Carmen
As one known for her arena spectaculars, though, Francesca Zambello’s over-populated Carmen is a visual disappointment. Following a hurtling Prelude from conductor Bertrand de Billy the curtain rises on a brief flash-forward to Don José in gaol, after which a frozen tableau of peasants and urchins thaws, surprisingly, into a scene of dreary sluggishness. The hot Spanish sun, perhaps? That would be the tactful explanation, were it not for the hectic bustle of Bizet’s choral writing. And it’s hardly the fault of the poor bloody infantry that here, as time and again for the next three hours, they are given little to do except pour on, clutter the stage and pour off again.
Zambello’s work with the principals is far richer and more detailed. Roberto Alagna brings his signature role to this production for the first time, and while his voice is a little tired his acting is on fire. Alagna’s self-abasement in the final scene is almost unwatchable in its intensity: he descends into a frantic extremity which makes it inevitable, almost logical, that this Don José will kill Carmen.
The wonderfully statuesque Elina Garanca sets the pulses racing as every Carmen should but few can hope to do. She sings the role with a redoubtable technique allied to vocal beauty and convincing psychological insights, while as an actress she presents Carmen as a feral being who bathes in adoration and smears the stage with sexual allure. Oh to be that flower of hers with its happy adventures! Small wonder that when José catches it he keeps it as a lust memento as much as a love token.
Zambello rubs these two characters together until the sparks fly. If she has less success with the underwritten roles of Michaela and Escamillo, neither of whom makes much of an impression, then Bizet and his librettists are only partly to blame. Liping Zhang’s Puccinian delivery of Michaela’s set pieces strips them of their fragility and prevents us from caring much about her. Ildebrando D’Arcangelo, who returns to the role he created for this production three years ago, is an underpowered toreador who struts the strut but doesn’t quite cut the vocal mustard. His calling card aria is all but swamped by the orchestration.
Bertrand de Billy’s conducting is supportive in the arias but slapdash in the interludes. The ROH Orchestra sounds below par, with some intonation and balance issues, although there is no lack of élan.
Tanya McCallin’s semi-realistic sets are curiously unattractive. As an evocation of Spain the colours may be right but the textures are more Ikea than Iberia, with mottled shades of rust that do not respond well to Paule Constable’s lighting.
It’s Garanca’s show, though, and reservations fade away before her luminous, searing performance. Don José calls Carmen a demon, and he should know; but if this gypsy comes from hell, open the gates and let me in.
