*****
THIS operetta, or opéra bouffe, is a farce of colour, taffeta, demimondaines, flutes and song. Set in the 1930s (though written in the 1860s) it teeters over into something less complex than a Carry On film at times, but the energy and drive of the performers carries one through. It is obviously not something to be taken seriously, but there are one or two moments that brought me up short.
Overall it is as substantial as a crème brûlée, but just as delicious
The plot is … well, there is a plot, but it basically revolves around visitors to Paris, and their Parisian hosts, wondering how to seduce the next thing that passes on two legs: cue set-ups, impersonations, slamming doors and the hints of a can-can. Lord and Lady Ellington visit the French capital. The Lord has a letter of introduction to one Métella, a woman who apparently promises much in the way of extra-marital activities, but we have already seen her arriving at the station with her current suitor, and ignoring two other bouquet-wielding gallants who thought they had a chance. One of the disappointed suitors immediately latches onto the plan to seduce the Lady, paying off their guide and taking them back to his house, convincing them that it is an annex to their hotel. Shoemakers, glovemakers, manservants, ne’er-do-wells and a Brazilian millionaire are quickly brought into the masquerade.
The music is wonderful and, conducted by Andrew Greenwood, the small orchestra were pretty much faultless; shifting through the tempi changes of Offenbach’s swooping, bright and mellifluous score with aplomb. The soubriquet - ‘The Mozart of the Champs-Élysées’ - is well-merited. The various song styles, quickfire, duets, laments, and one about being holed below the line, are satisfyingly inventive. The staging and lighting was simple, but excellent: in fact, the reveal at the beginning of the second act merited a round of applause on its own. The English translation was a little too direct at times, populated not so much by double as single entendres and, when one character started talking in a French accent (everyone had English accents) it was rather weird. In the original libretto the ennobled visitors are Swedish and one avoids the Anglo-French clichés. Having said that, the early exchange ‘Is she attractive?’ - ‘Nah, she’s English’ deservingly went down well.
The cast were good, with one or two triumphs. Charlotte Trepess as Gabrielle (the glovemaker) was outstanding, her coloratura and timing making maximum impact, and I was rather charmed by the warm baritone of Edward Robinson’s reticent Bobinet. David McCaffrey channelled a plausible Gallic Terry Thomas, and Charlotte Richardson was an imposing Lady Ellington. The chorus were excellent. The second scene, which is largely spoken, dragged a little and could benefit from some directorial oomph, as the youthful cast (it is a student production after all) struggled with the demands of the farce. When the shoemaker engaged his object of desire, for example, with some concupiscent tomfoolery it came across as a little too brutal, and some of rebuttals were met with some rather unconvincing slapstick.
Overall it is as substantial as a crème brûlée, but just as delicious. It’s probably not suitable for children - before the curtains are parted, various frilly-knickered cast members languorously warmed up. As one woman turned her back and touched her toes, someone commented, ‘Impressive hamstrings’. As one of the toasts in a party scene has it - Here’s to temptation!
La Vie Parisienne is at RNCM until 17 December
