Careful what you wish for. There can be no definitive way to stage an opera, and it’s the critic’s duty to keep an open mind. Still, we’ve all occasionally gazed at a white cube that represents an Alpine meadow, or watched a chivalric hero slouch across the stage in tracksuit bottoms, and felt our hearts slump. Then you pitch up at the Royal Opera House’s new production of Dvorak’s Rusalka and it’s as if some mischievous sprite has magicked you straight back to 1960.
The directors are also credited as ‘creators’ (back in your box, composer and librettist!)
At first, you don’t suspect much. It’s actually rather enchanting: deep forest darkness and an aerial dancer in rippling, shimmering robes, drifting into the light in an exquisitely realised swimming effect. Semyon Bychkov is in the pit, unfolding Dvorak’s prelude with a quiet command that leaves ample space for mystery. But then the lights go up and it sinks like a stone, visually at least.
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