Arriving at His Majesty’s and entering the auditorium, I found myself seated in the middle of Row P towards the rear of the stalls underneath the dress circle, which neatly framed my view of the stage. Almost immediately, I noticed the detached head of a large statue resting on its side to the right of the stage apron in front of the curtains. Consulting my program, I found a note from set and costume designer Marg Horwell explaining that this was inspired by the recently toppled statues of slave owners. The image also reminded me of similar assaults on statues of deposed rulers throughout history, an impression reinforced by director Patrick Nolan’s program note, which stressed the opera’s ‘revolutionary’ associations.

As the bustling overture sprang to life under Chris van Tuinen’s meticulous baton, and Mozart’s mellifluous sonorities were released from the pit by the West Australian Symphony, the curtain went up to disclose a narrow strip of bare floor behind the proscenium, backed by a looming wall of matte grey panels with a series of double doors extending across the stage. Figaro (Jeremy Kleeman) and Susannah (Prudence Sanders) were revealed in contemporary street clothes, setting up their new apartment and then changing into crisp, grey ‘servant’ uniforms, which resembled those of hotel or catering staff, while other ‘servants’ (played by members of the WA Opera Chorus) entered and exited carrying and depositing furniture and props. These included a pair of mattresses, which were left leaning against a wall and would later serve as a handy hiding space for Cherubino (Amy Yarham, in a man’s white shirt, black pants, and sneakers, and a floppy blond wig) and Count Almaviva (Teddy Tahu Rhodes, unshaven and in a hotel-style towelling dressing gown that reminded me unpleasantly of Harvey Weinstein).

Horwell, in her program note, describes this space as a ‘thoroughfare’. In Act II, it becomes the dressing room of Countess Almaviva (Lisa Harper-Brown), with the doors in the wall cleverly providing access to wardrobe closets (as well as the window through which Cherubino escapes), and the floor littered with unraised chandeliers and fashion-label shopping bags stuffed with new purchases. In Act III, it becomes the Count’s reception hall, with piles of chairs stacked up on the floor, and a jagged hole in the wall through which characters come and go and the garden is visible beyond. Finally, in Act IV, we are in the garden itself, with the fallen body of the decapitated statue lying on the ground, and elegant festoons of fairy lights hanging from the proscenium arch. In other words, it is a transitional space, and also a reversible one. This sense of transitionality or reversibility also suggests that any personal or societal changes that the characters or their world go through are endlessly ‘fluid’, rather than being decisive, let alone definitive, or even in any real sense ‘gone through’. In short, the revolution, marriage, execution, or sexual act is either always just about to happen or has always just happened, but never actually ‘takes place’, as my much-misunderstood former colleague the French sociologist Jean Baudrillard once notoriously declared about the first Gulf War.

Despite the genius of Mozart’s score, the sophistication of Da Ponte’s libretto, and some fine work by the singers, orchestra, and conductor, there is a certain flatness and emptiness about this production, epitomised by the pyramid of plastic champagne glasses that clatters to the floor in Act III when Almaviva knocks them over in an ineffectual and unconvincing outburst of rage. Despite Nolan’s claim in his program note that personal or political change requires ‘genuine listening’, I was curious as to what he had actually heard in the music, as the production seemed impervious to the warmth of the opera’s beauty and compassion; the searing heat of its fury and pain; the profound depths of its sadness and terror in the face of loss or mortality; the all-encompassing breadth of its ensemble harmonies; the ridiculous hilarity of its farce; or the libidinal energy and pursuit of pleasure that drive its plot and characters (not to mention the music itself).

I have already mentioned the loving care and attentiveness lavished by van Tuinen on the score, and the responsiveness of the orchestra to his direction. As for the cast: outstanding were the delicate and supple voice and acting of Prudence Sanders as Susannah, the most intelligent and complex character in the opera. Not far behind her was the comic duo of Robert Hofmann as Doctor Bartolo and Nicole Youl as Marcellina, supporting roles that in lesser hands often regress to pantomime stereotypes, but that were here inhabited with real wit and nimble physicality, as well as genuine tenderness when the truth of their relationship with Figaro and each other is revealed. Amy Yarham’s Cherubino was delightfully sung and acted but lacked that extra ounce of teenage hormonal drive that justified Kierkegaard in claiming that the youthful page would grow up to be Don Giovanni (more likely the role was a self-portrait by Da Ponte of his own addiction to married women, despite being an ordained priest).

As for the other leading roles: Jeremy Kleeman’s light-voiced Figaro had a pleasingly relaxed naturalism but lacked the necessary weight or passion when it came to his outbursts of class resentment or sexual jealousy. Conversely, both Teddy Tahu Rhodes as the Count and Lisa Harper-Brown as the Countess seemed to my ears somewhat heavy-voiced for their roles and indeed for Mozart generally (though the former has made something of a speciality in the role of Don Giovanni over the years, and the latter has apparently sung countless Countesses). More critically, though, both their characters came across as scheming transactionalists, rather than genuinely struggling with their desires and feelings. The Countess in particular is the beating heart of the opera and one of Mozart’s most moving roles. Here, she was a shallow materialist motivated chiefly by vanity. As for the Count, Tahu Rhode’s performance made him seem almost listless, instead of being frantically driven by a sense of midlife crisis about not only his sexual prowess but a deeper sense of encroaching social-historical redundancy and emotional isolation. As for the Count’s treatment of women, while we may condemn him for it, the opera makes no sense if he is not seen to be torn between his impulses and his conscience. As a result, both his plea for forgiveness and the granting of it by the Countess at the climax of Act IV seemed hollow. Perhaps this was intentional, as the entire social and spiritual world of the production appeared similarly superficial and even one-dimensional, as my old friend Herbert Marcuse would say. A revealing example was the cutting of Barberina’s (Brianna Louwen’s) poignant (and only) aria about a lost pin at the start of Act IV, without which her character becomes merely a cipher.

As a result, despite some finely wrought performances, and some physically energetic direction and choreography, all the characters seemed more like effigies than living people. This effect was accentuated by the striking but relentless top-lighting by Bernie Tan-Hayes, which rendered the singers’ faces permanently etched in shadow, and lent an incongruously baroque ambience to proceedings that reminded me of Caravaggio or even The Godfather but that seemed completely at odds with the spirit of the music and libretto.

The fact remains that the production was artfully conceived and realised even if ultimately cold; there were many musical and dramatic felicities to be enjoyed in the work of the singers, conductor, and orchestra. Figaro is a masterpiece of inexhaustible riches, and I am always grateful for the opportunity to hear it performed live.

The Marriage of Figaro is at His Majesty’s Theatre until 30 October 2021. Performance attended: October 23.