Covent Garden’s ‘Manon Lescaut’

Instead of setting the story in the 18th century, with its wigs and frock coats, director Jonathan Kent chose a contemporary hedonistic world. His Manon is a slut who dresses brazenly from her very first scene — when, according to the text, she’s on her way to a convent.

Manon is pimped by her sleazy brother, and in Act II she moves in with a godfather-like Geronte, who hires a film crew to record Manon in a woman-on-woman sex scene. The original libretto calls for four female madrigal singers who come innocently to entertain; here they’re four porn actresses, hired by Geronte to amuse himself and a group of his leering bald-headed friends.

Manon doesn’t seem disturbed or disgusted by these circumstances. In fact, she gyrates her body for them, effectively dissolving any sympathy we may feel for her.

In Act III, according to the Abbé Prévost’s original novel a well as the librettos for operas by both Massenet and Puccini, Manon is convicted of stealing from Geronte, and she’s deported on a ship filled with common criminals. In this production, all the deportees are prostitutes.

Virginal teen?

Gross though this scenario may seem, it does highlight the original opera’s emotional point: No matter how wayward Manon — or any woman — may be, a man gives her unconditional love and he remains committed until death. That’s a perfect chick flick, not to mention a heart-wrenching tale for any viewer, especially when you throw in the heart-on-sleeve music composed by Puccini at age 34, for the first big hit of his career.

Bear in mind that Puccini himself (working with five librettists) radically altered the Abbé Prévost’s original story. He reduced Manon’s innocent start and eliminated everything about Des Grieux’s noble family, including a key scene in which the Des Grieux père appeared. Puccini also omitted an important scene of young love in a Paris garret, in which we would have seen indication of regret on Manon’s part.

Prévost’s original Manon, remember, was supposed to be a virginal and impressionable teenager. Puccini downplayed her naive side; now Kent has eliminated it altogether. Puccini concentrated on the passion of the love between Manon and Des Grieux, and this performance transmits that ardor overwhelmingly.

Loose bra

For that, give credit to tenor Jonas Kaufmann, soprano Kristīne Opolais, and conductor Antonio Pappano. With his dashing looks and ringing voice, Kaufmann is an ideal Des Grieux. His voice packs baritonal color, yet his ringing high notes offer plenty of squillo (reminiscent of the great Mario Del Monaco).

Opolais looks more convincing as this incarnation of Manon than anyone else I can picture. With bare thighs, and breasts spilling out of her loose bra, she oozes sexual brazenness even as she sings with sensitivity. Still, if you listen to her audio alone (as I’ve done with this and other Opolais roles), you hear an attractive but not exceptional voice, one that lacks the fragility of an Albanese or the lushness of a Tebaldi.

As Geronte, Maurizio Muraro generates a powerful presence with his solid bass voice, stout body, and an expressive face exuding hubris and entitlement. Christopher Maltman, uncomfortable in the Met’s recent Fledermaus, is perfect as Manon’s avaricious brother who leads his kid sister down a destructive path.

On stage and especially on a big screen, everyone in the cast looks authentic. Yet in one instance HD is a two-edged sword. Opolais looks stunning on stage, but close up her face looks older than her 34 years and consequently at odds with the character’s extreme youth. Kaufmann, on the other hand, is 45, but he looks so much younger that, with him, there’s no cognitive dissonance.

The finale — which supposedly portrays Manon dying on a desolate road in Louisiana — here shows Manon and Des Grieux on what appears to be a flyover highway, like a drawbridge in raised position. Other critics have expressed disdain for this abrupt ending, but it strikes me as an appropriate metaphor for the sudden end of a young life.