Religion and romance clash in Donizetti’s Poliuto

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gaetano Donizetti’s Poliuto (1848) is rarely performed. Mariame Clèment’s production, which opened Glyndebourne’s season last night, was the premiere of the work in this country (though the music has been heard in its longer form as Les Martyrs). You might have thought it risky choosing a work most of the audience will never have seen. But the gamble paid off. The opera's themes of religious oppression, personal conscience and romantic sacrifice are potent and timely. These themes also run through the rest of Glyndebourne’s season with Mozart’s Turkish fantasy Die Entführung aus dem Serail, Britten’s Rape of Lucretia and Handel’s Saul to come. It also helped that this Poliuto was both dramatically taut and superbly well-sung.

The setting is third-century Armenia. Poliuto, a nobleman, is married to Paolina, the daughter of the governor. Against the warnings of his wife, he converts to Christianity, then a small religious cult. The Romans, led by the Proconsul Severo, arrive to stamp out any hint of deviation from the pagan faith. The plot is complicated when we learn that Paolina was once in love with Severo and only married Poliuto because she thought he was dead. So we have two layers of conflict: religious—Poliuto would become the martyred Saint Polyeuctus—and romantic, with Paolina eventually renouncing her former love and embracing Christianity, and death, in the opera’s final moments.

Callistene, the High Priest of Jupiter, is the epitome of the bigoted religious leader. Sung with grave command by Matthew Rose, he and his band of followers hound the Christians to death with chilling fanaticism: “Let there be no mercy for those who insult the gods.” The persecutors are cynics, admitting they are using religion to further their own ends. The modern resonances are unmistakable. Clèment uses projected imagery that evokes sniper alleys in Sarajevo, and the Romans are dressed like Eastern European Communists. (The granite blocks she had moving round the stage, though good at creating atmosphere, somewhat restricted the dynamism of the singers’ movements.)

By contrast the inner spiritual power of the Christians, embodied by their leader Nearco, who is branded with a burning cross on his chest, shines through. (Shades of early Verdi.) But forget the labels Christian and Pagan: the real contrast is between the easy abuse of faith and the extraordinary feats of self-sacrifice that faith can bolster.

I sense, though, that Donizetti was more interested in romance than he was in theological niceties. The singers do not let him down in this respect. Ana Maria Martinez as Paolina gives a wonderfully controlled vocal performance, and skilfully conveys the ambiguity of her final conversion: is she doing this out of love for her husband, guilt at her love for the Roman conqueror or genuine religious devotion? The star for me, though, is Michael Fabiano in the title role. The depth and power of singing made the hairs on my neck stand up. It’s all the more impressive since Donizetti and his librettist Salvadore Cammarano didn’t put much effort into rounding out Poliuto's character. That’s sometimes the way in opera. But even if you have only one emotion to project, with the right singer and the right music—here conducted by Enrique Mazzola—that’s plenty to satisfy any opera-goer.

Prospect and Glyndebourne are putting on three discussions at the festival before the operas: Die Entführung aus dem Serail; The Rape of Lucretia; Saul.