Meyerbeer - Les Huguenots

La Monnaie, Brussels, Sunday June 26 2022

Conductor: Evelino Pidò. Production: Olivier Py. Reprise and choreography: Daniel Izzo. Sets and Costumes: Pierre-André Weitz. Lighting: Bertrand Killy. Marguerite de Valois: Lenneke Ruiten. Valentine: Karine Deshayes. Urbain: Ambroisine Bré. Raoul de Nangis: Enea Scala. Comte de Saint-Bris: Nicolas Cavallier. Comte de Nevers: Vittorio Prato. De Retz: Yoann Dubruque. Marcel: Alexander Vinogradov. Cossé: Pierre Derhet. Tavannes: Valentin Till. Thoré: Patrick Bolleire. Méru: Jean-Luc Ballestra. Chorus and Orchestra of La Monnaie.

Photos: Baus/De Munt

There's a passage in Evelyn Waugh's 1942 novel Put Out More Flags that mentions the 'purely professional triumphs of the French.'* Over the ten or eleven years that have passed since I first saw this production of Les Huguenots I've tried, largely to feed my interest in 19th-century Paris and, with the help of the Palazzetto Bru Zane's revival, in the best possible conditions, of a number of rarely-heard scores, to get to know the operas of the period better.

With opéra-bouffe, this has so far been a great success. With grand opera, less so by far. I quite enjoyed the unashamedly melodramatic rumbustiousness and simpering Second-Empire piety of Félicien David's Herculanum. It might be fun to see it one day. But more often I've had the impression, with these historical works, that an undeniably competent composer was writing music that, by following the conventions, signals, say, romance, rage, shock, bravado and so on, but without any actual personal urgency and engagement or true sincerity of feeling. The result is thus 'sterile', as the man behind me said when I saw this production before, or, to return to Waugh, purely professional in feel, relying on the charisma of individual soloists (I think of Lisette Oropesa in Paris's weaker production) to bring the work to life.

(I know perfectly well French grand opera has its fans. Il giardino di Armida, for example, reviewing this production, says Meyerbeer is 'unjustly forgotten,' and France's Le Figaro said this very production should win over even the most reticent. But it doesn't work its magic on me. I'm used to comments here calling me stupid, bitter, arrogant, blinkered and more; there's no need to add any.)

With such an elaborate production and such a good cast as in Brussels on Sunday, it seemed, as my neighbour said at the first interval, 'a lot of hard work for little reward.' I should imagine the production is still as I described it in 2011, reprised telle quelle, though if so my companions and I had forgotten that when Raoul arrives, Nevers and his noblemen are apparently stripping off for an all-male orgy, and I didn't recall that the Queen, before handing Raoul over to Valentine, rips off his shirt and has sex with him in the pond. But perhaps Lenneke Ruiten just couldn't resist Enea Scala. That would be understandable.

Once again, the cast was about as good as you might hope for - Brussels may be bowed after its many recent tribulations, but is so far, fortunately, undefeated. Lenneke Ruiten's Marguerite was impressive if less fluid, charming and charismatic as Oropesa's. Scala was impressive too, though his voice has a slightly 'constipated' sound at the top. The notes are spot on, however high. His physical presence is very engaging. But the stars of the matinee were really Karine Deshayes, with her full, round, nuanced soprano sound, and the extraordinary Marcel of Alexander Vinogradov. The chorus were on ripping form (the old lady on my left complained about the volume!); the orchestra, under Pidò, rather less than they now usually are under Altinoglu.

A great deal of hard work and commitment. But Les Huguenots, with its intervals, stretches over five hours. It was a nice warm day outside, so after the second, we left for a cooling drink on a nearby terrace. And so the season ended. Back in October.

*More fully: 'England had fought many and various enemies with many and various allies, often on quite recondite pretexts, but always justly, chivalrously, and with ultimate success. Often, in Paris, Lady Seal had been proud that her people had never fallen to the habit of naming streets after their feats of arms; that was suitable enough for the short-lived and purely professional triumphs of the French, but to put those great manifestations of divine rectitude which were the victories of England to the use, for their postal addresses, of milliners and chiropodists, would have been a baseness to which even the radicals had not stooped.'