The Queen of Spades, Garsington: Romantic despair and mad obsession – with a strong whiff of sulphur
After the bright daylight and saucy flirtations of Garsington Opera's season-opener The Elixir of Love, their second night plunged us into romantic despair and mad obsession, with a strong whiff of sulphur. The titular Queen of Spades in Tchaikovsky's great opera is an elderly Russian countess who has the secret for winning cards, but it's a secret that will bring death to anyone who learns it.
For the opera's bitter anti-hero Herman the way to that secret lies through the Countess's niece Lisa. But perhaps love for her will rescue him from his mad obsession? That's the intimate heart of the opera, but as this fabulous new production makes clear the story is rooted in the tensions of Russian society.
Director Jack Furness and designer Tom Piper summon that world's luxuriant, telling detail as well as its huge epic sweep and barely concealed brutality. In the barracks at the very beginning we see some lads playing soldiers. It's charming, and the excellent Garsington Opera Children's Chorus savour the Russian words. But when one of them falls down the others give his head a good kicking.
Later, when we see Herman explaining his infatuation with the socially unattainable Lisa to his good friend Tomsky, he gets contemptuous looks from the strolling St Petersburg high society, who admire themselves in the mottled mirrored detachable walls that make up the set. These spin round to reveal previously hidden worlds. It might be the make-believe of a Rococo theatre-in-a-theatre, or the grim cramped barracks where Herman dreams his dream of infinite wealth.
This picturesque but fundamentally grim world is enlivened by the dancers in the ball scenes and above all by Garsington's lavish 32-strong chorus, breathtakingly vigorous whether they're playing eager gamblers round the gambling-table or the Countess's chattering servants. Tchaikovsky's blazing score, which ranges from Mozartian pastiche to Russian charm to the tremor and shriek of the supernatural is brought to vivid life by the Philharmonia Orchestra under Garsington's musical director Douglas Boyd.
However the couple at the opera's heart are not quite so strong. Laura Wilde as Lisa has an impressive flaring voice but her performance felt rather dramatically tepid, and though Aaron Cawley's dark-grained baritone seemed right for Herman's obsession one missed a sense of that countervailing tenderness for Lisa that might have saved him.
The circle of army friends around Herman were more convincingly portrayed, above all gravel-voiced Robert Hayward as the jovial, ever-optimistic Tomsky. Roderick Williams as the stuffed-shirt Prince Yelestsky who loses out to the romantically fascinating Herman provided the subtlest singing of the performance, in his aria of dignified heartbreak.
However the evening's most spell-binding moment came from Diana Montague as the Countess, alone in her bedroom, recalling her young days in Paris when she learned the secret of the 'three cards'. On opening night, when the lights fell and the orchestral sound dropped to a whisper, you could feel everyone lean forward to catch the old witch's secrets. Sometimes the best moments at the opera are the quietest.
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Despite his father's plans for him to join the military, his new physical condition meant he was instead enrolled in music training - a decision that would ultimately change his life and the opera world forever. Velluti quickly gained attention for his extraordinary voice and dramatic presence. He even became close with a future Pope, Luigi Cardinal Chiaramonte, who would later become Pope Pius VII, after performing a cantata during his teenage years. He became so renowned that major composers began writing roles specifically for him. Velluti made his London debut in 1825. Although he was the first castrato to perform in London in 25 years, and was initially met with scepticism, the curiosity and spectacle of his voice drew huge crowds. He went on to manage The King's Theatre in 1826, starring in Aureliano In Palmira and Tebaldo Ed Isolina by Morlacchi. But his theatrical reign wasn't without drama. His diva-like behaviour led to tensions backstage, with reports that some singers refused to share the stage with him. His stint as theatre manager ended following disputes over chorus pay - a financial spat that brought his behind-the-scenes ambitions to a halt. Velluti made one final return to London in 1829, though only for concert performances. After retiring from music, he lived a quieter life as an agriculturist, passing away in 1861 at the age of 80. His death marked the end of an era - he was the last great operatic castrato. The scandalous soprano: Giusto Fernando Tenducci If Velluti was the final chapter of the castrato phenomenon, Giusto Fernando Tenducci was one of its most flamboyant and scandalous stars. Born around 1735 in Siena, Tenducci trained at the Naples Conservatory after undergoing castration as a boy. He first rose to fame in Italy but soon found his true stage in the UK, where his career and personal life took several unexpected turns. He arrived in London in 1758 and began performing at the prestigious King's Theatre. Tenducci also found himself in financial trouble, spending eight months in a debtors' prison, but it didn't dampen his career. By 1764, he was back at the King's Theatre, starring in a new opera in which he sang the title role opposite the star castrato Giovanni Manzuoli. But it was his private life that truly stunned society. In 1766, Tenducci secretly married a 15-year-old Irish heiress named Dorothea Maunsell. The marriage was repeated the following year with a formal licence, despite the glaring issue that he was a castrato. Unsurprisingly, the marriage caused a scandal. In 1772, it was annulled on the grounds of non-consummation or impotence, one of the very few legal grounds on which a woman could successfully sue for divorce at the time. Notorious libertine Giacomo Casanova claimed in his autobiography that Dorothea had given birth to two children with Tenducci. But modern biographer Helen Berry, while digging into the case, couldn't verify the claim, and suggested the children may have belonged to Dorothea's second husband. Still, the speculation endures, as does Tenducci's status as one of the most controversial castrati to grace the stage. A close friend of Moreschi's: Domenico Salvatori Domenico Salvatori was a star in his own right in the rarefied, gilded world of 19th-century sacred music. It wasn't long before he made the leap to the even more prestigious Sistine Chapel Choir, where he transitioned to singing soprano or mezzo-soprano, depending on the repertoire. There, he became an integral part of the choir's inner workings, eventually taking on the role of choir secretary, a trusted position. Salvatori's devotion to the chapel and his music was matched by his friendships. He was especially close to Moreschi. While Salvatori never recorded any solo material, he did lend his voice to a handful of early phonograph sessions - musical relics that remain among the few surviving audio records of the castrato sound. Though the recordings were intended to showcase the Sistine Choir's choral sound rather than individual singers, careful listeners can still pick out Salvatori's unique tone. Salvatori died in Rome on 11 December 1909. But even in death, his bond with Moreschi remained unbroken. He was laid to rest in the Monumental Cimitero di Campo Verano - not just near, but in Moreschi's tomb, a quiet but deeply telling tribute to a lifelong friendship rooted in music, faith and their shared place in history as the final echoes of a vanishing vocal tradition.
