged on Greek Islands instead. At first I was bummed--I'd had my heart set on vegetables that weren't cooked beyond all recognition--but it didn't last. A homey place which is nevertheless run with the glorious efficiency of a grand hotel, there aren't many restaurants around that can pull off that combination. The controlled chaos of a Saturday rush there still fills me with admiration while the grey-haired busboy's hand casually at my back as he calls me "my friend" charms me for days.
Somehow, despite arriving at the restaurant crazy early, we ended up having to take a taxi anyway. Despite being named "Mohammad", our cabbie looked and sounded like an ordinary Guido. He asked what we were seeing and when we told him, "Rigoletto" he said, "Oh, right, da one about da sad clown?" "No, it's the one with the song that goes..." and I launched into my rough but recognisable approximation of "La donna è mobile". As we stepped out, I heard him doot-doot-dooting it to himself, and he turned to us and said, "Now ya got da cabbie doing it!"