Opera seria is more than a succession of more or less virtuoso arias, tragédie lyrique deserves better than an ultra-fashionable décor punctuated with hysterically lascivious ballets, and Venetian opera is not necessarily trash. The supremacy of the current generation of specialists is at last being challenged, and the issue of congruence between period music and period style is now being addressed in terms of the singers’ voices, as it has become increasingly apparently that the mania for large performance spaces often goes against the stylistic principles established over the last forty years.

At the Lyons Opera, for example, Alessandro de Marchi recently (14 May) conducted the house orchestra in a version of Alcina that lacked the slightest hint of bel canto, and this in spite of his reputation as a specialist. The production, which was slovenly in vocal terms, was directed by Jossi Wieler and Sergio Morabito, whose strong sense of theatre, though well-served by competent actors, proved definitively exasperating, as well as in total contradiction with the music of Handel and the Ariosto-inspired libretto. Despite a concept that dealt intelligently with the pitfalls of appearances and ambiguities endemic to the baroque aesthetic, the magician’s palace became, through an accumulation of clichés and aesthetically indefensible elements, a place of perdition from which one only wished to escape. Ann Hallenberg, who sang her role with impassioned virtuosity, was the only outstanding cast member. Stéphanie d’Oustrac was not really up to playing a castrato, and went overboard in pointless gesticulation when attempting to break Catherine Naglestad’s overly Strauss-like spells.

Even worse was André Engel’s Don Giovanni (Théâtre des Champs-Elysées, Paris, 15 June), which sluggishly transposed the story into a neo-realistic and pathetically uniform Italy. Though Concerto Köln can be a formidable Mozart machine with René Jacobs at the helm, here the group appeared to be desperately attempting to justify their gut strings under Evelino Pido’s stylistically indifferent baton. There was nothing subtle about this rushed, systematic reading, which sounded like a 1950s production from the Italian provinces. Francesco Melo sang Don Ottavio like Nemorino, the prematurely burned-out Patrizia Ciofi turned Anna into Lucia’s little sister, and Lucio Gallo gave an unstable performance as Don Giovanni. Anna Bonitatibus’ Zerlina, the only truly Mozartian element, was unable to compensate for the rest.

Laurent Pelly’s marvellously unbridled Platée (Opéra Garnier, Paris, 14 and 19 April), on the other hand, is a classic, which means that anyone attempting to restage the work exactly as Pelly directed it is running a major risk. Mark Minkowski has ventured far afield since he first conducted this Rameau opera, often abandoning his Musiciens du Louvre-Grenoble. Too many facile effects are apparent in this turgid, unvaried show, and an abundance of heavy-handed elements turn satire into mere farce. Paul Agnew, who at first glance didn’t seem to fit the part, gave a delicious performance and has made great strides in terms of freedom and subtlety, bypassing Jean-Paul Fouchécourt’s irresistibly obvious vintage rendition. Mireille Delunsch’s exaggeratedly slick interpretation, however, already smacked of lassitude at the dress rehearsal. That leaves the production, one of the most creative ever invented for this repertoire. It’s as hilarious as it is staggering in its references to mythology and choreography - Laura Scozzi’s ballets take your breath away - and remains a real hit.

The same group of musicians performed Krzysztof Warlikowski’s production of Iphigénie en Tauride in the same hall on 8 June. Their interpretation unleashed the ire of the audience, which was probably irritated by a certain hiatus between their idea of Gluck’s marmoreal grace and this oppressive drama, which was set in a retirement home and may thereby have given an artificially sordid impression. The core of the production, although it would have benefited from the elimination of certain hermetically symbolic mannerisms, had unshakeable strength, and upheld a Gluckian tragic ideal that is anything but ossified. Minkowski’s conducting of this extravagant work was sombre and compact, evidencing his deep understanding of the hubris that Maria Riccarda Wesseling displayed throughout her cathartic performance. Iphigénie’s fault-line, her past - which included sacrifice, incest, and imminent fratricide - was like a deep rift filled with mirror images and an unbearable transparency that bordered on the sublime. Accusing such a performance of obscurity amounts to refusing to look memory in the face.

Philippe Arlaud’s production at the Grand Théâtre in Geneva was much simpler, but just as important. Following a controversial Orfeo (the first instalment in a Monteverdi cycle), Il ritorno d’Ulisse was performed at the Bâtiment des Forces Motrices on 17 June, providing an illustration of the all too rare entente that sometimes springs up between a musician and a director. Arlaud simply followed the libretto, and although his production may have been fashionable, it was also refined - an immaculate villa on the island of Ithaca - and never pleonastic (as David McVicar’s L’incoronazione di Poppea sometimes was). Attilio Cremonesi’s conducting (he turned his baton over to his assistant, Andrea Marchiol, on the evening I attended) was constantly attuned to this uncomplicated, limpid reading of Monteverdi’s text, and was thoroughly dramatic. Though he did not hesitate to add a few ritornelli here and there, he never disturbed the perfect balance of the recitar cantando or upset the almost entirely superlative cast. Marie-Claude Chappuis’ delivery was perfect, but she wasn’t quite up to Penelope. Kresimir Spicer’s stature, vocal colour and style, on the other hand, made him an ideal Ulysses. In other words, he achieved the impossible.
Mehdi Mahdavi