Manon Lescaut, Puccini at the Arts Theatre
Warning! Surrealism Should be Handled with Care. I would love to see that public safety announcement on all theatrical productions but especially on the scores of 19th century opera. Jude Christian, the English Touring Opera’s director of Manon Lescaut, the Puccini version of the tragic tale, has clearly swallowed some powerful Bunuel potion or gulped down a bag of Class A Dali Drops. This relatively simple tale of a woman guided by her desires rather than the moral codes of her day, was more than suffused with some truly kooky costumes and weird sets that were more bananas than a crate of Fyffes.
The stage is two-tiered, a long upper balcony (hardly ever used) and a surrounding embrace of drapes. On to this oddly pedestrian set are pulled all manner of mannerist props wheeled on trollies probably borrowed from an Amazon warehouse. The opening scene seems to be set in a swimming pool plentifully supplied with water coolers. A chorus member on the balcony is being drenched in water. There is water water everywhere. Manon should drink while she can!
And then the chorus. Imagine, if you dare, a technicoloured mishmash of Toytown characters in fluffy bear costumes, circus gear or Disneyfied dandies – ‘Beauty and the Beast’ came to mind. You would not be surprised to see Andy Pandy or a Teletubby belting out a bit of bel canto. There were painted moustaches, strangely moulded headgear and at one time a contralto with a stuffed dinosaur on her head. The bass villain well sung by Edward Hawkins who plays Manon’s rich, randy but jilted lover is bedecked in a pink suit with an enormous hat that would put Ascot Ladies’ Day to shame. There was a moment when out of the blue, a character started to sing to an overhead projector lecture. If none of that makes any sense, join my club of the operatically baffled.
Before I get to the good bits, of which there were many, let me say a few words, in English about the libretto. It was sung in English, no problem with that, but the translation from the Italian ranged from Pseud’s Corner to something with all the poetry of a Gordon Ramsay cookbook. There was even that tempting line beloved of all critics: ‘when will this nightmare end’. I longed for the Italian which sounds so beautiful even when the meaning is not.
This production visually a mess and laughably presented, nevertheless had some wonderful singing and sumptuous orchestral music. The prelude to the second half was gorgeously played by the ETO band and apart from the Alice in Wonderland or Trumpton courtroom scene the post-interval half had a simpler set and just the two main leads. Jenny Stafford was in really fine voice as the love loving Manon and Gareth Dafydd Morris made for a powerful Des Grieux, the lover who is cast out with her to the dry desert of Louisiana (OK don’t take your map bearings from Puccini).
The touching moment when Manon powerfully dies (of thirst) in good gran ole opera style was somewhat spoilt by a last-minute arrival of the chorus still in their LSD-fuelled costumes. They had nothing to sing and perhaps would have been better employed having a Bird’s Mellow coffee in the green room.
This was a shame because Puccini’s score is really lovely in places and full of heart-stopping drama. I heard someone in the interval say, ‘I am going to just listen to the second half with my eyes closed’. There is something in that. The person will though have missed the Magritte moment when Manon, about to die of thirst in a cruel desert, is visited by the image of a giant golden cat lowered on to the balcony. For those suffering from surrealist susceptibility, you have been warned.
