“He who dreams does not die,” says the Lebanese poet. As the curtain rises to the first measure of a quiet, almost imperceptible music of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” the audience naturally pricks up their ears. The sliding of notes, punctuated by unexpected and mischievous interventions of light percussion, become accomplices in a mysterious atmosphere that the composer jealously wishes to share only with his audience. Under the bright veil, a decor gradually appears—a chaotic indescribable mess that nonetheless seems strangely familiar, almost evoking a sense of déjà vu. On stage, an impressive forest of chairs piled in disarray, a sort of magic mountain housing deities, serves as the only Wagnerian nod in a score that leans much closer to the “modern” Fauré and Debussy than to Richard Wagner. Are we dreaming?
Fairies emerge. They begin a magnificent song whose high notes evoke angelic voices, all superbly carried by the children’s choirs of the Nice Opera, directed by Philippe Négrel. In the role of Oberon, the king of fairies, countertenor Fabrice di Falco offers a blend of a sensual voice imbued with dignity, perfectly suiting this fantastical character. He delivers an enchanting interpretation—which notably captivated the Sultan of Oman, a country he visits monthly for “Master Classes”—made even more unreal by the presence at his side of Canadian coloratura soprano Mélanie Boisvert, who portrays a triumphant Queen Titania in her vocalises, whose vocal power and rigor inevitably recall the even more demanding role of Mozart’s Queen of the Night. They quarrel and the king swears to take revenge using the bewitching juice of a flower. A human couple of fleeing lovers happens to be in this forest: Hermia, played by mezzo-soprano Mariana Rewerski, and Lysander, tenor Jonathan Boyd, offer a moving love duet of rare voluptuousness “Amen, I say amen to this beautiful prayer.” On their heels, the jilted official fiancé, Demetrius (Luciano Garay) struggles to shake off the burdensome Helena, magnificently portrayed by Graciela Oddone, who embodies the paradigm of a nymphomaniac and hysterical woman “I am your spaniel… the more you beat me, the more I lay at your feet!” Tasked with royal revenge, the king’s factotum, the sprite Puck, an essentially spoken but tyrannically acrobatic role, brilliantly executed by a bounding Scott Emerson, targets the wrong person… troubles and misunderstandings begin, one of which is not the least being the queen’s highly “eroticized” original scene of falling in love with Bottom (Gustavo Gilbert), an actor turned into a donkey for the occasion.
If the initial plot is rather simple—an error in administering a love potion—the libretto adapted from William Shakespeare by Benjamin Britten and his partner Peter Pears enriches it with multiple dimensions: it first intertwines different worlds—from diverse human ranks, from respected lords to marginalized and penniless “theatre folks,” as well as populations of creatures, sprites, fairies, and other elves, directly emerging from childhood imaginations. When the storm rages in one world, one can always seek refuge in the other, the playwright must have thought concerning his personal life. In the first act, fairies in an enchanted forest settle their personal scores through poor earthly creatures caught in the middle, subjected to the effects of an exuberant spell. In the second act, these latter finally regain the human order rewarded by the sincere, passionate, and enduring love of the protagonists. The play could end here, but in a third act whose philosophical reach cannot certainly be overlooked, a play somehow slots into that of Britten, to stage burlesque actors, authors and performers of a “tragic farce.” Flute’s role, which the staging almost made endure everything, except the last outrages! A grimed, cross-dressed, played, and sung role by the irresistible Ricardo Cassinelli, who enjoyed a small personal success. To bring things full circle, the final scene brings us back to the fairy kingdom. And the previously piled chairs are once again aligned and arranged as “in the theater,” reminding us, if need be, that from chaos order can emerge—”ordo ab chao.”
