A massive rococo painting depicting the fall of Icarus greets the audience as they enter the Met auditorium – a clear metaphor for Gustavo III, the anti-hero of Verdi’s Un ballo in maschera, who falls victim to his own hubris. Rococo aesthetics aside, David Alden’s production is decidedly non-traditional, with its slanted walls and dramatic floodlighting reminiscent more of a 30’s film noir than 18th-century Sweden. But Ballo has always been one of Verdi’s more varied scores, juxtaposing Italianate passion, high tragedy and the sparkling wit of French opera, and Alden’s stylised, surreal imagery works well.
There are moments that are too much – dancing waiters prance about the stage with champagne glasses and zombie hands clutch at Amelia from the stage floor as she wanders the gallows. And for all of the Icarus imagery, Alden doesn’t probe too deeply into the psychology of Gustavo and his demise: is he a reckless playboy, an insecure monarch with a need to be loved, or a raving despot?
The physical staging has also lost much of its sharpness, with Paul Steinberg’s sets loudly wobbling into place. But there are also moments of brilliance, particularly the masked ball that lends the opera its name. Here, courtiers dressed as angels and demons whirl around the mirrored set, creating an uneasy claustrophobia that perfectly sets up the final tragedy. Carlo Rizzi led a confident, fleet account, with a fine feel for the quick tonal shifts of the score. A few raggedy ensemble moments and intonation flubs in the brass aside, the orchestra and chorus were on fine form.
Despite all of this stagecraft, the best moment of the night comes from a moment of stillness. Quinn Kelsey has become the go-to Verdian baritone at the Met, and his Anckarström is an absolute triumph. Left alone onstage, his “Eri tu” was brooding and majestic, snarling out the text without compromising the integrity of his legato line or the basic beauty of his sound. And what a sound it is, with a dramatic heft and silky smoothness. There’s a newfound nuance to his singing, turning the corners of Verdi’s phrases with finesse.
The other outstanding performance of the evening comes from soprano Liv Redpath. There’s a case to be made for Oscar being the most irritating character in all of opera, his chirpy soubrette arias holding up the action, but Redpath brings a poised, rounded tone to the role. She certainly has the coloratura chops for it, with brilliant staccati and a neat trill, but she impressed most in the ensembles, with a soaring radiance that many a Violetta would envy. She’s also a game performer, executing the manic choreography with ease. Olesya Petrova also impressed in her short but crucial scene as Ulrica, with a fruity mezzo and commanding stage presence. The role is often reduced to a bag of tricks, an opportunity for a mezzo to show off their booming chest register, but Petrova’s singing was infaliably musical, with an elegance to her phrasing and perfectly integrated registers. We also got strong contributions from Kevin Short and Christopher Job as the conspirators, and a standout Cristiano from Jeongcheol Cha – a singer to watch.
In the tenor lead, Charles Castronovo brought a vigorous stage presence, looking every bit the part as the dashing king and navigating the vocal and emotional shifts with ease. Having made his debut at the Met 24 years ago, his rounded lyric tenor has darkened in tone with time. It’s now a muscular, virile sound, with an old-fashioned Italianate ardour and nuanced phrasing. He was at his best in the faux-barcarolle “Di' tu se fedele”, navigating Verdi's appogiature with ease and a bounding physical energy. But there's no getting around the fact that the voice is too small for the Met in this role, often sounding covered and opaque; the voice didn’t bloom as it should.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, Angela Meade has all of the vocal prerequisites for Amelia – a lean, penetrating soprano that has no issues filling the auditorium, a rich chest register and a fabulous high pianissimo. When things come together, it’s thrilling, as in her “Morrò ma prima in grazia” dispatched with silvery tone and finely contoured phrases. Elsewhere, her phrasing was choppy, her quick vibrato and lunging high notes getting in the way of the quick mood shifts of “Ecco l’orrido campo”. “Teco io sto” found Meade and Castronovo on frustrating form – she with the voice, he with the style, but never achieving the heights that Verdi's best love duets need.
