Sex. It was the fuel that fueled British society star Margaret Campbell, Duchess of Argyll in the mid-20th century. In addition to the tabloids, her sex life also ended up in an opera. Of Powder Her Face from 1995, the then 24-year-old composer Thomas Adès catapulted himself onto the world stage. His infamous 'pipe aria', in which singing turns into guttural sounds, was experienced as shocking as the erotic bathtub scene from the film Saltburn, which is now going viral. At the Dutch premiere of Powder Her Face However, because of the Reisopera, the really uncomfortable moment after the aria had yet to come.
In Powder Her Face Margaret, the 'Dirty Duchess', looks back on her glamorous life. That life came to a standstill in 1963 due to her controversial divorce, during which leaked Polaroid photos of the Duchess with different men portrayed her as a sex addict. Elderly and destitute, she spends her days in a hotel, where she is sent away. The money has run out and the manager can no longer be tempted to make a payment in kind.
For having such a miserable story Powder Her Face quite a lot of humor. Philip Hensher's libretto is full of ambiguities (“Bring me meat,” sings an excited Duchess), on stage we see slapstick jokes, and when the Duchess triumphantly raises her head above the bathtub after an orgasm in the bath, her jollity is contagious .
The 'pipe aria' takes place on the eye-catcher of the decor, a powder box-like bed in the shape of a scallop shell. Different from Botticelli's The birth of Venus the shell here represents beauty that is finite. The bed, which points like a constant finger to eroticism, is more like the gigantic shells from which burlesque dancer Dita Von Teese conjures herself up.
Pleasing tango
Years on a large video screen guide you through Margaret's flashbacks. This way you don't lose the thread, but the video image also mirrors what is happening on stage. The imagery becomes very apparent after a few times: a clock that turns back time, a budding flower bud on the Duchess in the prime of her life or cracked glass above a photo as the Duke presents himself, are hardly surprising.
Adès' score, meanwhile, without becoming a potpourri, flashes back and forth between pleasure-filled tango, juicy musical, derailed waltz music, and influences of Weill and Stravinsky. His music is full of sensual glides, but the silent intervals are just as effective. When the music fades and the Duchess leans back into her wheelchair or sobs about her past glory, you almost feel even more like a voyeur than during her carnal scenes.
Double standards
Otto Tausk led the 15-piece Phion tightly, resulting in successful one-two performances with the four singers and three dancers on stage. Soprano Laura Bohn portrayed the Duchess as a fascinating figure who sometimes evoked pity, sometimes disgust or even fun. The three other singers, who continuously took on different roles, from mistress and hotel clerk to priest and judge, were equally impressive. Tenor Daniel Arnaldos sang his jazz song smoothly, soprano Alison Scherzer tapped from a bottomless barrel of coloraturas, and bass-baritone John Savournin was convincingly out of his mind as a misogynistic judge.
Although sex sets this opera in motion, it is above all the exposure of double standards: Savournin, as a duke, lies in bed with his own mistress and condemns the duchess for her actions. At that moment, director Paul Carr literally puts him in his bare ass. And then suddenly the audience itself is in the spotlight – seeing itself reflected on screen. Those who are watching are now being watched themselves. Voyeurism turns out not to be that enjoyable after all.
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