Gounod’s Faust is one of those operas – readers may wish to nominate their own candidates – that one does not wish to see too often. Yes, Faust has celebrated musical moments which are a pleasure to hear sung well. Yes, Gounod’s score eventually becomes more interestingly chromatic as the denouement nears. And yes, David McVicar’s darkly gothic production, now with 21 years’ service on the clock, successfully removes it from Goethe’s intellectual shadow, turning Faust into a theatrically boisterous Parisian show reminiscent at times of Les Mis or Moulin Rouge.
McVicar’s production is revived, amid Charles Edwards’s towering Second Empire sets, by Peter Relton. You immediately grasp why this 1860s French setting is still one of Covent Garden’s most bankable productions. Yet, for all its mix of panache and musical charms, well marshaled under Maurizio Benini’s experienced direction in the pit, Faust struggles to hold the attention, not least because of the final act ballet that Gounod added a decade after the 1859 premiere.
