Tosca RBO 2025 ©Marc Brenner
It was Puccini’s Tosca again — Covent Garden’s workhorse, rolled out like an old but reliable thoroughbred, though this time given a new coat of paint by Oliver Mears. Whether the production really needed this “modern political dystopia” gloss is debatable; Tosca is already brutal enough without fluorescent lights and flickering surveillance screens. Still, it kept the audience in their seats (mostly).
Anna Netrebko’s Tosca arrived with all the star wattage one expects, and she clearly knows it. The voice remains a formidable instrument — smoky in the middle, gleaming at the top — but there were moments where Puccini’s line seemed more wrestled than caressed. “Vissi d’arte” was delivered standing stock-still under interrogation-style lighting: effective theatrically, though one felt she was saving her breath for the climactic cry rather than luxuriating in the prayer itself. Netrebko’s Tosca was fiery, imperious, occasionally brittle — less devout diva, more battle-hardened survivor.
Freddie De Tommaso’s Cavaradossi was a mixed bag. The opening “Recondita armonia” had warmth and plenty of bronze in the tone, but little sense of discovery — more an aria trotted out than a private confession. Later he rallied, and “E lucevan le stelle” earned the evening’s biggest ovation: ardent, ringing, and genuinely moving. Still, De Tommaso sometimes sings as if auditioning for the back of the Amphitheatre rather than his Tosca two feet away. Subtlety isn’t always his forte.
Gerald Finley’s Scarpia was the evening’s masterclass. No cartoon villain here — instead a bureaucratic sadist, every sneer and pause loaded with menace. Vocally he was less volcanic than some, but all the more sinister for it: the baritone line was wrapped in silk one moment, steel the next. Finley understands that Scarpia terrifies most when he whispers. His “Te Deum” was chilling, not for its volume but for the relish with which he savoured each blasphemy.
Alessandro Corbelli’s Sacristan brought his usual comic timing, fussing about like a man permanently surprised by incense. Ossian Huskinson’s Angelotti was suitably desperate, Carlo Bosi’s Spoletta suitably oily. The chorus gave weight in the Act I finale and dark shading in the prison scene.
Jakub Hrůša kept the orchestra taut and transparent, resisting the temptation to wallow. He gave the singers space, though occasionally the strings threatened to swamp De Tommaso in his Act III aria.
As for the staging: bare walls, video screens, looming shadows. It conveyed menace well enough, but Puccini’s Rome was unrecognisable. A pity — Puccini wrote in Technicolor, not greyscale and white tiles with blood on the walls.
This Tosca was no disaster, nor was it the stuff of legend. It is unlikely to have the longitude as previous productions have done particularly its predecessor which was directed by Jonathan Kent. Netrebko is still a star, De Tommaso still a tenor to watch, and Finley a Scarpia worth crossing the city for. The production’s bleak chic will divide audiences — and did, judging by the mutters in the bar at the interval. But Covent Garden knows its public: give them Tosca, however dressed, and they will fill the house.
David Buchler, Opera Spy
