‘*^*OC*^*` is barely conscious after the four hour marathon of Puccini’s masterpiece Il Trittico earlier this evening at Teatro alla Scala, and will try to share more impressions of the 3-in-1 opera tomorrow. For now, the angry rabbits on the bottom of her Marni heels are screaming to be put back in their white shoe baggies, so this’ll be quick:
Riccardo Chailly coaxed the most gorgeous, intelligent, satiny flavor from the Orchestra della Scala, a sound so inspiring and delicate, perfectly controlled and shaped, he complimented every voice that rang across the stage, but managed to hold the spotlight. Il Tabarro, Suor Angelica, and Gianni Schicchi were attacked differently, each one with a marked flare. Chailly was the indisputable champion of the evening, leaving the singers to trail behind. Of the most competent singing, we had, well, slim pickings. Gianni Schicchi’s Rinuccio was sung by lithe yet powerful Vittorio Grigolo, one of the brightest lights of the entire evening with a forceful, gorgeous voice. Close behind was Leo Nucci in the title role of the third Il Trittico opera, although it’s more his charisma than his twilight, tepid tone. Barbara Frittoli as Suor Angelica sang laudably, but her Puccini is not terribly resonant, and constituted as one of the weakest performances I’ve seen her in. Of course, you can't speak about Il Trittico without mentioning Lauretta's O mio babbino caro, but as sung by an acidic Nino Machaidze, let's not.
Luca Ronconi’s offensive and frankly lazily executed sets detracted greatly from Chailly’s creaminess, the orchestra’s flawless gift-wrapping, and the entire ensemble’s singing efforts. The most jarring and incongruous was Suor Angelica’s set, which consisted of stark bluish walls and a gigantic plastic form of Madonna (not the Dior-wearing, Brit-speaking, Lourdes-spawning singer) prostrate on the ground, which the sisters of the order traversed across and walked through tunnels snaked above and through her. wtf? Gulliver’s Travels. Alice in Wonderland. Who dropped mushrooms before laying down the sketches?? We get the symbolism ok ok but the execution came off like a Madonna slip-n-slide water theme park. As Frittoli lamented over her dead son, she was sprawled across the comically immense saint, and all sympathy for her trauma was nullified in light of such an odd, drug-induced visualization. The set for Gianni Schicchi was equally armature, and was simply a sunken bedroom with every square inch of surfaced draped in maroon red fabric with gold accents. The harsh, unyielding, and static lighting didn’t help much either.
At the end of the night, my outfit was more memorable than the production, although Chailly's genius will haunt my dreams. v(º_o)v