INNSBRUCK FESTIVAL 10-30.VIII.2026

THE ART OF REFINEMENT  

A tribute to Alan Curtis with Anna Bonitatibus  

          Eleven years had to pass before the Innsbruck Festival officially paid tribute to one of the artists who left a lasting mark on its history: Alan Curtis, who died in Florence on 15 July 2015. Harpsichordist, musicologist, teacher, conductor and tireless archaeologist of the Baroque repertoire, the American musician played a decisive role from the late 1970s onwards in establishing Innsbruck as one of the major centres for the rediscovery of early opera. 
          With his Il Complesso Barocco, he brought to Innsbruck, among other works, Stradella’s Susanna, Monteverdi’s L’incoronazione di Poppea, Landi’s Sant’Alessio, Handel’s Ariodante and Rodrigo, and Gluck’s Armide.

          A belated tribute, then, but one that was all the more fitting. Curtis was less a spectacularly theatrical conductor than a mediator, discoverer and practising musicologist. 
          Dramatic fury and stage instinct were not always his strongest weapons; his immense achievement lay elsewhere: in bringing forgotten scores to light, approaching them from a historically informed perspective and, above all, giving them a second life through recordings featuring outstanding singers of the Baroque revival.  

          Handel naturally stood at the heart of this work, with Rodrigo, Deidamia, Rodelinda, Radamisto, Ezio, Tolomeo, Alcina, Ariodante and many other works. Vivaldi was also central, above all Motezuma, whose recording remains one of his most important projects.  

          These productions also accompanied the rise of singers who would later become indispensable figures of Baroque singing: Ann Hallenberg, Simone Kermes, Marijana Mijanovic, Joyce DiDonato, Maite Beaumont, Mary-Ellen Nesi — and, not least, Anna Bonitatibus, who appeared in Deidamia and Tolomeo, among others.  

          It was therefore particularly fitting to entrust this tribute to the Italian mezzo-soprano, accompanied by Accademia Bizantina and Ottavio Dantone. The programme was conceived as a musical album of memories, bringing together the composers at the heart of Curtis’s research: naturally Handel and Vivaldi, but also Purcell, Scarlatti, Geminiani and Gluck. 
          Everything begins with Handel’s Concerto grosso in F major, Op. 6 No. 2. Accademia Bizantina immediately establishes the elegance without excess that will characterise the evening. At the harpsichord as at the helm of the ensemble, Ottavio Dantone favours clear lines and supple articulation. The compact, incisive orchestra also knows how to leave the music room to breathe. 

          Yet it is only with the voice that the portrait of Curtis truly takes shape. In Rodrigo, Anna Bonitatibus shapes “Siete assai superbe, o stelle” with a virtuosity that never becomes mere display. The aria is striking for its contrasts, above all for the brilliant coloratura on the word “fulminando”, through which the singer moves her voice with remarkable precision.  

          This passage seems to echo two worlds of Handel: the tension of “Pensieri” from Agrippina and the self-assurance of “Fermati!” from the cantata Aminta e Fillide. Behind the score, the characters and affetti that constitute its true substance emerge. 
          Then comes that moment of suspension in which Anna Bonitatibus abandons almost frontal projection for a velvety, enveloping and finely controlled mezza voce. In Alessandro Scarlatti’s “Mentr’io godo in dolce oblio”, the voice seems to reach us through a veil. The effect is enchanting: a few bars are enough to create an atmosphere of half-awakened dreaming, as though the music itself were beginning to float.  

          With Handel, the singer then returns to her preferred territory. In “No, quella beltà non amo” from Deidamia, she demonstrates how deeply her artistry rests on an extraordinarily precise treatment of the text. Her perfectly articulated Italian becomes musical material in itself; every word seems weighed, coloured and placed. Character and contrasts emerge with particular clarity.

          But it is with Agrippina as an encore that the embodiment becomes complete. In “L’alma mia fra le tempeste”, Anna Bonitatibus returns to a role she has sung so often on international stages — most recently at the Opéra de Rouen — that it has become inseparable from her voice. The coloratura pours forth with astonishing ease, at almost stratospheric speed, yet always with the stylistic command that prevents virtuosity from becoming an end in itself. 

          Fire, perfidy, temperament: Agrippina is there. The ability to characterise without caricature is one of the mezzo-soprano’s great strengths. Her unmistakable timbre retains that slight vibration which gives it such expressive power. Above all, the upper register seems to float, held by the thinnest of threads — a fragility that makes its dissolution all the more precarious and precious.  

          And what imagination in the da capo sections, which the singer never repeats mechanically. Ornamentation, variations and cadenzas all contribute to reconstructing the musical discourse. The final turns of the arias can unfold on a monumental, almost theatrical scale, without ever losing their stylistic nobility.  

          After so much virtuosity, the contrast with Dido is all the more poignant. Purcell’s “When I am laid in earth” is sung with a simplicity that is deeply moving. No contrived effect, no added pathos: simply a line that gradually strips itself bare until it finally fades away on a gently vibrating thread of sound — as though the character were disappearing before our eyes.  

          Perhaps it is here that Bonitatibus’s artistry is most clearly revealed: knowing that emotion does not need to be underlined in order to reach its destination.  

          The programme then reveals further facets of the voice: Vivaldi’s lament in “Sento in seno ch’in pioggia di lagrime”, Gluck’s brighter grace in “Le belle immagini” from Paride ed Elena. Scarlatti’s Il giardino di rose completes the journey through the musical landscapes so familiar to Curtis.  

          Opposite the singer, Accademia Bizantina proves a luxurious sonic frame. The pizzicati in Vivaldi are particularly delicate, almost tangible, turning the accompaniment into genuine musical ornament. The instrumental works by Geminiani and Handel also allow the refinement of the strings to be appreciated: their clarity and their ability to move between tension and tenderness without weighing down the musical discourse. Ottavio Dantone, harpsichordist as well as conductor, leads the ensemble with discreet authority.  

          No spectacular gesture: the music moves naturally, sharing a common breath. This restraint is particularly well suited to the spirit of the programme. Above all, it gives the soloist the space she needs to shape the affetti.  

          The evening is not entirely without reservations, however. Some of the coloratura, particularly in “Alma oppressa”, occasionally seems deliberately thinned out in order to gain precision and speed. The approach allows remarkable control of the vocal line, but at times takes something away from the density and projection of the voice. 
          The lower register can also seem less present than in the past. None of this calls the artist’s authority into question; the passing years have naturally altered the balance of a voice that nevertheless retains remarkable longevity and splendour. Her recent performance in Pergolesi’s L’Olimpiade in Beaune proved this once again. It is regrettable, however, that the singer so often remains absorbed in her score.  

          For an evening conceived as such a personal tribute, a few more moments of direct contact with the audience would undoubtedly have heightened its emotional impact. Some arias sung from memory would surely have felt even more immediate. 

          Fortunately, Alan Curtis was present as an invisible thread in every score, every coloratura passage, every name that resurfaced in the programme. One might wish that this tribute had come sooner. One could also imagine that the occasion might have brought Il Complesso Barocco back to life — the ensemble founded and led by Curtis, which no longer exists as a performing formation.  

          The presence of Accademia Bizantina and Dantone nevertheless proves a particularly meaningful choice. The festival’s current music director stands precisely within the tradition of conductors who continued Curtis’s work in Innsbruck after René Jacobs and Alessandro De Marchi. And Anna Bonitatibus certainly owed him this evening.  

          She, who had been one of his recorded voices, returned to give back to him what he had given her: a repertoire, trust, a history.

          The final encore says this with infinitely greater eloquence than any long speech. “Sonno” from Vivaldi’s La Griselda: just a few bars, sung on a knife-edge of frightening fragility. Anna Bonitatibus barely touches the music, almost on tiptoe, like a lullaby for the man to whom this evening was dedicated. Then she raises her hands towards the heavens: Alan would probably have been happy. And proud.  

          The magnificent Spanish Hall, with its fascinating portraits, lent the moment an additional solemnity. It is unfortunate, however, that this remarkable space is not ideally suited to concerts: only those seated directly in front of the platform enjoy truly satisfying acoustics and visibility, while the side seats are clearly disadvantaged. 

          Yet at the end of the evening, one thing remains: the tribute came late, but what mattered was there. 
          A voice that had belonged to Curtis’s musical circle, an orchestra that upholds the legacy of historically informed Baroque performance, and above all a programme that reminded us how profoundly this man’s immense work continues to resonate in our concert halls.  

          Eleven years after his death, Alan Curtis finally had his evening. 

Antoine Fournier  

Photos © Amir Kaufmann

       .

          .

.

           .

.

          .

.

         .