It’s a wise director who knows how far to go in stamping his personality on a production. Most don’t. Stephen Medcalf’s Tosca shifted Puccini’s ‘shabby little shocker’ from a Rome under French occupation to one under the Nazi jackboot, but kept the atmosphere of fear and oppression. Scarpia was a smooth, besuited Nazi official, his henchmen sinister figures in black leather coats. There were one or two unusual departures, but otherwise Medcalf has followed his usual practice and let story and singers speak for themselves.
The key to any Tosca is the three main characters. Georgian tenor Otar Jorjikia’s Caravadossi is a regular guy, puzzled and besotted by his capricious, demanding girlfriend. He took time to warm up, but the sincerity of his performance more than compensated for shifting vowels, and his somewhat muscular, foursquare delivery was in keeping with his manly, down-to-earth characterisation. His ‘E lucevan le stelle’ held great sadness – it really was a farewell to life. Izabela Matuła’s Tosca matures from a flighty girl whirling round the church and refusing her lover’s kiss because she must put flower in front of the Madonna to a woman at the end of her tether, her exaggerated movements fuelled by terror and disgust. Matuła has sung the role a number of times, but her performance still lacks a certain nuance. She did anger and sorrow brilliantly.
The best of the three was Scarpia, Brett Polegato, making his debut in the role. Not so much evil as desperately world weary, though vicious enough in Act II. He rather took the edge off ‘Vissi d’arte’ by pawing the heroine as if examining something he’d just bought.There were nice cameos from Andrew Slater’s grave Sacristan, and Robin Horgan’s timid Spoletta, who sang perfect Italian in an appealing tenor. He’s worthy of larger roles.
We saw some odd changes to the script. The white-clad nun seen ministering to a tramp outside the church’s bomb-damaged wall reappears inexplicably on the Castel Sant’Angelo roof, singing the shepherd boy’s song. Tosca stabs Scarpia with the meat fork left behind by the chef who prepared dinner on stage, and hurls herself onto a bayonet held by one of the firing party. Some moments worked. Cavaradossi’s jailer contemptuously screwed up his farewell letter. In the Palazzo Farnese one fallen chandelier is a potent symbol of decay, the other flickers out as the drums begin to sound. The French windows are taped against bomb blasts. Harder to understand is why San Andrea’s shattered stained glass reappears on the palace wall?
Francis O’Connor’s grey-hued sets focussed attention on the heroine, her red gown the one bright spot in any scene. Vivid colour too, from the recently reprieved BBC Concert Orchestra under Mark Shanahan, demonstrating why they would be such a loss to the cultural landscape, as they presented Puccini’s rich tonal palette with sensitivity and verve.
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