Rupert Christiansen says ENO spends too much energy on trying to please the critics and should “play it straight and stop tarting about.”
Last week I went to see English National Opera’s production of Puccini’s Madam Butterfly at the London Coliseum. It wasn’t a first night – I was simply catching up with a revival in the middle of its run – and I don’t think anyone concerned was trying particularly hard.
Wearing my critic’s hat, I would have struggled to give it two stars.Anthony Minghella’s once super-glamorous 2004 staging looked tired, the conducting and playing were loud and coarse, and the standard of singing varied from decent to poor, with the Russian American Dina Kuznetsova milking no tear ducts as Cio-Cio-San.
But there was another way of looking at it. The house looked pretty full, and more importantly, full of the sort of “ordinary” people from the suburbs and shires that ENO was originally meant to serve – the taxpayers whose mites fund the Arts Council. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and during the interval I overheard nothing but praise for the performance. They bought programmes, they bought drinks and snacks, they marvelled at the Coliseum’s gilded foyers – and my guess is that they will come back for more. If ENO was like this every night, it wouldn’t be in the fix it finds itself in now.
Last week I went to see English National Opera’s production of Puccini’s Madam Butterfly at the London Coliseum. It wasn’t a first night – I was simply catching up with a revival in the middle of its run – and I don’t think anyone concerned was trying particularly hard.
Wearing my critic’s hat, I would have struggled to give it two stars.Anthony Minghella’s once super-glamorous 2004 staging looked tired, the conducting and playing were loud and coarse, and the standard of singing varied from decent to poor, with the Russian American Dina Kuznetsova milking no tear ducts as Cio-Cio-San.
But there was another way of looking at it. The house looked pretty full, and more importantly, full of the sort of “ordinary” people from the suburbs and shires that ENO was originally meant to serve – the taxpayers whose mites fund the Arts Council. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and during the interval I overheard nothing but praise for the performance. They bought programmes, they bought drinks and snacks, they marvelled at the Coliseum’s gilded foyers – and my guess is that they will come back for more. If ENO was like this every night, it wouldn’t be in the fix it finds itself in now.