Orfeo and Euridice
Photo: Michael Cooper
Canadian Opera Company/Orfeo ed Euridice composed by Christoph Willibald Gluck, libretto by Pierre Louis Moline after Ranieri de’ Calzabigi (Vienna Version 1762), conducted by Bernard Labadie, directed by Robert Carsen (revival director Christophe Gayral), Four Seasons Centre, closes Oct. 25.
The COC’s production of Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice is perfect. Period.
But I suppose I have to say a bit more.
This is a revival of Robert Carsen’s 2011 production, and it remains magnificent. By the end, though, you do find yourself yearning for a splash of colour.
Carsen’s set is a bleak, gravel-grey landscape where Orfeo mourns the death of his beloved Euridice. The gods take pity on him and allow him to descend to the underworld to bring her back—on the single condition that he not look at her. When she pleads again and again for him to turn, he finally does, and she dies a second time. Yet in Gluck’s opera, the gods relent once more, restoring her to life, and the story ends in reconciliation rather than tragedy.
Gluck was the great reformer of opera. Before him, Handel’s opera seria followed rigid formulas: the number and placement of arias were fixed, the da capo form ruled, and the singers took precedence over plot. Gluck swept that away. In Orfeo, everything serves the drama—the story, the chorus, and the dance. Orfeo is considered the first true “reform” opera.
Carsen places the action in modern Greece, in a rural village we instantly recognize: the men in dark suits, the women in black dresses, black stockings and low heels, hair pinned in buns. Their grief at Euridice’s funeral feels immediate. Orfeo, prevented from throwing himself into her grave, is about to hurl himself into the sea when Amore appears with the message of hope.
The British countertenor Iestyn Davies is a marvel. His glorious tone filled the Four Seasons Centre the moment he began to sing, his stamina astonishing in a role that keeps him onstage almost without respite. His acting is as impassioned as his voice—heart-breaking in its restraint and honesty.
When Amore arrives, the sprightly light lyric Canadian soprano Catherine St-Arnaud, she/he is dressed in modern male attire—cheeky, energetic, and full of warmth. He tells Ofeo that he may journey to the underworld, who then takes off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, ready for the trial.
The descent begins with one of Carsen’s most striking images.
Orfeo seems to step among white stones, but then the “stones” rise—chorus members encased in white sheets, lying on their sides as the Furies. He moves among them carrying a bowl of fire, pleading for passage. They relent, transforming into the blessed souls of the Elysian Fields, which appear on a higher plane. Somehow the same chorus shifts from one world to the next in a heartbeat.
And how clever is this? The white sheets they wore us The Furies now are their shrouds that lie beside them on the ground.
Orfeo ed Euridice
The Furies
Photo: Michael Cooper
In this vision of the Elysian Fields, the heroes drift serenely through the light, each holding what seems to be a pale reflective bowl, gazing into it as though admiring their own image—a quintessential Carsen touch, a hint of human vanity even in paradise.
Orfeo searches among them, calling for Euridice. They part, and there she lies, wrapped in her shroud. He kneels, unfolding the cloth from her in four measured gestures before lifting her gently, her arm draped over his shoulder. To the slow pulse of Gluck’s music, he leads her down the curved ramp at the back of the stage, trailing her shroud—the same ramp we first saw the funeral procession rise upward. Now the motion is reversed: from life to death and back again. It is breathtakingly beautiful.
Orfeo ed Euridice
Elysian Fields
Photo: Michael Cooper
What follows is a lesson in dramatic precision. The moment-to-moment staging of Orfeo’s struggle not to look at Euridice is choreographed to the second—razor-sharp, the tension unbearable. She pleads, he resists, almost turns, resists again, until finally he crumbles. The heartbreak of that instant is overwhelming.
Then came the famous aria “Che faro senza Euridice?”—“What shall I do without my Euridice?”—and the house held its breath. Davies sang it simply, radiantly, without artifice, and many of us were in tears.
Euridice, sung by German-Canadian Anna-Sophie Neher, matched him with passion and force. She had to be relentless to make him yield, and she was. Her heavier lyric soprano, contrasted with St-Arnaud’s lighter voice, gave the role the weight it needed.
It is interesting to note that when Amore returned with the good news, this time she was dressed as a woman – the two spirited Amore. Incidentally both Euridice and the female Amore wore short black simple Greek village dresses.
In the pit was Bernard Labadie, the epitome of good taste. The founder of the great Baroque ensemble Les Violons du Roi understands period style to the marrow, and the COC Orchestra played with grace, transparency, and emotional restraint. He drew all the feeling out of Gluck’s score without ever becoming sentimental, letting the music speak for itself.
The COC Chorus, prepared by Sandra Horst, was magnificent—committed, flexible, and beautifully blended. In a work with only three principal singers, they carried immense dramatic weight and did so superbly.
Everything about this production—staging, singing, chorus, orchestra—was in perfect balance. Yes, it is black, white, and grey to the eye, but musically and emotionally it glowed with colour.
Orfeo ed Euridice at the COC is, quite simply, perfect.