Jacques Offenbach’s Les brigands is among the last of his large-scale, three-act operettas with librettos by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halévy, the duo that worked with him on such favorites as La belle Hélène, La Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein, and La Périchole (and that later wrote the libretto of Carmen). Its premiere in December 1869 came just months before the Franco-Prussian War, so that, unlike the other operettas, it was unable to solidify its reputation with an immediate string of successful performances. Thereafter, it was sporadically performed, even at the Paris Opera, which generally restricts its Offenbach to his one “opera,” Les contes d’Hoffmann, but the work was not the subject of a classic recording, such as those of René Leibowitz. An excellent recording from 1989 with the Lyon Opera, conducted by John Eliot Gardiner, finally brought Les brigands to a wide audience, but, apart from a production by the Ohio Light Opera of an English version by W. S. Gilbert, it still awaits a modern staging in the United States.
Last fall, the Paris Opera introduced a new production by the director Barrie Kosky and conducted by Michele Spotti at the Palais Garnier; a second run occurred in June and July. Satire is a major element in Offenbach, and in this work, by showing the ease with which a band of brigands subdues and imprisons a police squadron and one diplomatic delegation to a royal wedding while trying to hoodwink another, the operetta trenchantly skewers the Second Empire’s financial corruption. The primary culprit is the Duke of Mantua’s treasurer, Antonio, who dissipated on womanizing funds relating to the bride’s dowry (the object of the brigands’ greed). Yet he is no worse than anyone else. “Once upon a time there was a great financier,” one brigand recalls. “Well, what next?” he is asked. “That is all.” Another observes, “one must steal according to the position one occupies in society.”
The operetta, with its bandit leader Falsacappa, recalls Daniel-François-Esprit Auber’s opéra comique Fra Diavolo, with its swaggering outlaw. But Les brigands also reflects the structural influence of the more elevated genre. Offenbach told the librettists to focus on scenes rather than songs and dialogue. The canonical choral ensemble “Soyez pitoyables,” with the bandits disguised as beggars, stands out. Larger structures include the multi-sectional finales of Acts I and II. Yet choice songs, mainly couplets in two stanzas, also abound, among them one in which Antonio breezily explains the missing money; a lively saltarello for the young brigand Fragoletto; and the Spanish-tinged “Jadis vous n’aviez qu’un’ patrie,” sung by Count Gloria-Cassis of the Spanish delegation. Given its satire and treatment of victims, a somewhat mean-spirited current runs through Les brigands, but the scintillating music keeps it largely in check.
Kosky, the former head of Berlin’s Komische Oper, is currently directing Wagner’s Ring cycle—which includes, as widely reported, an omnipresent elderly nude woman—at Covent Garden in London. For Les brigands, according to a program note, he wanted to bring the piece “into the twenty-first century,” treating the brigands as “some sort of queer terrorist pirates by combining gender fluidity and political radicalism.” Accordingly, Falsacappa was modeled on the drag queen Diva Divine, with the tenor Marcel Beekman stuffed unbecomingly into a red, form-fitting dress. His many companions—soloists, dancers, chorus—also looked a fright, dressed scantily or in eye-assaulting colors and multiple styles proclaiming radical queerness.
Even more aggressive was their manic behavior. Pointless running on and off the stage, as well as considerable physical contact with sexual innuendo (often short on the innuendo), would lapse into “spontaneous” dancing to pop rhythms—all exhausting to watch. Yelling and screaming—sometimes rooted in Antonio Cuenca Ruiz’s newly written dialogue, but more often stimulated by random events if stimulated at all—was frequently (and soon predictably) terminated only by gunshots. Frequent stomping of feet and rhythmic clapping added to the racket. Besides the toll taken on the music, for those following the intricate plot, all this was not helpful. Poor Offenbach.
The arrival of the Spanish delegation midway through Act II brought some relief. Its visual splendor, inspired by Velázquez, was worthy of Meyerbeer: a golden array of noble personages in ceremonial formation wearing ornate sixteenth-century garb and followed by a religious display that included (in questionable taste) a life-sized image of the crucified Christ. A reduction of the madcap tone prevailed for some, but not all, of what followed in Act II, and the event also brought a welcome contrast from the production’s dreary unit set depicting the graffiti-ridden interior of a Second Empire palace in decline.
Musically, the performance, zestily conducted by Spotti, might have sounded better if listened to with one’s eyes closed. Beekman sang attractively and with verbal clarity as Falsacappa, even if his characterization was a cypher. Antoinette Dennefeld’s singing as Fragoletto failed to lift the character above the brouhaha. Marie Perbost sang pleasantly as Fiorella, not least in her substitute Act II song explaining her love for Fragoletto. Philippe Talbot excelled in Gloria-Cassis’s song, and Mathias Vidal’s debonair Duke of Mantua reminded one of another Mantuan tenor. Of two venerable artists in smaller roles, Yann Beuron was allowed a modicum of dignity as Campotasso before appearing in his underwear, but Laurent Naouri was a sad sight—goosestepping while shouting at the top of his lungs the Chief of Police’s famous line, “Nous arrivons toujours trop tard.” The comedienne Sandrine Sarroche brought a carefree touch to Antonio’s song.
