Così fan tutte

So women, we informed in Lorenzo da Ponte’s libretto, are all like that. Very well. But da Ponte doesn’t in fact, care to inform us what it is, precisely, that women are all like. Are sisters Fiordiligi and Dorabella shameless hussies, or reasonably conditioned members of a society which demands an impenetrable mix of girlish sexuality, and passive fidelity? Mozart’s score absolutely backs this ambiguity, veering between beautiful sincerity and pompous, florid self-deflation – though, of course, this could be played unerringly straight or farcically exaggerated throughout. Musically deft and visually arresting, David MacVicar’s production, supported by Tobias Ringborg’s thoughtful conducting, refuses to come down on either side of the moral traps Mozart and da Ponte set – and is all the better for it.

Indeed, it is MacVicar’s staging that provides some of the performance’s most impressive assets, as well as it’s most obvious flaws. Visually, the sets work beautifully: our first view of the two sisters, in particular, draws upon the impressionism of the late nineteenth century. A backdrop of hazy blues and greens, punctuated by a tall rock and its watery reflection hints at the bay of Naples, across which the two females gaze evangelically. The stage picture is striking, the women framed more as figures in a painting than thinking, feeling humans, which is, to an extent, exactly the point. Described by their partners, Guglielmo and Ferrando as “phoenixes,” they enter Don Alfonso’s philosophical crucible as mythical goddesses rather than flawed females, and their swooning, feinting and pontificating is weighted nicely to match.

Credit must go to these female performances. The pair adeptly shape an emotional sea-change – perhaps more conclusively than do the men. Interestingly, this dawning is set in the bedroom; theirs is very sexy awakening indeed, exchanging infatuated warblings for mature, passionate aria. By contrast, the men never seem to attain this self-awareness, eschewing the emotional self-reflection that disguise ought to bring. Their deflation comes as a result of the action of the women, rather than an implosion of their own unrealistic expectations. However, this is subtly handled: with his confidence battered, Ferrando in particular loses a manly edge to his tone, and while this risks leaving the men somewhat less rounded—and certainly less likeable—than the females, the resistance to any simple resolution is perhaps appropriate. “All’s well that ends well” is conspicuously and uneasily absent here.

The final scene, accordingly, sees the rock smashed to pieces, its angularity hinting towards surrealism, teasing apart accepted norms and relations – particularly appropriate given the topsy-turvy marriages the two couples appear to accede to. It’s a lovely idea, though perhaps too tentatively used in the final reveal, confined as it is to one corner of the backdrop. Attempts to hint at elements of surrealism before this fail to come off. The purple plants which descend from the rafters mid-way through Fiordiligi’s most dramatic aria serve only to distract. In addition, while the minimalist, rather than literal scene settings work well as a constant reminder that the characters interact in a wholly fictional space, the inexplicable overlapping of sets—the cushions from the garden scene, for instance, stubbornly remain in the middle of the next scene’s living room—is simply confusing.

Less confusing than wonderfully inconclusive, though, is the double-act of the old, jaded philosopher Don Alfonso and feisty housemaid Despina, who together throw irresistible temptation in the paths of Dorabella and Fiordiligi. In no small part, Peter Savidge’s Don Alfonso holds together the moral minefield of this production. Deceptive, cynical, and yet strangely prescient, Savidge refuses to offer up easy ethical handles. Indeed, his ability to play both the villain and the hero is reflected musically, as the bass easily slips into the sonorous tenor range when comforting the women as their lovers are—so he claims—about to depart for war. “I’m not a bad actor!” he chuckles afterwards. Indeed, he is not.

And neither is Despina, played by Marie McLaughlin. McLaughlin’s housemaid is unflappably committed to the pursuit of fun – a commitment which enables her, via pin-sharp comic timing and well-judged vocal acting, to laugh off the revelation that she too has been led a merry-dance by Don Alfonso. His deception is humoured but not judged. As is the inconstancy of the females, and the unreal romantic notions of the men. The final curtain comes with an exciting inconclusiveness which the cast here work hard to foster.