Simon Jenner July 19th 2024 Photo Credit Glyndebourne Opera
“Is there a serious production of Julius Ceasar?” asked one audience member, after Glyndebourne’s revival of David McVicar’s 2005 Handel Gulio Cesare, which continues till August 24th conducted by Laurence Cummings.
Difficult to say, even roughly transposed to an Egypt under British occupation in 1890. Handel was possessed of so much humour that McVicar effortlessly taps into the vein, in what is undoubtedly one of Handel’s greatest – and longest – operas. And most successful. One contemporary noted: “the house was just as full at the seventh performance as at the first”. Dating from 1724 it’s also the first of Handel’s great trilogies – Tamerlano and Rodelinda followed. This year marks its tercentenary.
It is, needless to say deeply serious, no more so than at the ends of Acts One and Two, where real tragedy strikes and never completely evaporates. And there is a particular delight in this performance: the second of two in which BBC New Generation Artist Johanna Wallroth replaces Louise Alder as Cleopatra, herself receiving five-star reviews. On this performance Wallroth too isn’t so much poised for stardom as leaping into it.
Danielle de Niese was famously a singing, dancing Cleopatra in 2005, and McVicar has returned to direct this production. Choreographer Andrew George crafts routines of sublime silliness (baroque goes Bollywood goes ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’), dancers often imitating their queen. Cleopatra and her confidante Nireno prance a hornpipe at one point.
Redesigned by Robert Jones as a restrained recession of neo-classical pillars with various backdrops (sea in baroque style, and a huge map screening off the depths on occasion) the set acts as a foil. The visual star is Brigitte Reiffensteul’s striking use of red uniforms, pith helmets and late 19th century baggage that contrast with occasionally gorgeous moments, such as Cleopatra bed-bathing in a discreet flow of silver silken sheets. Or a feast of blue and violet curtains with Paule Constable’s lighting casting tenebrous doubt or seduction, till suddenly blazing noon at the climax. The whole stage bathes in daylight. It’s a striking transformation.
Though Cesare (Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen) is central to Handel’s and librettist Nicola Haym’s conception, they divide interest equally between him, Cleopatra and widowed Cornelia (mezzo Beth Taylor) and stepson Sesto (mezzo Svetlina Stoyanova). They’ve been bereft of husband and father respectively, Roman Pompey: whom Cesare had beaten but would spare.
In vain. Scheming Egyptian general Achilla (a superbly inky basso Luca Tittoto) conspires with Cleopatra’s spiteful younger brother Tolomeo (a memorably petulant Cameron Shahbzi) to ingratiate themselves by presenting Pompey’s severed head. Big mistake, but interestingly drawing a parallel with another British (aka Roman) General Gordon who was beheaded in Egypt in 1885.
Cornelia faints. Though this is a parable on imperialism, it’s not literal: Cleopatra when she flies in as a flapper in a little black number, sets off a different but still imperialist culture. Indeed even the ships change. Cesare arrives with tall ships, but Cleopatra’s aria “Da tempeste” is sung against a backdrop of proto-dreadnoughts, even dirigibles, and a baroque wind machine lurks too.
That is not the end of Cornelia’s troubles, as first Achilla then Tolomeo fancy her for themselves. Using wisps of history as a springboard for amatory court intrigue informs nearly all Handel operas; but here there’s a little historical support for it. Perhaps this audience member, who quoted the English of ‘Vidi’ Veni’ Vinci’ was hoping for more bodies.
Again, this production doesn’t flinch from throat-cutting of British-Roman soldiers as they sprawl defeated. McVicar’s production is alight with deft touches of wit and fun, ironising the opera seria side when it threatens too much pomp. None more so when (spoiler alert) bloodied and dead Achilla turns up at the final celebrations and mutely demands a share in the toast to the victors, till he’s given a glass.
Stoyanova’s Sesto strains at the leash of adolescence, but Tolomeo is no older. All Sesto’s arias are minor-keyed revenge ones, save in duets with Taylor’s Cornelia. With a flexible, light-toned brilliance Stoyanova’s finest is perhaps the ferocious triumph of “La giustizia” slaying Tolomeo.
Shahbazi’s final aria “Domero” allows more reflective angst than previously, and again he’s spoilt viciousness personified. There’s fine work too from Ray Chenez’s Nireno who enjoys no arias (save on added later :”Qui perde un momento”) but shares “La giustizia” to an extent with Stoyanova; and actively ripostes Wallroth in many recitatives.
Tittoto is magnificent. Undercutting all low notes elsewhere he seems to uproot the floorboards on an otherwise bare stage. A fine actor, his dramatic death-speech ”Dal Fulgor” comes as a pendant to his troubled betrayed sense in “Se a me non sei crudele” when he realises he’s not getting his way. It’s a turbulent bass aria, almost nauseous in visceral self-recognition.
The pull between the three principals is memorable too. Cornelia’s shuddering grief at the head of her husband isn’t flinched from, and “Son nata a lagrimar” almost banishes remembrance of Cesare’s famous aria “Va Tacito”. Combined with Stoyanova, Taylor scorches an arc of pain and desperation that extend Act One to a different place altogether. One audience member complained of its length. One wonders why they just didn’t buy the CDs.
Mezzo Taylor’s reach is soprano and her range is incandescent, her high notes enriched by piercingly high coloratura. Beyond that, Taylor stamps huge dignity with Cornelia’s sorrow. She shows more of this when Stoyanova’s Sesto is being wrenched from her. Again there’s duetting and “Cessa omai” is a desolate wish for death. At such points, with McVicar’s direction – Taylor is literally hauled on a leash by Tittoto and attendants – it almost becomes her opera.
Naturally Cleopatra can’t allow that and Wallroth is both more mobile and, as expected, infinitely various. Wallroth’s soprano is both fresh and stratospheric, hitting dotted rhythms and excitement as you might expect. But there is also an affect, a pull to tragic depths where like Cornelia she contemplates suicide in “E pur cosi”, her plangent counterpart to Cornelia, if for less tragic reasons: she’s only just fallen in love, and her lover isn’t after all dead.
Photo credit Glyndebourne Opera
Elsewhere excitement and self-delight erupt in “Tu la mia stella” where Constable’s lighting does indeed stamp stars on the floor and Wallroth imitates the twitter of birds in more dotted rhythms. There’s a sexual frisson in ‘waking’ to seduce Cesare in “V’Adoro, pupille”, confirmed love in the rapturous “Venere bella” where war and sexual desire mix. Even more consummated, the final duet with Cesare “Caro/Bella” confirms an erotic impulse, almost, to match the entwined finale of Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea. If more public and a lot more decorous.
Cohen’s Cesare bestrides the stage in set-pieces, most renowned being his aria “Va Tacito”. The haunting horn obbligato is performed standing (player not credited) as George’s choreography has protagonists march in a game of political chess. Cesare peers for a hunter’s vantage. It’s the most famous moment of the opera, strikingly original, Cesare continually alert, stalking the enemy. Cohen’s counter-tenor slips like a hunting-dog alongside the horn’s tang, two quietly striking through the dawn together. A hypnotic set-piece it allows Cohen to blossom in quiet steel.
Since earlier too there’s a more shadowed side to Cesare voice: through his meditation on mortality and the end of ambition in “Alma del gran Pompeo” at his rival’s funeral urn. This is as fine as Hal’s speech over Harry Hotspur. Beyond the political, Cohen’s amorous “Se in fiorito” to Wallroth’s Cleopatra with sexy tenderness and urgent lust, is countered by north-star resolve later in “Al lampo dell’armi” and triumphant return: first in “Dall’ondoso” and straight after “Aure, deh, per pieta” which blazons Cohen’s higher range: trumpets rather than hunting horns.
Some audience members’ comments might demur. “That singer with the girly voice” was one verdict on Cohen, seemingly out of the 1940s Alfred Deller era. Though nothing to the counter: “Which one is Cleopatra in all those black-dress floozies?” Subliminally perhaps, McVicar has made his point.
The Orchestra of the Age of the Enlightenment play with superlative colour, never afraid of expressive rough edges, though virtually undetectable. Terrific attack from Cummings at the keyboard is augmented by on-stage violinist Kati Debretzeni’s cadenzas on “Va Tacito” whirling around Cleopatra like a haunting; William Cole on the second harpsichord, and continuos: Jonathan Msnson’s expressively wrought cello, Christine Sticher’s sonorous bass entwined with the cello, William Carter’s memorably seductive theorbo, and Joy Smith’s riffling harp ushering Cleopatra’s bed.
The dancers too deserve mention: Jake Barton, Gareth Mole, Emily Piercy, Samuel Morgan-Freeman, Alistair Postlethwaite, Sirena Tocco.
Unlike 2005, this production might establish two Cleopatras as stars. Alder has arrived, Wallroth deserves to follow. Another revival awaits, with luck.
