A multiracial musician who rose to the heights of society in pre-revolution France, a virtuoso violinist and champion fencer, a military commander, and, most of all, a composer, Joseph Bologne was an exceedingly interesting person in his time and now. Much of his music survives, including some elegant violin concerti, string quartets, and symphonies. It’s a shame, then, that we have only one opera of his, and, in a different way, a shame that that opera is L’amant anonyme (here presented in its English title, The Anonymous Lover), a work whose own interesting qualities begin and end at being Bologne’s only opera. That’s plenty for the historically curious but not quite enough to make for a compelling comedic performance.
A cute comedy about a secret admirer and a pair of friends whom everyone but the female member of the couple can see should immediately start kissing, The Anonymous Lover is an amusing trifle in gleaming Galant style. Its conflict is threadbare; the hapless Valcour is in love with his rich widow friend Léontine and has been writing her anonymous love letters for four years, to the delight and exasperation of their friends, Ophémon, Dorothée, Jeannette, and Colin. Valcour is afraid to reveal himself as the lover; Léontine is afraid to open her heart up to love again. There are many missteps and gaffes, but all ends happily with a smooch and a song. Musically, it fares far better; the opera is chock full of graceful, charming tunes and lovely writing, especially for the character of Léontine and for Bologne’s own instrument, the violin.
This production, presented in English dialogue but French singing for Opera Philadelphia and co-produced with Boston Lyric Opera, handles the material capably but never finds enough of a spark to elevate its material. Rather surprisingly, experienced director Dennis Whitehead Darling seemed to have no particular visual or physical take on the story apart from the basics required by the script. In a show like this one, which is mostly silly, success depends on the actors’ and director’s skills in physical comedy. Can they deliver dialogue in snappy, naturalistic, and funny ways? Can the director create interesting, appealing configurations of bodies in space? Comedies are much harder to get right than tragedies; singers are often less confident in spoken dialogue, and comic timing is rare even amongst actors, let alone amongst exceptional vocalists. The sillier the piece, the more challenging it is to make it funny.
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In Darling’s production, sadly, there were plenty of comedic stones left unturned and many moments that needed a swift injection of adrenaline. Overlong overtures could have been interestingly blocked, perhaps with the first violin emerging from the orchestra pit, or given some other visual flair; but instead, we merely watched the curtain both times. Singers could have been more carefully choreographed, or their actions and settings heightened to an amusing degree. Instead, the characters simply move sedately through their actions. I wouldn’t mind seeing Valcour sitting in a two-foot pile of crumpled love-letter drafts, with bits of paper coming out of his wig, or engaging in some other such farcical trope. Why not go for broke? This opera, perhaps more than any I’ve seen, needs blocking and lots of it, to make its emotions dynamic. When the actors had clear direction or had clearly come up with a bit themselves, “L’Amant anonyme” charmed; when they didn’t, the opera sagged, as they almost always did in the lengthy dialogue scenes. Even Kalena Bovell’s lucid conducting never quite felt fast enough to move the pace along.
Symone Harcum, a soprano so elegant and dignified that her whole being seems to cry out for Verdi, had the most difficult and the most beautiful music as Léontine. While she is not an effortless comedienne, she is a compelling, skilled vocalist with a nuanced and pleasing instrument, well worth seeking out in other shows. Travon D. Walker, as the earnest Valcour, has an astoundingly light, lovely tenor and a warm presence. Ashley Marie Robillard, as the servant Jeannette, is a soubrette’s soubrette; bright, charming, and bursting with energy and a silvery, powerful sound. Her scenes with husband Colin—an amorous Joshua Blue—were flirty and fun. Sun-ly Pierce’s open countenance and winking humor concealed an impressive, rich mezzo-soprano as Léontine’s BFF Dorothée. But every scene was stolen by Johnathan McCullough as Ophémon, who had both a full, lively baritone and the best comedic skills of the cast. All of the true laughs in the dialogue belonged to him, and each time he stamped a gold-slippered foot or fluttered his fingers, the energy level jumped.
Static, scattered sets and cheesy lighting helped no one on stage, giving the actors little to work with and making the production feel strangely post-secondary for a professional ensemble that I have seen pull off sleek, high-quality productions. I suspect budgetary constraints are responsible for some of the visual problems; the set pieces—all from different eras—felt cobbled together from stock in the scene shop, while the lighting was bare-bones, as well as way too blue (it might have been the bluest lighting I’ve ever seen, a distinction I had not ever imagined bestowing on anything). The other problems seemed to stem from the text itself and Darling’s approach to it, which was almost too reverent, playing it too straight instead of slimming down and then pushing to the heights of silly insanity. This show might be worth seeing simply for its historical value. It was no small feat to occupy the space Bologne held, then and now, and I want to see many more operas with mostly non-white creative teams. But the witty, urbane Bologne would have surely wanted his audiences to laugh a lot more.
