Review: RIGOLETTO, London Coliseum

There’s no shame in pulling an old favourite from the vaults but Jonathan Miller’s 1982 gangster-themed production is firing blanks in this latest revival.

Swooping across the Atlantic, we are transported from the Italy of Verdi’s original to gestalt vision of Little Italy filled with ersatz extras. The opening scene still looks fabulous, a grand bar scene with a flock of men all leaning on the counter or standing around in sharp suits. Take a closer look at this supposed group of made men and the facade falls apart: no gesticulations of the angry or any other kind, no-one visibly sipping coffee from tiny cups and no Catholic or football memorabilia in sight. In the 1980s, there were third-hand pirated VHS copies of The Godfather which looked more accurate than this.

That’s not to take away from the power of Verdi’s story. It may be streaked with casual misogyny but there are the bones of a stirring story here. The philandering Duke is busy bedding the wives of his courtiers when his eyes fall upon a beautiful woman in a local church. His hunchback jester Rigoletto mercilessly mocks the cuckolds who swear revenge. His daughter Gilda, meanwhile, is struck by the handsome man she saw while at Mass and yearns to see him again, a pursuit that ends in tragedy.

The ENO hasn’t always been enamoured of this vintage version. In 2014, their eyes were temporarily swayed by Christopher Alden’s more modern but ultimately utterly abstruse adaptation all set in a single room of a Pall Mall’s gentlemen’s club. It befuddled critics and audience alike, the company went back to Miller and his mock-Mafia interpretation three years later and now returns to the Coliseum.

The set design doesn’t have the impact it did when this opera first opened but the lighting (or subtle lack of) is beautifully dark in the alleyway scenes and in the dockside finale. Seeing the singers emerge from and then melt into the near-pitch-black environment is a magical touch that gives physical form to the underlying themes. With the exception of the sheltered Gilda, everyone here is living off dirty money made from illegal practices, their souls corrupted and their motives murky. There’s no sense of liminality or redemptive hope here, we are in the heart of darkness without so much as a paddleboat. That all makes the love for Gilda - as expressed by the Duke and Rigoletto - all the more vivid.

William Thomas’s Sparafucile is a rare delight on a night of milquetoast performances. He speaks as much through his acting as he does through singing, his assassin established as a ruthless killer with little more than his flashing eyes and determined movements. Robyn Allegra Parton (Gilda), Yongzhao Yu (The Duke) and Weston Hurt as Rigoletto pass muster but only just about; David Kempster in his brief second and final appearance as the bloodied Monterone shows more grit and passion in a few minutes than those three evince over the whole evening.

Down in the pit, it is a similar story. Conductor Richard Farnes undercuts the power of the key scenes, rarely carrying us through with the music. Even the surefire hits like the Duke’s arias “Possente amor mi chiama” and “La donna è mobile” fail to hit the mark. Barring the lush stage design and a couple of classy performances, this is a night to forget. Maybe it’s time for Miller’s Rigoletto to sleep with the fishes.

Rigoletto continues at the London Coliseum until 21 November

Photo credit : Tristram Kenton

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