It was a coincidence that the soprano Anna Netrebko and baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky were singing at the Festival Hall just a few days after Pop Star to Opera Star launched on television. But here it sometimes seemed as though it was the two Russians who were making the reverse journey. Glitz and bling were the order of the day. A glossy programme offered us plenty of promotional candy but little fibrous information (such as the words). And the amiable Lawrence Foster conducted the Philharmonia with a fervour that sang the word “filler” in rather large letters.
But there was substance here as well. Yes, Netrebko finished the evening dancing barefoot around the orchestra (Leh?r’s Meine lippen sie k?ssen so heiss) and Hvorostovsky, who had been smouldering so aggressively all evening that at times he threatened to self-combust, finally blew open the doors of kitsch with Moscow Nights. They had, however, both earned the right to let their hair down.
Netrebko is the more nuanced performer. Her opener, Strauss’s C?cilie, was an odd choice. But the coos of delight she sprinkled across the Jewel Song from Faust made up for the heavy coloratura, and by the time her darkly powerful soprano had revved up to a raptly intense Dvor?k’s Song to the Moon she was showing the full force of her charisma. And that was without the hoofing.
Hvorostovsky remains a performer whose technical gifts — plush tone, formidable legato — can come at the cost of theatrical engagement: numbers from Tannh?user, Faust and Rigoletto were stylish but underinflected. Matched with Netrebko or singing in his native language, however, and it was another matter. A steamy duet from Pagliacci struck properly verismo sparks. Hvorostovsky uncorked a majestic rendition of Yeletsky’s aria from The Queen of Spades. And the two were simply sensational in the final duet from Eugene Onegin, etched with idiomatic flair and ripely dramatic conviction. I’ve never heard it sung better.