Review: THE TALES OF HOFFMANN, Royal Ballet and Opera

Buckle up - you’re in for a long ride!

If the curtain goes up at six o’clock and comes down again at just before ten, a director has plenty of scope to explore nooks and crannies - and operas are not short of those. Roll in the fact that composer, Jacques Offenbach, died before he had time to dot the ‘i’s and cross the ‘t’s and that the man in the chair, Damiano Michieletto, is not backward in coming forward when there’s an opportunity to insert his own thoughts, and you’ve a recipe for ups and downs. Sure enough, we get them.

Many of the more indigestible elements are baked-in. The story is hazy (though inexplicably made hazier), the women are wedged into caricature-shaped moulds and there’s an unfortunate whiff of panto that sometimes floats in on the November air. To be fair, if those sorts of things bother you, you’re striking a red line through much of opera’s canon - so maybe spend your ticket budget on Shaftesbury Avenue?

What we get is a rollercoaster account of what brings Hoffmann himself (three of his tales provide the backbone of the show) to a booze-fuelled depression in a bar. He’s not alone for long though, as the chorus of Don Giovanni, playing next door, pile in for some alcohol, a bit of a leer at the innkeeper’s daughter and a yarn from the man himself, which he delivers in ‘Rupert the Bear’ style rhyming couplets. Hoff only has eyes for the prima donna, the redheaded, haughty Stella, but, once the chorus go back for the second half, he is left with only his parrot for company, and has made an enemy in Councillor Lindorf, who also has designs on the femme fatale.

In the blinking of an eye, Hoff is in short trousers, the parrot is transformed into the anthropomorphic muse and advisor, Nicklausse, and we’re in a schoolroom doing maths!

Cue the three tales that define both the man Hoff has become and the opera, each named for the woman who has sent the storyteller to the bottle for solace. Versions of Lindorf appear three times too, Hoff’s nemesis out to screw him over, while Nicklausse the parrot is pining for the free verse. It’s wildly over the top, often funny (Offenbach knew that comique sold in 19th century Paris) and niggles away at your conscience because, yes, we were quite like that once too.

Juan Diego Flórez as Hoffmann and Alex Esposito as the four villains who confront him, make for a fine protagonist-antagonist duo, duelling over Hoff’s soul and Hoff’s lovers. Flórez has to do a lot of acting alongside his tenor work, both of which get a little overcooked at times, but he catches Hoffman’s antihero melancholy well. Esposito, bass booming, often lurks in the shadows, occasionally coming out to taunt Hoff, all but twirling his moustache in his malevolence. Once or twice I caught myself close to booing his arrival stage left, wanting to shout to Hoff that “He’s behind you”. But that’s for The Palladium next month.

Back in the classroom, Hoff has fallen for what everyone can see is a doll, but he, wearing glasses provided by Coppélius, this tale’s demon, believes to be a real girl. Ah, first loves are always blind, and a teenage lad would probably be all too happy to agree with Cliff Richard, and forgo all the complications that come with a scary complex human and fool around with the android. 

Olga Pudova delivers quite the turn as Olympia, marching about stiff in arm and leg (think “Doll on a Music Box” from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang), and wowing the audience with a bravura coloratura run of notes that all but stopped the show. But the doll, like Hoff’s dream of love, is literally shattered by Coppélius and the boy learns an early lesson in the dangers of falling in love with an illusion.

Next we meet Hoff in his 20s in love with the lame daughter of the owner of a ballet school. It’s never made clear how her physical incapacity means that Antonia will die if she sings, but it does open the door to some nice dance interludes and a chance for Christopher Montagne to go full Kenneth Williams as a camp instructor tormented by his pre-teen charges. 

It does rather waste the wonderful Ermonela Jaho, whose superbly controlled soprano is bursting with emotional pain but is rather bullied by the orchestra, Antonello Manacorda conducting a little too loudly and, to my ear, a little too quickly to release the full power of the scene. It was not the only time that the balance between singing and music came down too heavily in favour of the latter.

The fantasy pixie girl smashed into pieces, the fragile lover dead, the last thing Hoffmann needed was to run into a temptress, but Giulietta is next. Marina Costa-Jackson in a bias cut dress has a touch of Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita, plays Hoff for a fool, steals his shadow at the behest of this tale’s demonic nemesis (Esposito again) and leaves the storyteller in despair. 

Costa-Jackson gets the most famous aria, “Belle nuit, ô nuit d’amour” that she and the consistently splendid Julie Boulianne as the loyal Nicklausse, sing in duet, the vocal high point of the evening.

Nicklausse is back in the coda with the chorus too (who have done good work throughout) to haul Hoffmann out of his misery over Stella and insist that he dedicates his life to his craft. Given what we have witnessed in his dealings with women, it seems the smart move.

Few will be transfixed by everything they see, but few will fail to be enchanted by something in this epic production (I haven’t even mentioned Alessandro Carletti’s lighting which all but tells the tales on its own). Where you locate the show depends on a subjective reckoning of what assaults your senses over nearly four hours. Underpinned by Offenbach’s super score, I have plenty more in the credit column than on the debit side of the ledger - but I shan’t argue with you if you see it the other way round.

The Tales of Hoffmann at The Royal Opera and Ballet until 1 December

Photo images: Camilla Greenwell          

 

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