Festival BAYREUTH BAROQUE 04-11.IX.2026

Love put to the test by power

          Max Emanuel Cencic’s production is a surprising one, with a dark, sombre and painful atmosphere, far removed from the flamboyant, deliberately glittering spectacles to which he had accustomed us in Carlo il Calvo or Alessandro nell’Indie. Here, there are no artifices: from the very opening, Oronte’s wife appears in her nightdress, screaming and desperately trying to escape him.

          It is a striking scene, an unsettling prelude to what Elmira will soon endure: violence and coercive control are placed at the heart of the production from the outset.

          The regent Oronte refuses to allow Elmira to marry Floridante, intending her for himself before revealing that she is not actually his daughter. Cencic thus emphasises the dimension of domination running through the opera: Oronte is a violent tyrant who does not hesitate to exercise his power in the most brutal intimacy. Twice, he attempts to assault Elmira, while Floridante is beaten and imprisoned.

          The production echoes one of the themes developed in the programme booklet: behind the conflicts of succession and power, Floridante is also a story of possession, sexual violence and resistance to patriarchal authority.

          The scenes between Elmira and Floridante are particularly harrowing. She is slapped, assaulted and pushed to the brink of madness; he is reduced to helplessness by violence, imprisonment and separation. Another couple, Timante and Rossane, fortunately provides some lighter relief. Timante becomes the resident comic figure, unable to handle an umbrella that is visibly too heavy for him, weighed down by suitcases and parcels, or attempting to amuse his beloved with a doll or a stuffed animal.

          At times, the comic device is somewhat overstated, but it provides welcome contrasts.

          It is nevertheless in tenderness that the production finds one of its most touching moments, when Rossane tries to comfort her sister Elmira and addresses her in a genuine declaration of sisterly love. Handel’s music then takes on a simplicity of extraordinary emotional power.

          The costumes remain in dark tones, enhanced by occasional flashes of colour, while some are more ostentatious, notably the feathered hats and superb military uniforms with their Napoleonic appearance. The set, made up of mobile panels that unfold and fold back to create a bedroom, dining room or other domestic spaces, remains restrained yet aesthetically pleasing.

          The lighting is particularly carefully designed, playing with bluish transparencies and flashes of lightning during the storm scenes. A real success.

          The production therefore immediately captures the attention, even if the direction of the singers occasionally lacks precision. At times the singers seem left to their own devices, as though Cencic had chosen to prioritise their vocal presence and the direct expression of emotion: the soloists come downstage to sing while the action continues in the background. There are a few moments of slackness here and there, but they do not compromise the overall effectiveness.

          In the title role, Cencic portrays a Floridante who is more lover and desperate man than heroic warrior. He initially favours tenderness, delicacy and poetry, restraining his voice before gradually allowing its velvet and richness to emerge. When the score demands greater bravura, he unleashes wildly flowing coloratura, impressive virtuosity and particularly striking cadenzas.

          For once, the prima donna of the evening is not a soprano but a contralto — and not just any contralto: the divine Sonja Runje. Handel entrusts her with several of the finest moments in the score, and each of her appearances commands close attention. The orchestra’s occasionally stratospheric tempi hardly make her task easier; nevertheless, she surmounts every obstacle with remarkable mastery and panache.

          The revelation of the evening, however, comes from Eva Zalenga in the role of Rossane. This soprano, whom we are discovering here, immediately captivates with a fruity, light and supple voice, a true nightingale’s voice. Each of her arias becomes a little gem, thanks to a naturalness and freshness that occasionally recall the sublime Lauren Snouffer, whom Cencic notably revealed in his productions of Arminio and Ottone.

          Bruno de Sá surprisingly finds himself in the secondary role of Timante, with few arias and, above all, not always the most inspired pages by the Caro Sassone. Yet the sopranist succeeds in turning them into genuine jewels. His daring and brilliant da capos are richly ornamented, while his cadenzas multiply the acrobatics, reaching notes that sometimes seem almost unattainable. A spectacular display of virtuosity, particularly impressive at the top of the range.

          Gerrit Illenberger portrays a virile and authoritarian Oronte, whose few interventions are enough to establish the unsettling figure of the tyrant. Yannis François acquits himself honourably in the brief role of Coralbo, reduced to a single aria.

          Leading the Wrocław Baroque Orchestra, Markellos Chryssicos delivers an incandescent and deeply committed reading, perhaps occasionally a little too impetuous. The vertiginous tempi put the singers under considerable pressure, but they also inject the score with a tension that ultimately suits the violence of the production remarkably well.

          For this may be where the real success of this Floridante lies: rather than reducing the opera to a hypothetical political allegory — a trap against which the programme booklet rightly warned — Cencic reveals its most universal and unsettling dimension.

          Behind the disputes over power and succession lie relationships of domination, the desire to possess another human being, resistance, violence and, above all, human beings whom Handel’s music transforms into characters of astonishing psychological depth.

Ruggero Meli

The rising star of the Baroque

           After his brilliant success at the Cesti Competition in Innsbruck in 2024, followed by a highly acclaimed performance in Vivaldi’s Il Giustino, again in Innsbruck in 2025, it was clear that Maximiliano Danta was on an upward trajectory. His recital at Bayreuth’s Schlosskirche confirms those early promises with considerable brilliance: the young Uruguayan countertenor already has the makings of an artist who will matter greatly on the Baroque scene in the years to come.

           For this recital, entitled Chaos and Order, Danta was accompanied by I Porporini, with Claudia Mende on violin, Claire Gautrot on cello and Gerd Amelung on harpsichord and musical direction. From Cavalli to Carl Friedrich Abel, the programme traced a journey spanning a century and a half of Baroque music, in which order and chaos, tension and repose, virtuosity and poetry constantly responded to one another.

           From Cavalli’s Non m’è patria l’Olimpo, from L’Ormindo, the singer immediately reveals a voice that is impossible to ignore. What strikes one first is the beauty of the timbre. For a sopranist, the voice is never remotely strident: it remains round, full and luminous, while the particularly solid lower register provides remarkable grounding. Above all, the registers blend together with astonishing homogeneity.

           But the beauty of the voice is only the first of his qualities. Danta possesses, above all, a remarkable feeling for the text. His diction is crystal clear, his Italian perfectly intelligible, and every word seems to be carried by a precise intention. In Cavalli, his parlare cantando is a marvel: speech becomes music without losing its dramatic force, and the vocal line seems constantly animated from within.

           With Steffani’s Inopportuno arrivo, from Niobe, regina di Tebe, this theatrical intelligence is confirmed. Danta never simply strings beautiful notes together: he genuinely inhabits each situation and knows how to vary colour and intensity according to the text.

           Then comes the virtuosity — wild and almost nonchalant, yet always perfectly controlled. The coloratura pours forth with insolent ease, without precision, articulation or clarity of execution ever being compromised. Baroque technique has been so thoroughly assimilated that it disappears behind the expression.

           One remains particularly impressed by Handel’s Venti, turbini, prestate. This notoriously demanding virtuoso aria becomes in his hands a demonstration that is both spectacular and perfectly controlled. The runs are launched with exhilarating freedom, yet never at the expense of musical structure or dramatic characterisation.

           At the other end of this expressive spectrum, Handel’s cantata Siete rose rugiadose, HWV 162, reveals a more intimate Danta. The voice becomes delicate, sensual, almost caressing. Poetry emerges through nuance rather than effect, revealing behind the virtuoso a singer capable of genuine emotional refinement.

           The instrumental programme likewise contributed to this alternation between tension and repose. Biagio Marini’s Sonata IV for solo violin offered a first immersion into the daring language of the early Baroque, while Johannes Schenck’s Chaconne from his Sonata VI for viola da gamba presented a darker and more tormented reading.

           The dissonances, pushed almost to the point of becoming physical, were among the most fascinating moments of the recital: here, order constantly seems threatened by chaos.

           Vivaldi then allowed Danta to return to repertoire with which he is particularly familiar. In Hò nel petto un cor sì forte, from Il Giustino, the singer confirmed his particular affinity with this music. One reservation may nevertheless be made about the accompaniment: the rather insistent pizzicati of the violin somewhat weighed down the texture.

           The harpsichord alone would probably have been sufficient to evoke the sound of the psaltery for which this passage was originally conceived.

           The three instrumentalists of I Porporini also deserve praise. Claudia Mende demonstrates fine precision on the violin, while Claire Gautrot brings a supple yet expressive presence to the cello. At the harpsichord, Gerd Amelung provides an attentive and dynamic continuo, while directing the ensemble with genuine complicity with the singer. Their accompaniment is far from being a mere backdrop: it contributes fully to the dramaturgy of the recital.

           The latest composer in the programme, Carl Friedrich Abel, brought the journey to a close with two particularly revealing works showing the evolution of the Baroque language. The Trio in G major for viola da gamba, violin and continuo already displays a more developed instrumental writing, while Frena le belle lagrime, from the pasticcio Sifare, offers a magnificent example of the late Baroque.

           The aria, particularly extended, gives the instruments an almost concertante role: violin and cello converse, comment and respond to the voice, lending the whole a richness that goes far beyond simple accompaniment.

           At the end of this uninterrupted recital, the conclusion is clear: Maximiliano Danta already possesses the qualities that make great careers. A superb and immediately recognisable voice, solid lower notes, perfectly controlled technique, exemplary diction and, above all, a genuine intelligence of text and theatre.

           After Innsbruck, Bayreuth therefore confirms the impression: a star has been born.

           And his ascent has evidently only just begun. Maximiliano Danta will soon be heard in Agrippina at Schwetzingen, another stage on which the dramatic resources of this increasingly accomplished artist can be explored further.

Ruggero Meli

The art of mastery, the power of experience

          More than twenty-five years of career have not diminished Christophe Dumaux: they have shaped him. Far from rushing through the stages of his career, the French countertenor has built his path with prudence and intelligence, allowing his voice to mature, strengthen and blossom. At forty-seven, the result is there to be heard: a thoroughly seasoned technique, a craft that now seems effortless and an authority that has nothing left to prove.

          His recital Handel’s Nature, given at Bayreuth’s Margravial Opera House with Thibault Noally and Les Accents, provided a brilliant demonstration. Entirely devoted to Handel, the programme explored several facets of the composer, from the most intimate elegy to virtuoso fury, from melancholy to rage, seduction to despair.

          Dumaux may not possess the most immediately seductive timbre among today’s countertenors. A slight nasal quality and a certain metallic colour may initially come as a surprise. But to stop at that first impression would be to miss the essential point: what he does with this voice is exceptional. His technique, long accustomed to the most demanding requirements of the Baroque repertoire, enables him to go far beyond the instrument’s purely natural qualities.

          For Dumaux possesses a far more powerful weapon: absolute mastery of his vocal instrument. A strong vocal and stage personality, he displays an ease and maestria that sometimes verge on insolence. Everything appears effortless. He sings with disarming relaxation, hands in his pockets, as though Handel’s formidable difficulties no longer concerned him.

          At times, one almost felt one was witnessing not a concert but a recording session. All that was missing was the headphones and the recording booth. This impression of ease is, of course, an illusion: behind such relaxation lie more than twenty-five years of work and a craft that has become completely internalised.

          One of the high points of the evening was undoubtedly Aure, deh, per pietà, Cesare’s aria from Giulio Cesare in Egitto. A role Dumaux knows intimately, having portrayed both Tolomeo and Cesare, and whose discography and stage career testify to an especially close relationship with the work. His recent portrayal of Cesare in Salzburg, following the one in Amsterdam, further confirmed this affinity with the character.

          Yet it may have been the contrasts between the different characters that best revealed the breadth of his artistry.

          In Stille amare, Tolomeo is dying. The voice strips itself bare, becoming darker, almost suffocating, without ever losing its line. By contrast, Se infiorito, in Giulio Cesare, reveals a seductive, elegant, almost playful Dumaux, even capable of whistling the melody with delicious nonchalance and engaging in a witty dialogue with the violin.

          With A dispetto, from Tamerlano, the singer changes register completely: now furious, tyrannical and biting. Characterisation comes less through a spectacular transformation of timbre than through the work on the text, accentuation and attitude. This is where experience pays off: Dumaux no longer needs to do very much to establish a character.

          The bravura culminated in Fammi combattere, from Orlando. A role he has known for many years, on stage and on disc, and whose every mechanism he masters. The coloratura pours forth with confidence, the runs are projected with sovereign assurance, and the difficulties seem literally to disappear beneath the fingers of an artist who knows exactly what he is doing.

          This is perhaps the Dumaux paradox: a voice whose intrinsic beauty one might debate, but whose use leaves remarkably little room for criticism. The slightly nasal, metallic timbre, which may seem less immediately flattering than that of some of the younger countertenors currently on the rise, becomes in his hands an instrument of formidable dramatic effectiveness.

          And the audience is not fooled: the enthusiasm greeting his most virtuoso arias is entirely commensurate with the spectacle he provides.

          The accompaniment of Thibault Noally and Les Accents contributes greatly to this success. On violin, Noally proves both virtuosic and suave, with his very personal ability to make the line breathe without ever sacrificing momentum. Leading his ensemble, he accompanies Dumaux with constant attention to the singer’s inflections.

          Les Accents provide a sufficiently energetic framework to support the bravura passages, while also knowing how to become more supple and transparent when the music calls for greater intimacy.

          And ultimately it is this impression of effortless mastery that prevails. Dumaux no longer needs to demonstrate that he can overcome obstacles: he simply passes through them as though they did not exist. Where some young singers impress through the brilliance of their means, he seduces through the depth of his experience.

          At forty-seven, he therefore has nothing to fear from the new generation of countertenors. Quite the contrary: his career could serve as a model. A voice is not necessarily destined to remain unchanged; it can improve, acquire density, gain in personality and authority. Like a fine wine, Christophe Dumaux’s voice seems to have acquired over the years that extra depth that only experience can provide.

          And in Bayreuth, this maturity had something truly sovereign about it.

Ruggero Meli

Three sopranists face the golden age of castrato singing

                   They were the great stars of Baroque opera: Farinelli, Caffarelli, Senesino, Carestini… Male voices soaring into the upper register, capable of feats whose fascination has never entirely faded. For this evening at the Bayreuth Baroque Festival, Federico Fiorio, Maayan Licht and Dennis Orellana take on some of the repertoire that helped forge their legendary status, accompanied by the Wrocław Baroque Orchestra under the direction of Jarosław Thiel.

          Federico Fiorio opens the concert with “Spesso tra vaghe rose” from Hasse’s Siroe, re di Persia. The enthusiasm is immediate, the coloratura whirling effortlessly, but the voice, very clear in tone, often remains too pale to truly shape the affects. There is a lack of relief and, despite secure technique, the expressive contrasts remain limited. The same impression returns in “Verso già l’alma col sangue”, from Handel’s Aci, Galatea e Polifemo.

          Yet Fiorio does move us through the painful simplicity of his singing, particularly in the da capo, which he imbues with poignant fragility. The scene depicts Aci slowly dying after being struck by the rock hurled by the jealous Polyphemus: it is difficult to remain unmoved by such sacrificed innocence. But once again, the characterisation struggles to move beyond a certain uniformity of tone.

          Maayan Licht, by contrast, truly enters the stage. Outlandish outfit, sequins, unapologetic make-up: the young sopranist plays the diva and does so with disarming naturalness. In the aria from Porpora’s Ifigenia in Aulide, trills, sighs, breaths and half-shades combine to create a character whose theatricality never slips into caricature. The music itself offers exquisitely beautiful melodic material, but Licht above all knows how to reveal its fragility.

          A few notes taken in mezza voce are enough to disarm the listener: behind the taste for spectacle lies genuine sensitivity.

          He is undoubtedly the most convincing of the three when it comes to making virtuosity and characterisation coincide. His “Un pensiero nemico di pace”, from Handel’s Il Trionfo del Tempo e del Disinganno, launched at an almost stratospheric speed, is a true flash of virtuosity. The voice, light in texture, occasionally lacks flesh and substance, while his ease in the upper register can at times create an impression of fragility.

          But Licht possesses what makes the difference: stage presence and the ability to give meaning to the vocal gesture.

          With “Son qual nave”, the aria written by Riccardo Broschi for the celebrated Farinelli in Artaserse, he seems even to recapture something of the spirit of the great eighteenth-century stars. Everything becomes movement: coloratura pours forth, trills follow one another, tempi accelerate. The singer appears engaged in a genuine battle with the score. He dances, plays with the audience, and dares spectacular and vertiginous da capos and cadenzas.

          The result is a vocal firework display that hits its mark. For a moment, the Margravial Opera House seems to rediscover something of the feverish excitement that surrounded the star sopranists of the period. One is left dizzy from such a whirlwind of vocal virtuosity.

          Between these displays, the Wrocław Baroque Orchestra provides the necessary breathing spaces. Evaristo Felice Dall’Abaco’s concerto, with its haunting and immediately engaging rhythm, first establishes an almost hypnotic sway before the movement gathers momentum. The strings whirl with a virtuosity that is not without evoking the Vivaldian world, while the emphatic attacks of the lute lend the ensemble a particularly incisive energy.

          Dennis Orellana tackles “Care selve, ombre beate”, one of the most famous arias from Handel’s Atalanta, once almost indispensable in vocal recitals. The voice is attractive, fresh and youthful, but the text is sometimes difficult to understand, and the interpretation does not always manage to move beyond the initial beauty of the timbre.

          “Sì, sì, mel ricorderò”, which follows, offers greater opportunities for virtuosity, but leaves a similar impression: one hears more of a young singer with a high voice than a fully realised character capable of evoking the prestige and theatrical power associated with Handel’s great castrati.

          The arioso from Arminio, however, allows him to change register. Here Orellana seeks expression rather than effect, with genuine sincerity and a desire to give the text dramatic weight. It is in this more intimate vein that his singing seems most personal.

          The evening thus revealed three quite different faces of the contemporary sopranist. Fiorio impresses through the ease and clarity of his virtuosity, but still struggles to diversify his colours. Orellana possesses an appealing vocal freshness and considerable ease in the upper register, but his interpretation sometimes remains too youthful for a repertoire that demands as much theatricality as vocal prowess.

          Licht, finally, is the one who seems to have best understood that the Baroque sopranist is not simply a matter of an extraordinary range: there must also be gesture, risk, character and that elusive ability to transform a vocalise into a theatrical event.

          As an encore, the three singers join together in the celebrated “Pur ti miro” from Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea. A charming conclusion, warmly received by the audience, though one that does little to alter the impressions left by the programme.

          Three centuries after Farinelli, Caffarelli and Senesino, the challenge therefore remains. It is not merely a question of reaching notes that once seemed supernatural, but of giving them a face, a voice and an emotion. Tonight, Maayan Licht achieves this more often than his two partners — and it is precisely when he stops trying merely to dazzle that the sopranist becomes truly fascinating.

Ruggero Meli