[From The Spectator, October 11]
Puccini’s La
fanciulla del West is one of those works that, one suspects, some modern audiences
struggle to keep a straight face through. The hero, for a start, decides to
call himself Dick Johnson. The piece’s Wild West trappings, long since staled into
Hollywood cliché, still also seem a strange fit for the operatic stage (it was
performed here as The Girl of the Golden
West, with Kelley Rourke’s translation delivered in a variety of American
accents). The redemptive, into-the-sunset conclusion takes for granted a belief
that capitalism in its most primitive, brutal form could leave the hearts of a
group of hardened Gold Rush miners capable of forgiveness. That it might have
done, ENO’s programme told us, is not actually that wide of the mark,
historically speaking. But we still rely heavily on Puccini’s score—so bracing
in its wide-open vistas, but also so warm, melodic and irresistibly
seductive—to shoot down our cynicism and string up our disbelief.
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