Guth on Mozart. A memorable performance in Naples

Every time one listens to "Mithridates, King of Pontus", one is left astounded that a fourteen-year-old could have written it, even if his name was Mozart. Whether it is due to the appeal of risotto giallo or panettone, the fact remains that by 1770 in Milan, the young composer was already a fully fledged opera composer (although it is true that the other two works in the “Milanese trilogy,” Ascanio in Alba and Lucio Silla, are not quite as powerful). It is, however, a difficult opera to stage because, apart from the superhuman virtuosity demanded of the singers, it is effectively a succession of arias with d’accapo sections, each one more beautiful than the last. Usually, this is resolved by staging it as a costumed concert. But if there is a proper director rather than one of the usual set designers, things change. At the San Carlo in Naples, it was co-produced with Madrid, Barcelona and Frankfurt and entrusted to Claus Guth. The family intrigue involving the two half-brothers who are in love with the fiancée of their father-figure—believed to be dead, but who is in fact unexpectedly alive—unfolds in a minimalist-chic upper-middle-class residence, the sort of house one might find in Milan’s restricted traffic zone (ZTL). But then the revolving stage turns and reveals an abstract semicircle that becomes the setting for the characters’ nightmares and neuroses, with their inevitable doubles, triples and sextuplets portrayed by a team of excellent mimes who create tableaux of refined beauty.

The acting is consistently excellent, with touches of irony that are most welcome in these stately, serious works (the libretto by Vittorio Amedeo Cigna-Santi, based on Racine’s Mithridate and probably adapted for Milan by Abbot Parini, is, however, quite beautiful); the costumes, obviously contemporary, caused a major scandal amongst the unsuspecting departed souls, given that at the world premiere the Pontiffs and Romans wore guard-of-the-king’s uniforms, wigs and heeled shoes – in other words, contemporary attire. The only mistake was not ending the first act with the sole duet, the sublime one between Sifare and Aspasia, which is there for that very purpose. For the rest, a simply memorable performance.

On the podium, Riccardo Frizza conducts an orchestra in fine form with great effectiveness and equal support for the stage. Of course, for this repertoire we are now accustomed to historically informed ensembles, though these are impossible for theatres with ‘normal’ resident orchestras. It is no coincidence that the Baroque scene thrives above all in venues that do not have such orchestras – such as the Champs-Élysées or the An der Wien – or in those that have had the foresight to form Baroque ensembles, such as the Zurich Opera House. But Mitridate is, above all, an opera ‘for singers’: and, fortunately, Naples had them. The highlight of the evening was the aria ‘Lungi da te, mio bene’, with the horn player taking to the stage to emphasise its dreamlike quality (a famous trope of the ‘mejo Pizzi’ of the 1980s; in opera, as in fashion and politics, nothing is newer than the old): Mariangela Sicilia sang it, moving the entire theatre to tears. Her excellent Sifare is ably matched by a daring Sara Blanch-Aspasia, in one of those extremely high-pitched and highly ornamented roles that were in vogue in the second half of the eighteenth century, much to the irritation of early-period artists such as Metastasio and Farinelli. The trio of women is completed by Giuliana Gianfaldoni, who sings the role of Ismene almost too well. Among the male voices, Giovanni Sala was not at his best, yet he still delivered a Mitridate of great distinction, nervous tics and all; Franco Fagioli perhaps overuses his chest register slightly, but by the time he reaches ‘Già dagli occhi il velo è tolto’, he truly comes into his own, and the cadenza is one of the longest heard in recent decades. In short, the performance is thoroughly enjoyable.