The writer may seem provocative, yet the baroque mood feels distant from today’s rapid pace. We inhabit a time that seems a little scrambled, where even a hint of nostalgia can offer a compass, nodding to Seneca and a touch of Marcus Aurelius. Still, a person born centuries ago rarely speaks directly to the modern reader.
But art must always converse with what came before. The confusion ends here. Last night the Royal Theater presented Orlando, an opera from a lineage that has faded. Three hours of swirling arias, grand yet repetitive, with miniature scenes that strike an Olympus-like glow and a structure that wobbles. Heavy? It’s easy to blame the audience for mishearing the critics. When Handel premiered his music, theaters did not treat audiences as inattentive. Lights stayed on, the box across the theater could glance over, and the scene never paused for propriety. This panorama suggests composers trusted the force of vocal display. The stars overshadowed the librettos, and aristocrats gathered not to study a new technique, but to hear the vocal prowess of legendary divas of the era: Senesino, Francesca Cuzzoni, Bordoni, and Farinelli.
The supremacy of the performer over the composer created tension. If the soloist felt the writing needed more fireworks, they might push aside the staff and take charge. After a while a pragmatic compromise emerged: one long aria would be written, the singer would render the first part verbatim, a transition would be added, and then the reprise would let the performer settle. The method works, yet it often leaves ten minutes to refine five or six verses. Then a spectator nudges the plot forward by a few measures on the harpsichord. Baroque transitions become a running joke, yet they endure.
Orlando remains a tale of a hero in love with a woman who does not meet the hero’s expectations. She trips him up with challenges, even ends up vanishing the signalman. Yet the eighteenth century favors happy endings, and this version casts a wizard as catalyst. The curtain falls after a morally charged anthem, while Claus Guth, a familiar name to opera fans, reshapes the scene. His signature tools appear again: rotating stages, modular sets, and bus-stop moments along an imagined Thirteen Rue del Percebe. Madrid’s fans will recognize the tricks from earlier productions like Rodelinda and Don Giovanni. [Citation: Opera Critic Notes]
“The brightest moments correspond exactly to the madness of the hero.”
To temper mythic debris and tangled dialogue, Guth places the action at a motel on the outskirts of a sunny, fictional Miami where a war veteran wrestles with post-traumatic stress. The character’s entrance comes through video-game visuals and headaches; as the action dives into darker ground, Doberman-headed figures guard the path. The device mostly lands. The setup, while imperfect, finds its pulse when the hero’s madness glows. The rest leans toward ordinary, even when the set dressing aims to dazzle with suburban charm, and the spin can feel overworked.
Bolton leads the pit with Monteverdi’s Permanent Society in accompaniment. There is a cautious approach to changes, a sense that leadership’s generosity has cooled. The overtures, performed with the curtain drawn, suggest deliberate restraint. Medea has lingered in memory as a reminder of how productions dress music with theatrical gimmicks. The current staging negotiates this by allowing certain musical liberties for the characters. A moment of surprise comes with Florian Boesch as Zarathustra, portraying a dual identity: a wavering mind in Orlando’s psyche and a streetwise, disillusioned outsider to the world beyond. His portrayal adds a striking, if mismatched, color to the night. The moment is visually arresting and emotionally pointed. [Cited Review]
The lead role falls to the countertenor Christophe Damaux, who crafts a grounded Orlando with careful vocal control. The aria endings feel rich, and the performance lands with convincing authority. The famous aria family warrior is a highlight, and the pupil Vaghe’s paesi is conveyed with a quiet, almost anxious intensity. Anna Prohaska offers a stark, expressionless Angelica, leaving it unclear whether happiness or sorrow rules her. Her most memorable moment comes in the trio Consolati, where a gentle pastoral mood briefly lifts the room. Reinforcements signal trouble, and Giulia Semenzato’s Dorinda shines with a nuanced portrayal. The moment when she speaks of her torments remains one of the night’s most engaging, complemented by the orchestra’s violins imitating birdsong. The casting of Medoro by Anthony Roth provides a fitting close to the ensemble, a strong finale that fits the piece’s emotional arc. [Cited Performance Notes]