Erin Morley dazzles as the ultimate guys’ gal in Laurent Pelly’s revival production at the Met.
by Gabrielle Ferraru
OBSERVER
If I were allowed to be a chorus member in any Met opera production, my first choice very well might be Laurent Pelly’s La Fille du Regiment. Who wouldn’t want to be a saucepan-helmeted townsperson, a bumbling drunken soldier, or a pearl-clutching little old lady in this unabashedly adorable comedy about a foul-mouthed military brat and the men who love her?
Pelly’s production, which debuted in 2008 and has retained its looks, is directed with precision to produce maximum whimsy and delight, from the rigorously choreographed chorus scenes to the numerous visual gags to every stomp, swear and harrumph that comes out of Marie’s potty mouth. Rendered as a mountain landscape made of maps, Chantal Thomas’s sets lean into the fantasy; it may be set during World War One, but this is the lightest of comedies. It is marvelously entertaining from first to last, even including the overture, which was exceptionally lively under Giacomo Sagripanti’s baton. A notary pops out of a fireplace when his services are required, Tonio rides in on a teeny-tiny tank to get his girl, while Sandra Oh—yes, that Sandra Oh—kitted out in a padded posterior and enormous fan as the Duchess du Krakenthorp, aims little kicks at the maids. No comedic opportunity is lost and one gets the sense that everyone onstage is enjoying themselves just as much as the audience is.
Erin Morley’s Marie, whom we meet as she karate-chops laundry into neat squares, is a unique character in the operatic canon: a good girl but not a feminine one. She prefers regimental songs to the pretty airs women are expected to sing and trousers to dresses, but she can still sing fabulous bouts of coloratura. In other words, she’s an absolute breath of fresh air, blowing strong from 1840. The men of the regiment are right to be enamored.
Morley, a soprano who has been at the top of her game for so long that it’s easy to forget her genius, delivered a perfect vocal performance here. Every note was vividly in tune, highly polished and sung with deceptive ease, even as she soared to the upper limits above the ledger line. Oh and she’s also funny, wrenching every bit of physical comedy out of her character, from her boyish walk to her occasional butt scratches. One particularly delightful moment: in a fight with father figure Sulpice, Morley shut herself behind an invisible door with a cry of “Slam!”
Tenor Lawrence Brownlee was not quite as perfect vocally, but his Tonio was no less lovable than Morley’s Marie. Tonio’s famous “Ah mes amis,” with its nine high C’s, was sufficiently thrilling—the C’s were excellent but not effortless—but his second aria, the calmer “Pour me rapprocher de Marie,” was a more underrated showpiece, allowing for a more relaxed sound to emerge. Brownlee is a natural-born charmer; his dazzling white smile and fine comedic instincts make his Tonio positively effervescent. His final charge to rescue Marie was met with both laughter and cheers.
Peter Kálman, as Marie’s beloved “papa” Sulpice, had a warm, generous bass-baritone to match his loving, if bumbling, character. He also contributed another running comic bit by never quite remembering the Marquise de Berkenfield’s name: Birkenstock, is it? Or Birkin Bag? The second-act trio, when Marie, Tonio and Sulpice are finally reunited, was a high point, with all three moving in choreographed glee.
It’s hard to say who is having the most fun in Pelly’s production, but a case could be made for a tie between Susan Graham and Sandra Oh—the Marquise de Berkenfield and the Duchess du Krakenthorp. Each of these dueling dames has her weapons; Graham’s Marquise whaps her servant (Paul Corona, amusing as the lone straight man in this comedy) in the face with an impossibly long fox-fur stole and wields her towering height. Oh’s Krakenthorp has her fan, her padded rear and what seems to be a vaguely erotic fascination with the Marquise’s maids. Each is visibly reveling in her role, as only first-class artists in hammy bit parts can. I could have watched them face off for at least another hour.
Giacomo Sagripanti conducts Donizetti with boundless verve, bringing out its crispness and wit and, with it, the orchestra’s full colors. The three hours simply fly by with Sagripanti at the helm. The Met Opera chorus, always good, is exceptional here. They stomp and dance with vigor and especially for the men of the regiment, each chorus member feels alive and individual. They all love their Marie, but it’s a testament both to their skill and to the care with which this production is directed that we get the sense they all love her in slightly different ways. The scene where they bid her goodbye with hugs and little trinkets was truly touching.
The singing is wonderful, the production is darling and the French accents are of variable quality. What more can a guy’s girl want? So, break out the drums—there’s only one thing left to sing: Rataplan!