Roberto Alagna, in Brussels, charming the pants off a luminous Nathalie Manfrino (who did the same for much of the audience. That is if the elderly, portly walloon beside me with the slightly incongruous opera glasses rushing to his face every time she came on stage was anything to go by). There’s only so far you can take the stormy, primadonna approach to your art before cracks begin to appear, but Alagna at least, unlike his wife, has thus far managed to skirt the boundary of indulgence and artistry with puckish, teasing appeal.


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