Here comes Rigoletto, the opera in which Verdi shows that no revenge, curse or master plan can stand up to the enormous power of human stupidity. A manual of lyrical self-destruction, narrated amid fanfares, ill-conceived kidnappings and paternal decisions, it would make any therapist tremble.
The story couldn’t be more edifying: Rigoletto, a professional jester and Olympic champion in sarcasm, humiliates nobles on behalf of a duke whose libido would make Zeus look like a seminarian. Everything goes well—or functionally badly—until Rigoletto discovers that you can’t be cruel, raise an angelic daughter in captivity, and expect the universe not to bill you with interest.
The Duke of Mantua, a frivolous and magnificently hateful creature, sings about female fickleness (La donna è mobile, the national anthem of narcissists) while seducing Gilda, who in her infinite innocence believes that true love comes disguised with a salary as an extra.
Musically, Verdi laughs in the face of decorum. Questa o quella sounds like the opening song of a bar for desperate singles, while the duets and trios are pure emotional dynamite disguised as elegant polyphony.
The ending? A glorious catastrophe. Rigoletto, in an act of brilliant idiocy, hires an assassin. But Gilda, a graduate in bad decisions, throws herself into the sacrifice. Rigoletto is left alone, holding the corpse of his only hope, while the entire opera elegantly laughs at him, at you, and at tutti quanti.
The censors of the time, ever vigilant, forced the replacement of a king with an invented duke, as if that would wash away the sordidness. Hypocrisy in F major.
Rigoletto is an opera for those who know that life does not reward the good, that intelligence is no vaccine against pain, and that trusting men who sing well usually ends in tragedy.
