The Marriage of Figaro debuted in Vienna in 1786. The audience was so enthusiastic that, after just two performances, Emperor Joseph II ordered posters put up in the theater warning the public against too many encores, “to prevent the excessive duration of operas.” Mozart directed a second production shortly afterwards in Prague and the reception was even warmer, leading to two further collaborations with his extraordinary librettist, Lorenzo Da Ponte: Don Giovanni and Così fan tutte.
That accounts for three of Mozart’s four great operas. The greatest, and the last—The Magic Flute—has a muddled German libretto by Schikaneder and reigns solely on merit of music. A fourth collaboration with Da Ponte would have been greater still, but Joseph II had died in 1790, and his successor, Leopold, declined to renew his sponsorship. Da Ponte, in fact, had a reputation worse than Mozart: He, too, was a great admirer of ladies, but he was also a priest (despite having been born Jewish and baptized at the age of 15). Forced to look elsewhere for his living, Da Ponte eventually landed in America, where he was reduced to running a grocery and giving Italian lessons. He finally became the first professor of Italian Literature at Columbia—and simultaneously the first Jew and the first priest—to teach there. He is buried in Queens.
So New York City lays partial claim to these operas via their librettist. And Figaro is the most finely balanced of all: the interplay of story, action, and music is the height of the form. With excellent discretion, Da Ponte reworked the original, politically-charged stage play into a story about jealousy, in which a clever butler, Figaro, gets the better of his misbehaving master, the Count Almaviva. The count is in hot pursuit of one of his maids, Susanna, who is engaged to Figaro. Through a variety of comic devices, including the much-adored swapping of costumes between the high- and low-born ladies, the count is eventually shown the error of his philandering and can return, with penitent heart, to his loving and faithful countess.
The Met’s current production debuted in 2014 under the direction of Sir Richard Eyre, with set and costume design by Rob Howell. The double-breasted suits and silk dresses are appropriate to a 1930s setting, even if the rationale behind this choice is a mystery. The scenery is intriguing and odd. It is supposed to be Spanish, but a few more trips to the Spanish courtyard at the other Met in New York might have been in order: The design appears to be nothing but Moroccan, with filigree wood panels reminiscent of a series of gigantic spice boxes. And yet the juxtaposition of the rooms—high, open cylinders of varying size built on a central turntable—is well done and allows for a natural flow of movement from one scene to the next.
This movement began, uncharacteristically, before the first act. During the overture, a little set-piece not in the original opera was played onstage, in which Susanna’s cousin scampers out of the count’s bedroom and back to the servants’ hall. Even overlooking the tidbit of gratuitous nudity, which would better fit the Komische Oper where they find such things amusing, the whole scene is a distraction from one of the greatest overtures ever written. An audience should be allowed to enjoy an overture in peace, and with the curtain down.
It is surprising, then, that what follows is an exceptional production which makes the action engaging and the plot intelligible and enjoyable. It is the best staging of Mozart currently on offer: The Met’s traditional Idomeneo is an excellent production as well, but the opera itself just isn’t in the same league.
The orchestra is led by Harry Bicket, a Liverpudlian with an excessive tendency to rubato. Under his baton, passages which we are used to hearing as a slight ritard for dramatic effect instead grind almost to a halt. And, despite this, Bicket keeps the orchestra together with truly impressive discipline and brings out Mozart’s inner harmonies beautifully.
Modern opera often tries to make up for previous decades’ lack of stage movement with histrionic excess. This production has plenty of movement, but without the histrionics, and that makes it enjoyable. Still, and inevitably, some singers resent being turned into actors, and show it onstage. Christiane Karg, in the role of Susanna, puts a lot of effort into her physical comedy, and the very visibility of that effort makes her performance uncharming. Added to which, her fine voice is rather overbalanced by Adam Plachetka’s powerful baritone in the role of Figaro. On the other hand, Rachel Willis-Sorensen, as the countess, is fluid and graceful, funny when she was supposed to be, moving when the opportunity arose. Her voice and personality put the countess at the center of the opera: She becomes an important character and a figure of affection, rather than an accessory.
Perhaps best of all is Serena Malfi, who plays Cherubino, the concupiscent young boy who chases every girl in the play, and whose high vocal range typically demands a mezzo-soprano in men’s clothing. There is resurgent interest in countertenors to fill such roles these days—as well as the adjacent roles which would formerly have fallen to the now-defunct castrato. The Met’s Fidelio last year would have benefited from a man able to sing the high leading part. But Serena Malfi is too good to be improved upon. Her voice is astonishing. And she has some of the greatest natural facility you will ever see on a stage. Malfi makes everything she does appear effortless—action and music melded. She is a pleasure to watch and to hear, and this notwithstanding the white suit and panama hat which make her look exactly like Peter Lorre in Mr. Moto.
It is no secret to anyone except a professional opera house that audiences prefer traditional settings of the popular classics. But this setting, while not traditional, is not so far afield as to be jarring, and it coheres admirably around music and performers. A seasoned Mozart-lover will be satisfied, and a musical neophyte will be entertained.
