This year, the Salzburg Whitsun Festival is dedicated to Orpheus, the mythological poet and singer who could charm natural – and supernatural – beings with his singing. Many composers wrote operas based on the story, the most famous of which is Orfeo ed Euridice by Christoph Willibald Gluck, premiered in Vienna in 1762, which opened the festival on Friday. This is the main work which embodies Gluck’s “reform” of traditional Baroque opera, moving away from convoluted, wondrous plots, towards a more linear, more emotional storytelling.
Conductor Gianluca Capuano and director Christophe Loy chose as their basis the Parma version of 1769: a rewriting of the part of Orfeo for soprano and a rearrangement of the three-act opera into seven uninterrupted scenes. To this, they added a modified finale, with no happy ending, and the ballets written for the Paris version of 1774. Dancers play a key role in this production, always present on the scene, except for the dialogue between Orpheus and Eurydice. They represent Orpheus' moods and desperation with simple movements, tender and rough at the same time (choreography also by Loy). Some splashes of colour make an appearance during the scene in the Elysium, but otherwise everybody is dressed in black and white, in modern, simple clothes (costumes by Ursula Renzenbrink).
Johannes Leiacker's sets represent a wooden staircase starting directly in the orchestra pit, rising to the stage, and then continuing up to a white portal: the entrance to the world beyond death. The walls on the right and left are wood-panelled – probably a quote of the Karl Böhm Saal, the foyer next door, but reminiscent of the boring interior of a 19th-century financial institution.
Overall, the emotions came much more effectively from the musical performance. Gianluca Capuano conducted Les Musiciens du Prince in a surprising and inspired reading of the score, which could be called revolutionary without any exaggeration. He revealed the depth of Gluck’s music, sweeping away decades of mannerisms in performances of yore, but also the impersonal, sterile interpretations of some historically informed ensembles. The orchestra's palette was rich and carefully designed, the dynamics and tempi startling at times, certain pizzicato passages persistent and pressing rather than coy and pretty, the fortepiano (Davide Pozzi) inspired and unconventional. But every unusual choice was at the service of the music and the drama, rather than anybody’s ego, which made this performance exceptionally honest and of high cultural value.
Cecilia Bartoli took the role of Orfeo for the first time, throwing herself into the character completely. The lack of extreme coloratura in the part highlighted her dramatic ability, her innate charisma, her natural, spectacular skill in giving life and meaning to every word. Orfeo, through her multi-coloured voice, screamed his horror, whispered his love and tenderness, in a complete rendition of the turmoil of his soul. Particularly effective were the soft, tender moments, like “Chiamo il mio ben così” where the flute and a few strings echoed from backstage. The duet with Euridice in the underworld was heart-wrenching. Bartoli and Mélissa Petit (Euridice) masterfully built the tension, making the story believable and moving. So, when Orfeo reluctantly looks at her and Euridice falls dead once again, it seems natural to hear the super-famous “Che farò senza Euridice” not as the usual affected Larghetto, but at an agitato tempo, sung almost with violence, the slow tempo arriving only in the third stanza, when Orfeo is finally resigned and defeated.
Orfeo is really a showcase for the singer in the eponymous role, while Euridice and Amore have much smaller complementary parts. Petit was a forceful Euridice, full of personality, her bright, silvery soprano perfectly projected; Amore was Madison Nonoa, whose soprano was more golden, but still very bright on the high notes. Both added considerably to the success of the evening.
The chorus has a prominent part in this opera, and the ensemble Il Canto di Orfeo (never a more apt name!), prepared by Jacopo Facchini, rose to the occasion. They sat on the lower staircase, right by the orchestra, which gave the appropriate feeling of Greek Chorus, commenting on and participating in the action from the side. Their performance was spectacular, matching Bartoli’s interpretation of every word with an incredible unity of purpose and great dynamics.
The Salzburg audience is notoriously silent and composed, but I don’t think I ever heard such a religious silence in the Haus für Mozart for the whole of this uninterrupted performance. At the end, applause exploded like thunder and lasted a good ten minutes, until the Austrian Minister of Culture Andrea Mayer went on stage to award Cecilia Bartoli with the title of Austrian Kammersängerin, the perfect end to a wonderful evening.
