A pair of works by Handel written 40 years apart might have made awkward bedfellows, but director Thomas Guthrie’s fertile imagination ensured it was never a concern here. Staged in the Italianate surrounds of Shoreditch town hall, Tales of Apollo and Hercules was full of astute cross-references from one work to the other.
Guthrie and choreographer Valentino Zucchetti have wedded Handel’s 1710 Italian cantata Apollo e Dafne with the 1751 English oratorio The Choice of Hercules to create a nifty two-act opera-ballet, that singularly French baroque concoction that never really took off in England. Witty, at times slyly knowing, it juxtaposes the myth of Apollo’s rapacious pursuit of the nymph Daphne with a tug of war for the moral wellbeing of the boy Hercules. Five soloists, a clarion-voiced chorus of 15, six sinuous dancers from New English Ballet Theatre, a pair of black-clad puppeteers and the exuberant period forces of La Nuova Musica under David Bates did the rest.
Staged in front of a half-draped classical landscape, Apollo e Dafne was reimagined through the lens of 1960s office politics. Apollo, the heroically rich-toned Dan D’Souza, was a swaggering Don Draper with his predatory eye on Lauren Lodge-Campbell’s sweet-toned Dafne. The music, full of catchy arias that Handel would recycle later in his career, was crisply finessed by Bates, with solo musicians popping up all around the space adding to the immersive effect.
Francisco Rodriguez-Weil’s elegant-yet-simple designs wrapped the dancers in glittering grey unitards that turned magical shades of green or blue under Emma Chapman’s subtle lighting. Flitting round and about the singers, they brought to life a cornucopia of images, from the writhing python slain by Apollo to a rainy street scene with twirling umbrellas that morphed into carriage wheels. Zucchetti’s bustling, sunny choreography channelled classical ballet and Hollywood musicals with a subtle nod here and there to the baroque.
The Choice of Hercules added a childlike puppet into the mix, a torso with head and arms which, thanks to the “invisible” ministrations of Tabitha Bingham, Ellie Peacock and countertenor James Hall, conveyed curiosity, fear and even astonishment. The dancers here were more postural, less a vital part of the narrative, but never less than watchable.
Musically, it was a grander, statelier affair, Bates rising incisively to the occasion and with celebratory trumpets and horns generating some extra oomph. Dramatically, however, it was a bit of a one-trick pony, a tussle back and forth for the puppet’s attention between artful, flighty Pleasure (nimble soprano Madison Nonoa) and stony-faced, moralising Virtue (velvety mezzo Bethany Horak-Hallett). Either way, the laurels went to the supple, burgundy-toned Hall, whose generous alto nailed the show’s big hit, Yet Can I Hear That Dulcet Lay.
