I finally caught up with Donizetti's highly popular, comedic opera, La Fillle du Régiment. For some reason, I had never gone to see it, but this season, I had a spontaneous incentive: I wanted to hear Giacomo Sagripanti conduct again after having seen him lead a phenomenal cast in a production of Zelmira at the Rossini festival in Italy earlier this year. I had been deeply impressed with his exquisite finesse and seen that he was engaged by the Met this season to conduct a revival of Laurent Pellys' 2008 production of La Fille (with choreography by his, Pelly's, frequent collaborator Laura Scozzi, forming the same duo that had brought a scintillating Cendrillon to the Met in 2017, which I had absolutely adored.)
Donizetti really out-frenched the French with this opera comique, tapping into their penchant for fast-paced repartee and vocal fireworks but managing to now and then open up the skies with some beautifully floating bel canto moments. No wonder it was an immediate success when it was first presented in Paris in 1840.
It takes a bit of mental shuffling in 2025 to open up to a comedy that glorifies war and the soldier's life (Pelly transports the action from Napoleonic times to what looks to me like the WWI era, which was no peaches and cream either), but once you lift yourself out of the present into this unabashedly frivolous fantasy, you are in for a delicious romp. It serves as a healthy reminder that great art happens at both ends: classical tragedy gives dignity to human suffering, but comedy is what makes life bearable. Tragedy is grand and deeply moving, whereas comedy celebrates the joy and absurdity of life through the fine art of exaggeration and comedic timing, requiring both a light touch and precision work, and this production was blessed with it on all levels.
Pelly's sense of humor, deep connection to the score and extreme attention to visual details was palpable from the very beginning and never let up until the exuberant last note. Everything in the music, carved out with masterful elegance by Sagripanti's expressive magician's hands (it's a treat to watch them dance through the air) is seen. What a joy. What a sensory pleasure.
One could not wish for better cast. Susan Graham's interpretation of the Marquise de Berkenfeld is spot-on, infusing the archetype of the conflicted old matron with candor and warmth. Peter Kalmàn enacts the buffo role of Sgt. Hortense with gleeful abandon. Erin Morley shines and sparkles as Marie, completely embodying a spunky tomboy who irons her soldiers' shirts with the gusto of a pizzaiolo. One can tell how much fun she is having, fluidly switching back and forth between physical comedy and stunningly beautiful lyrical singing that stops time itself. And what a delight to see her quote her famous Olympia doll choreography from Les Comtes d'Hoffman in her first aria. Lawrence Brownlee's voice is like the best dessert you can imagine, and last night, he generously, gracefully offered seconds, and they all hit the high C. This was the first time I ever saw him in a comedic role, and he clearly relished playing this version of Mario, seasoning his interpretation with elements taken right out of the large trunk of Vaudeville, matching it with his miraculous vocal ease. The affectionate chemistry between him and Erin was palpable, and how could it not – the two stars complement each other's mastery and warm soul beautifully. Guest star Sandra Oh in the speaking role of Duchess of Krakenthorp presented the audience with the kind of deliciously commanding villain more commonly associated with Disney cartoons – make sure you bring the kids to this one. Throughout the evening, every character had occasional opportunities to break the fourth wall for additional comic relief, and there were many a modern, juicy expletive and repartee tossed into the auditorium, some of them in English, and the audience gobbled it up. I would love to see more of this kind of poetic license in light opera, but it takes the finesse of a Pelly to know how to implement it without it being too much on the nose.
Finally, the Met choristers, dancers and supernumeraries deserve an extra round of applause for their nearly acrobatic acuity and commitment to Pelly and Scozzi's highly detailed staging and choreography. I loved how they enacted every musical accent with action, especially during the musical interludes, such as in a scene where the entire battalion has collapsed to the floor in a drunken stupor, lifting their heads in tight musical syncopation; or the hilarious quintet of maids, played by men in drag, languorously cleaning the chateau's parlor in a depiction of mock exhaustion. The smart stage set and props by Chantal Thomas completed the perfection of this delightful evening – the swinging chorus, err, clothes line of laundered long johns nearly gave the choristers a run for their money. But I do want to know who misplaced the vintage iron and substituted it with a modern one....
Opera is a mysterious world where the usual laws of gravity, time and space are suspended by the magic of music – but only when everything and everyone you hear and see onstage completely fuses with it, becomes an organic part of it. That's when gravity is indeed overcome, when everything is lifted, including the audience, right out of their seats. I wish it wasn't that rare. But it's possible. And, last night, it happened.