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o judge from what we see over here, you’d think that the US only produced one opera every five years. There are many more than that, but UK opera companies seem reluctant to import them. Congratulations, then, to the English National Opera, for including two in its current season: first, Jake Heggie’s It’s a Wonderful Life, and now, Jeanine Tesori’s Blue, which premiered in New York in 2019.
It’s had multiple stagings in the US; last November it reached Amsterdam, now it’s London’s turn. The story it tells is specifically American but has resonances everywhere: it’s the present day; a black New York cop clashes with his activist son over notions of equality and justice. There is no shortage of dramatic potential, yet I find myself wishing I could be more enthusiastic.
Tazewell Thompson’s libretto has its playful or humorous moments but doesn’t hold back its anger: black boys are referred to as an endangered species, while the father sings in barely controlled fury, “I am America’s n****r”. Tesori’s music follows the text’s moods with skilful sensitivity, moving easily between full-on operatic ferocity and something close to Broadway exuberance. She makes inventive use of a comparatively small orchestra, and her vocal lines are mostly conversational and mellifluous, which only underlines the more explosive outbursts; conductor Matthew Kofi Waldren has the measure of the shifts.
Important things happen, but scene by scene the action feels inert. The central figures are called, plainly, The Mother, The Father and The Son, which suggests types rather than fleshed-out characters. Perhaps playing against audience expectation, Tesori and Thompson make The Father the pivot around which the plot turns, but that feels out of balance. Both The Mother and The Son are absent from the stage for long periods, and the narrative fabric wears thin.
Idunnu Münch, Nadine Benjamin, Sarah-Jane Lewis and Chanáe Curtis
/ Zoe MartinThe 10 singers, erratically amplified, give it their all, with Nadine Benjamin outstanding: her final cry of anguish is terrifying, but there is also tenderness and steely determination. Kenneth Kellogg’s Father is on the stolid side, and we don’t hear enough of Zwakele Tshabalala as The Son.
If Tinuke Craig’s production sometimes leaves the singers adrift, Alex Lowde’s set has a starring role, cutting the giant Coliseum stage down to a more human size by means of a rectangular box that rotates and tilts, while Ravi Deepres’s video designs provide an ever-changing backdrop of moody and graffitied cityscapes, New York or almost anywhere.
This is a production that will gather momentum, gaining intensity as it does so. And the standing ovation at the final curtain suggested that my more modified rapture was the exception.
London Coliseum, to May 4; eno.org
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