‘La Forza del Destino’ Review: A Light in the Darkness at the Metropolitan Opera

Mariusz Treliński’s new production of Verdi’s revenge drama moves the action to a war-torn present and stars the shining Norwegian soprano Lise Davidsen.

By Heidi Walseon 

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Soloman Howard and Lise Davidsen.

PHOTO: KAREN ALMOND / MET OPERA

New York

Mariusz Treliński’s new production of Verdi’s “La Forza del Destino,” which opened at the Metropolitan Opera on Monday, valiantly attempts to impose theatrical coherence on this famously sprawling work, with mixed results. The Met’s previous production, last mounted in 2006, plunged everything into literal darkness; Mr. Treliński opts for metaphorical gloom as well.

Piercing through that darkness was the Norwegian soprano Lise Davidsensinging Leonora, her first Italian role at the Met. Ms. Davidsen has triumphed at the house over the past several seasons, unleashing her astonishingly huge clarion sound, innate musicality and theatrical instincts on Strauss’s Ariadne, Chrysothemis and the Marschallin, as well as on Wagner’s Eva in “Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg.” Based on Monday night, Verdi’s very different style holds no terrors for her. In the final act, for which she was costumed (by Moritz Junge) like a particularly downtrodden mendicant pushing a shopping cart, her “Pace, pace, mio Dio (Peace, oh Lord)” rang out like an announcement—after years of suffering, Leonora’s anguish is still alive and pulsating. The ovation that followed it was such that Ms. Davidsen briefly broke character, acknowledging the applause with a smile, a very rare occurrence these days.

The vocal splendors offered by Ms. Davidsen and tenor Brian Jagde as her unfortunate lover, Don Alvaro, brightened up the whole show. Updated from the 18^th century to the present, Mr. Treliński’s scenario suggests that Alvaro’s accidental killing of Leonora’s father, the Marquis of Calatrava, sets off not just the vengeful rage of Calatrava’s son, Don Carlo, but also a war that pushes the world to apocalyptic ruin. Thus, the crowd scenes, set in a tavern and a military camp, which usually act as a lighter counterbalance to the revenge plot, get a sinister cast. Even the chorus of monks, assembled at the end of Act 2 to send Leonora off to her hermitage, flagellates her with sticks.  These scenes feel contemporary, while Carlo’s implacable pursuit of Alvaro and Leonora across years and miles remains firmly—and jarringly—rooted in old-style melodrama. There was a moment in Act 3 where the supertitles could have read: “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Lise Davidsen and Brian Jagde.

PHOTO: KAREN ALMOND / MET OPERA

Boris Kudlička’s revolving set permits seamless switches between public and private scenes without being too distracting.  In Act I, the luxury Hotel Calatrava alternates between a ballroom, where the patriarch/hotel owner/dictator, in military garb, enjoys Nazi-esque salutes from his henchman, and his Art Deco office, where Leonora anxiously awaits Alvaro for their elopement. The set and Marc Heinz’s lighting grow progressively darker all evening: Act 3 is a barbed-wire-enclosed military camp; by Act 4, we’ve arrived at an elaborate, multistory ruined subway station, complete with broken glass, graffiti and wrecked escalators. Video projections by Bartek Macias extend the apocalyptic theme with army helicopters and a bombed-out city and strive for continuity with images of a soldier—presumably Carlo in his obsessive pursuit—hacking through snow-covered woods and riding a train.

While the stage pictures are often striking, the directing doesn’t necessarily clarify the story—a challenging task in any case. Act 3, done at the Met as an unsatisfying conflation of Verdi’s two versions of the opera (1862 and 1869), concludes with an abortive fight between Carlo and Alvaro, after which Alvaro slashes his own face—why? Prior to that, Mr. Treliński turns the colorful military-camp crowd scene into a dour performance for wounded soldiers, featuring a sextet of dancers wearing black rabbit heads (the slo-mo choreography was by Maćko Prusak) and Preziosilla, the fortuneteller/war cheerleader (mezzo Judit Kutasi, vocally bland in her debut, despite her sparkly gown). He then has Preziosilla sing her rousing “Rataplan” to Alvaro, lying wounded in a field hospital, leaving the accompanying chorus nearly invisible behind the barbed-wire fence.

Lise Davidsen (foreground).

PHOTO: KAREN ALMOND / MET OPERA

Along with Ms. Davidsen, the singers sold the show. Mr. Jagde’s heroic, unforced tenor was exhilarating, and he captured the pathos of poor, noble Alvaro, who keeps trying to convince Carlo that the whole thing was an accident. As Carlo, baritone Igor Golovatenko seethed with rage throughout; the Alvaro-Carlo duets were high points. Soloman Howard, a riveting bass, sang both Leonora’s father and Guardiano, the father superior of the monastery where she begs for refuge. That identification between patriarchs perhaps reflected Leonora’s own psychological confusion—the padre’s office had the same desk as her father’s; Guardiano slapped Leonora across the face while interrogating her about her intention to withdraw from the world; and he was costumed as Calatrava for the final trio as he urged Alvaro to learn faith and piety from the dying Leonora.  Verdi’s penchant for plots about fathers and daughters is well known, so this fit right in while injecting a hint of doubt into the religious consolation of the finale.  Bass-baritone Patrick Carfizzi brought a welcome comic energy to Fra Melitone, though—in keeping with the show’s character—his ranting had a nasty edge.

The Met chorus, even when stashed in the background as it frequently was, sounded full and warm. The orchestra was equally on point; the clarinet solo accompanying Mr. Jagde in his opening Act 3 aria was eloquently mournful without being bathetic. Conductor Yannick Nézet-Séguin supported the singers with sensitivity and clarity, and his pacing, though brisk, was organic rather than headlong, bringing some shape to an often mystifying evening.

Ms. Waleson writes on opera for the Journal and is the author of “Mad Scenes and Exit Arias: The Death of the New York City Opera and the Future of Opera in America” (Metropolitan).