Michieletto the American: A Portrait of the Opera Director (and More)

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"Oh my God, even the New York Times noticed." Opera director (and not only) Damiano Michieletto is "a visionary, nonconformist, at times over-the-top director," writes Elisabetta Povoledo, a particularly astute reporter even for the NYT's rather high ratings. And here one might even react like Totò with the latecomers to the theater: "Please, make yourselves comfortable, we were just waiting for you!" But that would be unfair, because in reality the visionary has never worked on the other side of the Atlantic, where until now he has been seen as an exponent of the dreaded Regietheater, in a country where the aesthetic of operatic performances is inspired, if anything, by Disneyland. Povoledo kills two birds with one stone with a show: he highlights Bernstein's "West Side Story," recently staged by Michieletto at Caracalla —rightly so, as a true musical, not a mock opera—and announces that America will finally discover the Italian director, because in September the Philadelphia Opera will stage Rossini's famous "Journey to Reims," premiered in 2015 in Amsterdam and subsequently revived around the world . In fact, there is a precedent here: Saint-Saëns's "Samson and Delilah," which Michieletto staged at the Bastille and which was announced as a co-production with the Met. Frankly, it wasn't one of Michieletto's best, but in any case, New York backed out because, as Peter Gelb, general manager of the venerable institution, said, "I'm not sure it's a production for the Met," and in fact, no, it wasn't (by the way, personal testimony: another one was then offered, which I saw purely by chance but with genuine horror, of the kind that Americans and European coeurs simples think is "faithful" to the author, it must be. Among other things, the collapse of the temple with Samson and all the Philistines, what Hollywood special effects and blockbusters: two quintuplets falling, a couple of flashes of lightning, darkness in the theater and everyone went home. At least in Paris, Michieletto's brilliant set designer, the excellent Paolo Fantin, literally made columns and walls explode, and what the hell, if it has to be grand opera, so be it).

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So, American landing for DM, who will welcome him as he does everything, always vaguely surprised that he's being so taken with him. Because Michieletto has never denied or hidden his happily provincial origins, which are a summary of Italian history of the last half century : a farmer grandfather, a water meter reader and even mayor of the town in his retirement, he a global artist, therefore an advanced service industry. It all started in Scorzé, a town of 19,001 inhabitants about 25 kilometers from the provincial capital, Venice, as the ever-helpful Wikipedia indicates. But everyone knows that, as the legendary press officer of La Fenice, Barbara Montagner, teaches, "beyond the bridge is all countryside." And yet, that Veneto—farmer and then blue-collar, but always industrious, staunchly Catholic and Christian Democrat, down-to-earth and solid—has somehow stuck with Michieletto, and makes him shy away from radical chic pretense like he does from a bottle of watered-down Prosecco. Once, while chatting, he let slip a phrase that captures that entire world (and all of Michieletto), which I can't quote in the original dialect because I wouldn't know how to transcribe, but which in Italian sounds like this: you have to know how to do things, before letting people know . In short, the cake before the icing, the career built step by step, the media recognition that comes when there's actually something—a lot, in fact—to be recognized, not before. In the increasingly bungling Italy we've been dealt, the exception that proves the rule.

He has never hidden his happily provincial origins, a summary of Italian history of the last half century

His CV highlights a degree from Ca' Foscari, a diploma from Paolo Grassi, and a debut in children's shows, which are by no means to be underestimated: given that the attention span of a ten-year-old is roughly that of the average La Scala season ticket holder, and both have a tendency to drift off, learning to be followed by decades is an excellent training ground. Then came the first engagements, the first ever in a bizarre venue, Wexford, Ireland's most important opera festival (also because it's the only one), with a lineup of mostly incredible rarities, doused in Guinness. In 2003, Micheletto was treated to one as rare as could be: "Svanda dudák," Weinberger's "Svanda the Pied Piper." The following year he was at the Rossini Opera Festival in Pesaro, or Rof for us Rossini Taliban, with "Il trionfo delle belle" (The Triumph of the Beauties), which in truth isn't by Rossini but by Pavesi (and you can tell). In 2007, again in Pesaro, the legendary "Gazza ladra" (Thieving Gazza), the turning point, a Rossini that left everyone speechless, even the Italian critics who awarded him the Abbiati. From there, an international career began, first in Zurich, and then expanding and spreading to Paris, London, Berlin, Salzburg, and so on. We were happy because finally an Italian opera director was renewing an illustrious but tired tradition, taking a kind of third path between the distant past of Visconti-ism and the recent past of ronconate, and above all, showing here, on the Indian reservation, performances that are "elegant" because "they don't disturb the music," a bit of what happens in the civilized world . Always, though—and this is an aspect that can never be emphasized enough—with a visual beauty that's very Italian, very "ours," and also very fitting: who said "modern" shows have to be squalid? And here the credit goes to its historic team, more cohesive than a Roman legion, where the constant and unchanging presence is that of Fantin, nicknamed "Fantineon" by some foolish people because he never fails to put one in, but costume designer Carla Teti and lighting designer Alessandro Carletti almost always appear, and both are excellent.

The curriculum highlights the debut with children's shows, which are not to be underestimated at all

Naturally, not everyone appreciates this. In the salons of opera's grandmother Speranza, between the stuffed Loreto and the bust of Zeffirelli, which now rage on Facebook with chants of "poor Verdi" (alternative: "Verdi is turning in his grave"), the mere mention of Michieletto provokes outbursts of bile, preemptive indignation, and prayers of reparation. Here, "one must distinguish between everything," as Abbot Da Ponte teaches, that is, between those who speak with reason and the spectacle seen, in short, informed and perhaps reasoned, and those who babble "irrespectively." A marvelous "review" appeared on one of the usual do-it-yourself blogs set up to snatch press accreditation for the infamous, and obviously beautiful, "Rigoletto" at the Circus Maximus. The quidam, deploring the vulgarity of the tasteless direction (strange, isn't it? Bad taste in an opera whose subject is, precisely, the beauty of ugliness), added that it was aggravated by the decision to have the Duke ask Sparafucile, in the third act, for "your sister and some wine" and not "a room and some wine." It's a shame that the first version is precisely "as Verdi wanted it," the other is the one the censor wanted, and besides, the critical edition of Rigoletto has been making this clear for over forty years (so be careful, when you mess around on the web, not to take everything written at face value: often, the truth is entirely different...) . I remember that when Michieletto, for a "Madame Butterfly" at the Teatro Regio in Turin, showed what the opera depicts—a case of sex tourism—I received a letter from La Stampa accusing the director of raping Puccini and me, who had written well about him, of complicity in the rape. I replied that perhaps Pinkerton had raped the fifteen-year-old Cio-cio-san, after having bought her.

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At times, protests have become sensational news stories. For example, at La Scala in 2013, during Verdi's "Un ballo in maschera," where the fact that streetwalkers in miniskirts were strolling through the hideous campo (isn't it, after all, a hideous campo, read a run-down suburb?) sparked a riot, complete with a shower of leaflets, such as "Senso," which evidently hadn't been printed in the foyer of the galleries. Even more incredible was the "Tell-gate" incident that erupted on June 29, 2015, at the Royal Opera House in London, at the premiere of Rossini's "Guillaume Tell." I was there, and I can vouch for the fact that in my 2,174 opera nights, I've never seen anything like it. The storm broke out at the "pas de soldats" in the third act, where the libretto (the libretto, not Michieletto) indicates that the Austrian occupiers "contraigned Swiss women to dance with them." The scene thus became, legitimately, a rape, beautifully acted, it goes without saying, and certainly not chic but not particularly shocking either: one sensed, rather than saw, what had happened to the unfortunate women, and which unfortunately often happens in war. But the room erupted in a frenzy of whistles, boos, and shouts that lasted for several minutes, without Sir Tony Pappano managing to break in from the podium (he later confided to me that he had considered putting down his baton and leaving). For once, we Italians were stunned: all this fuss over so little? In London, after all? The day before, we'd seen a pulp version of "Titus Andronicus," which was almost unbearable, and these guys are starting a revolution over a see-through rape? Who knows. The next day, even the BBC news reported on it. But the sequel was even better. The English critics, who, it seems impossible, are almost worse than the Italian ones, panned it. Instead, many intellectuals began writing articles defending the show, and from there a beautiful debate arose that would have been lunar in the Italian newspapers, where they usually debate Meloni responding to Schlein responding to Salvini, and which demonstrated, if nothing else, that "Tell" had done its job, which is that of theater (all of it: singing, speaking, and dancing): to discuss and spark discussion. And, incidentally, the following year, again in London and again at the Roh, Michieletto won the Laurence Olivier Award for "best new opera production" for his "Cav&Pag."

Then, of course, we should talk about the michielettate that we loved, and which gave us back the desire and joy to renew the rite and swear fidelity to that sublime nonsense that is opera in music . Citing these words indiscriminately, the Mozart/Da Ponte trilogy at La Fenice comes to mind, as do “Macbeth” and “Rigoletto” always there, “Cendrillon” at the Komische in Berlin, “La damnation de Faust” in Rome, “Sigismondo,” “La scala di seta” and “La donna del lago” in Pesaro, “Alcina” and “La Cenerentola” in Salzburg with SCNSD (Santa Cecilia Nostra Sempre Divina, in short Bartoli), the “Trittico” at the an der Wien and at the Rome Opera, La Scala’s “Falstaff” set in Casa Verdi (the only “Falstaff” ever seen in which the final scene was resolved), “Die Zauberflöte” set in a school with Papageno as the janitor in Venice, the world premiere of Filidei’s “The Name of the Rose” in Milan this year, and so on. Damiano makes us want to hop on yet another plane to discover what's behind the next curtain, for example, for Otello, which will open the 2026-27 season at La Scala (flyers there too? Who knows). Then there's the prose director, too, with at least Valle-Inclán's "Divine Words," a wonderful play, in the audience of the Piccolo Studio transformed into a sea of mud, and not just metaphorically; or the film director, for all theater people's obsession with getting behind the camera.

Damiano makes us want to discover what is hidden behind the next curtain, for example for the "Otello" at La Scala

After a hilarious and brilliant "Gianni Schicchi," the new film is titled "Primavera," based on Tiziano Scarpa's "Stabat Mater," and will be shown at the next Venice Film Festival, or perhaps not; it's not yet clear; in any case, it's ready. Then there's the demiurge to whom the Rome Opera has entrusted its summer season, which in the Jubilee Year becomes a true festival, including "West Side Story" (the NYT is right: beautiful) and, now, the discovery of America. Considering that our man—ours also because he's a regular contributor to the newspaper you're holding in your hand—hasn't even turned fifty yet, his fateful birthday being on the bill in November, one can predict that he'll perhaps bring us more satisfaction than he's already given us . The Gospel says so too: estote parati.

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