It’s not Goethe, it’s not grand opera. How I’m going to expose Gounod’s “Faust”

Last but not least? Gounod’s Faust, La Scala’s final production of the 2025–26 season, is perhaps the best production in an otherwise unmemorable season: and to think that the cast is largely the result of recycling a Semiramide which, having been absent from the Temple since 1962, it is high time they decided to stage. Johannes Erath’s direction, meanwhile, is exceptional from a technical standpoint: a perpetual motion of characters and their doubles, extras, dancers, choristers and stagehands, all directed with great theatrical flair. It is well known that for decades now, Faust has been staged to denounce the hypocrisy of the wealthy, opulent nineteenth-century bourgeoisie who had made it their favourite opera: in the ‘age of innocence’, the Metropolitan in New York had been renamed the Faustspielhaus.

Erath, however, takes it a step further. By setting the action in a circus or a theatre-within-a-theatre – at times the Opéra Garnier, at others La Scala itself – and multiplying the metamorphoses of a Mephistopheles who is by turns a tamer, Pope, pathologist and even the devil, whilst poor Valentino is mocked like Pierrot with a tear on his face and a balloon in his hand, Erath reveals the fundamental insincerity of this opera, which is ultimately a fake Goethe, the fake mysticism of a fake abbé, and even a fake grand opéra (Incidentally: sooner or later – better sooner than later – La Scala might well stage the ‘ur-Faust’, the original opéra-comique version from 1859, predating the bloated version of ten years’ later, which is less of a spectacle but more coherent). In short, the impression given by this entertaining and profound production is that Gounod is truly the flip side of Offenbach. And we know that a production which reveals an aspect of the opera that had always eluded you is a successful one.

All the more so because, for once, the direction and the podium are pulling in the same direction. Daniele Rustioni does not merely conduct an orchestra and a choir in sparkling form to great effect; he also manages to infuse wistful waltzes, boisterous festivities and grandiloquent war choruses in the style of “Retour de Solférino” with a subtle yet perceptible irony. After three hours and 40 minutes of performance, one was even tempted to believe in the final Apothéose, with the sinner ascending to heaven amidst angelic choruses, a torrent of words and clouds of incense. It is a pity, incidentally, that no director ever thinks to set it in the Sacré-Cœur Basilica, that monstrous stone condom perched on the Paris skyline (though, to tell the truth, it is a bit of an afterthought, serving as atonement for the crimes of the Commune).

Returning to La Scala, between what you see and what you hear, there’s never a dull moment, and sometimes the moment is so beautiful that you really do want to freeze it in time. Following the strike at the premiere and other theatrical mishaps, this reviewer was left with the second cast, which, apart from an embarrassing Valentino, was of a good standard. Julien Dran, as Faust, has a number of assets: he is handsome, a native speaker, has a charming little lyric tenor voice, tones down the infamous high C in the cavatina and, above all, is not Vittorio Grigolo. His singing, however, may rely more on natural talent than on technique. Ekaterina Bakanova was excellent; theoretically a light lyric soprano, she curiously shines more in the ‘Song of the King of Thule’ and the enchanting ‘Romance at the Spinning Wheel’ than in the ‘Jewels’ aria. The other performers were all rather good, including Marcela Rahal as Siebel, and fortunately the title role of Mephistopheles was entrusted to Alex Esposito, of whom one can only say that he was clearly born to sing this character, who is as magnificent and roguish as this bewildering masterpiece itself.