There is a passage at the end of Act 1 of Handel’s Giulio Cesare when a mother and son sing together, unaccompanied, united by loss. In this no-frills concert staging, mezzo-sopranos Beth Taylor (Cornelia) and Paula Murrihy (Sesto, a trouser role) faced each other, barely projecting, their vocal lines – locked in sighing parallel thirds – ringing absolutely true.
It was one of the powerfully intense moments in a performance that ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous. Also sublime: countertenor Christophe Dumaux’s lucid, liquid ornamentation as Caesar admits he has fallen for “Lydia” (Cleopatra in disguise), entering competitive musical dialogue with a solo violin and shrugging at a flurry of musical leaps he was never going to imitate. Or his extraordinary control of a single unaccompanied sustained note at the start of his heartfelt aria in the final act, shaping an achingly slow crescendo and decrescendo in a way that was little short of bewitching. Or John Holiday’s compelling turn as Cleopatra’s brother Ptolemy, his countertenor flexible, his ornamentation nimble. Or the English Concert under artistic director Harry Bicket – always energetic, always neat, never flamboyant – whose string tone was warm or frozen as the emotional temperature demanded, the horns burnished, the occasional woodwind solos elegantly shaped.
At the opposite end of the spectrum was the appearance of Achilles (baritone Morgan Pearse) carrying a Waitrose bag, from which he produced the plot’s all-important bloodied head to delighted giggles from the auditorium. Later – now mortally wounded – he arranged himself onstage with a grin at the audience. Meanwhile, after Ptolemy’s death, Holiday picked himself up, dusted himself down and hoiked his trousers before walking off. And in the absence of “staging” beyond that plastic bag, an urn and a plastic knife, there was a lot of dramatic walking: striding and shuffling, a few tentative steps and the occasional full-pelt dash.
Some of this seemed mannered and self-conscious alongside an unequivocally world-class musical performance. The constant movement on and off stage also gradually began to pall. But one standout turn negotiated the rapid switches between carry-on comedy and searing tragedy with ease. Louise Alder’s Cleopatra treated the stage like a fashion runway, her first aria a heady cocktail of charisma and confidence, crooning and ferocious coloratura. Yet it was her later sincerity that hit home above all: lines sustained with tenderness and poise, her ornamentation exquisitely graceful – all utterly compelling.
