Iphigénie en Tauride, English National Opera, 6 November 2026

 

Coliseum

Iphigénie – Christine Rice
Oreste – Jacques Imbrailo
Pylade – Nick Pritchard
Thoas – Morgan Pearse
First Priestess – Olivia Rose Tringham
Second Priestess – Amy Holyland
Greek Woman – Sarah Gilford
Scythian Priest – Robert Winslade Anderson
Diane – Lucy Barton
Child Oreste – Travis Elliot-Smith

Director – Lyndsey Turner

Designs – Soutra Gilmour
Lighting – Tim Mitchell

Orchestra and Chorus (director: Matthew Quinn) of the English National Opera

David Bates (conductor)

Images: Helen Murray

ENO’s new Iphigénie en Tauride has much to commend it. First, that this great opera is being staged at all. It is the antithesis of a mindless crowd-pleaser; it has no space for empty display, its focus relentlessly on drama created through the combination of words, music, and staging, to the extent that the more trivially minded of opera-goers will disdain it. So much the worse for them. Second, that it is performed in French rather than in English translation. No language will suffer more from the practice, unless there were to be actual recomposition. The results, however conscientious, are always unsatisfactory, and, in an age of surtitles, the effort is entirely unnecessary. Many potential audience members shun opera in translation, whilst the few who laud it seem more intent on maintaining a Brexit-inclined world-view and restrictive practices than anything else. Neither London nor England, we should hardly need reminding, is monolingual—and long may that be the case. It may have taken a while to get here, but let us be thankful that ENO has seen sense, and hope this will not prove an isolated incident. Berlin’s Komische Oper has gone from strength to strength since it ditched its similar policy. This could be a lifeline for ENO, if it has the courage and vision to grasp it.

 Important though those matters be, they would count for little without distinction in performance. Here too, there was much to commend. The ENO orchestra was on excellent form, in a refreshingly big-boned account that recognised Gluck’s drama for what it is, for the French orchestral tradition in which it stands, and for the size of the auditorium. It was in every respect the best work I have heard from David Bates, visibly and audibly committed to the score and its drama, though I could happily have done without his singing along and other strange noises emitted. They were a price worth paying, though in a direct, dramatically attuned performance that will surely have won Gluck new converts.

Christine Rice impressed in the title role, strong and compassionate, if at times just a little bland. Jacques Imbrailo gave a mostly forthright performance as Oreste, in fine balance between realism and myth, though occasionally sounding a little tired. Nick Pritchard’s Pylade was for me the pick of the bunch, unerringly stylish and moving, though Morgan Pearse’s Thoas was just as good, albeit in a slightly more limited role. The chorus, though a little frayed at times, was involved and involving, minor shortcomings more than made up for with dramatic commitment. Smaller roles were all well taken, though the decision to allot Diane to a heavily amplified child’s voice was unfortunate: not a criticism of the performance itself, but rather of its musical jarring.

That was presumably a production rather than a musical decision, born of the problematic deus ex machina. It is difficult not to agree with Aristotle’s criticism of the device here. Director Lyndsey Turner’s decision to introduce a child Iphigénie and Oreste had its own logic, offering a nice bridge between past and present for a work in which Fate stands crucial. Reliving and re-viewing worked well, and they were not overdone. The vocal problem could readily have been resolved by employing an offstage adult singer. Otherwise, the production was direct and focused on the drama; it readily complemented, in turn being complemented by, what we heard. There was little set to speak of, but that was turned into a virtue. Costumes bridged the gap between ancient and modern without becoming a mishmash: a rare skill, to be duly applauded. Save for one technical mishap, well navigated, lighting was well harnessed to dramatic ends. The only other fly in the ointment was a strangely stylised fight scene. Time and time again through this opera’s brief, concise span, we were reminded that all is drama. Let us hope that this success will lead to more Gluck in London: it points to a good, if far from the only part, of what opera as a serious artform should be about.