Making the trek from LMH to St Peter’s on an otherwise uninspiring Thursday evening, I really had no idea what to expect from The Rape of Lucretia. I was familiar with only the barest details of the plot, and, I have to admit, somewhat of an opera newbie. Despite my rather stunning ignorance, this was a production that succeeded in creating an admirably disquieting atmosphere. From the very first note, an overwhelming sense of eeriness filled the suitably darkened chapel, and I never felt quite comfortable in my seat, was never truly able to shake of a mounting feeling of disconcerted apprehension. This was largely thanks to some very clever staging. Atmospheric though it is, St Peter’s chapel is not what you would describe as cavernous. Restricted stage space was, however, all to the good, and added to a sense of uncomfortable, claustrophobic oppression. There was also little to adorn the stage, and this added an appropriately stark feel, as well as keeping attention focused on the cast’s magnificently mesmerising performance.
It was, in fact, in the moments of quiet anguish, of simmering, bubbling tension, that the cast’s skill was most evident. Sure, everybody likes a bit of bombast and there was certainly no shortage of stunning, shocking drama to be had. Yet, I was never more captivated than when we were afforded a slight pause, when the action was allowed to breath. The scene in which Lucretia first appears was particularly impressive, and it was hard not to be utterly drawn in by her desperate wait for her husband’s return home from war. Indeed, the all-important moment when Lucretia’s virtue is violently robbed was a largely well-handled affair, and managed to steer clear of the sensational. (Although if weren’t for the otherwise supremely classy nature of this production, I would be tempted to call the red lighting during this scene a little heavy handed). Indeed, with a story concerning such overwhelmingly dark themes, it can be hard to find the correct balance between tiresome moralising and ghoulish overemphasis. Yet the all-pervasive sense of doom never overstepped its mark, and the cast judged their roles perfectly. Lucretia was vulnerable without being melodramatic or pathetic, Tarqinius dark and menacing without slipping into any kind of pantomime villain mode. So good was this production, that I had real trouble leaving behind my troubled disconcertion, even after leaving the eerie confines of St Peter’s chapel.
