The Marriage Of Figaro

Don’t ever ask an opera critic to name their favourite work. You can put a gun to their head, roast them over hot coals and threaten them with another visit to the ENO’s last take on Wagner’s The Valkyrie but that may all be futile. Narrow it down, though, to say comedies (not the broadest of opera categories, to be fair) and you may find more success.

Mozart’s The Barber Of Seville is something I could see every day and twice on Sundays. It’s my recommended entry point to those who have yet to step into an opera house for many reasons, not least because it is a work bursting with fun and mischief backed by a cracking score, a cheeky libretto and, best of all, it doesn’t overstay its welcome. It was so popular in its day that it begat a sequel (something far less common then than now). As shown by David McVicar’s 2006 production for what is now known as the Royal Opera and Ballet, The Marriage of Figaro is its predecessor's equal when it comes to the chuckles even if it doesn’t quite stick the landing.

In this, its eleventh revival, there is still much to admire. The elegant scenery from Tanya McCallin and frenetic opening scene expertly directed by McVicar (no revival director needed here, no siree) immediately throws us into the world of upstairs/downstairs intrigue. Compared to last season's relatively static Madama Butterfly and its minimalist staging, this is pure Hollywood in the way we are swept along through an array of sensational settings from twist to twist, from one bedroom farce to another and then to the sentimental denouement in Act 3.

The title is something of a misnomer: after we find out that Figaro is planning to marry his belle Susanna, the story opens out to include all kinds of palace intrigue and ends with not one but three weddings (and no funerals). It’s a highly kinetic work which doesn’t rely on the singers standing stock still and orating out to the audience. McVicar’s creation is a rollicking ride from the off: faces are slapped, a bottom is smacked, girls duke it out and there’s some hanky panky in Figaro’s bed by two people who turn out to be his parents. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that, somewhere backstage, there was a fight co-ordinator, an intimacy co-ordinator and a co-ordinator co-ordinator.

New face Ying Fang slides right in as Susanna without touching the sides. Her effervescent acting is a joy to watch and she will be welcomed back here not least due to her wonderful singing. Luca Micheletti brings his baritone to bear in his joyful Figaro, no longer the scheming barber of yore but now a struggling valet under the yoke of the philandering Almaviva (an enchanting Huw Montague Renhall). American mezzo-soprano Ginger Costa Jackson is a delight as the poor Cherubino who goes from hiding out in a dressing cupboard to diving through a boudoir window.

Where this is fault,is it less to do with the director’s choices and more to do with Mozart’s vision. Despite being three hours and a half, there’s a hefty pace until we get to the last act, an episode that is beyond superfluous and serves only to tie up a couple of loose ends that could have been dealt with earlier. McVicar deals with this dead end in style, his dark and sombre night setting couldn’t be more sympathetic with the paranoia coursing through Figaro’s mind. This excellent opera doesn’t deserve its mawkish finale and, if Kenneth Branagh can find a way to reduce King Lear to a two-hour play, perhaps future directors will be brave enough to ditch this part altogether.

The Marriage of Figaro continues at the Royal Opera House until 15 September.

Photo credit: Clive Barda