Opera Holland Park opens its 30th season by successfully wrangling one of the art-form’s more problematic children. Ever since its 1910 New York premiere, Puccini’s wild west extravaganza has struggled to attain the kind of foothold in the standard repertoire afforded to Bohème, Butterfly or Tosca. Perhaps it’s the story; a tale of brutal hardship and racial tensions set amid the California gold rush, yet at the same time a dyed-in-the-wool Victorian melodrama. Or maybe it’s a score that leans into 20th-century modernism while gingering up the composer’s trademark lyricism with cakewalks and American dancehall music. Either way, it’s a tricky act to pull off.
Martin Lloyd-Evans’s dramatically insightful production takes its cue from documentary footage of a Yukon mining town, which brings a gritty reality rarely seen in this opera. Anna Reid’s versatile period set and costumes, with a special shout out to hair and makeup, exude authenticity, all atmospherically lit by Jamie Platt. But it’s the 49ers themselves, the opera’s rough and ready bunch of misfits and ne’er-do-wells, that make this staging so memorable. Lloyd-Evans and the tireless Opera Holland Park Chorus manage to differentiate each character, while savvy blocking ensures we follow the sometimes frenetic action with ease. By creating a credible sense of community, the principal players emerge as firmly rooted in time and place.
It’s musically strong too. Matthew Kofi Waldren’s steady pacing and flexible phrasing find colour and human drama in the most unassuming corners of Puccini’s mercurial score, given here in Ettore Panizza’s reduction. The 40 musicians from the City of London Sinfonia, including four percussionists, guitar, banjo, celeste and harp, sound like an orchestra twice their size. The same is true of the vocal ensemble who could give the Royal Opera a run for its money.
Amanda Echalaz’s richly drawn Minnie is a touching portrait of a broken-hearted woman eking out a perilous living in a man’s world. Inhibited and reserved, her nuanced interpretation of the never-been-kissed saloon owner here makes total sense. Vocally she’s comfortably in the zone, though her top notes occasionally let her down. She’s complemented by José de Eça as a refreshingly down-to-earth Dick Johnson. His Italianate tenor possesses all the requisite fire power, and his performance culminates in a deeply felt Ch’ella mi creda. If Robert Hayward’s resolutely sung Jack Rance appears overly world-weary at first, by the second act the sexual threat is more palpable.
Ultimately, however, the show belongs to the ensemble. Róisín Whelan’s restrained choreography highlights a dangerous masculine capacity for tribal brutality, yet it’s in their soaring, misty-eyed dreams of far-off families that the opera is revealed as the maverick masterpiece it undoubtedly is.
