The Coronation of Poppea; An Index of Metals – review

Almost everything about The Coronation of Poppea is uncertain – it is not known for sure that Monteverdi wrote the opera. But it is assumed that it was written in 1643 and is sometimes described as Monteverdi’s latest and greatest work. Its morality is dubious too. It is a celebration of adultery in which the bad guy, Emperor Nero (Nerone), wins. He discards, and later murders, his wife Ottavia and marries gorgeous but undeserving Poppea. Virtue is never rewarded. But one thing is not in question: Tim Albery’s modern-dress production for Opera North is stunning. He directs with the necessary verve – necessary because the opera is such a challenge to stage, the exquisite decorum of the music in opposition to the chaos it describes. We keep being offered the musical equivalent of tidy hospital corners with which to tuck in the turbulent narrative bed. And this is before you have even addressed the issue of the male sopranos whose voices could easily tilt into absurdity if misdirected.

The musicians themselves are on two sides of the stage, crisply led by Laurence Cummings. They frame the action and reinforce intimacy. The unusually long necks of the lutes – theorbos – are an especially elegant sight. We are in a warehouse space, with pale green walls, dominated by a banqueting table – Poppea the main course. Most of the cast wears black, Poppea, more often, coral. Albery takes the shrewd decision of making Fortune, Virtue and Cupid unambiguously human (so often directors falter with allegory or are over-reverent about divinity). Fortuna (fine-voiced Ciara Hendrick) is pleased with herself, her high patent-leather shoes suggesting a devil-may-care approach to balance. Virtu (excellently acted and sung by Claire Pascoe) looks more ordinary, beetle-browed, braced for disappointment. Amore/Cupid (lovely Emilie Renard) is beguilingly conceived as a streetwise boy in sneakers and a baseball cap.

Albery and Cummings have done a fantastically enjoyable translation of Giovanni Francesco Busenello’s libretto. We have Fortune dismissing Virtue’s disciples as “pale vegetarians”. We overhear the robust counsel: “Involve yourself with emperors and you ask for trouble.” And I love the point at which Seneca, anticipating death, movingly likens his life, in the moment of leave-taking, to “an old traveller who departs his hotel”. A five-star script.

Ottone, the unluckier of Poppea’s suitors, is vividly performed by Christopher Ainslie as a feverish introvert, making one consider the possibility that singing to yourself might be the first sign of madness. And, indeed, later on, Ottone seizes a nasty little meat cleaver with which to kill Poppea but then diverts himself, with unseemly, opportunistic haste, into a significant embrace with Drusilla (a dignified Katherine Manley).

As Poppea, Sandra Piques Eddy is perfect: a dark-haired, diminutive minx whose voice is full of blandishments as seductive as the long furry cuffs on the sleeves of her silk gown. Her voice has masculine clout in contrast to her daintily feminine appearance and there is an edge of hysteria in the duets with Nerone: they ascend scales with athletic grace, as if running up flights of stairs. And when the two sing “I love you” for the first time, the word love is drawn out, inhabited, as if each were discovering the note and the emotion at the same time.

James Laing is outstanding as Nerone, with a voice much purer than his deeds. He does not neglect to show what it is to be a spoilt despot as well as a lover. At times, he is required to sing into Poppea’s cleavage, which must be challenging – but full marks for sexy, brave, unstandoffish performances from both lovers (not that there is any chance of empathising with either).

Meanwhile, Catherine Hopper, as Nerone’s cast-off wife Ottavia, reminds us that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She is magnificent in her expensive face-saving pink suit. She brings superb grievance and a modern feel to the line “Oh how degrading is the fate of women”. And as Seneca, Nerone’s erstwhile adviser James Creswell gives a splendidly authoritative and resonant performance in which his unwavering approach to every note emphasises the tenacity of Seneca’s character. Fiona Kimm excels as Poppea’s nurse Arnalta – getting off to a severe start, concerned about her mistress and then ending, demob happy, looking forward to tossing away her pink rubber gloves for ever to become a lady.

At the end of this hugely enjoyable evening, one looks up at the balcony at the back of the stage and sees, in the shadows, a second audience. There is a thrilling frisson in spotting Fortune, Virtue and Cupid standing there like three unreliable witnesses, movers and shakers – motionless now – watching the mortal frenzy from on high.

An Index of Metals, by Italian composer Fausto Romitelli (1963-2004), is an opera with one singer and almost no narrative. In spite of its radical intentions, this Italian production is tamer than 17th-century Poppea. It consists of three psychedelic poems (or “hallucinations”) involving a drowning woman by Trieste-born Kenka Lèkovich, translated into English. At the back of the stage is a restless video triptych: flame, marble, falling stars and what looks like an ultrasound scan of an empty womb.

Romitelli intended the opera to be immersive, to induce “trance” and be a “new concept in which sound and light become part of a single thought process”. But the trance never materialises. Light and sound fail to merge: the images, at a distance from the audience, are illustrative rather than integral.

Although a theatrical muddle, the piece is performed with spirit by the London Sinfonietta, incisively conducted by André de Ridder. And it has, at times, an urgency, as if a musical state of emergency were being declared. More often, there are longueurs. It begins with what sounds like a defective Hoover failing to start. There is one outstandingly beautiful passage in which a cello flutters like a leaf and quivering brass follows suit. It is a piece that could be likened to “found” art – with echoes from elsewhere: a conventional fanfare, a stretch of rock music and soprano Hila Plitmann’s resurgent singing, occasionally suggestive of Britten. Yet, under the circumstances, the evening’s final image remains risky: a load of rubbish tossed and turning in a silver drum.

The Coronation of Poppea ★★★★★
An Index of Metals ★★