NORTH AMERICA NEW YORK CITY Though performed more often than its scope and difficulty would seem to permit, Prokofiev's War and Peace will always be a special event, like a complete Ring cycle, in the international repertory. New to the Met's repertory, the work appeared on the Met stage in previous productions by the visiting Bolshoi Theater in 1975 and English National Opera in 1984. This coproduction with the Mariinsky Theater opened in St. Petersburg in 2000; it opened in New York on February 14.
Prokofiev's score, an outgrowth of his experience in ballet and film as well as his other operas, combines effusive lyricism with subtle characterization, running a full range from delicate introspection to jingoistic jubilation. Its libretto, fashioned by the composer and his common-law wife, Mira Mendelson, compresses Tolstoy's novel drastically, yet there are still sixty-eight roles, divided at the Met among fifty-two singers. For the extensive public scenes, the Met uses a chorus of 120, forty-one dancers and 227 supers, plus a horse and several other animals.
Filling a stage with hundreds of people, however, could result in nothing but a crowded stage, like a high-school graduation ceremony. That this didn't happen is a credit to director Andrei Konchalovsky (Met debut) and his four busy assistants, as well as to choreographer Sergei Gritsai (another house debut).
Their efforts were both expedited and impeded by George Tsypin's ambitiously conceived stage, a dome-shaped semicircular spin-off from the Bayreuth "world disk." There's still plenty of mileage left in this half-century-old innovation of Wieland Wagner's. But Tsypin's version suffers from steepness and height. The designer used it as a hill, bridge or redoubt in the second, War, half of the opera. Everyone had to step carefully, and in the finale a retreating French grenadier slipped off into the orchestra pit, where he was caught by a safety net. This briefly stopped the performance. During curtain calls, general manager Joseph Volpe brought the man onstage, reassuring the audience that he was all right.
Tsypin designed the rest of the picture as if for a ballet, limiting broad imagery to the cyclorama, where Elaine McCarthy (new to the Met) supplied projections of scudding clouds, a Moscow skyline, smoke and flames from the burning city. Against this changing background, Tsypin suspended pieces of architectural scenery and arranged a few small, quickly removed, realistic props. This system permitted fluid transitions among the opera's thirteen scenes. By leaving the stage mostly open, it allowed for crowds and movement. It had two dampening effects: one on the intimate scenes, which looked lost, the other on the soloists' ability to project voice and character, perched as they were high on the ramp, far from the audience, without acoustical support from built scenery.
The one element that fit Tsypin's concept equally comfortably in Parts I and II was the costuming by the Kirov's Tatiana Noginova. In her Met debut, she anchored the generalities of the stage framework with an imaginative authenticity and energetic variety that made the period come alive, focusing the episodes in a time and place more specific than what one saw in the sets.
In other respects, Tsypin's vision suited Part I, Peace, less comfortably than Part II. The opening scene takes place in May -- too early for the White Nights, perhaps, but too late in the year for the inky, starry sky that negated the characters' descriptions of springtime and nature. In a quick transition, translucent columns, lit from within (a 1940s Hollywood touch), descended to suggest, rather than define, the ballroom for Scene 2. The dancing -- mostly choreographic, rather than ballroom dancing -- felt as distant as it looked. In Scene 3, the contrast of the stuffy, confined Bolkonsky drawing room could only be imagined, not felt. Scene 4, a reprise of the party atmosphere, added a boudoir mirror in the middle of the dance floor, a symbol of vanity and duplicity. The remaining three scenes of Part I worked more effectively, either by playing closer to the audience (in Lt. Dolokhov's apartment) or by expanding the furnished playing area to allow more movement.
In Part II, with the action outdoors and the scenery turned realistic, the breadth of the stage felt more natural. The nervous rallying of the troops on both sides, criss-crossing with banners, matched up with the sights and sounds of battle. At last the sky showed daylight. There was no falling back on the static, May Day cantata style of Socialist realism for choral scenes. The opera made its point: eventual success depends on a coalition. The Russian military, trained and uniformed much like Napoleon's, drew support from the civilian population, which improvised its own campaign against the invaders.
At the head of this endeavor stood an unlikely hero, Marshal Kutuzov, himself no longer in great shape physically but possessed of both military savvy and peasant shrewdness. Samuel Ramey, who has usually played strongmen in opera, gave this character its more interesting dimension. He acted the role with some signs of weakness and faltering, causing concern that Kutuzov might not be up to the job; but during his big monologue, his voice grew in determination and conviction, overcoming its own initial hints of hesitancy. A touching moment was his meeting and immediate mutuality with Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, an officer from a social background opposite to his own. While war is an abomination, Tolstoy's novel tells us, it does bring people together in awareness of what's important.
Dmitri Hvorostovsky's fluent nobility of sound suited Prince Andrei as perfectly as his tall physique. The baritone built this character from early stirrings of self-awareness (the nocturnal musings of Scene 1) to a death scene in which his initial vision of Natasha materializes again from fragments of consciousness, much as Tolstoy described. Possessed of a dramatic voice and powerful legato, Hvorostovsky also has a remarkable capacity for registering degrees, for finding the musical equivalent of le mot juste. During the death scene, director Konchalovsky gave Andrei a hallucinatory rise from his hospital bed to reenact his first waltz with Natasha. While this seemed dramatically questionable, it did illuminate Prokofiev's reasons for writing such a dreamy, distant, unreal waltz in the first place.
Anna Netrebko, slim, radiant and fresh-voiced, is a lighter-weight Natasha than the usual spinto soprano, but her lines carried with clarity and assurance, while she acted with an easy blend of naïveté and youthful impetuosity in her Met debut. After a bad reception by Andrei's relatives (Scene 3), she was off balance and susceptible to her would-be seducer, Anatol Kuragin. In that role, Oleg Balashov (Met debut) conveyed a volatility and impulsiveness that dangerously ignited hers. In subsequent scenes with fellow officers and with Anatol's brother-in-law, Count Pierre Bezukhov, the tenor probed his character's shallow depths for further traces of instability and cowardice -- no small achievement for so brief a role.
Tenor Gegam Grigorian made the most of Pierre's sympathetic nature. To him belongs a memorable line, delivered in disgust at the social whirl around his scheming wife, Hélène (blowsy, full-throated Victoria Livengood): "The only value of such a life lies in the pleasure of giving it up." Pierre's decency, his thoughtfulness and concern, came through in Grigorian's measured delivery and temperate acting. Vassily Gerello's studiously deranged Napoleon, on the other hand, showed how a corrosive mixture of idealistic theory and military genius could dehumanize life, reducing it to a chess game. There were numerous other vivid characterizations -- Vladimir Ognovenko's crusty Bolkonsky père, Elena Obraztsova's hoarsely indignant Mme. Akhrosimova, Ekaterina Semenchuk's Met debut as a gentle Sonya, Nikolai Gassiev's patiently philosophical Platon Karatayev. As the list of cast members grew longer, their roles grew shorter. The ensemble, uniform in its readiness, dealt fairly with all these assignments.
Valery Gergiev, a solid advocate for Prokofiev's operas, dug his hands into the score, bringing out its glinting details as well as its sprawling grandeur. Because of the staging -- the height and distance of the chorus from the stage apron in the first ballroom scene, for example -- and the characters' frequently insecure footing, it wasn't always possible to maintain close coordination. But choristers and orchestra players alike put their backs into it, lifting the mighty apparatus until it soared. There were times when less might have been more, but this mass effort was every bit the sum of its parts.
JOHN W. FREEMAN
A return visit to the Met January 11 was the opportunity to hear some alternate singers in Herbert Wernicke's widely admired (but not by me) new production of Die Frau ohne Schatten. The most prominent cast-change had Sue Patchell replacing Deborah Voigt as the Empress. The California soprano, internationally experienced in central Wagner and Richard Strauss roles, lent this Strauss heroine a convincing aura of youth and impetuosity. The Empress's nightmare of fear for her husband's life and conscience over Barak, and her joy at finally acquiring her shadow (signifying, in Hugo von Hofmannsthal's libretto, full humanity and fertility) and regaining the Emperor, were vivid to see. And for much of the long evening, she sang expressively and paced herself wisely. But she lacked, particularly in the Act III denunciation and banishment of the Nurse, the thrilling vocal power that the music demands and that Voigt and the likes of the late Leonie Rysanek (if such likes existed) brought to the scene.
Hanna Schwarz, who had cancelled several scheduled appearances as the Nurse because of illness, replaced her faithful, sonorous and characterful replacement, Reinhild Runkel, whose turn it was to be sick. Schwarz delivered a vocally modest but effective and visually glamorous Nurse, one quite inclined to seduce this decidedly impressionable Empress. John Horton Murray stretched his lyric tenor carefully to accommodate most of the Emperor's heavier outbursts, but he emerged not quite unscarred vocally, and Wernicke as costume and wig designer might have given this not totally charismatic tenor a break. Harry Dworchak's Spirit Messenger was just as scary and impressive as his predecessor's, and Marjorie Elinor Dix sounded stronger than her earlier counterpart as the Emperor's tormented falcon.
Wolfgang Brendel sustained his baritone more fully than before as Barak, and Gabriele Schnaut, as his wife, shouted less and sang more. Once again, the poetic and touching moments at the ends of Acts I and III (respectively, the Night Watchmen's trio and Barak's wife caressing the rose he gave her) were welcome oases in this dramatically ungenerous production. Christian Thielemann conducted the ever-fabulous orchestra with no cuts in Strauss's richest score.
On January 19, the Met season's second Don Carlo squad went into action, a couple of them for only one night. Paul Nadler, temporarily replacing Valery Gergiev on the podium, seemed in solid charge and marshaled his extensive forces sensibly. Eduardo Villa, a Californian tenor, made an auspicious Met debut in the title role, meeting its vocal demands with justified confidence. He was stylish, musicianly and strong (without announcing himself as a dazzling star), and he acted the complex character more completely than do most current tenors. He should be useful to the company.
As Rodrigo, Russia's Vassily Gerello displayed a lyric baritone almost unique in its smoothness, grace and elegance these days. Very much in the vocal class of the man he replaced, Dmitri Hvorostovsky, Gerello gave the character a more rugged aspect yet with no loss in theatrical charm and sincerity. Paata Burchuladze's Philip was not so rivetingly acted as Samel Ramey's, but it was more richly sung, and Vladimir Ognovenko gave the Inquisitor plenty of vocal power and visual menace. Veronica Villarroel's Elisabetta was unfailingly beautiful in an interestingly cool way. The evening's most striking performer, however, was Dolora Zajick as Eboli. This singer had everything for the role, and thank heaven, she flaunted it all. There have been wonderful Ebolis throughout the Met's years with this opera, including Zajick, but at least since Rudolf Bing's first opening night in 1950, my first experience of Don Carlo (via live TV), I had never heard one like this. Her voice danced, as well as sang, every roulade of the veil song. "O don fatale" had the loveliest velvet in its central lament and fire from the depths to its Isolde-style top when self-loathing and heroic determination were up front. Now, if these singers and some of their colleagues might return in a near-future season and do the opera in its right language -- French, so much more dramatic as set by Verdi than the standard Italian translation -- the ideal Don Carlos would be closer to hand.
Several new cast members graced the Met season's first five performances of Jonathan Miller's 1998 production of Le Nozze di Figaro. The revival, conducted by Donald Runnicles with verve and sensitivity -- and with Robin Guarino of the Met's staging staff smoothly editing some of Miller's less felicitous ideas -- marked the company debuts of Finnish soprano Soile Isokoski and Swedish baritone Peter Mattei as the Almavivas. As heard and seen at the February 9 matinee, they both proved to be proficient Mozarteans. Isokoski was both touching and witty when she had to be, and vocally she was adept at connecting single phrases into beautifully glowing paragraphs. One particular example of her excellence was the reprise of the "Dove sono" melody, which she spun out on a pianissimo thread exceeded for perfection only by Eleanor Steber and Renée Fleming in my fifty-five years of Figaro listening. Mattei, handsome and very tall, acted the Count's more rakish impulses without stint and showed unusual poise as loser in the "Sua madre" skirmish and when begging the Countess's forgiveness at the end. He is one of the few Counts who can command his big aria without apparent struggle.
Korliss Uecker, new to the role of Susanna this season, sang with grace and bloom and made all the right witty and charming moves. But these moves, both of pretty face and pretty figure, were consistently and annoyingly mechanical, as if Guarino were pressing buttons all the while. Nevertheless, Uecker's singing could not seriously be faulted. Kristine Jepson, who has sung and acted Cherubino with superb stylishness and friskiness at New York City Opera in recent years, proved equally admirable as introduced to Met audiences. More familiar Met encounters included, most prominently, Ferruccio Furlanetto's Figaro, a trifle over-rustic but singing with a bracing basso vigor. Paul Plishka is on a Beaumarchais roll this season, this time with a vocally fluent and histrionically dignified Bartolo, one however with a sense of humor about himself as well as others. (After this matinée, he was back onstage in the evening for Rossini's version of the same character.)
LEIGHTON KERNER
LOS ANGELES Achim Freyer might seem an improbable choice to direct a stage version of Bach's Mass in B Minor. Few choral works express as deeply seated a belief in the Christian order as Bach's masterpiece, and Freyer, trained by Bertolt Brecht and Ruth Berghaus, comes from an austerely secular background, which treated all tenets of religious faith as products of superstition, poverty and social exploitation. Freyer's defection to the West in 1973 suggests he questioned this rigorous materialism, but since then his operatic productions have done little to support this view. His use of pop art onstage and his tendency to demystify operatic action indicate that he is still prompted by the tendencies of his earlier days. Why, therefore, did he take it upon himself to stage the Mass in B Minor, first at the Schwetzingen Festival in 1996, and now at Los Angeles Opera?
Perhaps it was because Bach and the modern German theatrical left may not be so alien as they at first appear. Bach was as much a figure of the Enlightenment as of the Baroque age, as his music endows Christian worship with human dimensions. It explores not only the power of the divine but, more frequently perhaps, the sources of faith within the individual soul. In so doing, it prepares for the Enlightenment, a movement that transformed German music and theater, as it turned from devotion to God and absolute authority toward perspectives that placed human beings at the center of the universe. Two centuries later, the rationality and humane sympathies of the Enlightenment can still be felt in the work of Brecht. Achim Freyer may not be so distant from Bach after all.
Freyer's staging does not purport to be a theatrical representation of the Mass, nor can it be, as, while the score has many dramatic qualities, it neither provides a linear action nor incorporates concrete human situations. Rather, the production is a meditation on themes suggested by the Mass. Man, in Freyer's view, is the measure of all things. The walls of the white cube that serves for the set are covered in drawings of male faces, torsos and detached limbs, reminiscent of sketches by Leonardo da Vinci. The stage floor and at times the walls are divided into geometrical planes that recall Goethe's division of the stage into sectors. Within this space, the nine movement artists of the Freyer Ensemble form static and moving tableaux that embody phases of human life, such as birth and death, peace and war, community and isolation, and articulate emotional states, such as hope and despair, love and alienation. The figures are not elegant, the naturally graceful lines of the human body are made bulbous, enlarged, even distorted by the actors' suits, which seem made of papier-maché. Their feet are overlarge, so that they appear anchored to the ground, giving their bodies a strangely attenuated quality, like Giacometti's sculptures. Movement is predominantly slow, and only toward the end are props introduced -- sticks and finally step-ladders. The entire production is devoted to defining the multiplicity of the human condition, established through the contrast between human roundness and angular movement, all within the rigid lines of a material environment.
Freyer's work does not exist in a vacuum. The spatial tensions derive from Adolph Appia, while the slow, dreamlike movement exercises a mesmeric hold over the audience much as Robert Wilson's does. Nevertheless, there is something distinctly cerebral in this representation of the Mass. Freyer's images do not instantly capture the imagination and enthrall, as do the best of Wilson's; one is not caught by moments of luminous magic or surprising wit. As a result, the performance is a solemn affair, and it even takes an act of will for the audience to sustain attention. This is due in part to Freyer's insistence on playing everything behind a gauze screen, which covers the proscenium. This strategy has only one effect: the disengagement of the audience from the action. The gauze not only comes between actors and audience, it tends to flatten out the performance, reducing it to two dimensions, so one views it more like a movie than a play. The gauze also muddies the colors, so one is rarely granted a clear view of the actors. It is impossible to let one's imagination penetrate the stage and participate in the performance. Most of the time, there is little apparent connection between the music, which is both played and sung in the pit, and the events onstage. At times, as in the Crucifixus and Resurrexit of the Credo, the actors catch precisely the mood of the music, and suddenly one is moved. But more frequently the staging seems arbitrary, and one catches oneself wondering if it could not be performed to any music.
Peter Schreier conducted a fashionably small orchestra and chorus, though with modern rather than period instruments. The reduced size might have worked in a correspondingly small space, but the music had difficulty filling the large auditorium of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, so it never generated that concentrated sound that leads one to believe that Bach's choruses are being performed by forces far larger than are actually singing. The young soloists, all from Germany, were peculiarly colorless; only the mezzo, Annekathrin Laabs, brought a fluency and warmth to the music that filled it with the humanism that is so notable a feature of Bach's work, the only feature in fact that justifies such a stage production.
Freyer's Mass in B Minor is unlikely to find a broad range of admirers in the U.S., and it should not be expected to. It is an experimental work, devised initially for an audience of Bach enthusiasts at the Schwetzingen Festival, and even there it aroused a mixed critical response. It is now strange to see work that many will regard as arcane and esoteric on the stage of a large opera house, either European or American. But this should not stand in the way of Freyer being invited to return to the Music Center as a director of opera. His theatricality is striking, even disturbing, and, though this was not apparent in the Mass, exhilaratingly irreverent. Los Angeles Opera has been more enterprising than most American companies in encouraging original approaches to stage production. Much of Freyer's work is more accessible, and one hopes more of it will be seen in Los Angeles in the not-too-distant future.
SIMON WILLIAMS
HOUSTON Sirens whined again, as the rising curtain revealed the frantic fugitives hiding from the law. After an absence of twenty-five years, Carlisle Floyd's Of Mice and Men opened at Houston Grand Opera on February 1 (seen Feb. 6). This 1970 work, close to being "new" at its previous presentations here, in 1973 and 1977, returned to Houston as a seasoned veteran, having garnered acceptance and many performances, including this production, which has been seen at the Washington Opera and Austria's Bregenz Festival. HGO had presented five of Floyd's other operas since Of Mice and Men last played here, four of them premieres.
Francesca Zambello's production seemed to target the timelessness and universality of Steinbeck's story; the rural America depicted in Richard Hudson's sets and costumes suggested Texas and Oklahoma in the 1950s rather than Steinbeck's California of the 1930s, but various anachronistic elements (intentional, one hopes) seemed to defy any definite reading of time or place. The sets themselves were effective; the oppressive bunkhouse contrasted with the wide-open skies of the attractively-painted backdrop, which was brilliantly lit by Wolfgang Göbbel. The debris-littered train yard was a suitably dismal setting for the audience's first and last views of George and Lennie, and the barn, thanks to Göbbel's lighting, seemed an eerie respite from the summer heat. It was strewn with the implements of harvest (read: death), in a subtle addition to Steinbeck's and Floyd's heavy-handed prefiguring of the story's climactic deaths.
Christian Räth's realistic direction made ample use of his athletic, mostly young cast, all estimable actors. Anthony Dean Griffey, a man whose physique makes him a natural for this role, was so effective in his portrayal of Lennie's childlike yet menacing nature that it was almost painful to watch him. He employed a broad palette of remarkably beautiful colors. In passages at the beginning and end of the opera, these stunning sounds emphasized Lennie's vulnerability; in his Act I duet with George, they trumpeted his character's optimism.
Elizabeth Futral, lithe and beautiful as Curley's Wife, broadcast an aggressive sexuality tempered with bouts of childlike pouting. She defied the technical hurdles of Floyd's odd coloratura writing for her character, delivering roulades and wide skips with ease, which tamed the intended shrewishness of her character in Act I but prepared the vulnerability that Floyd highlighted in Act III. She spent a lot of her time striking provocative poses and climbing or hanging from various elements of the set, an aerobic workout that made her vocal performance all the more remarkable. One suspects that she had fun playing the tart. In their Act III duet, Griffey and Futral made the most of what is certainly the most effective dramatic moment in the opera, when the two simultaneously reveal their innocent dreams for the future.
As George, Gordon Hawkins visibly but resignedly shouldered his character's many burdens; his rich baritone defined George's solidity. Joseph Evans made the most of Curley's unsympathetic character and music; James Maddalena sang Slim with authority. Julian Patrick, who originated the role of George in the world premiere of Of Mice and Men, sang Candy in this production.
HGO music director Patrick Summers conducted the HGO Orchestra, which sounded quite polished. (The performers are preparing a recording of this production, for Albany Records, which will be the first commercial recording of the opera.) At the curtain call, the singers were enthusiastically recognized, and Griffey received a relatively rare standing ovation from a significant portion of the audience.
WALTER B. BAILEY
SAN DIEGO Now in its thirty-seventh year of operations, San Diego Opera took a deep breath and tested the Handelian waters for the first time. Would local audiences sit through three and a half hours of a Baroque opera that most of them had never heard of? Alas, not all those who attended opening night of Handel's Ariodante made it through to the end, but their defections bore little relation to the quality of the presentation. All seven principal singers seemed perfectly cast in this handsome show, originally co-produced by Dallas Opera and New York City Opera.
As she was at the 1998 premiere in Dallas, mezzo Vivica Genaux was on hand to do some of the best singing of her young career as the opera's eponymous hero. Though her many gifts do not include vocal amplitude, her musicianship proved virtually flawless, and she was able to negotiate the most complex passages as if they were not in the least daunting. Most impressive was the way she seemed to believe in her character, as if this stereotypical Baroque "trouser role" possessed a third dimension. Her Act II aria, "Scherza infida," was heartbreaking, and elsewhere she looked and sounded dazzling.
Meanwhile, soprano Rosemary Joshua marvelously realized Ariodante's adored Ginevra, and soprano Christine Brandes brought the role of the heroine's romantic rival, Dalinda, to life in a memorably temperamental characterization. Looking slightly ridiculous in an oversized crown, bass-baritone Julien Robbins excelled as the King of Scotland, making the most of his wonderful aria, "Voli colla sua tromba la fama," with its gorgeous accompaniment of horns. As the villain Polinesso, who lacks even a single aria that might curry audience sympathy, countertenor David Walker was highly flamboyant as he paraded around in green silks and petulantly flicked his lengthy train. He sang extremely well, though saddled with intricate passages and a low-lying tessitura that made him difficult to hear in the large venue of the Civic Theater.
As Lurcanio, tenor Bruce Fowler provided a warmly sympathetic presence, as well as a welcome relief from the numerous high-treble voices in this opera, while tenor Andrew Truett made the most of the least conspicuous part, that of Odoardo, the King's favorite. John Copley directed with elegant restraint and intelligence, while conductor Kenneth Montgomery exacted stylish playing from the local orchestra. Several of the da capo arias were decapitated, so to speak, and the ballet of "Good and Bad Dreams" was eliminated, but only purists were grumbling. Designer Conklin's aesthetic vision, which repeats itself through much of his work these days, offered glimpses of a crumbling Greco-Roman world, with classical fragments flanked by picture-frame openings and mobile panels of faux marble. Michael Stennett's costumes were a colorful pastiche of period styles ranging over a few centuries, although the story takes place in medieval Edinburgh.
DAVID GREGSON
INTERNATIONAL BARCELONA The Gran Teatre del Liceu, a landmark of the Catalonian capital, has developed strong ties to the musicians the public considers its own, and no love is greater here than that professe
d for the local diva, Montserrat Caballé.
In January, Caballé celebrated her fortieth anniversary at the Liceu with a comeback and with the publication of a picture book on her long and fruitful association with the theater she generously helped reconstruct after the fire that destroyed it in 1994. After eleven years without singing a staged opera at the Liceu, Caballé chose to return in a role that wouldn't remind audiences of her own career (or of any other stars in their prime): Catherine of Aragon in Saint-Saëns's long-forgotten Henry VIII. This is a massive grand opera from the composer's mature phase, in four full-blown acts, complete with a ballet at the end of Act II and booming choir to close Act III. Henry VIII had been performed only twice in Spain: at Madrid's Teatro Real, in 1908, at which time not even the composer's presence could muster much enthusiasm for the work.
Henry VIII is a difficult, unrewarding opera, perhaps the first without melody, because the melodic flow of the composer of Samson et Dalila seemed to have dried out. His academic mastery of the techniques of his art and a Romantic reinvention of Tudor music cannot sustain interest in the score through its almost four hours of music.
The libretto, a crafty concoction by Léonce Détroyat and Armand Silvestre, is based on one of Shakespeare's lesser history plays and on a minor work by his Spanish contemporary, Pedro Calderón de la Barca. In this telling, Catherine is the noble victim, Anne Boleyn an ambitious, sexy but fragile courtier (a mixture of Princess Eboli and Evita Perón). The king holds his autocratic grip over the proceedings with a combination of Realpolitik cruelty and over-aged lust that makes him the only interesting character around. Pierre Jourdan's staging was simple, practical but boring. The singers stood and sat still a lot, and Guillermo Auger's stodgy sets contributed to the impression of a complete lack of movement onstage.
Simon Estes, in the demanding, over-present role of King Henry, used his booming middle register and acting skill to compensate for faulty diction and weakness in the high notes. Lithuanian mezzo Nomeda Kazlaus had the perfect voice and the adequately dangerous good looks for the cunning temptress that this opera makes of Anne Boleyn. Her strong, youthful voice was welcome in this cast. The tenor in this opera is more a chess piece than a developed character: Don Gómez de Feria, ambassador of Spain, former lover of Anne and defender of Catherine. Charles Workman's relatively small, ingratiating yet rather spineless voice provided everything this secondary role required.
As for Caballé, the Liceu's fifth-floor stalwarts and balcony aristocrats alike waited patiently for the diva to sing anything resembling a solo aria that would give them an opportunity to show their gratitude and appreciation for her forty years of loyalty to this theater. They had to wait until deep into Act III. Caballé's range, leaps and sustained notes are not what they used to be, but she gave flashes and hints of the great singer she once was. She was greeted with cheers and applause.
However, the loudest and longest ovation came after the Act II ballet, and rightly so. In less than ten minutes, American Ballet Theater star Julio Bocca, a native of Argentina, and three female dancers of his Ballet Argentino company infused real passion into an otherwise uneven night. Not all is well when a ballet is the most attractive part of a four-act opera.
ROBERTO HERRSCHER
BERLIN In assigning directors for his first season as general intendant at the Deutsche Oper Berlin, Udo Zimmermann seems to have been more concerned with big names than with choosing the right person for the right piece. The season's first two new productions (Nono's Intolleranza and the Verdi Requiem) were staged by very talented, very famous directors -- whose skills, however, did not at all suit the works to which Zimmermann assigned them. In both cases, the results were disappointing. The third premiere of the new era, Offenbach's Les Contes d'Hoffmann (opened Jan. 18), set an even lower standard for dissatisfying, shockingly provincial productions at the Deutsche Oper, the reputation of which has been far from great in recent years.
Actor-director Sven-Eric Bechtolf had staged only two operas prior to Hoffmann; here, he came up with clichés of Regietheater in its worst form, tossing about "concepts," pretending to be avant-garde, funny, daring or deeply psychoanalytical. For example, Spalanzani's party was attended not by humans but by mechanical dolls, all of which were less sophisticated than Olympia. But why would Spalanzani have his own creatures admire Olympia? Moreover, the ability to admire something requires the ability to feel and think -- which would make the crowd of dolls more highly developed than Olympia, who is programmed only for one song and the word "oui."
Bechtholf's concepts simply could not withstand scrutiny. In Act II, the director kept Antonia's dead mother (dressed in a bridal gown with wings on her arms) onstage from beginning to end, leading her daughter around her tomb on a red leash. In the trio at the end of the act, the Mother forced Antonia to serve tea like a maid or housewife -- again quite the opposite of what this scene is actually about, since the Mother invokes Antonia's longing for art and fame. Between such concepts, Bechtolf did not know what to do with the characters, so he staged a couple of tableaux vivants and let the singers surrender to standard gestures most of the time.
Rolf Glittenberg's unimaginative, unappealing sets -- a dark gray box for the prologue and epilogue, a white box for Olympia and Giulietta, a tomb for Antonia -- did little to distract one's attention from the uninspired staging. Neither did Marianne Glittenberg's tasteless 1980s costumes in black, white and red, nor the decision to perform every bit of Hoffmann material that has been discovered to date (which made the evening last nearly four hours).
Brigitte Hahn sang wonderfully as Olympia, Antonia and Giulietta; Michael Kaye's edition of the score supports the use of a soprano as Giulietta, though casting a mezzo in the role of the courtesan often provides a more sensual, seductive air. Robert Hale delivered a solid, if in parts slightly worn vocal portrayal of the four villains. Yvonne Wiedstruck failed to leave a mark as Nicklausse, and Keith Olsen's Hoffmann, with a pinched top and without the slightest idea of French style, turned out to be the weakest among the singers. Asher Fisch conducted as if trying to prove that Offenbach was a dull, one-dimensional composer.
JOCHEN BREIHOLZ
STRASBOURG Described by Rossini scholar Richard Osborne as "one of [the composer's] grandest pieces of musical architecture," Maometto II, Rossini's penultimate opera for Naples (1820, later revised for Paris as Le Siège de Corinthe), seldom makes it beyond the frontiers of Italy. (Beverly Sills starred in a heavily cut performing edition, L'Assedio di Corinto, at La Scala in 1969 and the Met in 1975.) A new staging at the Opéra National du Rhin was met with great anticipation (premiere in Mulhouse, Jan. 18, seen in Strasbourg, Feb. 3). The opera emerged a clear winner, keeping this listener on the edge of his seat throughout its three-hour length. It was one of those rare performances that one leaves in a state of near bliss.
The opera came across with such panache despite a lack of starry names in the cast. Cyril Diederich, the experienced music director of the Orchestre Symphonique de Mulhouse, led a team of ardently engaged young singers with healthy, well-schooled voices. The conductor's work was competent, if hardly galvanizing, but he produced majestic music from fecund melodies, darkened by the orchestra's massive brass contingent and lightened by sensuously shaped clarinet solos and soothing harp arpeggios. Recitatives, arias and ensembles (plus mighty choruses, directed by Michel Capperon) blended, so that often the Strasbourg audience couldn't tell where one number stopped and the next began. (This made it difficult to applaud.) Every number, including an enormous terzettone for tenor, soprano and mezzo (stretching over 867 bars), bears the unmistakable Rossini stamp.
Maometto's libretto deals with the mid-fifteenth-century siege of Negroponte, a Venetian settlement in Greece, by the Turkish army of Sultan Mohammed II. This historical incident provides the background for the (wholly fictitious) love story between Anna, daughter of the Venetian governor Erisso, and Maometto, with whom she has fallen in love after meeting him under a different name -- and whom she now rejects as the mortal enemy of her people. It's a story of love versus duty -- duty wins but claims Anna as its suicidal victim. The director, Daniel Slater, refrained from specific reference to present-day politics, setting the story during Greece's war for independence from the Turks, the conflict that inspired Rossini (and Byron). Francis O'Connor provided appropriate, Delacroix-style 1820s decor and costumes. The production managed to stir audience sympathies -- and it perfectly suited the pathos of Rossini's fervent music.
In the challenging role of Anna, Athenian soprano Irini Tsirakidis carried herself with dignity, sailed through her roulades fearlessly and rose to heroic heights in the last act, where she prepares for her death at her mother's tomb. As Erisso, American tenor Stephen Mark Brown attacked his role's fiendish heights with vigor and without strain, but his coloratura was somewhat blurred. Tall and commanding, gifted with a splendid physique and a bass to match, Denis Sedov (Maometto) seduced with his voice as well as with his presence. The inevitable trouser-role hero, here named Calbo, received a lustrous performance from Enkelejda Shkosa, more mezzo than contralto, but possessed of a warmly pulsating voice of pearly sheen.
HORST KOEGLER
MUNICH Can you guess the title of the Bavarian State Opera's new production? The curtain opens to reveal a unit set consisting of a huge black staircase, roughly thirty steps high and covering the length and width of the Nationaltheater stage. With the exception of a chandelier that occasionally descends over these stairs, there is no scenery, and there are no props. The entire chorus is costumed in evening dress and comes out to witness even the most intimate of scenes. In the first scene, they carry programs, and it appears they are on their way to the performance that the audience is attending. Some minor characters are dressed as if they were employees of the opera house (ushers, for example). The opera takes place entirely on that stairway. Because the stairs are wide and difficult to negotiate, ladies in high heels are in imminent danger. The leading lady, who has to run up and down the stairs and fall in a swoon now and then, looks uncomfortable from her first entrance until her death scene. (However, she doesn't die: the soprano simply walks up the stairs and exits after her last sung line.)
If you guessed Puccini's Manon Lescaut, you're correct (seen Jan. 18). Andreas Homoki, the man whom Munich can thank for making a pistol the star of Mozart's Idomeneo and for overburdening the stage in Strauss's Arabella, has now gotten his claws into Puccini. By forcibly taking the story out of context, Homoki wanted us to concentrate solely upon universal themes. Because all the roles were given to onstage "operagoers," one might view the plot as a parable, drawing parallels to a particularly moneyed, consumer-oriented segment of today's society. The desert is in each of us, Homoki is saying, so we don't need it onstage. Neither do we need any other vestige of the original trappings.
There were one or two powerful images of a world dominated by men, in which Manon must follow rigid rules of behavior or risk being discarded and discredited. For the rest, Homoki succeeded only in separating the music from the drama. The cast could not draw the audience into the spirit of the work.
In the title role, Kallen Esperian provided moments of highly expressive singing, her phrasing well thought-out, her tone full until just above the staff. The top of her voice left her in the lurch on opening night, sounding wiry, forced and downright unpleasant. Although she cut a fine figure in the final three acts, she was costumed most unflatteringly in Act I by Wolfgang Gussmann, in a short, black cocktail gown. As des Grieux, Sergei Larin also had trouble with exposed high notes. When he did hit one, he immediately abandoned it, lurching downward into more secure vocal territory. His idea of phrasing seemed to be to sing a few measures and then take a deep breath. After a tentative Act I (and top notes aside), he did round into form and gave an acceptable performance.
Paolo Gavanelli managed to present a believable Lescaut. A flutter in his voice sometimes became annoying, but his sense of style was unassailable, his mastery of the small but important role always in evidence. Veteran Karl Helm was a competent if un-Italianate Geronte; Homoki also forced him to double as the captain of the (nonexistent) ship at the end of Act III. Ulrich Ress made the most of the Ballet Master; Helena Jungwirth used her velvety voice to advantage as the Madrigal Singer. The chorus sang well, looking stunning but very much out of place.
The hero of the evening was conductor Fabio Luisi. His approach to the score is more dramatic than lyric -- he obviously sees more passion than tenderness in the music -- but it was he who communicated Puccini's youthful exuberance to the audience. The music pulsed and throbbed, as the emotion missing onstage emanated from the orchestra pit. The maestro garnered the most applause; the singers were treated kindly, the director gently booed by a public very much used to the vagaries of today's egocentric stage directors.
JEFFREY A. LEIPSIC
CONCERTS AND RECITALS NEW YORK CITY In her "Liederabend in Hommage to Lotte Lehmann (Alice Tully Hall, Feb. 21), Grace Bumbry wowed an already affectionate audience without relying on those nostalgic allowances made for a beloved veteran artist. Paying tribute to her mentor in the best possible way -- by example -- she presented a program of Schubert, Brahms, Liszt and Richard Strauss songs, with one aria, Marguerite's "D'amour l'ardente flamme" from Berlioz's La Damnation de Faust, for good measure.
Lehmann was a singer whose every word brimmed with emotional frenzy; Bumbry has never been about that. She communicates through the beauty of her voice, her regal presence and immaculate, forward diction. From the first selection, Schubert's "Liebesbotschaft," it was clear that breath support and diction were of paramount importance; in her program notes about Lehmann, Bumbry credited the older singer with giving her that awareness of text. Her still-beautiful and sizable voice (when did you last attend a lieder recital at which the piano lid was completely raised?) warmed quickly; control of the registers was admirable, with plummy chest notes a special treat. "Rastlose Liebe" and "Du bist die Ruh" were sung with elegant restraint, the latter perhaps lacking that ultimate shimmering intensity it can inspire. "Die Männer sind méchant" was a mini-drama, featuring marvelous word coloration.
The Brahms set supplied a highlight with "Lerchengesang," the singer taking herself and us to another level through her connection with the poetry, and a wise, seductive "Therese," every inch the mature woman gently letting down the adoring boy. The spell was broken briefly by an equally adoring fan whooping it up mid-set, to which Bumbry responded, "Sounds like he's having a good time."
To Liszt's "Enfant, si j'étais Roi," the mezzo-soprano lent majesty (an expected commodity) melting into vulnerability (more surprising), then brought down the house with "O! quand je dors," Liszt's vocal minefield, capped with an ascending phrase that would be the envy of a singer half her age. In "D'amour l'ardente flamme," some tricky phrases exposed a shortness of breath only hinted at in the songs.
The Schumann was delivered deftly, the familiar "Widmung" warm and deeply felt in the center section, and the chestnut (or, in this case, walnut) "Der Nussbaum" an intimate shared experience. Strauss was also well served by a detailed reading of "Auftrage" and a delicate, rapturous "Ständchen," played beautifully by accompanist Helmut Deutsch, who also handled the Liszt superbly while remaining discreetly supportive throughout.
Regal in sparkling silver, with a stole so long it exited shortly after the diva, Bumbry could distract from her own excellence as a recitalist by remaining somewhat distant in manner from her material and the world at large. If that quality was on display during the program proper, it melted away for the generous encores, which included Adriana Lecouvreur's "Io son l'umile ancella," Carmen's seguidilla, Santuzza's "Voi lo sapete," Obradors's song "Del cabello mas sutíl," and two spirituals -- a gorgeously intoned "Wade in the water" and "You can tell the world," crowned with a dazzling high B-natural.
IRA SIFF
Thomas Hampson's affinity for the music of Mahler is no secret, yet for this listener -- who had heard him sing the composer's work only on recordings prior to February 13 -- it came as a revelation. Joining tenor Michael Schade and the San Francisco Symphony, under Michael Tilson Thomas at Carnegie Hall, the baritone entered so fully into Das Lied von der Erde that one wasn't always sure he'd find his way back. He seemed to fall into a kind of trance immediately before his first aria, "Der Einsame im Herbst" (The Lonely Man in Autumn), and emerged only after Schade had been merrily caroling along for some minutes in the next section, "Von der Jugend" (On Youth). This might have seemed hammy grandstanding if his singing had betrayed the slightest self-pity or self-consciousness. However, Hampson's interpretation was razor-sharp and profoundly moving. Tilson Thomas, obviously inspired, led an energetic, muscular account of the score.
It is probably unfair to ask any other singer to share the stage with Hampson when he is singing Mahler. Schade's clean Mozartean line was welcome in this music, but ultimately one wants more power than he was able to deliver. His opening "Trinklied" (Drinking-song) required him to start at the top of his range and stay there; later sections lay more comfortably within his grasp, but by then Hampson had already begun to craft his personal statement. Less expert in this music than is his partner, Schade relied on his score and never manifested much emotional involvement in the music -- except during Hampson's "Der Abschied." Then Schade, like many in the audience, appeared to be on the verge of tears.
WILLIAM V. MADISON
NORTH AMERICA: Larsen's Barnum's Bird premiere at the Library of Congress; Gavrilova sings Butterfly in Miami, and Scotto stages it in Palm Beach, where Norma is also heard; Skovhus sings Onegin in Houston; Villaume's conducting redeems C. Alden's staging of Le Nozze di Figaro in Dallas; Fort Worth offers a genteel Norma; Portland's Così Fan Tutte aims for laughs and little else; Milwaukee's Skylight Opera presents Copland's Tender Land, and Florentine Opera presents Britten's Midsummer Night's Dream; Opera Carolina takes a gamble on Der Rosenkavalier and comes up with a winner; Weill's Street Scene is heard at Pittsburgh Opera and New York's Dicapo Opera; Patience in San Francisco; Bicket paces Mentzer, Bruce Ford in Minnesota Opera's La Clemenza di Tito; Opera Tampa celebrates Bernstein with Trouble in Tahiti; an Alfredo's-eye view of La Traviata in Honolulu; Tri-Cities Opera presents L'Elisir d'Amore in Binghamton, NY; in Oberlin, OH, Royer's Le Pouvoir de l'Amour is given its first modern performance. Student performances: Adamo's Little Women in Bloomington; Ward's The Crucible and Rossini's Moïse et Pharaon at Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music.
INTERNATIONAL: Madrid sees stagings of two Debussy works: Le Martyre de Saint Sébastien at the Zarzuela and Pelléas et Mélisande at the Real. Glyndebourne brings Rattle's Fidelio (with Schwanewilms and Begley) and Christie's Rodelinda (with Antonacci and Scholl) to Paris's Châtelet; Tosca returns to the Bastille, under Benini; in Leeds, Opera North brings Albert Herring to the present day; the Schreker revival continues, with Kusej's production of the orgiastic Die Gezeichneten in Stuttgart; Jacobs conducts a spaced-out Il Mondo della Luna at Berlin's Staatsoper; D. Alden stages Handel's Tamerlano in Berlin; Engel's Don Carlo for Leipzig is unintentionally funny; Nancy hears Rihm's Jakob Lenz; Munich's Gärtnerplatz stages Hello, Dolly! auf deutsch, with Horak. South Africa's Stellenbosch Valley is the setting for the Spier Arts Trust's opera festival.
CONCERTS AND RECITALS: In Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, Berio's new ending for Puccini's Turandot is given a world premiere; in New York, Voigt sings Isolde with Masur and the Philharmonic. Carnegie Hall audiences hear Kirchschlager with Orpheus; Grant Murphy, Fleming in appearances with Levine and the MET Orchestra; and recitals from Bonney, Terfel.
WASHINGTON, DC
Minnesota composer Libby Larsen has written a bright, witty choral opera called Barnum's Bird, about P. T. Barnum's hyperbolic promotion of Jenny Lind's 1850 tour of America. The work seems a light enough confection, liberally sprinkled with funny lines, sweet songs and precious little ditties. But at the opera's world-premiere performances in the Coolidge auditorium of the Library of Congress (Feb. 1 and 2), it was plain that between the layers of this angel cake is a heavy -- and none too appetizing -- message about the competing pressures of high art and the marketplace.
Co-commissioned by the Library of Congress and the Minneapolis-based Plymouth Music Series, the work was given a fine performance by an energetic cast. Plymouth's Ensemble Singers filled Coolidge's small stage with a felicitous period-costumed octet and eight-person back-up crew in concert attire. Down in the pit, Plymouth's indefatigable founder and artistic director Philip Brunelle led all of the above, as well as a small orchestra.
The story, deftly scripted by Larsen and Bridget Carpenter, traces Lind's career from the height of her fame in the palaces and opera houses of Europe to the final concerts of her grueling American tour, where we find the singer spent and cheapened by Barnum's greedy, tacky flogging of her extraordinary gifts as his latest "Greatest Show on Earth." Lind was portrayed as one might imagine the artist in all her apparent contradictions: noble yet humble, pious yet diva to the bone. "Don't do it," one thinks as one watches her succumb to Barnum's charms. "Quit your kings and queens for America the free," he entreats. "You will touch their hearts, and I will tap their pockets. And if the public isn't skinned, then my name isn't P. T. Barnum, and your name isn't Jenny Lind." Eager to raise money for her various charitable pursuits, Lind signs Barnum's bottom line and embarks on what was to be a 150-stop U.S. tour. For the rest of the opera, we wince as she muddles through the sad and funny highs and lows -- mostly lows -- of singing for Barnum's assembled throngs in every imaginable venue from New York City's Hippodrome to scruffy barnyards packed tight with people and animals. In the show's final moments, she quits the tour in a state of exhaustion and disillusionment.
Young soprano Esther Heideman sang Lind with something approaching the poise and virtuosity one would expect of the character. In its upper reaches, however, the voice (for which she has been compared with Beverly Sills) was a bit large for this intimate hall. Tenor Gary Briggle, blessed with the best lines and most fully-formed character in the show, offered up an irresistible, irrepressible Barnum. Velvet-voiced baritone Bradley Greenwald was musically and dramatically captivating in his brief turns in the spotlight as Lind's accompanist, Giovanni Belletti. Soprano Jill Ponasik took the role of Tom Thumb.
Larsen and Carpenter's libretto did more than keep the crowd laughing. It sent the audiences -- including assorted Washington bigwigs -- at these performances an eloquent reminder that art and commerce don't always mix well. One can only hope that any lawmakers in attendance will hold that thought all the way into work, where they have the power to vote to increase public support for the arts.
GWENDOLYN L. FREED
HOUSTON
When Tchaikovsky composed Eugene Onegin, he insisted that the first performance be given by students. The composer was searching for simplicity and directness in his adaptation of Pushkin's novel-in-verse, and he feared that a professional house would run roughshod over the work. Houston Grand Opera's production of Tchaikovsky's masterpiece, its third opera of the season, conveyed the spirit of the composer's wishes in many ways. First, there was the physical look. During the mournful overture, we were introduced to a spare set and members of the cast in frozen poses, and this set the tone for the evening. Wolfgang Gussmann's designs consisted of near-solid expanses of color. In the first half, this meant a raked floor of a middling green suggestive of grass and side walls of a dusty yellow reminiscent of fields. No rear wall separated inside from outside. In this fluid terrain, director Willy Decker (whose concept was realized by an assistant, Sabine Hartmannschen) created patterns of movement that expressed the psychology of the characters. These included a four-corner arrangement with characters facing away from the audience, and the use of a side wall as a place of refuge or isolation for a character. More questionable was the director's decision to divide the opera into two acts, with intermission just before the duel scene.
As Tatyana, Bulgarian soprano Zvetelina Vassileva drifted to a wall often in the early going. But how wonderfully she changed in the letter scene! Vassileva became an impulsive teenager (Tchaikovsky wanted Tatyana to be seventeen), and whether squatting, sitting cross-legged or lying flat on her back, the soprano was utterly convincing in the transparency of her emotions. Her transformation to noble aristocrat was not so evident, thanks in part to the staging, which delayed her entrée into society until well into the polonaise that begins Act III. Earlier in the scene, she was still in country dress, staring at the frozen poses of the upper crust, who were too blasé to dance. At the reprise, with the sudden donning of a fur coat, Tatyana became one of them. But Vassileva herself needed a more regal bearing as a grande dame. Her voice, however, rang out powerfully and bespoke great dignity in the final encounter with Onegin.
Bo Skovhus, as Onegin -- a type Turgenev dubbed the "superfluous man" -- cut a magnificent figure. In the first two acts, his strong presence may have been too much of a good thing. He was mesmerizing, but at times this strutting character brought to mind Don Giovanni (a signature role for Skovhus): the baritone overplayed the blasé Russian. Whether good or bad, this approach focused audience sympathy on Onegin as much as on Tatyana, who is usually considered the work's emotional center. On the other hand, Skovhus provided sensitive acting in the duel and in the final meeting with Tatyana. The baritone sang superbly the whole evening, sounding at home with the language and the musical style.
Stephanie Novacek used her rich mezzo-soprano to fine effect as Olga. Raymond Very was in good voice as Lensky, but he portrayed his character as a wimp rather than as a poetic dreamer. Katherine Ciesinski offered a memorable performance as the proud Mme. Larina, and Angela Niederloh gave a rounded portrayal of Tatyana's nurse. Bass Oren Gradus sang Gremin's aria with appropriate weight, while Joseph Evans, as Triquet, added a light touch in his couplets and vamped a few tableaux vivants with party guests. The HGO Chorus handled its numbers well, although the tenors needed greater accuracy of pitch in their exposed entrance in the peasants' chorus. Conductor Robert Spano offered an outstanding rendition of Tchaikovsky's score by emphasizing pivotal moments yet setting a brisk pace, so that Tchaikovsky's repeating cluster of motives didn't make the work maudlin.
MARCIA J. CITRON
MIAMI/PALM BEACH, FL
For a time, the opening performance of Florida Grand Opera's Madama Butterfly (Nov. 14) seemed imperiled, as an accident in the southbound lanes of I-95 brought all traffic to a standstill in the area, stranding several Florida Philharmonic musicians. In a typically bizarre South Florida twist, one enterprising motorist, impatient at the delay, called the police on a cell phone to say he had a bomb, hoping that would motivate the authorities to clear the road more expeditiously. This brainstorm effectively shut down all traffic for over an hour, as nervous police searched for explosives. Happily, the curtain was held twenty minutes, and the show eventually went on.
The performance at Miami-Dade County Auditorium presented a musically rich and mostly dramatically effective production, stylishly launching Florida Grand Opera's seventh decade. The company had significant casting problems with leading roles last season, but in Maria Gavrilova they found the right singer for Butterfly, among the most demanding of roles. The Russian soprano possesses a clear, gleaming instrument, Slavic in its liquid, febrile qualities, with reserves of power. Yet most striking was the delicacy and nuance of her singing. Gavrilova consistently maintained a light, girlish quality in her voice, befitting the fifteen-year-old child bride, singing with pure-toned refinement. Her spacious "Un bel dì" conveyed the quiet anticipation of her lover's return, rising to resplendent high notes that filled even Miami-Dade's acoustically problematic venue. Gavrilova rose to the challenges of Act II superbly, using a deadened white tone when the realization of her situation finally hit home and revealing keenly focused intensity in her heartrending portrayal of Butterfly's final scene. Dramatically, the singer encompassed Butterfly's varied qualities with the subtlest of brush-strokes, painting the graceful geisha as surely as she did the faithful lover who lashes out in fury at anyone who doubts Pinkerton's constancy.
The production was less fortunate in its Pinkerton. Scott Piper's voice, though pleasing, sounded at least a size too small for this role. In Act I, Piper seemed to be consistently straining, especially in the upper range. He did sound a bit stronger in Act II, delivering a plangent "Addio, fiorito asil." Piper's tentative characterization failed to bring much specificity to the caddish, conflicted Pinkerton.
John Hancock made a much more vivid impression as Sharpless. Although the role typically is played as a benign fuddy-duddy, this strapping, six-foot-seven-inch Sharpless was an unusually youthful, sympathetic, well-rounded character. Hancock displayed a sinewy baritone and dignified yet forceful stage presence, limning the character's anger at Pinkerton's duplicity and his compassion for Butterfly. Jane Gilbert was an equally superb Suzuki, deep of tone and understated in her acting. As Goro, Pierre Lefebvre was aptly odious; Bill McMurray was a noble, rich-voiced Prince Yamadori.
Allen Charles Klein's high-ceilinged, thirteen-year-old set looks a little grand for what is supposed to be a modest Nagasaki abode, but it is a visually striking design, aided by Klein's sensitive lighting. Apart from some ill-considered shoving between Pinkerton and the Bonze, and silly, hand-holding twirling about by Butterfly and Suzuki during the flower duet, Bliss Hebert's direction proved mostly smooth and unobtrusive. Florida Grand should work harder to get its projected titles in sync; they seem to run consistently a line or two ahead, anticipating the stage action in a distracting way.
Stewart Robertson led a richly layered, impassioned performance in the pit, obtaining glorious playing from the Florida Philharmonic throughout the nearly three-hour evening.
The second South Florida staging this season of Madama Butterfly was on a higher level still. In its gleaming vocalism, sensitive direction and searing dramatic punch, Palm Beach Opera's mounting of Puccini's tragic love story (seen Jan. 25) presented one of the most successful opera productions South Florida has seen in the past two years.
Chiho Oiwa, starring in the first-cast production at the Kravis Center, gave an electrifying performance as the doomed Cio-Cio-San, vocally refined and memorable. Petite and round-faced, Oiwa touchingly captured the young girl's unfolding growth and tragedy, from the demure, playful innocent of the opening scene to the ennobled figure who chooses "death with honor when one can no longer live with dishonor." Oiwa has a lovely, pure-toned soprano timbre, a little slender for this role. Though she couldn't quite ride the climactic high note of "Un bel dì" for very long, the shading and expressive detail she brought to the aria was ample recompense, and Oiwa performed the final scene with impressive strength and intensity. Benefiting from the direction of Renata Scotto, a celebrated Butterfly herself, Oiwa's performance was rich with small touches, from tenderly playing with her child's hair to reacting to Pinkerton's betrayal by taking a sudden step sideways, as if she had been slapped in the face.
As Pinkerton, José Luis Duval looked unprepossessing yet his robust voice proved very impressive. The Mexican tenor's clarion top notes in "Amore o grillo" and "Addio fiorito asil" were thrillingly expansive, resounding through the cavernous Kravis auditorium. (At the curtain call, the otherwise sophisticated audience succumbed to the temptation to boo the singer who portrayed the caddish Pinkerton.)
Chinese mezzo-soprano Yun Deng was an unusually compelling Suzuki, acting with elegance and sensitivity, and the big, brawny timbre of Jake Gardner's sympathetic Sharpless made his duets with Duval an even match.
Scotto's direction provided a virtual seminar in graceful blocking of singers and illuminating motivation with subtle, telling gestures. Conductor Giuseppe Cataldo elicited vital playing of great conviction, building climaxes superbly, skillfully handling the love duet's surging waves. Attilio Colonnello's traditional yet sleek, stylish set made a strong visual impact and was beautifully lit by Donald Edmund Thomas. Seymour Schonberg's chorus was first-rate, performing the humming chorus with remarkable delicacy, as if the music were finely spun silk.
The company opened its thirty-ninth season in December with Norma, South Florida's only Bellini offering in the composer's bicentenary. Despite fleeting unevenness, the production made a worthy homage to the Sicilian composer. As Norma, Maria Pia Piscitelli proved a respectable rather than a knockout Druid priestess. The Italian soprano possesses a pure-toned though somewhat heavy instrument, and she often scooped up to high notes, with visible effort. Her "Casta diva" was elegant though rather short-breathed, and Piscitelli was notably sparing with ornamentation, playing it safe. She seemed to suffer from stage nerves, especially in Act I, when her gaze was often fixed on the pit; her acting also appeared tentative. Norma's reaction to Pollione's deception seemed no more than mild dismay, as if someone had misplaced her ceremonial mistletoe. However, Piscitelli's portrayal grew in depth and assurance as the evening progressed, and she brought the requisite weight and fury to the final scenes, singing with greater abandon.
Though Piscitelli took a while to warm up, Kate Aldrich proved a terrific Adalgisa from the get-go. With striking physical beauty and a big, creamy voice, the American mezzo-soprano brought great conviction to an always difficult role. Singing with ardor and pinpoint precision, Aldrich made Norma's rival a believable character, her anguish strikingly real. Mario Malagnini had greater success with the unsympathetic character of Pollione than do most tenors. Though his was not the most elegant vocal interpretation, the Italian tenor sang with sturdy agility, and somehow he didn't look ridiculous in his short Roman tunic. Paul Plishka was a resonant but wobbly Oroveso, Rachel Fulton a sensitive Clotilde, John Matz a sturdy Flavio.
John Pascoe's stylish, minimalist sets depicted the druids' forest abode nicely, with ruined columns and silvery foliage, bathed in bluish moonlight; Joseph P. Oshry provided the beautiful lighting. Anton Guadagno's mastery in this repertoire showed in his control of the long cantilenas and ensembles, bringing both refinement and taut concentration to Bellini's music.
LAWRENCE A. JOHNSON
DALLAS
When Dallas Opera mounted Christopher Alden's production of Le Nozze di Figaro (previously performed in St. Louis), there were two Figaros -- one musical, one dramatic -- and they had nothing to do with one another. Rarely has Mozart been so ill served by such wacky staging, and rarely has his music seemed so out of step with what happened onstage.
Questions, with no real answers forthcoming, abounded. Why were there so many doors in Allen Moyer's sparsely decorated set, and why did eight turquoise loveseats appear in the second half? Why was Figaro sitting in a chair, measuring nothing, in his first aria? Why was Barbarina lounging about as a silent, gum-chewing walk-on for most of the action, in a red warm-up suit? Why did Gabriel Berry dress most of the cast in contemporary outfits, while Don Basilio looked like an eighteenth-century fop? Why did Barbarina make out with the Count during "Non più andrai"? Why did Figaro, during the reprise of "Se vuol ballare," do a rock-star turn? Why did the Countess look like Kathleen Turner in Body Heat as she made her entrance in Act II before "Porgi amor" -- staggering onstage drunk and shoeless, in a mink coat? In Act II, why did the Count begin groping his wife, in whom he's supposed to have lost interest? Why didn't he look at Susanna (to say nothing of throwing open the door) when she emerged from the closet? Why was so much of the singing performed from prone positions? And why was there so much smoking going on -- to suggest that this louche aristocracy is corrupt?
A revolutionary theme was maintained by a hapless chorister who waved a French tri-color at various points; at the end of Act III, Basilio ran out with the flag, shouting "Vive la Révolution!" Apparently Alden didn't care that this opera, sung in Italian and written by an Austrian three years before the French Revolution, is set in Spain. The generally meaningless, vulgar "concept" behind the production was inoffensive in itself, but the staging did nothing to illuminate the score.
The young singers were all good. Polish baritone Mariusz Kwiecien was Almaviva; his green-and-yellow leisure suit was particularly ugly, but he sang strongly. Paula Rasmussen played Cherubino as a moony neurasthenic rather than as a testosterone time bomb. Her lush, creamy mezzo served her well in the page's two famous arias, though she was obliged to sing "Voi che sapete" splayed against a wall as though flattened by a centrifuge. As the Countess, Emily Magee got off to a shaky start, but eventually she settled into greater vocal comfort. Pietro Spagnoli was a gallant Figaro, and Elena Kelessidi sang and acted Susanna with gusto and delicacy (though she had some troubles with register breaks, and in "Deh vieni, non tardar," she showed a weakness at the bottom of her voice). Kevin Langan as Dr. Bartolo gave a rousing "Vendetta"; Judith Christin (Marcellina) and Jonathan Green (Basilio) sang well, despite loopy costumes. As Barbarina, Celena Shafer used "L'ho perduta" at the start of Act IV to prove that she could sing, as well as prance about the stage. Emmanuel Villaume maintained sprightly tempos and gave a French bounce to Mozart's score.
WILLARD SPIEGELMAN
FORT WORTH
Gentility isn't a quality one would normally associate with Norma, but much of the Fort Worth Opera's performance on January 18 was as polite as a tea party. Though the work was decently performed by its first of two casts, just about everybody seemed to think that Bellini's masterpiece has more to do with pretty singing than with musical drama. The evening got off to a promising start with a human sacrifice of considerable realism. A handsome young man was led out, his throat was cut, and his bloody body was laid out on an altar. This effective stroke by director David Gately was undercut as soon as the singing began, and barbaric behavior vanished.
The principals gave lyrical performances a cut above normal for Fort Worth. They were soprano Larisa Tetuev (Norma), mezzo Robynne Redmon (Adalgisa) and tenor Joseph Wolverton (Pollione). The three had strong support from their colleagues as well as from the orchestra and chorus, with Christopher Larkin conducting. But key moments were lacking in tension. Norma's prayer to her chaste goddess emphasized the priestess's appeal for peace while deemphasizing the thunderous call for Roman blood. And when Norma discovered that Pollione was cheating on her, she might have been singing the language of international diplomacy rather than cries of personal outrage. Pacifism finally was abandoned with the sounding of the gong to summon the Druids in Act III, Scene 3, when the performance became genuinely forceful.
Visually, this Norma was a triumph. Allen Moyer's scenery and props were simple and effective, and Bass Performance Hall's spacious stage gave the production room to breathe. A large, tilted platform filled the stage horizontally. Spare elements such as a large, rectangular gong at the rear, a circle of stones in the middle, and a few flaming braziers established atmosphere. A couple of props -- emblems with crescent-moon motifs -- rose to the level of sculptural works of art. A dark background was reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night without imitating the style in any way. Lighting by David Kissel and costumes by Jing Ling Tam -- including strikingly feminine robes for the women -- were a further enhancement.
Filling out the first cast were Bojan Knezevic (Oroveso), Jennifer Kethley (Clotilde) and Joseph Muir (Flavio). Olivia Gorra headed the second cast (not reviewed by OPERA NEWS), made necessary because Fort Worth performs each opera three days in a row.
OLIN CHISM
PORTLAND, OR
Portland Opera (Feb. 9) slapped Mozart's Così Fan Tutte with a broad, brash, unsubtle staging by Kelly Robinson that seemed fifty years out of date. Revisionist thinking that sees Don Alfonso as enlightened, da Ponte's libretto as wise and Mozart's music as profound played no part in a production that aimed low, settling for laughter and too little else.
A cast of strong voices and mostly unsubtle artists matched the staging. Amy Johnson spanned Fiordiligi's range with ease in a commanding, steely soprano that contrasted sharply with the rounded, sensuous mezzo of Deanne Meek as Dorabella. Tenor Charles Castronovo as Ferrando and baritone James Bobick as Guglielmo sang full-throatedly and mugged mercilessly. Bass-baritone Eduardo Chama was a lush-toned Alfonso, more generalized cynic than fastidious teacher or philosopher. All five sang at forte and mezzoforte all evening long. Soprano Amy Hansen (Despina) was a refreshing oasis of vocal and histrionic nuance. Her voice was the smallest of the cast, but even in a 3,000-seat theater, her singing made the most impact, and her characterization was the most vivid.
The company conducting debut of Carol Lucas, Portland Opera's fine chorus master, was no success. Her cast needed firmer guidance and discipline. Much of the orchestral playing sounded cautious and earthbound.
Sets by Loy Arcenas and costumes by Catherine Zuber were recycled from 1993, when Mark Lamos directed this production more meaningfully. An erotic late-Renaissance painting, hung before the curtain, held false promise, for the four young lovers lacked chemistry in any of their couplings. The initial pairings may be artificial, but the liberating disguises and sultry southern night of Act II should get hearts beating and release genuine feelings. Portland's sisters shed their platinum wigs of Act I and donned costumes in colors matching those of their respective new suitors. But the new pairings engendered no more enthusiasm or sincerity than the old ones had. At the end, the so-called "lovers" returned to their original partners, yet again without excitement or joy.
MARK MANDEL
MILWAUKEE
Aaron Copland's The Tender Land is such a modest, well intentioned bit of Americana that it subtly enlists the audience's sympathies -- rather like an Emily Dickinson poem -- and one really wants it to work. It has a gentle coming-of-age story, inspired by James Agee's book, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, but made up out of whole cloth by librettist Horace Everett. Set in the Midwest in the 1930s, it is inhabited by Norman Rockwell-like characters and tells the bittersweet first-love story of young Laurie Moss, who is about to graduate from high school and yearns for something beyond her grim, restrictive life on the farm. Composed in 1954, when such superb samplers of Americana as Floyd's Susannah (1955) and Moore's The Ballad Of Baby Doe (1956) were also being conceived, Copland's opera lacks those other works' overt dramatic content and does not rise to their level.
Skylight Opera Theatre's new production was excellently conceived -- warm and caring. Set designer Marjorie Bradley Kellogg offered a marvelously detailed (think Andrew Wyeth) farmyard setting, and stage director Paula Suozzi peopled it with good farm folk, kept their movement natural and purposeful, and didn't miss a nuance. Mezzo-soprano Hillary Nicholson was Ma Moss; had her enunciation been better, she would have been ideal. As Laurie, petite soprano Megan Tillmann Frank showed fresh tone, easy acting skills and slightly flawed diction. Tenor Matthew DiBattista was a darkly handsome, ardent romantic interest as Martin. He partnered Laurie well in their several duet scenes, showing excellent enunciation and ringing high notes. As Martin's buddy, Top, baritone John David Miles sang powerfully and delivered an impassioned, convincing character. Bass Thomas Weis sang expressively, had the requisite low notes and was well cast as Grandpa Moss (the old Norman Treigle role).
Pasquale Laurino led a group of string and woodwind virtuosos in a highly polished musical performance. The balance between stage and pit -- occasionally a problem in the Skylight's theater -- was perfect, as was Laurino's subtle shaping of the score.
A false proscenium, a delicious object made of swirls and glistening light, significantly reduced the stage opening of Milwaukee's Marcus Center for the Performing Arts yet still permitted all the magic of Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream to spill out of its circular opening. It framed a revolving stage filled with a tangled woodland, delicate fairies, and pure enchantment. Florentine Opera's production featured the Milwaukee Symphony under the expert musical leadership of maestro Steuart Bedford; the keen directorial skills of David Gately based on sets designed by Douglas Schmidt (originally for Los Angeles Opera); and a thoroughly excellent ensemble cast -- essential to this work but too rarely encountered. Still, there were performers worthy of special mention: the hyper-acrobatic Dean Anthony, who seemed born to play Puck; soprano Lisa Saffer, who took the vocal honors of the evening (Feb. 24) with her silken singing of Tytania; and baritone Jan Opalach, whose world-class performance of Bottom was hilarious. If countertenor Ryland Angel had a bit more volume and tonal projection, his intense Oberon would also have been outstanding in this 2,200-seat hall.
The opera requires a large cast, including two pairs of young lovers, and here soprano Ann Panagulias, mezzo-soprano Jennifer Hines, tenor Mark Showalter and baritone Mel Ulrich all acted charmingly, sang passionately and made their quartet, "I have found Demetrius like a jewel," the musical high point. The group of "mechanicals," tradesmen who prepare and perpetrate the concluding play-within-a-play, was excellently cast, with Opalach, bass Bruce Baumer, tenor Daniel Weeks (amusingly over-the-top, cross-dressed as "Thisbe"), bass Harold Wilson, tenor Torrance Blaisdell and baritone Kelly Anderson. Venerable bass Irwin Densen contributed a solidly sung Theseus. Audience comprehension of Shakespeare's archaic text was wisely reinforced by the use of projected titles. Just how stage director Gately achieved such energy, detail and polish in the brief preparation time the company can provide seems little short of mystifying. Britten's opera is a musical and dramatic challenge of the highest order, and this production stands as a great credit to the Florentine company and to its general director, Dennis Hanthorn, who had the vision to undertake the project.
JOHN KOOPMAN
PITTSBURGH
Pittsburgh Opera's superb production of Kurt Weill's Street Scene provided further evidence of how far this company has come in a short time under the artistic leadership of Christopher Hahn. Street Scene is not exactly a modern masterpiece, but it was the first work this side of Turandot to appear on the company's regular subscription series in at least two decades. The venue, however, was not the usual 2,885-seat Benedum Center but the nearby Byham Theater, closer in its proportions to the Broadway space for which this work was created in 1947. Even so, Street Scene is a big work -- nearly three hours long, with a cast that calls for no fewer than forty-three principals. The production was an altogether admirable venture, and if the combination of opera, Broadway and jazz didn't quite jell, the fault lay more in the work itself than in the present mounting.
The single set designed by David Harwell evoked a New York City tenement vividly and worked well for the complex logistics -- well managed by stage director Sandra Sachwitz Bernhard -- of moving characters in and out of the house, through windows as well as doors. Also, complementing the traditional opera voices assigned to the leading roles were a cadre of competent Opera Center apprentices, local actors for some speaking parts and a duo of Broadway-style dancers who could also sing a bit -- Lois Englund and Mark Martino -- for the comic-relief song-and-dance number, "Moon-faced, Starry-eyed."
This was obviously a labor of love for music director John Mauceri, who has led numerous productions here and abroad and conducted the work's only complete commercial recording to date. He was expert at switching back and forth among the constantly changing styles, rendering the operatic passages with Straussian sweep and brushing the lighter moments with zip and vigor.
Leading the operatic contingent was Karen Huffstodt as Anna Maurrant (heard at the second performance, Feb. 19), her opulent soprano quite glorious in her grand scena, "Somehow I never could believe," her incarnation of the abused wife -- who looks for affection outside her marriage and pays with her life -- vivid and moving despite the triteness of the dramatic premise. Dean Ely's portrayal of her brutal husband, Frank, matched her in volume but missed his single opportunity to evoke sympathy in "I loved her, too." As the younger couple, Rose Maurrant and Sam Kaplan, Yvonne Gonzales and Tracy Welborn made a visually attractive pair, but their slim voices did not quite fill their solo moments and failed to ride the orchestra in the fervent love duet that closes Act I.
The supporting players ranged from splendid cameos (Richard Hobson's booming baritone in the Janitor's blues number, Melissa Brezinsky's pert warbling of Jennie Hildebrand's graduation song) to palpable discomfort with the Broadway and jazz idioms (Javier Abreu in the expectant father's arietta, Daniel Gross in Mr. Easter's showbiz song). A powerful presence through all this was Mimi Lerner as Emma Jones, anchoring the ensembles with her distinctive mezzo-soprano sound and spurring on the tragedy with a masterful portrayal of neighborly nastiness.
An unfortunate failing was the use of titles -- necessary, even in this smaller hall, where both the spoken and sung (English) words tended to get lost. They were projected only intermittently, and poorly synchronized to the lines being emitted onstage.
ROBERT CROAN
NEW YORK CITY
Kurt Weill's score for Street Scene is more a revue than the "American opera for Broadway" he intended, closer in effect to his concept-musical Love Life (1948). Street Scene is a parade of showcase numbers, in which the most interesting characters have the smaller roles and the show tunes; the opera singers are assigned gorgeous, almost Puccinian melodies and leading roles in an adultery plot that can't have seemed fresh even when it was written, in 1947 (lyrics by Langston Hughes, book by Elmer Rice, after his 1929 stage play). Some of those show tunes, it should be mentioned, are stinkers. Yet like any true New Yorker, the work exerts a quirky charm, and in Dicapo Opera Theatre's production (seen Feb. 24), that charm prevailed. As a cast of sixty-five (billed as the largest in the company's history) hustled across the tiny stage, the plight of the central character, Anna Maurrant, a lovelorn tenement housewife, often seemed secondary; Rice's critique of overcrowded urban life -- and of the civic poison that is gossip -- emerged with integrity and bite.
As Anna, soprano Sherry Zannoth stepped in as a last-minute replacement for Alison Keil, who suffered an injury immediately prior to opening night and mimed her role in the first few performances, while a colleague sang offstage. Zannoth didn't have the benefit of a full rehearsal period. Singing with cloudy tone and extremely poor diction, she never got under her character's skin or located her wistfulness and sensuality, but she made Anna a nice lady, and one was genuinely sorry when her brutish husband killed her. That husband, Frank, makes Baron Scarpia look like a character out of Chekhov, but baritone Marc Embree bit into the role and shook it, and he sang with pungent fervor. As their daughter, Amanda Winfield sang with a clean, well-focused soprano; her characterization revealed a spine of steel beneath the well-scrubbed girlishness. Leaping around the set and grinning like a fraternity president, Peter Furlong didn't look the part of Sam Kaplan, but he delivered his music in a clarion tenor.
Though she had little to sing, Donna Grossman made Mrs. Jones, the vicious busybody, the play's most compelling character, with a tart word for everyone but a blind eye to her own family's faults. Grossman's weary shuffle and nasal delivery recalled Audrey Meadows in The Honeymooners, a perfect fit for the role.
In true democratic fashion, almost every role is spotlit: Gary Giardina's unctuous Harry Easter, Amanda Sperling's slatternly Mae, Larry Raiken's elderly radical and Francine Harman's kindly schoolteacher were especially well-crafted bits of acting, and Giardina and Sperling sold their musical numbers ("Wouldn't You Like to Be on Broadway?" and "Moon-faced, Starry-eyed," respectively) with aplomb.
Michael Capasso's stage direction caught the spirit and the rhythms of New York life admirably, whether in the pandemonium of the murder sequence, when the entire cast was onstage, or the stillness of Sam's solo aria, "Lonely House." He clearly possesses a keen appreciation of the eccentrics in this neighborhood. John Farrell's ingenious set, a multi-level scaffolding, suggested a multi-story tenement with nary a brick or brown stone in sight, while keeping the cast in suitably close quarters. Elaine Rinaldi conducted with a good, driving pulse but not quite enough swing.
WILLIAM V. MADISON
SAN FRANCISCO
The news about the diminishing ranks of dedicated keepers of the sacred Savoy flame has not, apparently, reached San Francisco. Among that city's more commendable implausibilities is the knot of Gilbert & Sullivan fanatics who, like the true believers of bygone generations, know every word of every tune and will burst into proof of this upon slight provocation. The crowd for the Lamplighters' recent Patience, given over two weekends at the Yerba Buena Art Center, the city's newest and most appealing cultural hub, was large and happy. Best of all, the age spread was encouragingly broad.
The Lamplighters are in their fiftieth year. At a recent International Gilbert & Sullivan Festival in Buxton, the Savoyard Bayreuth, the company was voted "Best Overseas Society." On the immediate agenda are a Pirates of Penzance in July and a Princess Ida in January. Their casts are drawn from local semi-pros who also move in and out of such other enterprises as the Oakland Opera and the Jarvis Zarzuela Festival. For mezzo-soprano Jean Ziaja, who alternated with Christine Macomber in the role of Lady Jane, this time around was her sixty-seventh Lamplighter production; of the duelling Aesthetic poets vying for Patience's pure white hand the Bunthorne (F. Lawrence Ewing) has sung top roles with the company since 1989; the Grosvenor (Christopher Walkey) came on in 1984. "After forty-nine years we've come to feel like a family," says music director (since 1987) Monroe Kanouse. "So much so, in fact, that many of our ensemble singers are the children of former members." Kanouse actually came to the company first in 1965, when performances were given to piano support in dowdy small theaters. Now he commands a small (twenty-one-member) but entirely professional orchestra which, like the company itself, tends to stick together from year to year.
Lesser souls have advanced the notion that the G&S repertory is best saved through transplantation: a Mikado set among gangsters (Peter Sellars in Chicago), an Ida on rollerskates (Ken Russell at ENO). Not so, says Lamplighters' general director Barbara Heroux -- who came to the company as a chorister in 1974. Aside from the wisp of an update line slipped into a patter-song now and then, the company's pride is in its Savoy straight, including a superior command of unaffected but crystalline British-English diction. The Patience under Kanouse was sleek and spirited; so was director Jane Hammett's marshalling of the "twenty lovesick maidens" (fourteen, actually), on Peter Crompton's nicely angled set. Alicia von Kugelen was properly pert and bouncy as the milkmaid Patience; Macomber's Lady Jane actually played her own cello obbligato; Ewing's delightfully delivered, airily danced "If you're anxious for to shine" summoned memories of Martyn Greene. The absence of tricks-for-tricks'-sake was welcome, the result rapturous.
ALAN RICH
SAINT PAUL
Mozart's La Clemenza di Tito (1791) marks the last of the old opera seria genre. Mozart's librettist, Caterino Mazzolà, drastically revised his source material, an antiquated libretto by Metastasio, and in Mozart's words made a "real opera" out of the piece. But alas the composer was wrong about this, and modern audiences find the work distinctly form-bound and filled with wearying archaic conventions. Still, as Minnesota's Opera's production revealed, Mozart's score contains much wonderful music and grand opportunities for vocal artistry. The visual production was imaginative and elegant: ceiling, walls and floor were indented with the triple recessed patterns unique to the ceiling of the Roman Pantheon. Set designer Benoit Dugardyn also used a huge "SPQR" insignia (referring to the senate and people of Rome) to establish locale. Sliding panels, mid-stage, moved to reveal a variety of angled walls and suggest changes of scene. Lighting designer Joan Sullivan-Genthe created fine dramatic effects, often lighting the set indentations like the facets of a complex jewel. Costume designer Sue Willmington offered rich late-eighteenth-century costumes -- tricorns, tied-back wigs and all -- and various props, a guillotine and pistols, confirmed this time frame. The production's subdued color palette of grays, blues and black was a strong contrast to Titus's imperial robes of gold and purple.
As the Emperor Titus, tenor Bruce Ford was superb. His voice is ideal for the role, his musical taste and style are impeccable, and his dramatic portrayal of the ruler was intense and moving. In the final test for a great Titus, he sang the flashing coloratura of the notoriously difficult aria "Se all'impero" brilliantly (February 2).
As the spurned Vitellia, soprano Brenda Harris took some time to warm up, and her opening scene was sung with a hard, ungainly tone. Happily this was only temporary, and she was soon in grand form, subtly caressing phrase peaks, soaring through high notes and wringing out all the rich dramatic juice to be found in Vitellia's complex situations. Her delivery of the great aria "Non più di fiori" was a remarkable display of extreme range, vocal agility and dramatic delivery.
Mezzo-soprano Suzanne Mentzer sang the trouser role of Sesto. Her warm tone is ideal for the role, and she sang the famous "Parto" aria touchingly. But as the evening progressed, a register break became evident in her voice and occurred at the beginning of most of her louder, mid-range phrases -- a persistent, bothersome flaw. Mentzer did not firmly establish the masculinity of her character and may have been directed to play Sesto as something of an incompetent -- a very questionable approach. Annio, a second trouser role in this treble heavy work, was sung by mezzo-soprano Lori-Kaye Miller. She delivered her aria, "Torna di Tito a lato," with fresh bright tone, though her delivery became angular in its rapid passages. Soprano Ana Rodriguez brought a big, broad, Romantic-style tone to her Servilia that did not serve the role well. Bass-baritone Alfred Walker showed fine vocal color and dramatic presence in the brief role of Publio.
Maestro Harry Bicket drew crisp, stylish playing from the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra and shaped the performance faultlessly. Stage director Stephen Lawless defined his characters clearly, kept the movement purposive and fashioned two surprisingly effective act endings from the sparse dramatic material offered by the score.
OHN KOOPMAN
CHARLOTTE, NC
When Opera Carolina's general director James Meena scheduled Richard Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier, the company's second production of the 2001-02 season, he knew it would be a challenge for an organization of this size -- and budget. But he asserted that the work would "take our company to the next level, proving that we can handle the major repertory and do it respectably." The performance on February 2 was more than respectable; it was one of the most satisfying and consistent presentations by the company in recent years, with a great many strengths that would have made any company proud. The production was appropriately handsome, with costumes from Santa Fe Opera and sets from Portland Opera (via Florentine Opera), and it benefited from extra rehearsal time and solid casting. Most of the singers were making their Opera Carolina debuts, and newcomers and familiar faces alike were uniformly effective.
Linda Mabbs's Marschallin was well characterized, and she looked and acted the part with the sure touch of a veteran in the role. Her voice is not the largest, but her control and phrasing were impeccable. Vocally and visually delightful, Margaret Lloyd was a perky, indeed downright feisty, Sophie, which made Octavian's immediate attraction to her more than usually believable. As Octavian, Jessie Raven displayed singing of considerable richness and ample power. Her acting was very good indeed, aided by her striking height and good looks. With further experience in this role, she seems likely to develop into a truly exceptional Octavian, but her assumption of the part is quite satisfying already.
Kurt Link provided a broadly comic, even clownish, Baron Ochs. His grimaces were overdone at times, his behavior so crude one wondered how anyone would be taken in by such a low-life, pseudo-nobleman -- it shouldn't have taken Octavian's Act III plot to open the eyes of Sophie's loving father. Still, Link's antics were audience-pleasing, and the role was solidly sung.
There were no weak links among the shorter roles either, from the gruff Commissioner (James Lynn) to the Italian Singer/Innkeeper (Todd Geer). Three Opera Carolina veterans acquitted themselves particularly well: Dan Boye was a distraught Faninal, and Dean Anthony and Deborah Fields were over the top as Valzacchi and Annina, but quite delightfully so.
The Charlotte Symphony Orchestra played the rich score with élan under the baton of David Effron, who had the score well in hand, with apt tempos and considerable verve. Some of the maestro's verve found expression in a few grunts, gasps, groans and growls that, however reminiscent of Toscanini, were distracting to patrons in the first several rows, especially during Act I.
Jay Lesenger's stage direction was particularly satisfying. Unlike many directors, Lesenger did not subject his audiences to inappropriate "concepts" and/or moments of unintentionally ludicrous action -- he treated the work with respect, handled the sometimes tricky traffic direction well and allowed his singers the scope and support to develop their characters.
LUTHER WADE
TAMPA
Trouble in Tahiti is a collector's opera, the kind one sees and files away in the memory book. Less than an hour long, it's not one of Leonard Bernstein's famous works, yet its cross-pollination of opera and musical theater reflected an abiding concern of the great American conductor/composer, who straddled classical and pop culture better than anyone. Given its premiere in 1952, the opera remains potent in its treatment of the death of love, and Bernstein's use of what he called a "serious yet simple'' musical language is crisply effective.
The one-act opera was given two performances in February by Opera Tampa, with a pair of fine young singers, mezzo-soprano Michelle Wrighte and baritone Nat Chandler, as Dinah and Sam, a suburban couple whose marriage is on the rocks. Anton Coppola conducted the orchestra, positioned behind a screen onstage, in Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center's Morsani Hall.
Biographers have had a psychological field day with Bernstein's bleak view of marriage, noting that he wrote some of the opera on his honeymoon. Writing his own libretto, he patterned the characters on the troubled relationship of his parents, even naming the husband after his father. He returned to Tahiti in the early 1980s when he wrote what amounted to a sequel, A Quiet Place.
Wrighte gave a beautifully focused performance as the unhappy housewife. The warmth and color of her tone, along with a naturalistic, almost conversational articulation, was vividly expressive in arias such as Dinah's dream of an idyllic, lost garden (think Adam and Eve), recalled from an analyst's couch, or her comic ridicule of a movie called Trouble in Tahiti.
Chandler's high point came in the shower, in the YMCA locker room, after Sam had won a handball tournament. He belted out the aria to hard-driving men like himself -- "They always, always, always, always will win'' -- in swaggering macho style.
One of the most effective aspects of the production was the trio in evening clothes -- Vanessa Conlin, Keith Jameson, Leonard Rowe -- who gathered round a microphone to comment on the action. Their jazzy close harmony was a deft counterpoint to the heavier singing of Sam and Dinah. Vernon Hartman's staging was suitably spare, with fluid transitions between the brief scenes. Joseph P. Oshry's muted lighting captured the melancholy mood.
With Bernstein's pocket opera taking up the first act of the performance, the second act was devoted to his Broadway show tunes. Jeffrey Springer and Kristen Plumley joined the opera's cast in numbers from On the Town, Wonderful Town, West Side Story and Candide. Plumley was sensationally note-perfect in the stratospheric showstopper "Glitter and Be Gay.''
Opera Tampa, which gave the premiere of Coppola's Sacco & Vanzetti last season, is to be commended for going off opera's beaten path to mount a rare production of Trouble. But audience development lags behind the ambition. At the Sunday matinee, attendance was only 500.
JOHN FLEMING
HONOLULU
In the prelude to La Traviata, Verdi began with Violetta's death and worked backward into the opening scene, an approach followed visually by Franco Zeffirelli in his film, which was told through the eyes of Violetta abandonata. In the original novel by Dumas fils, however, her lover lives to tell her story, and that was the approach adopted by Hawaii Opera Theatre for its season-opener, in a coproduction with Edmonton Opera and Calgary Opera.
During the prelude, Old Alfredo -- a new role mimed by Woody Chock -- sat in an armchair to one side of the stage, drinking and gazing at a miniature portrait of Violetta. Agitated by his memories, he crossed the stage and saw, spotlighted through the scrim of time, Violetta's deathbed, his stern father, a crowd of white-masked ghosts and, finally, his younger self. As the scrim rose and the music segued into Act I, the ghosts transformed into salon guests, and Old Alfredo disappeared into the wings. The effect was magical. Old Alfredo reappeared intermittently, his perspective lending new twists: Flora and Marquis d'Obigny, for example, became comic characters, and departing salon guests in Act I became a black-robed chorus callously abandoning an ailing Violetta.
New approaches entail risk, and Cavanagh's La Traviata contained its fair share of slips. Horseplay occasionally intruded into the staging, and when Alfredo insulted Violetta at the end of Act III, she sank down in shame onto a footstool to one side, then had to rise, move, and sink in shame yet again to end center stage. HOT's resident designer Peter Dean Beck created simple yet effective sets by rearranging and relighting the same basic materials in all four scenes: five large, graduated French windows that doubled as mirrors, platforms, and large vases on pedestals.
Lyric soprano Robin Follman (Violetta) stumbled on "Sempre libera," exposing an upper-register harshness, but shone in the passionate lyricism of Act II. With her large, clear voice, Follman demonstrated excellent control, from an ethereal pianissimo to a forte that threatened to drown out other singers. In fact, the size of Follman's voice caused difficulties: lyric tenor Warren Mok (Alfredo), who has sung the role dozens of times, struggled to match Follman and sang at full force much of the time. Ping Yu (Germont) created a dignified symbol of social convention, and his warm, smooth baritone aptly trod the middle ground in dynamics.
Cynthia Ballentine (Flora), John Mount (the Marquis) and Eric Van Hoven (Gastone) contributed delightful touches, but the surprise was Quinn Kelsey as Baron Douphol. A young local singer and inexperienced actor, Kelsey held his own among the more seasoned leads and showed much promise with his large, rich, seemingly effortless bass-baritone.
Conductor Michael Ching set upbeat tempos that Follman occasionally resisted, but which kept the drama flowing. An opera composer himself, Ching conducted with a supple beat that allowed the singers breathing room.
RUTH O. BINGHAM
BINGHAMTON, NY
Tri-Cities Opera showcased its new production of Donizetti's L'Elisir d'Amore on February 2, 9 and 10, as part of its main-stage season at the Forum Theatre in downtown Binghamton. The final performance, a Sunday matinée, was well attended and enthusiastically received. The company has developed solid support in central New York State for both its training program and professional performances, and company performances proceed amid a friendly, family-like atmosphere.
An excellent young cast and fine-sounding orchestra were the production's most distinguished features. Adam Kirkpatrick, a young leggiero tenor with considerable agility, both vocally and physically, performed a Nemorino to remember. In addition to his character's obvious qualities of simplicity, sincerity, and good humor, Kirkpatrick demonstrated an understanding of Nemorino's nobility, a point often missed by young tenors who perform the role.
Todd Robinson, the Dulcamara of the day, exceeded expectations with a portrayal of the mountebank doctor beyond the reach of most young performers. Robinson added just enough individuality to be interesting, while retaining the essence of the stock character. Vocally secure and by all indications technically healthy, the young bass appears to be on his way to a fine career.
Aaron Nicholson's Belcore pushed the stock braggart soldier just slightly beyond the role's requisite level of parody, without compromising the focus of the proceedings. Vocally, Nicholson displayed an impressive ring in his upper range and a low end that tended to disappear. Anna Webb, a fine performer in development, sang a vocally confident Adina. She appeared comfortable onstage, though not yet ready to venture into areas of originality for her character. Lucie Ewing was a bright-voiced, cheerful Giannetta.
Peter Sicilian's stage direction, though well organized and cleanly executed, tended to be superficial. The Italian cultural matrix that gives substance to the opera's story was ignored, definitely a problem in a "traditional" production. Though good for an easy laugh, burlesquing Belcore's soldiers created problems of authenticity: if the soldiers are merely bumbling fools, then the village girls who fall for them and the local men who admire them are fools as well. Suddenly we have a village of fools, and the more rewarding themes of simplicity and gullibility are never developed.
In several instances, the stage direction specifically contradicted the story. For example, Nemorino's opening cavatina, "Quanto è bella, quanto è cara," establishes the young man's character by revealing his thoughts. In Sicilian's staging, Nemorino told his story to several townspeople, suggesting that he is shy only where Adina is concerned, rather than being the "nonentity" in the community indicated by his name.
Later, Nemorino showed Dulcamara the book from which Adina had read in the opening scene, apparently knowing the correct page and pointing out the name, "Regina Isotta." Not bad for an illiterate peasant who shortly will sign an army enlistment paper with an X because he is unable to write his name. These and similar oversights (such as the townsfolk's buying Dulcamara's "elixir" with greenbacks) undermined the production's credibility.
Duane Skrabalak, TCO's artistic director and resident conductor, led the company's forty-plus-member orchestra through a careful reading of the score. Skrabalak also served as chorus master for the well-trained volunteer chorus. A piano was used for the secco recitives, as called for by the composer.
The new physical production, with scenery designed by Gary C. Eckhart and costumes by Martin Thaler, is sufficiently generic to be used for a variety of operas -- which may be the idea, since TCO has been in the rental business for many years. The primary elements of the symmetrical set are downstage towers, left and right, a raised platform upstage, matching show curtain and backdrop, plus dressing elements for a town square and a farm-like setting. The costumes are utilitarian, happy peasants and soldiers, with the exception of Dulcamara's costume, the metallic-fleck fabric of which reads more Ringling Bros. than rural quack.
DONALD WESTWOOD
OBERLIN, OH
Le Pouvoir de l'Amour, by Joseph-Nicolas-Pancrace Royer, was first performed in 1743. Royer, noted today primarily for his harpsichord music, was a prolific opera composer (a marche from Pouvoir is also a famous harpsichord piece). But today, like the operas of many Baroque composers, his operas are generally ignored. Le Pouvoir de l'Amour has been given a new lease on life, however, due to a modern premiere given at Finney Chapel by the Oberlin Conservatory (Feb. 8 and 9). It was said to be the opera's first performance in more than 200 years.
The music director, harpsichordist Lisa Goode Crawford, rediscovered the opera and, with the assistance of the Centre de Musique Baroque de Versailles, has put together a performing edition based on Royer's manuscripts. (The viola part was restored by Gérard Geay.) The production included instrumentalists from the Centre de Musique Baroque de Versailles, professional singers who specialize in Baroque singing, and students from the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, who had to learn not only the music but the style in which to perform it. Catherine Turocy, artistic director of the New York Baroque Dance Company, provided the choreography. Victoria Vaughan, assistant director of the Oberlin Opera Theater, directed. Olivier Schneebeli coached the chorus in proper Baroque style. (Royer's work recalls that of Jean-Philippe Rameau.)
The work is divided into a prologue and three acts. Each act is a separate demonstration of the power of love. Due to time constraints, this performance omitted Act II entirely. The omitted material recounts the King Midas story (with an added story line about love), and its length (another forty-five minutes in a work that is nearly two hours) arguably would have taken away from the power and weight of Act III. Crawford has speculated that the unwieldy Act II may account for Pouvoir's long absence from the stage. Preparation of this work involved challenges not found in more standard works: no readily available scores, no standard performance practices, not even recordings of Royer's other operas to go by.
The prologue deals with the creation of Amour (Love) by the goddess of Imagination. Act I is a bucolic scene, in which Céphise and Doris (a dance role) try to cheer up Zélide, who longs for love. When Emire enters, Céphise and Doris try to keep him away from Zélide. However, their attempt to protect her proves futile, due to the intervention of a Genie (another dance role).
Act III deals with a sect of savages who seek to appease the gods by sacrificing Marphise, the king's daughter. The "priest" assigned to commit the sacrifice is a disguised Apollo; he falls in love with Marphise when he is left alone to kill her. The savages express their anger at the "priest's" failure to carry out the sacrifice, and Apollo retaliates by causing darkness to cover the land. When they plead with him to restore the light, he also reveals himself as Apollo. The act concludes with festive dancing. With minor keys aptly used to reflect the dark nature of the story, Royer's stark music in this act proved a wonderful contrast to the pastoral scene that preceded it.
Baroque opera often shows young voices off to good advantage, and the large cast sang quite well. Tenor Leif Aruhn-Solén excelled in the high-lying lyricism of Emire and sailed through the intricate coloratura of Apollo. His beautiful voice and easy stage manner helped him dominate his scenes. Anne Harley (Imagination and Zélide) sang with a clear, beautiful voice, too. Her interaction with Aruhn-Solén made Act I especially convincing. Malia Bendi-Merad (Marphise) sang and acted with a clear sense of the drama of Act III. Her voice, a high lyric, limned her lines with disarming ease, blending with Aruhn-Solén in their lengthy duet together. Hannah Waldman (Céphise) showed a warm soprano voice and an engaging stage personality.
Costumes, from the Cleveland Playhouse and from the New York Baroque Dance Company, further enhanced the sense of Baroque style. The stage setting attempted to recreate a kind of Baroque theater, the sliding panels creating a fascinating array of scenes. Director Vaughan's decision to include two young boys as little Cupids was quite effective, unifying the work and charming the audience.
The orchestra produced beautiful music, never covering the singers. The sweet, plangent sounds of the Baroque oboes added greatly to the performance. Conductor Michael Sponseller kept things moving at a comfortable pace, with tight ensemble between pit and stage.
ALAN MONTGOMERY
STUDENT PERFORMANCES
BLOOMINGTON, IN
The Indiana University School of Music production of Mark Adamo's Little Women (Musical Arts Center, Feb. 9) was severely troubled by rampant illness among two alternating casts, necessitating two cast changes. Several singers who did perform were in only marginally better health than those who dropped out. However, the two substitutions, both in principal roles, were in excellent shape. Jo, the eldest daughter of the March family, is the opera's central character. Although she had sung the role the previous evening, Leslie Mutchler was in good voice, with a smoky mezzo coloration; she supplied close attention to musical detail, strong characterization and an attractive stage presence. As Jo's sister Beth, Tiffany Rosenquist had also sung the previous evening, and though she was on the steely side vocally, she finely expressed her character's delicate constitution and grace.
The rest of the cast sang as scheduled, with varying degrees of success and two standouts. Jonathan Stinson sang adroitly, his handsome, high, bright baritone well controlled for a sincere, estimable performance as the much put-upon suitor, John Brooke. Laura Vlasak Nolen reveled in the vocal and comic outbursts of Aunt Cecilia March.
Adamo's music is an excellent vehicle for young voices; its reasonable vocal demands spared the school the embarrassment that might have resulted had a more challenging work been performed when so many students were ill. Guest conductor Ted Taylor tightly controlled the orchestra, steering a careful course in support of his young vocal charges.
Enunciation was quite good, thanks in part to Adamo's careful setting of the text, but projected titles helped the audience to sort out multi-voiced passages. A momentary outburst of laughter occurred when a computer mishap canceled the text and projected the "Power-Point Presentation" logo instead.
Robert O'Hearn designed a practical, two-level house, adaptable to interior or exterior scenes in Concord, MA, or New York City. The set made the huge Musical Arts Center stage seem smaller, but it was situated so far upstage that the audience felt detached from the action. Beautifully detailed period costumes from the Minnesota Opera were a visual asset. (The production is a joint venture between the Minnesota Opera and IU, with the university constructing the sets.) Vincent Liotta's static, uncomplicated staging concentrated on individual characterizations.
CHARLES H. PARSONS
CINCINNATI
Composer Robert Ward was in attendance at the Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music's production of his opera The Crucible (Patricia Corbett Theater, Feb. 7-10). Ward had cause to be pleased with CCM's powerful rendering of his masterpiece. Nicholas Muni, artistic director of Cincinnati Opera, was imported as guest stage director (and as teacher, filling in for Malcolm Fraser, opera department chair, who was on medical leave). Thomas C. Umfrid's sets were utter simplicity, consisting of two huge, plain, intersecting gray walls, a tabula rasa for Elizabeth T. Lammer's starkly dramatic lighting effects. Costumes by Kimberly Ann Long were authentic-looking period pieces, all in shades of black, gray, a bit of brown and off-white; Tituba's orange handkerchief was the rare spot of bright color.
The Salem witchcraft trials cast a long shadow in American history, and in this production, the characters cast literal giant shadows at crucial moments to create atmosphere and to comment on the drama. Muni's staging was also simple, taught and tight, concentrating on personal relationships.
Two alternating casts demonstrated a variety of strengths and weaknesses, but in the principal roles of Elizabeth and John Procter, the singers were evenly matched in both casts. Shannon Unger and Michael Mayes (Feb. 7, 9, 10) were the more flamboyant actors, the more "operatic" pair. Unger's John Procter was plummy-toned; Mayes's E;ozabetj incisive, fiercely sung. Blythe Gaissert and Andrew Garland (Feb. 8, 9) were more psychologically intense, benefiting from Gaissert's silken vocalism and the burning intensity of Garland's cleanly focused singing. Miranda Rowe (Abigail Williams) was a miracle of brilliant vocalism, cutting through the orchestral waves, singing radiantly, yet a marvelous study in controlled hysteria. LaToya Lain's Tituba was nastily hollow, effective but problematic. Timothy Oliver (Rev. Samuel Parris) sang adroitly, with ingratiating tone and persuasive acting. As the implacable Judge Danforth, tenor Mark Panuccio hurled vocal thunderbolts, easily negotiating the high tessitura and singing with crisp diction and unfailing beauty. Sean Anderson's evil Thomas Putnam was authoritative in presence and in voice. André McRae's Rev. Hale was nobly sympathetic, richly intoned. Phumzile Sojola lent his sturdy tenor to the role of Giles Corey.
The orchestra struggled dutifully with Ward's complex score, growing in confidence throughout the run; though conductor Zhang Xian worked hard to rein the musicians in, their volume tended to be overbearing.
Rossini's Mosè in Egitto (1819) is rarely performed. Rarer still is Moïse et Pharaon, his 1828 re-write of the opera, with plenty of new music and a new libretto in French. The opera department and the Philharmonia Orchestra of the College-Conservatory of Music of the University of Cincinnati offered a single performance of Moïse in concert (Feb. 18). This is a massive work, heavy in its use of the chorus, with three difficult solo roles (Moïse, Anaï, Aménophis) but minimal scenic demands. CCM faculty member Kenneth Shaw, a bass, looking slim and dignified, dominated the performance with his interpretation of Moïse. Best of the student singers was Mark Panuccio (Aménophis), with exquisitely projected French, a brilliant tenor sound and plenty of heft; he was equally at home in long lyric lines and in the ornate fioriture, nailing his frequent high notes (including a D above high C) with precision and grace. The role of Anaï was divided among no fewer than four sopranos of varying abilities. Jacqueline Enrique sang the first half of the performance, displaying a soprano sound of grand proportions, with a penetrating top. She also displayed suspect musicality, lack of characterization and unfamiliarity with the text, and, though naturally gifted, she only approximated Rossini's notes. The three other sopranos (Jennifer Piazza-Pick, Maria D'Amato, Kelly Domke) shared the second half of the opera, to little effect. You-Seong Kim's Sinaïde was dainty and elegant, in telling contrast to the blundering, under-sung Pharaon of Arturo Chacon.
The massed choral forces were remarkably well balanced, with clean articulation. Conductor Mark Gibson smiled and danced his way through the score, obviously delighted with the music, working hard to attract the orchestra's attention. The orchestra went its own way, however, uniformly bland and forte.
As enjoyable as this opera was, one must question the wisdom of scheduling such a work without the talent necessary to perform it properly. Using a faculty member to sing Moïse served at least to acknowledge that the demands of that character's music lay beyond the scope of any of the students, but Anaï's music proved too difficult for all four sopranos.
CHARLES H. PARSONS
INTERNATIONAL
MADRID
It isn't every day that two staged works by Claude Debussy can be seen and heard on the same night in the same city. It happened on January 26 in Madrid. While the small Teatro de la Zarzuela produced a worthy version of Le Martyre de Saint Sébastien, the larger Teatro Real ended its successful run of an almost flawless Pelléas et Mélisande. The combination was a festival of French sophistication and a chance to experience two excellent examples of the diverging roads of modern stage direction.
Veteran Swiss conductor Armin Jordan was the main force behind the success of this production of Debussy's only opera. He guided his troops with the ease and intelligence that transforms difficult works such as Pelléas et Mélisande into clear statements and forceful, forward-moving stories. His was one of those musical performances during which the
