Manon Lescaut in a Modern Hedonistic World

Passion in a Vulgar World: Puccini’s Manon Lescaut at Covent Garden The burden of the singing in Manon Lescaut is carried by the title role, sung here by Kristīne Opolais. By the time of this 2014 Royal Opera House production, the Latvian soprano had firmly established herself as one of the most compelling Puccinian singing actresses on the international circuit, moving comfortably through the heavier lirico-spinto terrain. On stage, she possesses an alluring, glamorous presence and an uncompromising physical commitment that suits the visceral demands of the role. Vocally, her instrument has a luminous, cool-toned lyricism capable of soaring cleanly over Puccini’s dense orchestral tuttis, even if it lacks the opulent Italianate warmth of a Tebaldi or the fragile delicacy of an Albanese. In Act I, she navigates the transition from tentative adolescent arriving on the scene to seduced runaway with easy vocal grace. Act II’s «In quelle trine morbide» showcases her control of line and expressive dynamics, though Jonathan Kent’s staging places her in such brazenly hyper-sexualized, soft-porn surroundings that the heroine’s inner conflict between naive romance and material addiction is somewhat flattened. Vocally, however, Opolais comes fully into her own in the tragedy of the final acts. In the desolate landscape of Act IV, suspended on a broken concrete highway, her «Sola, perduta, abbandonata» is delivered with unflinching emotional courage, pairing haunted pianissimos with cutting, full-throated cries of anguish that elevate Manon from a sordid victim into a tragic figure of immense dignity. Opposite her, Jonas Kaufmann’s Chevalier des Grieux is vocal and theatrical casting of the highest order. Kaufmann brings his characteristic brooding intensity, film-star good looks, and a baritonal, dark-hued timbre that immediately lends Des Grieux an air of gravitas and aristocratic poise. From his entrance and the ardently dispatched «Donna non vidi mai», he sings with exceptional muscular control and a seamless legato. While his covered, darkly burnished sound means the top notes do not possess the uninhibited, ringing ping of a Corelli or Pavarotti, he produces extraordinary vocal colors, scaling his voice down from heroic outbursts to whisper-soft mezza voce in the tenderest phrases. In the sprawling second-act love duet, Kaufmann and Opolais generate an overwhelming chemistry, blending their instruments with thrilling, sensual abandon across Puccini’s surging climaxes. In the Act III embarkation scene, his desperate plea to the naval captain, «No! pazzo son!», is delivered with a searing, visceral despair that stands as a benchmark of modern dramatic tenor singing. The supporting male cast adds substantial dramatic weight. Christopher Maltman is an ideal Lescaut, portraying Manon’s cynical brother not as a generic buffo guardian, but as an oily, modern chancer operating with calculating swagger and earthy vocal bite. His baritone is robust, focused, and rhythmically keen, effortlessly conveying the moral corruption of a man trading his sister for cash. Maurizio Muraro’s Geronte de Ravoir is appropriately repellant and saturnine; singing with a firm, solid bass, Muraro imbues the aging patron with cold hubris and a chilling vindictiveness when spurned. In the smaller roles, Benjamin Hulett opens the opera with a vibrant, charmingly sung Edmondo, offering crisp diction and light-toned vocal buoyancy in the Amiens student ensemble. Nadezhda Karyazina brings polished, dusky mezzo tone to the madrigal singer, while Luis Gomes makes a vivid, scene-stealing cameo as the lamplighter in Act III, and Jeremy White delivers a gruff, imposing naval captain. Jonathan Kent’s production, designed by Paul Brown, relocates Abbé Prévost’s 18th-century tale to a tawdry, hedonistic contemporary universe populated by mobile phones, red-light sleaze, and reality television voyeurism. The updating drew controversy and audible boos for its unrelenting cynicism—transforming Geronte’s salon into an ornate, perspex peep-show and the deportation at Le Havre into a vulgar televised spectacle. Yet Paul Brown’s visual metaphor for the Louisiana desert in Act IV—a half-demolished motorway bridge ending abruptly mid-air, a literal road to nowhere—provides a striking, stripped-back arena for the lovers' demise. Whatever one thinks of the staging’s conceptual excess, the musical execution under Antonio Pappano is magnificent. Pappano conducts with electric verve and consummate command of Puccinian pacing, drawing playing of sumptuous velvet warmth and ferocious theatrical punch from the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House. He shapes the sprawling melodic paragraphs with expansive flexibility while maintaining a taut underlying pulse, coaxing heartbreak from the famous Act III Intermezzo and framing his two star principals in an intoxicating bath of orchestral sound.