The Met’s ‘I Puritani’ and the Tension Between Historical Realism and Operatic Fantasy
What do we want from historical romance? Should it reflect its time or offer escape from it? Fact and fantasy coexist frequently in opera, but balancing these impulses proves both fascinating and difficult in Charles Edwards’s new production of I Puritani, the first at the Metropolitan Opera in over four decades. The star-crossed pair—the Puritan Elvira and staunch Royalist Arturo—are separated first by Arturo’s divided loyalties and then, more disturbingly, by Elvira’s increasing madness. And while the 17th Century is the historical backdrop, I Puritani is more a reflection of 19th-century Italian opera tropes than of the English Civil War: mad scenes and cries of “la patria!”
Edwards’s production amps up both the historical context and adds in some psychoanalytic touches to its general peril; maps of Plymouth under siege are projected, and chyrons appear to deliver snippets of the English Civil War timeline. There is more than one green-tinged mad sequence in which ghostly doubles of our characters float through the scene. Elvira paints numerous hideous self-portraits that recall more AP Art portfolio than Robert Walker, and in a climactic scene, she hurls them across the room and punches an arm through one of them. There’s a lot going on here, in other words.
For an opera with a tighter grip on its own historical setting, this approach could be both informative and compelling, but in I Puritani the English Civil War is used primarily to provide obstacles to the lovers. The additional history, instead of amping up the drama, only knocks it off-kilter. Everyone seems all the sillier for caring this much about the star-crossed pair when the audience is constantly reminded that Scots are besieging the town. I Puritani, even more than similar works, insists romantic difficulties take precedence over horrifying contemporary events. Edwards’s impulse to beef up the dark setting merely exposes the myopia of Bellini’s opera.
Unsurprisingly for a director who is primarily a set designer, what does work beautifully are the sets. The first act places the audience in a Puritan meeting house that is at once austere and dramatic, without sacrificing visual interest or flattening his setting. The tiered seats and towering pulpit gave Edwards multiple levels on which to place his singers, lending the whole production—especially the first act—welcome variety. Met newcomer Tim Mitchell’s lighting is exceptional, with a painterly sensibility that sees great shafts of light angled downward into the faces of the actors from high back windows or emerging from firelit darkness, half-shadowed but still visible as in a Caravaggio painting. Later on, the Puritan meeting house splinters apart, with dashes of light crisscrossing the stage as if showing us Elvira’s fragmentation on the very walls. Edwards and Mitchell’s collaboration makes this production one of the most visually striking in the past few years.
Edwards’s ability to create arresting tableaux is a great strength, as is his commitment to having singers move; a frequent critique of mine is that directors do not always know how to leverage the Metropolitan Opera’s massive stage to sufficient dramatic effect, leaving singers snoozily parked downstage center or moving aimlessly across the floor with nothing to engage with. But frequently, the production’s dynamism gives way to busyness or even adds confusion to the already convoluted plot. Background characters pull focus from the principals during arias, difficult-to-make-out paintings trip up the space, and the use of child doubles for Arturo and Elvira in the mad scenes and dream sequences was neither dramatically clarifying nor emotionally compelling. Claus Guth’s Salome may have succeeded with this tactic earlier this year, but let’s not overdo it. There are a few other missteps that mar this production. Gabrielle Dalton’s costumes are by turns austere and splendid, and she manages to make even the Puritan characters look sleek and expensive, but her choice to style Elvira in Act III as a pixie-cut-sporting waif recalled Anne Hathaway as Fantine in Les Miserables too closely for my taste.
Lisette Oropesa, a soprano whom I frequently admire, was by turns brilliant and bumpy as the pathetic Elvira, who sings what feels like a record number of mad scenes. The slower cavatinas displayed Oropesa at her best—rich rivers of nuanced, lively sound—but the vocal fireworks expected in the cabalettas had not enough sparkle, with moments of effortful coloratura and a few breathy, pinched high notes. Laurence Brownlee, recently adorable as Tonio in La Fille du Régiment, was an exceptionally strong Arturo, with an even, forward sound that perfectly balanced brightness with depth. He is well-suited to this role; even though it does not take advantage of Brownlee’s effervescent charm, his Arturo was near-unimpeachable vocally and only gained momentum as the opera drew to its close.
As the lovers’ principal antagonist Riccardo, Artur Ruciński was the other standout. He has a dimensional, delicious baritone that leans toward bass in its richness; his Act I aria “Ah, per sempre” was a surprising emotional high point, as was his duet with Christian Van Horn’s Giorgio. Van Horn, who has a crisp metallic bass, was persuasive and heartfelt as Elvira’s beloved uncle and advocate. Eve Gigliotti has only a little to do as the secret-queen Enrichetta, but delivered a massive sound in her short time on stage.
All the singers were supported by veteran guest conductor Marco Armiliato, who is a generous and sensitive interpreter of Bellini, able to bring out both the elegance and the occasional bouts of military bombast with grace.
While Edwards’s production veers into the dangerously overstuffed by the third act—his choice to stage the final moments of the opera with Arturo embracing the ghost of his father was strange and nonsensical—there is still much to commend in his bold visual style, even if his ideas strain at the seams of his material. Arturo and Elvira’s romance ends with a surprising reprieve; Cromwell’s forces save the day and, madness forgotten, the lovers can reunite. I Puritani is tragedy with a happy ending, one that always feels forced and unrealistic regardless of the production. At its best, it reflects that shred of hopefulness romances always offer—that love might, for a moment, overcome the forces of history.
On another note, you won’t be seeing as much of me on Observer’s pages moving forward, and to all those reading this, I want to thank you. As a scholar and a singer, writing these reviews has meant so much to me, as has the work of the team of editors at Observer who have polished and published my writing. It has been a deep honor and extraordinary pleasure to write on this platform, though this isn’t necessarily goodbye. If you’d like to continue reading my articles and reviews, including a 2026 season preview with all of the things I’m most looking forward to hearing this year, use this link to sign up for my email list. Happy New Year to all—may yours be full of opera. With that, exit Madame Ferrari. On to the next stage!