La Bohème, English National Opera, review: 'infantile, unengaging, unmoving'

John Berry, ENO’s Artistic Director until last summer, has bequeathed the company some projects that the new management would probably rather have ditched. One of them is this dreary production of La Bohème,  which needlessly replaces a charming staging by Jonathan Miller that was hugely popular with ENO’s core audience.

Instead we have something in an unspecified “modern” setting that drains all the emotional warmth from the plot and adds nothing illuminating in compensation. The director Benedict Andrews may think that he has been frightfully daring, but let me assure him that his concept is yawningly old hat. I can think of at least five Bohèmes I’ve seen recently along similar lines - David McVicar’s version at Glyndebourne, for one, not to mention the derivative musical Rent.

The corniness wouldn’t matter if what we saw was fresh, musical, or sensitive. But it isn’t: the Bohemians live in a dirty white-walled apartment. When his chums go out carousing, Rodolfo rolls up his sleeve and gets out the syringe and the gear, implausibly luring Mimi to inject herself within seconds of meeting her. They then fall in love through a drug-induced haze: how is that for old-fashioned romance?

This infantile attempt to shock fails dismally, and the heroin theme subsequently fades out - Mimi dies coughing as usual. Andrews has nothing else of interest to offer: the Café Momus is situated in a downmarket shopping mall - heaven knows what a social climber like Musetta and her rich beau are doing there - and the final two acts are merely banal, with any attempt at hard-hitting Channel 4 realism vitiated by Amanda Holden’s anachronistic translation, laden with jokes about Demosthenes and talk of ‘ladies of easy virtue’.

What further depressed me was the fact that both the leading roles have been given to American singers, neither of them outstandingly good. Corinne Winters is a resourceful soprano, but her Mimi was devoid of vulnerability and innocence; her Rodolfo, Zach Borichevsky, marvellously tall for a tenor, wields  cleanly produced tome that turns painfully tight above the stave. He never communicated the character’s emotional volatility or insecurity.

Could ENO really not find two British-based singers who could have performed these roles as well, if not better?

Rhian Lois turns Musetta into a grotesque parody of a heartless tart, and the aria taxed her vocally. Ashley Riches and Nicholas Masters (another American!) are more likable and assured as Schaunard and Colline, but only Duncan Rock hits the mark as a robust and sympathetic Marcello.

A further disappointment is the conducting of Xian Zhang, who goes at it hammer and tongs, seemingly unaware of the score’s delicacies and nuances - perhaps the coarseness was intended to match the spirit of Andrews’ heartless staging, but she should listen to Carlos Kleiber’s recording to hear how beautifully Puccini can be rendered.

There was no booing - indeed the applause was enthusiastic. But this is just about the least engaging, least moving Bohème I have ever seen.

Tickets available from Telegraph Tickets; 0844 871 2118