At Convent Garden, Zambello and two almost equally starry casts set out to change the recent spate of bad luck of
Don Giovanni in the U.K.INTERNATIONAL LONDON Francesca Zambello's new production of Don Giovanni for the Royal Opera opened on January 22, with former music director Colin Davis returning to lead the first of two almost equally starry casts. (Charles Mackerras led the second cast.)
The essentials of Davis's interpretation, particularly its sound-world -- which follows late-Romantic tradition rather than bowing to the ever-changing precepts of the period-instrument movement -- have remained much the same since his career took off when he replaced Otto Klemperer in this piece back in 1959. At seventy-five, Davis conducts with the energy of a young tyro and brings to the score a consistently lithe and dynamic quality that certainly has its virtues but can sound driven.
With the exception of David McVicar's detailed, text-based account for Opera North, Mozart and da Ponte's parable of sexual excess and damnation has not had much luck in visual terms in the U.K. of late. Stagings by Graham Vick at Glyndebourne and by Calixto Bieito at English National Opera have been widely disliked. That Covent Garden's latest venture reached the level of the acceptable was due largely to the fact that the actions and interactions of Zambello's production demonstrated integrity of thought as well as executive skill. Its limitations chiefly concern the adaptations, which are of variable quality, of Maria Bjørnson's basic unit set, placed within the picture frame of a false proscenium.
Up to the interval, things seemed to be going pretty well -- the period costumes were handsome, the speed of the scene changes kept the show nimbly in motion, and the complex internal dynamics of the finale were meticulously choreographed within a mock-eighteenth-century ballroom painted on the reverse of Bjørnson's turntable. It was in Act II that the show faltered. The episode where Leporello and his master swap identities was unclear, and the graveyard scene -- with its procession of ecclesiastical extras -- overpopulated. The climactic sequence where Giovanni is dragged down to hell -- here a virtuoso pyrotechnical display, with lashings of dry ice billowing out over the orchestra and sickly yellow flames shooting up all over the stage -- registered in the final analysis as just an effective effect. It conveyed little sense of the spiritual horror of Giovanni's fate.
Zambello had nevertheless clearly worked hard with the cast, and a number of remarkable performances resulted. Bryn Terfel's Giovanni especially was outstanding, its depth and color underpinned by vocal resources whose sheer variety continues to amaze. The persuasive charm he applied during "Là ci darem" ensured not only Zerlina's capitulation but the audience's, yet there was no mistaking the dark side of his nature, repeatedly embodied in timbre as well as gesture. Both in overall conception and in detail, Terfel here confirmed himself as among the top-ranking exponents of this complex and equivocal character.
Alan Held's Leporello portrayed a debased though vocally forthright aider and abettor of his master's vile schemes, with not just one book of names to carry around but a whole satchel-full. Rebecca Evans sang Zerlina neatly and sweetly, while Ashley Holland made a determined Masetto. Robert Lloyd was vocally imposing as the Commendatore, though the horror-movie visualization of his final appearance looked corny. Varying degrees of insecurity marred three of the other central performances. Canadian soprano Adrianne Pieczonka made her Covent Garden debut as a Donna Anna striking in appearance and purposeful in activity, but the tricky final section of "Non mi dir" was sketchy. Melanie Diener sustained a passable evening as Elvira, while Rainer Trost had a generally uncomfortable one as Ottavio, with more than his share of out-of-tune singing.
The second cast (Feb. 18) was more consistent. Simon Keenlyside's Giovanni lacked Terfel's sheer amplitude, but his basic attitude of suave calculation took in many refinements. Ildebrando D'Arcangelo's Leporello showed an Italian's natural appreciation of the dexterity and flavor of da Ponte's text. Christine Goerke's Donna Anna rose to the challenge of both arias with securely founded tone and dramatic command, and Ana Maria Martinez attacked the difficulties of Donna Elvira with relish, identifying the abandoned woman's tensions both physically and vocally. John Mark Ainsley's Ottavio was accurately delivered, though lacking in nuance, and Andrea Silvestrelli's Commendatore was grandly voiced. Neither the Zerlina (Natalie Christie) nor the Masetto (Darren Jeffery) made any particular impression. Best of all was Mackerras's fluid conducting, and his sanctioning (and presumably inventing) of the many stylish decorations that found their way into the vocal lines of every cast member.
GEORGE HALL
PARIS The Opéra de Paris paid tribute to its most successful director of recent times, Rolf Liebermann (191099), with a new production of his Medea. The work, which began life as a soprano monologue (premiere in Hamburg, 1990), was extended to a two-act version (premiere also in Hamburg, 1995), then to this three-act, seventy-five-minute version (premiere in Bern, 2001), which received its Paris premiere on February 12. The house served the composer handsomely by uniting the strong production team of director Jorge Lavelli, set designer Agostino Pace and costume designer Graciela Galán. The libretto, written by Ursula Haas from her novel, Freispruch für Medea (Free Speech for Medea), is an interesting, well-written character study, concentrating on the clash of cultures between Jason and Medea, as Medea's oriental, matriarchal society is threatened by Jason's occidental, patriarchal Argonauts. The opening, with its tinkling gamelans, effectively suggested Medea's exotic, mysterious world, but for the rest of the opera, the music is in a post-Berg, Expressionist mode, too eventful and percussion-heavy to be genuinely memorable.
Liebermann does however provide a plum role for the soprano in Medea, with shades of Elektra in her cries of "Jason" and brief thoughts of Sieglinde as she condemns the "fremde Mann" who invades her space. The Wagnerian grandeur of the role was well caught by soprano Jeanne-Michèle Charbonnet, who sang with astonishing power and commitment. Though the very top of her voice seemed a little strident, this could be blamed on the musical line. Her Jason brought a more taciturn performance from Petri Lindroos, for whose somewhat diffuse bass the role seemed to lie awkwardly. Much ink was spilt over the composer's claim that this is the first explicitly gay opera (this came as a surprise to those who had seen Tippett's The Knot Garden, among others), for in this version Jason abandons Medea not for the soprano arms of Glauce but for the countertenor tones of Creon, son of the king of Greece, in an exceptionally well-sung performance by countertenor Lawrence Zazzo.
The staging of Act I, with its earth-colored walls and suspended female chorus, had a rich sense of exoticism, and the pagan fertility ritual reached an exciting climax. The thrusting walkway, which introduces Jason and his barbaric soldiers into this feminine world, was heavily symbolic. Medea, blinded by passion, abandons her world for the foreigner and the sacred Golden Fleece. Twenty years on, in a set of bleached strangeness, Act II finds Medea lamenting her lost love, rejecting what she sees as their bastard child and bewitching her marriage robe to ensnare Jason's male lover. In a more contemporary setting, Act III offers a glimpse of Jason's relationship with Creon. From the inevitable steamy shower emerged scantily-clad Zazzo. The much-vaunted gay theme seemed undercharged; it could even be suggested that the portrayal of homosexual love involving a willowy countertenor simply reinforces a certain stereotype.
The moment when Creon puts on the wedding gown and is immolated (along with the whole of Corinth) was the only scene in the production that Lavelli fudged: surely flames of some sort were necessary. The climax of the opera brings with it a feminist message. Her revenge taken, Medea meets Jason for the last time; she condemns his love as a quest for power, while he accuses her of merely wanting to possess him. The final, optimistic thought from Medea is that after all her acts of folly and violence she has now "found" herself. In this telling, as in so many others, this is still a lady not to be crossed.
Initially, the music director of the Bastille, James Conlon, had been announced to conduct the work, but in the event Daniel Klajner, who previously conducted it in Bern, took over. He led a finely-played performance, with notable contributions from the chorus and dedicated, young supporting soloists.
STEPHEN MUDGE
VERONA The highlight of the winter season at the Teatro Filarmonico was Davide and Federico Alagna's touring production of Pagliacci (coupled on this occasion with the ballet Zorba the Greek), designed as a showcase for their brother Roberto and first mounted in Santander, Spain, two years ago. The idea of keeping things in the family may sound suspicious to some (though it is hardly inappropriate for an opera set in the south of Italy), but the results were excellent: the sets (by Federico), suggesting a mid-twentieth-centu
ry setting, were colorful and convincing in atmosphere, and the action (devised by Davide) was freshly thought out in every detail, without attempting to be original at all costs. Above all, the performance seen on February 21 achieved that perfect emotional balance that can make Leoncavallo's masterpiece the most lacerating of operas: forcing us to witness a double murder with our sympathies equally divided between the murderer and his victims.
Roberto Alagna portrayed a youthful, athletic Canio, alternating boyish enthusiasm with sudden bursts of terrifying violence. He emphasized the darker hues in his voice, but without forcing its natural volume. High notes were secure and fully exploited for theatrical effect but kept within a tensely drawn legato line, with words projecting vividly. Rather than make us observe from a distance a defeated, self-pitying figure who turns to violence, Alagna forces us to share Canio's sense of betrayal and overwhelming desire for vendetta. This was a great performance, which deservedly won him enthusiastic ovations.
Almost equally strong in impact, though less eloquent in detail, was Svetla Vassileva's Nedda: a naturally uninhibited woman who feels trapped in a patriarchal society. Her acting was much more spontaneous than in last year's revival of Zeffirelli's production of this opera at the Teatro Regio in Turin, and her singing was secure and vibrant (if a bit hollow-sounding in the lower register). She conveyed tellingly the psychological complexity of the Act II commedia.
The two baritones, Enrico Marrucci (Silvio) and Alberto Mastromarino (Tonio) were vocally unimpressive but created convincing characters onstage. The orchestra, led in routine fashion by Viekoslav Sutej, was mediocre, but the Arena chorus sang brilliantly, and Francesco Piccoli offered a finely drawn (and sung) Beppe/Arlecchino.
STEPHEN HASTINGS
BERLIN "Fire Zimmermann!" the outraged audience screamed when the curtain came down after Deutsche Oper's new Fidelio on February 26, holding the company's Intendant, Udo Zimmermann, responsible for a disastrous production. Beethoven's complex work -- an amalgam of singspiel, heroic opera and oratorio -- poses numerous difficulties, musically and dramaturgically. The production team, performers and musicians could not cope with any of them: this was rock bottom in a way that no one could have predicted.
Zimmermann must take blame for assigning Heinrich Schiff to conduct; the famed cellist has almost no opera experience to his credit, and here he seemed at a complete loss. Singers and orchestra were hardly ever together on the beat, and the musicians made one mistake after a
nother. The sound was plain, dull, without shine or color. When Schiff returned to the pit for Act II, he was greeted with a storm of boos -- and his reading did not improve after that.
Zimmermann also must take blame for not stepping in after one of the later rehearsals. The curtain never should have gone up on Christof Nel's production in the first place. It would have been better to present the piece in concert, or to revive the wonderful Jean-Pierre Ponnelle Fidelio that was in the company's repertoire until two seasons ago. Director Nel obviously believes that Fidelio is merely a chain of silly musical numbers that demand ridicule, and that the ideals -- compassion, love and freedom -- upheld in the score are unrealistic and outdated.
During the overture, baby dolls were thrown from the windows of a three-story, white apartment block (designed by Jens Kilian); below, a girl outfitted with a pair of black wings collected the dolls. Acts I and II took place in a narrow, bright white space -- the audience laughed when the imprisoned Florestan sang of the darkness surrounding him. Most dialogue was cut; whenever the characters were allowed to speak a line, they whispered into a microphone that hung from the flies. They were directed to use an artificial, mocking voice, as if to demonstrate how laughable the story was. At no point did they interact with each other. For the finale, Leonore wore a bridal gown; she and her husband were threatened by a mob of tastelessly dressed middle-class men and women, the latter holding baby dolls. Fighting for love doesn't pay off, Nel suggested, because eventually, everyone ends up with the disillusioning daily routine of any married couple. Consequently, though music and words brimmed with praise and rejoicing, the characters' faces were dim, empty, frustrated.
In her first-ever attempt at the title role, Eva Johansson scored a few points with her hochdramatische attack on top notes, but like the rest of the cast she suffered visibly and audibly under the strain of the staging. As her husband, Mark Baker was announced as ill; he had to transpose parts of his music an octave down. To judge by the notes that remained intact, he could develop into a near-perfect Florestan in different circumstances. Here, the director tied him to a long leash and made him laugh hysterically while repeatedly trying to commit suicide by jumping into the orchestra pit. Eike Wilm Schulte's harmless Pizarro brought Florestan a bouquet of roses when he came to kill him. Franz Hawlata's Rocco, Fionnuala McCarthy's Marzelline in sneakers, pink T-shirt and camouflage skirt and Uwe Peper's Jaquino found no opportunity to save the evening from chaos.
Harry Kupfer has dominated the Berlin opera scene for some twenty years. And though the premiere of a new production of Britten's The Turn of the Screw on March 10 marked his local farewell, Kupfer's reign has not yet come to an end. Currently, the repertoires of Komische Oper and Staatsoper offer thirty-one of his stagings -- an overkill that gives even his most uncritical admirers pause.
Kupfer's story is that of the rise and fall of an extraordinary talent. In 1971, he burst onto the Berlin scene with a highly acclaimed Die Frau ohne Schatten at the Staatsoper. In 1978, the East German director created a stir in the West with Der Fliegende Holländer at Bayreuth; three years later he bowed as chief director of Komische Oper, then considered the most progressive company in East Germany. Within a decade, Kupfer had established a reputation as a pioneer of Regietheater, known for intense, psychologically refined productions. However, in the early '90s, while his fame grew internationally, his directing style changed: Kupfer's stagings exaggerated emotional conflicts, and his singers overacted. Rolling around, crawling on the floor and popping eyes became clichés. His decision to work almost exclusively with designer Hans Schavernoch made Kupfer's work completely predictable visually, as well.
Originally, Kupfer had scheduled Werner Egk's Peer Gynt as his last production at Komische Oper. Because of financial problems, it had to be replaced by the smaller-scale, chorus-free Turn of the Screw. The staging was reminiscent of Kupfer's better days. Designer Frank Philipp Schlössmann created a labyrinthine series of gloomy Victorian rooms, built out of gauze scrim on a turntable. Within these spaces, Kupfer focused on story telling, without forced interpretation and without indulging in the work's undercurrents of child abuse and pedophilia. However, The Turn of the Screw, a dark, gothic tale, bears the potential to be a Hitchcock-style thriller -- a quality that Kupfer failed to capture.
With every note, Gun-Brit Barkmin reflected the Governess's fear, helplessness and determination to save the haunted children; she portrayed a woman on the verge of insanity without overdoing it. Boy soprano Philipp Mock sang and acted the part of Miles with outstanding precision and conviction, but Andreas Conrad lacked demonic force as the evil Quint. Beatrice Niehoff (Mrs. Grose), Hanna Dóra Sturludóttir (Miss Jessel) and Anna Prohaska (Flora) gave solid performances under conductor Matthias Foremny's plain, undistinguished leadership.
JOCHEN BREIHOLZ
NORTH AMERICA
New York CityFranco Zeffirelli's production of Falstaff, the stuff of instant legend when it first appeared at the old Metropolitan Opera House in 1964, returned to the stage of the Lincoln Center house on March 21 with remade scenery. The costumes too were new, developed by Ann Roth from Zeffirelli's original sketches. Since ill health prevented the designerdirector from returning to supervise this revival, the Met's notes on his production were realized under the hand of David Kneuss.
This remains an extremely good Falstaff, visually still fresh and well fitted to its subject. When he first created it, young Zeffirelli was at the peak of his form, serving both Shakespeare and Verdi, untouched as yet by the sort of excess that would sometimes intrude on his
later career. Second to none as a draughtsman, he conceived his sets and his characters all of a piece, turning out sketches that were works of art in themselves.
The redone Falstaff looks like a painting that's been cleaned. If it lacks some of the warmth of the original, however, don't blame the restorers for taking away yellowed varnish -- updated technology at the new Met may be to blame. In Act I, Scene 2, outdoors in the garden of Ford's house, the orange sky now looks odd, the exterior of the building too obviously painted on canvas; credit this washed-out effect to Wayne Chouinard's all-too-efficient lighting. Similarly, the autumnal chiaroscuro of Act III, Scene 1, behind the Garter Inn, with poor Falstaff dragging himself out of the Thames (here, out of the orchestra pit), seems more prosaic in its new trappings.
The restaging catches the overall feel of Zeffirelli's original, such as a superabundance of commedia dell'arte shtick in the opening scene, but many details seem different. For example, legitimate advantage is taken of Jean-Paul Fouchécourt's diminutive size when he, as Bardolfo, rides on the shoulders of Raymond Aceto's hulking Pistola. Where the intricate opera buffa ensemble work at Ford's house requires close coordination and grouping among the singers, Zeffirelli's traditional approach seems little different in its new incarnation. His only miscalculation, which also remains, is the Windsor Forest finale as a sort of Halloween Mardi Gras, overwhelmed with costumes and choreography far more elaborate than the villagers could have improvised on such short notice.
This was Bryn Terfel's first Met outing in the title role. The luxury of a voice like Terfel's lies not only in its natural richness and pliable expressive range but in its responsiveness to how such an instinctive artist feels the part. Beyond Falstaff's crusty mellowness, Terfel has absorbed the man's underlying melancholy. When his "Va, vecchio John" phrases appeared and reappeared, he made one aware of how Verdi himself must have identified with the old knight. After the fleeting joys of youth (the music of Nannetta and Fenton) comes the challenge of maturity (the Fords), then of growing old, if not gracefully, at least with a certain grace. Terfel's characterization, artfully somewhat understated, was fully rounded, and not just in physique. His ego, and his lumbago, really hurt when he pulled himself out of the river, and he really savored that restorative shot of mulled wine.
The kinship of Dame Quickly with Falstaff, more apparent in Shakespeare than in the opera, was implicit in the way Stephanie Blythe played off Terfel's character, shaping her plummy tones with a touch of allure that hadn't entirely deserted Quickly in her own mature years. The musical texture of Falstaff is an interwoven tissue in which individual gems gleam briefly, and James Levine, the nimble but relaxed conductor, had at Verdi's service a team of polished singers who could seize the opportunity to show these facets when their turns came.
In the warp and woof of this busy ensemble, only Falstaff, Ford, Nannetta and, to a degree, Fenton are rewarded with solos of their own. Dwayne Croft's Ford, while asserting himself incisively, also dramatized his vanity and befuddlement. Swedish soprano Camilla Tilling, perhaps a shade nervous in her Met debut, gave Nannetta the freshness and sweet artlessness of a youthful lyric soprano. Her Fenton, Gregory Turay, more planned and considered in sound and style, still matched her lyricisim with floating lines of his own. Marina Mescheriakova as Alice was animated, verbally pointed, always cheerfully in charge, even when she let herself get flustered as events unfolded. Susanne Mentzer made an attractive Meg, content to let Alice go first, but a game partner in the intrigue. Jonathan Welch presented Dr. Caius as a smug pedant, thoroughly taken with himself, singing as smoothly as the vehemence of his protests permitted. Fouchécourt's slapstick Bardolfo and Aceto's mock-solemn Pistola, like cloves and cinnamon, spiced the punch with their twists of caricature, ducking each other's assaults with choreographic agility. Levine's leadership guaranteed this well-drilled team sparkling support in the pit.
Fans of French opera don't get too many breaks nowadays, but on March 4 the Met offered them a three-course treat: Parade, the revival of John Dexter and David Hockney's visualization, first offered twenty-one years ago, of pieces by Erik Satie (Parade), Francis Poulenc (Les Mamelles de Tirésias) and Maurice Ravel (L'Enfant et les Sortilèges). Max Charruyer has restaged the Dexter production, with Gray Veredon's original choreography.
The opener and title work, Parade itself, a ballet to a scenario by Jean Cocteau, could be construed as an antiwar piece, in the sense that at the time of its premiere, in 1917, it studiously ignored World War I, which was underway not far from Paris. At that time, the public took a dim view of this exercise in apparent surrealism; the Met's version, however, incorporates wartime imagery (barbed wire, searchlights, soldiers in gas masks, a rifle-toting Villain representing Death) alongside Cocteau's traveling-circus figures. In this context, the appearance of a Pierrot takes on a certain poignancy, captured in the Met debut of New York City Ballet's Damian Woetzel. There's also a child, tying into the imagery of parenthood in Les Mamelles and the childhood theme of L'Enfant. (In all three parts of Parade, one could read children as metaphors for works of art, the artists' antidote for the destructive ways of mankind.)
James Levine's crisp conducting relished the bone-dry textures of Satie's deadpan score, while four men in tricolor outfits turned cartwheels to the sound of an air-raid siren. The stage picture grew confusing, its disparate elements commingling in their competition for the attention of passersby, but the overall feeling wasn't unlike that of a Parisian street scene.
The unifying concept of the Parade evening is its painterly feeling -- the work of Hockney, whose sets and costumes set the tone. In the opening segment, scenery plays a minor role: this could be a no-man's land. Mamelles brings an abrupt change with its maritime location, a mythical town called Zanzibar, depicted by Hockney in fanciful realism. Ainhoa Arteta's beguiling portrayal of Thérèse/Tirésias -- whose whimsical sex change sparks the plot of Apollinaire's wry, ribald fantasy -- was the magnetic force at the center here. The gusto with which she gained her freedom from a male-dominated societ
y was so infectious that even her patient Husband, amiably played by Earle Patriarco, seemed convinced she was absolutely right. Yet she regained her feminine charm quickly enough when, disguised as a Fortuneteller, she returned to the life she had forsaken. A pair of music-hall comics, Presto and Lacouf, were played by Franco Pomponi and Eduardo Valdes with such nonchalant élan that one could believe Offenbach was alive again. In fact, he was, as Poulenc's insistent, penetrating score put the text in its historically natural musical context. Again, the orchestra under Levine was astute and pungent in its commentary.
In L'Enfant, a strictly if sympathetically brought-up Child rebels, which is only natural; his rebellion teaches him compassion. Chastened by his own experience, rather than by the moralizing of his superiors, he gains perspective on the small world in which he lives, opening out to a world of nature beyond his house. From the safety of home, where he can wreak damage, he moves to the subtler world outside, where he links into the shifting tissue of the lives of others. This is told in deceptively gentle tones, but as we know from watching nature documentaries on PBS, it's a jungle out there.
Danielle de Niese cut an incisive figure as the Child, charmed by his own naughtiness into believing in an imaginary world firmly based on the real one. Singing brightly, with meaningful focus on both word and tone, the soprano (in a role usually given to a mezzo) looked a shade mature for the part, foreshadowing the adult to come. Hockney's imagery cloaks the singers of the inanimate and animal roles in commedia dell'arte costumes to either side of the proscenium -- like the figures that rocked myriad babies in Mamelles -- while dancers mime the roles onstage. Ravel's deft traceries were in the hands of expert singers, notably Olga Makarina (house debut) as Fire, Ruth Ann Swenson as the storybook Princess, Jean-Paul Fouchécourt as Mathematics and Youngok Shin as the Nightingale, while Mark Oswald (the Theater Manager of Mamelles) doubled as the Black Cat and Patriarco as the Grandfather Clock -- examples of the intricate teamwork that made the Parade ensemble a troupe to remember.
The orchestral textures glowed and twinkled like an illuminated Christmas tree. Before such a tree, huge and radiantly red, the Enfant company delivered its madrigal finale in rather the spirit of Falstaff.
On March 12, Gianandrea Noseda made his Met debut conducting War and Peace, in which there were also a few changes from the premiere cast of February 14. Noseda, born in Milan, is principal guest conductor at the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg, where he leads standard international repertory; and he is pursuing an active, widespread European career. He made his U.S. debut last September with Los Angeles Opera in Tchaikovsky's Queen of Spades.
It quickly became apparent that Noseda's approach to War and Peace would be different -- not "better" or "worse" but different -- from that of Valery Gergiev, who initiated the Met production. Where Gergiev digs deep into the guts of a score, with sweeping, generalized gestures that neither stress nor encourage sharp-edged accuracy, Noseda emphasizes traditional Italian virtues of vocal fluency and dramatic movement. His preference for clarity and faster tempos brightened the orchestra's attacks but sometimes stepped ahead of the chorus, which had been conditioned by Gergiev's broader approach. Since Prokofiev's score responds well to both kinds of interpretation, this was an evening of refreshing new insights into an opera that so far has appealed strongly to the New York public.
Anna Netrebko and Dmitri Hvorostovsky repeated their roles of Natasha and Prince Andrei. If anything, Netrebko showed a deepening sensitivity to the girl's poetic, tentative yet determined nature, while Hvorostovsky responded in kind, lightening up the nuances, letting even more warmth into his expansive singing. Following Prokofiev's lead, both artists made plain their characters' growth into their final scene together. Alexei Steblianko brought a louder, more emphatic delivery than did his predecessor, Gegam Grigorian, to the role of Pierre Bezukhov. This took a few degrees away from Pierre's reflective nature but coaxed forth the anger needed to intimidate his brother-in-law, Anatol, at the close of Part I. The replacement of Elena Obraztsova by Larissa Shevchenko made less difference in the role of Natasha's godmother, Maria Akhrosimova, since both mezzos are of the assertive, abrasive type, tuned to the character's dramatic importance and blunt good intentions, if a little rough on her music.
At the whim of designer Santo Loquasto and director Elijah Moshinsky, the Met's recently new Luisa Miller transpires in England on the cusp of the Industrial Revolution. It's a case of mistaken identity. Under Duane Schuler's murky lighting, some of this Luisa Miller production looks like the world of Jack the Ripper, as seen at the end of Lulu. Never mind. The characters are still those same old Tyroleans that Schiller was writing about, closer relatives of the Stiffelio cast than anybody found in the tales of Dickens.
Heard on March 18, two of the principals were new. In the title role, Barbara Frittoli quickly proved her mettle as a Verdi soprano. Like Gilda, Violetta and the Trovatore Leonora, Luisa requires tenderness and delicacy but also florid agility and, at key moments, dramatic power. Frittoli's predominantly lyric voice is of a type considered light for these roles, especially in a large theater. But she is a communicative artist, capable of poignant expression as well as unforced assertive strength commensurate with her means. She understands how to apply Verdian stresses, and she knows how to create a character. This Luisa was more than just another marshmallow waiting to be toasted by the forces of evil. One had to sympathize with her. Not only was she under pressure from the insidious Wurm of Phillip Ens, but her own boyfriend (the Rodolfo of Neil Shicoff) kept yelling at her, even in the most lyrical pages of their scenes together.
Frittoli was at her peak throughout Act III, delicatissimo as Verdi asks in "La tomba è un letto sparso di fiori" to her father, then poignant in "Piangi, il tuo dolore più dell'ira è giusto" to Rodolfo. Given little time to recognize the terminality of her situation, she registered the awareness vividly.
The new Miller, Roberto Frontali, played Luisa's father in a frontal manner, as his name suggests. With limited breadth and solidity, this baritone's timbre seems more naturally fitted for bel canto roles, but he used strength of focus and projection to convey Miller's pride and persistence. With Rodolfo, Count Walter and Wurm he was imprudently defiant. With Luisa he was shamelessly manipulative, coaxing her responsibility and guilt to the breaking point. This helped to ease the plot over its less credible bumps, even if Frontali didn't make Miller sympathetic enough to justify Luisa's devotion to him beyond the call of duty.
Again, James Levine's attunement to early-middle Verdi elicited elasticity of ensemble and touching woodwind solos from the pit. As in the maestro's reading of Nabucco the previous season, he showed occasional weakness for peremptory tempo -- Miller's lickety-split "Sacra la scelta" in Act I, for example. The final scene of the opera, on the other hand, was as luxuriantly drawn out as if it were Tristan und Isolde.
JOHN W. FREEMAN
There wasn't much beyond competent routine when Rigoletto made its first appearance of the Met season on February 22. Baritone Juan Pons occasionally tempered his usually burly, throaty singing of the title role with moments of the lighter-weight legato that Verdi must have wanted for his tragic jester, such as the second half of the "Cortigiani" scene and in most of the music with Gilda. But the bulk of Pons's performance gave you empty vocal calories in place of nourishing artistry, and his acting seemed merely rote vehemence. Ruth Ann Swenson's Gilda was better behaved; it had to be, in view of the personality-profile of the secluded, lovestruck, kidnapped, seduced and murdered girl. Indeed Swenson made her live, love and die on smooth, luminous tone and warm phrasing, but she fell short of the emotional immediacy needed to grip an audience's heart. This is said even while noting the top E-flat fortissimo she fired off like a flying missile at the end of "Sì, vendetta." Tenor Marcelo Álvarez was neither routine nor competent as the Duke. Yes, he lunged through "La donna è mobile" enthusiastically, but he goosed too many of his notes.
The professional criminals in the opera came off much better and, in fact, almost saved the evening. Mezzo Denyce Graves, a case of festival casting, gave Maddalena everything in terms of musical and visual impact. She was full of temperament and sex, and she made the Act III quartet burn fiercely. Bass Robert Lloyd's Sparafucile thundered with menace or sarcasm, but always musically. Conductor Marco Guidarini endangered his Met debut with precarious pit-to-stage connections in the opening scene but soon settled into the night's down-and-up situation.
LEIGHTON KERNER
House debuts were the order of the afternoon on March 10, when New York City Opera unveiled its latest production of Don Giovanni. The set designer (Riccardo Hernández), costume designer (David C. Woolard) and choreographer (Daniel Pelzig) were all new to the company, as were the Leporello (Nathan Berg), Donna Anna (Alexandrina Pendatchanska) and the Don himself (Peter Coleman-Wright). Despite the freshness of the personnel, it turned out not so easy for director Thor Steingraber to find a new slant on Mozart's daunting classic, the paranormal shivers of which sap the heartiness from its belly laughs.
Unlike Le Nozze di Figaro, Don Giovanni won't hold still for being treated as a bedroom farce. So the company gives the Don a sober approach. At the center rear of Hernández's unit set, a tall, changeable panel supplies images for the various scenes, while two architectural pieces -- imposing portals at left, an ordinary-looking single-story building at right -- provide a means for concealment, entrances and exits.
Almost at once, though, expectations were upset. Donna Anna, who'd more likely appear from the palatial doors at left, chased Don Giovanni instead over the rooftop of the plebeian-looking structure on the opposite side. A greater surprise was soon to come: the Don, momentarily disadvantaged in his duel with the Commendatore, pulled out a pistol and felled his adversary with a single shot. This left Coleman-Wright in an awkward spot. Though the Australian baritone has all the qualifications for a fine Giovanni -- good looks, suave vocal composure, gentlemanly deportment -- his director demoted him at the start from fearless miscreant to coward. In other words, he was obliged to play against character.
There was more of this pistol business. During the commedia dell'arte routine of the Act II sextet, with the disguised Leporello having to fast-talk an escape, his captors passed a pistol around, taking turns to decide who should shoot him. Occasionally, Steingraber came up with something fresher, such as having Donna Elvira's maid (who later figures in the disguise game) actually appear with her in Act I, or having Don Ottavio stand before the Commendatore's statue while pledging vengeance in "Il mio tesoro." The promise of these details wasn't delivered, especially when the Commendatore reappeared as a ghost, not as the Stone Guest, and popped in through the back wall rather than from the side hall where the screaming Elvira had spotted him. Daniel Borowski uttered the old m
an's lines commandingly enough, but it was hard to see this tame apparition as an overpowering threat.
Act I, like Act II, ended unresolved. Musically sabotaged by lack of its "stereophonic" onstage (or backstage) dance bands, it developed some confusion, even with few guests at the party, but no tension: did the intruding conspirators really have a plan, and did the Don thwart them? The Act II finale caved in under the weight of convention -- tarts hanging on the Don's arms, disappearing servants, smoke and flames, tortured writhing by the supposedly unflappable Don. But then, unimpeded by the usual trap door to sink him or demons to drag him, he just walked off into the sunset.
Berg's Leporello, well paired with Coleman-Wright's antihero, sang with vocal and verbal clarity, playing both sides of the role, with its resourceful expediency. Raúl Hernández offered a dramatically static Ottavio with vocal purity and elegance. There was a lot more fire in his fiancée, the Anna of Pendatchanska, who also walked a vocal tightrope with some finely shaded dynamics in "Non mi dir." Amy Burton's uneven, temperamentally lively Elvira threw off sparks in her pitiably funny fixation on the Don. As Zerlina, Mariateresa Magisano started off with an apt earthiness in her modest-sized soprano, but she backslid into pert-soubrette clichés in later scenes with Kevin Burdette's gawkily agreeable Masetto. As for performance style, this cast added appoggiaturas only sporadically and inconsistently. George Manahan's reading, dependable standard issue, lost its footing just once, during a helter-skelter "Finch' han dal vino."
JOHN W. FREEMAN
CHICAGO For Lyric Opera's new Parsifal (a coproduction with San Francisco Opera and English National Opera, where it was unveiled in 1999), director Nikolaus Lehnhoff updated Wagner's spacious tale of Christian mysticism and redemption to what appears to be a post-nuclear-holocaust setting. The brightly-lit design for Act I dispenses with the traditional lakeside forest; instead, designer Raimund Bauer offered an office building, where stiletto-like spikes protruded from walls that looked as if they'd weathered heavy explosions or artillery damage. A massive rock jutted out of a hole in the back wall, through which Parsifal climbed to make his entrance. Gray-on-gray postmodernism reigned -- indeed, ran amuck. The Knights' meeting place resembled a bombed-out demilitarized zone, with a steeply raked back wall and chairs sticking out at odd angles. No offstage voice
in this production, Titurel was stage front, a ghoulish cadaver; in a necrophiliac touch, Lehnhoff called on Amfortas to wrestle with the desiccated paternal corpse during his agonies and the uncovering of the Grail.
But there was no Grail to uncover. Lehnhoff dispensed with Wagner's meticulous stage directions and religious symbols (except, oddly, the swan that Parsifal kills), thereby rendering crucial plot devices impenetrable to anyone seeing the opera for the first time. During the Grail scene, the audience saw only the Knights' backs as they huddled around Amfortas, as if discussing football plays. When Parsifal destroyed Klingsor's kingdom "with this sign" (of the Cross), no sign of any kind was made.
Despite such questionable choices, the production (seen Feb. 21) did communicate some of the strange beauty of Wagner's endlessly fascinating opera. Anchored by Matti Salminen's sonorous, dignified Gurnemanz, Lehnhoff's concept conveyed some sense of a small, besieged religious community; the staging was visually arresting, with a fresh and contemporary slant. But Lehnhoff couldn't leave a good idea alone.
Kundry (Catherine Malfitano) entered by crashing through a wall. Clad in a mind-boggling outfit, with orange feathers sticking out of her head, Malfitano looked like Papagena on a bad plumage day. (Indeed, throughout this production, Andrea Schmidt-Futterer's costumes were laughably misconceived and embarrassing.) In Act I, Lehnhoff continually upstaged the somberly unfolding pace by having Kundry indulge in stiff, jerky movements, often writhing and rolling on the ground. Act II opened with a massive X-ray of a pelvis projected on the scrim, an unsubtle introduction to the self-mutilating Klingsor. Klingsor's abode was the same unit set as the knights' realm, the director perhaps hinting that they're two sides of the same moral coin. Schmidt-Futterer dressed Klingsor like the villain of an old sci-fi movie; the Flowermaidens were about as sexy as a petting zoo, with fuzzy ears and long, flared sleeves.
Lehnhoff and Schmidt-Futterer presented their most astonishing coup de théâtre in the latter half of Act II, showing Kundry, apparently still in the larval stage, encased in a large container that looked like a microwave popcorn bag. Wearing a long, stiff rubber dress, she stepped out of that, then proceeded to rock back and forth, slowly wriggling out of the dress to reveal a smaller, tighter one, the better to entice with. To bring Parsifal to his doom, she spread huge wings, a jarring image.
There was no flowery meadow in Act III, only the same bombed-out milieu; this time, railroad tracks led through the hole in the back wall. At opera's end, Amfortas gave his crown to Parsifal and died. Parsifal then laid the crown on Titurel's corpse and (Wagner purists, please find a chair) a still-living Kundry led him out along the tracks, followed by the knights, as the radiant A-flat-major chords ended the opera.
Salminen brought nobility and a weighty, sonorous bass to Gurnemanz, handling his long Act I monologue with power and expressive point. Malfitano sang with surprising strength and assurance, as well as her characteristic intensity. In the title role, Gösta Winbergh was solid rather than inspirational, and he took a while to warm up: his cry of "Amfortas! Die Wunde!" was underpowered. Winbergh's portrayal gained strength, however, and he made a believably ennobled figure in Act III. [Winbergh died on March 18 in Vienna; see obituary, p. 77.]
Making his belated Chicago debut, Mark Delavan offered an unusually well-sung Amfortas, his sinewy baritone and energetic, dramatic thrust registering the suffering knight with great impact. Egils Silins was a solid Klingsor, Bjarni Thor Kristinson a decently sung Titurel.
Save for a couple of brief horn bobbles in Act III, the Lyric Opera Orchestra played with luminous string tone and gleaming brass, matched by ravishing singing from the chorus. In his first outing with Wagner's final opera, Andrew Davis found a judicious middle ground between spacious rumination and flowing speeds, letting the work's beauties unfold while keeping admirable forward momentum.
LAWRENCE A. JOHNSON
Chicago Opera Theater's new production of Così Fan Tutte showcased talented young singers with truly impressive stage smarts. Leading an orchestra of period-instrumentalists, including members of the Newberry Consort, conductor Jane Glover crafted a performance marked by lively tempos and stellar ensemble work onstage. And Diane Paulus's production -- with sets by Scott Pask, costumes by Meg Neville, and lighting by Michael Chybowski -- was at once unusually witty, keenly perceptive and deeply felt.
Paulus showed an interest in the work's contemporaneity, locating it in today's club culture, with a chorus of twentysomethings constantly on the make. Into this claustrophobic world of libido on parade stumbled Dorabella and Fiordiligi (mezzo Tove Dahlberg, soprano Ingela Bohlin, both Swedish) and their mates Ferrando and Guglielmo (tenor Gioacchino Lauro LiVigni, baritone Ian Greenlaw), looking rather conventional in long, satiny dresses and dark suits in a scene that was distinctly hipper than they. Of course, their attire -- like their straight, sheltered disposition -- was not destined to last. When Don Alfonso, a jaded, middle-aged hipster/club owner (David Holloway, with a firm, expressive bass) had the boys called off to military service, they stripped to their boxers and donned military fatigues in front of the chorus, now retooled as a crowd of patriots waving small plastic American flags. Soon enough, the boys reappeared as clubbing "Albanians," in lavishly Eurotrashy outfits.
While the boys kept changing costume, the girls remained constant -- in their wardrobe, if not in their affections. Bohlin's Fiordiligi was an utterly compelling study in vocal and dramatic prowess, her voice as supple and expressive as her face. Dahlberg's Dorabella was less obviously tortured, though just as expressive: her lovely mezzo is warm, direct and nimble. LiVigni's tenor is fresh, appealing and wonderfully unfussy; Greenlaw is a baritone of force and enormous style. Valérie MacCarthy's Despina was a showstopper. Her performance as a street-smart, world-weary barmaid was breathtakingly complex; her soprano voice, like her character, was alternately glowering and tender, ferocious and vulnerable.
At the opera's conclusion, the boys found themselves decked out in both their newfound identities: garish club tops and military-fatigue pants. Paulus capitalized on this split, since it was no longer clear to anyone who was what and whose heart belonged to whom. Thus, as the concluding chorus sounded -- for which the chorus donned unsettlingly ironic plastic smiles -- the couples were left reeling.
This COT production was as inventive as it was impressive. The only notable shortcoming came from the pit. Glover's harpsichord accompaniments were lively and unobtrusive, but the orchestra -- in particular, the winds -- frequently had trouble negotiating their period instruments, so that the playing was at times ragged, the intonation at times uncontrolled. This is presumably a product of the vagaries of playing period instruments and once again raises the question of whether it is worthwhile to sacrifice precision for the aura of authenticity.
DAVID J. LEVIN
MIAMI Marc Blitzstein's Regina made what was announced as a first visit to Florida in February. Sparked by the local debut of Lauren Flanigan in the title role, Florida Grand Opera's sumptuous new staging (a coproduction with New York City Opera, directed by Michael Leeds) made the best possible case for the composer's most celebrated work.
Blitzstein's 1949 adaptation of Lillian Hellman's drama The Little Foxes has many positives, such as its bracingly eclectic musical style. Also, despite its wildly heterogeneous elements, Blitzstein moves with assured grace from dialogue to populist songs to soaring operatic writing, then back again, often within just a few lines. Unlike the composer's preachy The Cradle Will Rock, Regina is hardly a dated screed against capitalism. Indeed, with Hellman's characters in the foreground, the opera's themes of greed, casual cruelty and amoral business practices seem all too timely. Yet Regina remains a frustratingly uneven work. Act I, especially, has its dead spots; throughout, Blitzstein's musical inspiration hits peaks and valleys, with long stretches that are less than indelible.
Florida Grand presented the rarely heard, nearly complete three-act version, split into two parts. Thus a single intermission separates two even halves, but the division makes little dramatic sense, interrupting the party scene. The onstage Angel Jazz band were a welcome presence, performing the fizzing, energetic blues that usually are excised; however, this music seemed tacked on to the central story line.
As Regina (role debut), Lauren Flanigan gave a high-voltage performance, adding yet another stellar portrayal to her bursting trophy cabinet of offbeat characters. No soprano currently before the public lets the big moments rip like the fearless Flanigan, and her ripe voice and uninhibited vocalism made the most of her aria, "The best thing of all," as well as Regina's high-flying outbursts. More striking still was Flanigan's success in making this a well-rounded, even sympathetic character. In her scenes with her husband, Horace, Flanigan communicated a nervous vulnerability that made Regina's calculation and self-interest seem understandable if not laudable.
Andrew Wentzel conveyed Horace's solid decency with natural acting and a weighty bass-baritone voice. As Regina's bullying brother, Oscar, bass-baritone Kristopher Irmiter didn't strike a false note. Ned Barth's sinewy baritone as the sharper, more charismatic brother, Ben, was equally convincing, tossing off his honky-tonk exit song to Regina ("Greedy Girl") with insouciant panache.
The supporting female characters were less satisfactory. As Birdie, Oscar's gentle, alcoholic wife, soprano Sheryl Woods had squally moments, with a thin upper range. Yet she brought passion and delicacy to her singing, especially in Birdie's nostalgic aria to her lamented family home. Young soprano Christine Winkler seemed still to be working her way into the key role of Regina's daughter, Alexandra, on opening night; her climactic confrontation with Regina didn't exactly register as a battle of equals. Despite weakness in her lower range, Winkler sang with feeling and sensitivity.
Ken Foy's striking design offered a massive, flowering cypress tree framed by huge French porticos; the exterior revolved to reveal the gleaming interior of the Giddens home, all dark-wood furniture and vaulting staircase, a precise depiction of nouveau-riche Southern respectability. Ann Hould-Ward designed the colorful period costumes. Michael Leeds's fluid direction and seamless scene changes hid the opera's weak links and kept dramatic momentum flowing with natural, unfussy stage movement. Leeds also contributed several bits of inspired stagecraft. Addie, as well as Alexandra, deserted Regina at the opera's close: an enlightened touch. The final image of Regina perched high on the staircase, alone and abandoned yet still indomitable, provided a visually striking, dramatically apt coda. The singers were discreetly amplified for the work's extensive dialogue; this resulted in the projection of some extraneous noise.
Stewart Robertson managed to make this wayward score hang together convincingly, eliciting mostly solid playing from the company's orchestra, itself a work in progress.
LAWRENCE A. JOHNSON
TULSA Compared with Janácek's great tragic operas, his Cunning Little Vixen can seem piecemeal and lightweight. What's a director to do with an opera about animals and their interactions with humans? But the production by Tulsa Opera (seen March 9) was as cunning, cute and compelling as its eponymous heroine -- and deeply touching. This was opera on a high theatrical level, and it made Vixen seem a genuine masterpiece, one of warmth as well as whimsy.
From sets to costumes to gesture, the production favored witty, stylized allusion. Jointly produced with Portland Opera, John Conklin's set was a crisscrossing of ramps with trap doors. Overhead was a glowing circle -- lest we forget that the opera ultimately is about the unending cycle of life. Houses were adorable 2-D blowups of children's drawings of houses, scooted on by stagehands. When the Schoolmaster staggered home drunk, the houses tilted to and fro. The Badger's nest, later home to the vixen, Sharp-ears, and the fox, Golden-mane, was a lean-to on the left. The chickens bobbed and pecked in a pen at the right. Deft lighting was by Mark Stanley.
Costumer Constance Hoffman played up the ambiguity of the word "vixen" by putting Sharp-ears in a long red fur coat over a slinky slip. Golden-mane sported a reddish-brown tailcoat. The Badger had a streaked box cut. Bright headdresses marked the Rooster and Woodpecker. In the end, the animals were characterized more by telling (but subtle) gestures than by costumes.
Clearly, there was a high-voltage synergy between stage director Jonathan Pape and choreographer LaMont Ross. Characters hurtled and tumbled all over the stage, and Clare Gormley's vixen leaped with acrobatic virtuosity while never missing a beat of the music. And she was the epitome of the adolescent, one minute a know-it-all calling for social revolution, the next a silly girl in first infatuation. What was ultimately most impressive was how credibly humane even the animals were. And the production was blessed with fine principal singers.
Gormley's nimble, gleaming soprano was a perfect foil to the rich, focused mezzo of Catherine Cook's Golden-mane. Peter Lindskoog was the personification of the bumbling but grounded Forester, with a handsome, fine-grained baritone. Matthew Lau was physically and vocally imposing in the dual roles of the Badger and the Priest, and James Scott Sikon was a sturdy Harasta. David Ronis's smallish tenor sufficed for the Schoolmaster. Some lesser roles were assigned to voices that couldn't quite fill the 2,300-seat Chapman Music Hall, but these were momentary compromises.
Carol I. Crawford, the company's general director, was a sure, sympathetic conductor. Some of the high, awkward violin writing taxed the Tulsa Philharmonic players, but in general the orchestra acquitted itself quite well. Prepared by Kostis Protopapas, the Tulsa Opera Chorus sounded fine, the Tulsa Youth Opera Chorus fabulous.
SCOTT CANTRELL
INTERNATIONAL: In London, ENO presents The Valkyrie in concert and Bieito's bathroom Ballo in Maschera; Gubbay brings Carmen to the Royal Albert Hall and Iolanthe to the Savoy. Domingo and Borodina bring Samson et Dalila to Scala's temporary home; Van Dam stars in a revival of Don Quichotte in Paris. Savall and Deflo's L'Orfeo returns to Barcelona's Liceu; La Forza del Destino receives its first staging at Moscow's Bolshoi; Denoke and Baltsa star in Pountney's exciting new staging of Jenu°fa at Vienna's Staatsoper; Prague hears the world stage premiere of Petitgirard's "Elephant Man" opera, Joseph Merrick. In Oslo, Norske Opera sets its Lohengrin in a trailer park; Stockholm's inventive Folkoperan takes on Das Rheingold.
NORTH AMERICA: "Martern" on the Orient Express? Houston's Entführung is set on a 1920s train. Lyric Opera revives Die Zauberflöte and La Bohème. Pittsburgh sees Zambello's Butterfly production; Vaness stars in Dallas's Tosca revival; Conklin designs and Mark conducts the first Elektra in Virginia; Shafajinskaia brings her Turandot to New Orleans; Kr. Ciesinski in Akina's "stunning," tropical Salome in Honolulu; Davis sings Norina in Indianapolis's Don Pasquale; San José Opera presents a heavily cut Manon; Swensson's opera for children, From the Mixed-Up Files, bows in Wilmington. Students at Philadelphia's Academy of Vocal Arts present Lucrezia Borgia.
CONCERTS AND RECITALS: Millo and Zajick duke it out in Opera Orchestra of New York's Adriana Lecouvreur; von Otter sings at Lincoln Center; with the New York Philharmonic, Daniels essays Les Nuits d'Eté; Rattle conducts Gruber's Frankenstein!!, with the Philadelphia Orchestra at Carnegie Hall. In San Francisco, Fleming sings Tilson-Thomas's Poems of Emily Dickinson; Buckner performs at the Other Minds Festival. Shtoda sings at London's Wigmore Hall; Paris hears concert readings of Weber's Der Freischütz (in Berlioz's edition) and Wagner's Rienzi.
INTERNATIONAL
LONDON ENO presented the second installment of its Ring cycle in the form of a staged concert version of The Valkyrie (Jan. 24), directed by Michael Walling, in which the singers, simply costumed, made limited movements on a plain black platform with a plain black surround. (The harps and percussion were placed onstage at either side.) Further such concert versions will follow; Wagner enthusiasts must wait until spring 2004 for the full staging of the cycle by Phyllida Lloyd, for which these form a preparatory stage. From almost every point of view, The Valkyrie was far less satisfactory than the Rhinegold similarly presented last year.
The Wotan was new -- in Rhinegold Matthew Best portrayed the all-too-human god -- and Robert Hayward's first attempt at this mighty role turned out to be one of the evening's better features. His tone was strong and centered, though, like the majority of his colleagues, he failed to project more than a fraction of Jeremy Sams's new translation. With a smaller voice than most who essay this role, Kathleen Broderick's Brünnhilde was accurate but unexciting. Orla Boylan's Sieglinde sounded stretched, but she offered many moments of refined lyricism -- though that's possibly not what one wants in the role. Par Lindskog was a distinctly underwhelming Siegmund, and his English was largely indecipherable. Gerard O'Connor sang a presentable Hunding, Susan Parry a dull Fricka. Least auspicious of all was Paul Daniel's conducting, which seemed aimless.
Having caused a scandal last season with his Don Giovanni for ENO, it was inevitable that Spanish director Calixto Bieito would be invited back, this time for Verdi's A Masked Ball (Feb. 21) -- a joint venture among ENO, the Royal Danish Opera and Barcelona's Liceu. It was presumably the latter connection that encouraged him and his designer Alfons Flores to relocate the action to post-Franco Spain, thus drawing vague parallels between Gustavus III of Sweden and King Juan Carlos -- who, unlike the unfortunate Swedish monarch, remains alive and well twenty-five years into his reign.
An opera's setting is not and never should be regarded as sacrosanct -- though it is disingenuous to suggest, as some of Bieito's defenders have, that Verdi didn't care about such matters. The original libretto of Un Ballo in Maschera referred very specifically to a historical event that sent shock waves through Europe -- the assassination of Gustavus III of Sweden at a masked ball at the Stockholm opera house, in 1792. Nearly sixty years later, the subject was still sufficiently sensitive for the Neapolitan censor, and later the Roman one, to insist on a change of period and locale before Verdi's work could be staged. The displaced action (still used today) moved the basic set-up to seventeenth-century Boston, with Gustavo (Gustavus) becoming the English governor, Riccardo, Count of Warwick. But the change was not an improvement, and in recent times, Sweden often has been reinstated.
These days, the function of removing the plot from one venue to another is undertaken not by the censor but by the director. In terms of that loosest of justifications -- relevance -- it might be added that, doubtless to their loss, British audiences in general know little and care less about Spain's period of change from dictatorship to democracy in the 1970s. A new opera on the subject might, even so, do something to inform them. A revamp of an opera by Verdi does nothing.
A further problem with Bieito's approach to this and other works is a characteristic that it is hard not to interpret as attention-seeking. Sex and violence have a place in many operas, including this one, but to commence Act II with the gang rape and murder of a rent-boy, whose semi-naked body thereafter occupies a prime position onstage for the remainder of the scene, distracts and detracts from the main action that follows. Since it is inconceivable that any competent director would not understand this, presumably the effect -- that of upstaging Amelia and Gustavo in this crucial phase of their relationship, the very pivot of the drama -- is deliberate. Similarly, in the following scene where the murder-plot is hatched, the page Oscar -- a neatly-suited, female personal assistant in Bieito's rewrite -- is repeatedly and violently abused by conspirators Ribbing and Horn in Anckarstrom's bathroom, in a way that reduces the text and Verdi's music to the status of ironic commentary. As with his Don Giovanni, Bieito seems to view the score as a troublesome but ultimately ignorable component.
The evening's musical values were not very distinguished, but in the circumstances, it is surprising that they reached the level they did. Nothing, I'm afraid, will make John Daszak (Gustavo) into a Verdi tenor, and though there was certainly commitment in his performance, his tone was uneven, his sense of line poor. (Julian Gavin, originally announced to sing Gustavo, allegedly withdrew from the production due to artistic differences with Bieito.) Claire Rutter's Amelia was more appropriately cast, with a handful of phrases, particularly in the cadenza to "Morrò," taking off into the air, as they should. David Kempster sounded more confident as Anckarstrom than he had as di Luna in last season's abysmal Trovatore, but his tone is a good deal lighter and softer-grained than a true Verdi baritone. His performance was monochromatic. Rebecca de Pont Davies sang acceptably as the brothel-keeper (as she was depicted here) Madame Arvidson (a.k.a. Ulrica). Mary Plazas's Oscar was often wide of the note. Andrew Litton conducted a performance that was regularly accurate and often dynamic but woefully short on the grand Verdian phrase. Overall, his reading lacked style and contour.
Most operatic activity on a large scale in the U.K. survives through subsidy, doled out either by national organizations such as the Arts Council of England or by local authorities. Without it, major companies such as Royal Opera or Welsh National Opera probably would cease to exist, or be forced to charge much higher prices at the box office. But there are still some operatic ventures run privately -- apart from its touring wing, Glyndebourne, for instance, receives no public funds -- and there are even promoters who hope to turn in a profit.
Of these the most prominent is Raymond Gubbay, who for the past thirty-five years has presented concerts of popular classics -- Tchaikovsky evenings are a speciality -- around the country, as many as last year's total, 600 events. Though Gubbay's regular fare consists of orchestral programs of rather hackneyed repertoire and opera galas made up of the most popular arias and choruses, as well as seasonal renditions of Messiah and Christmas carols, he's also ventured into ballet and full-length opera. The bigger, more expensive enterprises naturally take place at the largest available venues. Over the years he has offered the Royal Opera in Turandot at the Wembley Arena, together with co-promotions at (and with) the Royal Albert Hall of such staples as Tosca, Butterfly, Bohème and Aida.
His latest opera at the RAH is Carmen, staged by David Freeman, in a new, ingenious English singing translation by Amanda Holden. (Freeman himself provided the dialogue.) No corners were cut. There was a full-scale chorus, with the BBC Concert Orchestra under Peter Robinson.
The Hall itself is one of London's grandest. Built by public subscription and opened in 1871 as a memorial to Queen Victoria's beloved husband, Prince Albert, it has survived two world wars and many changes of fashion and is currently undergoing major refurbishment to equip it for the twenty-first century. Over the course of a year, it presents everything from boxing and indoor tennis to pop concerts, as well as providing the venue for the Proms, the BBC's annual eight-week summer festival of classical music, which it has housed since 1941. When full, it holds some 5,000 patrons, though for Gubbay's productions the seats are removed from the central arena, which instead becomes the stage. The orchestra, meanwhile, is positioned on the side of the hall that's used as a stage in more conventional set-ups. The enormous Victorian organ that rises above it is covered up.
Arena opera, as it has become known, may be big business -- Carmen was triple cast and ran for two weeks -- but that doesn't necessarily mean artistically cut-price. Though the production had been "sound designed" (the RAH acoustics are notoriously wayward), all the principals were of an impressive standard, the chorus both vocally strong and fully engaged in the detailed action.
Director Freeman's former reputation as an enfant terrible seems to lie behind him. Though it was set in the 1920s, there was nothing outré about this Carmen, which was straightforwardly yet imaginatively presented. The additional stage (designed by David Roger) threaded its snakelike way around the arena, widening out onto a central platform, where much of the main action took place. Here was the location for the final encounter between Carmen and Don José, while in the very center the bullfight's audience stood in darkness, highlighted only when Bizet cued them in for their shouts of "Viva!" and their disturbing reprise of the toreador's song, as José lunges with his knife.
In the title role at the second performance (Feb. 22) was Claire Bradshaw, who acquitted herself well until the end of Act I, when she was announced as indisposed -- one would not have guessed. She was replaced for the remainder of the show by Irish mezzo Imelda Drumm, the previous evening's protagonist, who has also sung the part for WNO. She was equally capable, and having to sing Carmen twice in two days seemed not to tire her.
The Don José to both these Gypsy girls was Antoni Garfield Henry, a credible soldier, who brought plenty of power to his bigger phrases without missing out on the possibilities for vocal refinement elsewhere. Varied, subtle and manly, he was a memorable exponent of a complex and demanding role. Almost as good were the pony-tailed Escamillo (David Stephenson) and the Micaela (Rosalind Sutherland), though her words were sometimes sacrificed to a tone that was not always on pitch. Overall, however, this was a vivid representation of a deservedly popular work, before an audience that might not risk the supposed formality of an evening in one of London's regular opera houses.
The current scale of Gubbay's operation was evident from the fact that Carmen was actually the second of his promotions to open that week. Two days earlier (Feb. 20), a sizable audience at the Savoy Theatre greeted a new staging of Gilbert & Sullivan's Iolanthe, which was the first of the partnership's operas to have its premiere there, back in 1882.
Gubbay's relationship with the D'Oyly Carte Opera Company has proved highly beneficial. G&S fans may recall that the company actually went out of business twenty years ago, a victim not of the failing popularity of the works themselves -- which retain a strong following here -- but of the rising costs of touring, especially with an orchestra and chorus. It was initially through a substantial legacy bequeathed by the last member of the D'Oyly Carte dynasty, Dame Bridget, that the company was refounded as a trust and resumed performing in 1988. Its seasons since then have been irregular. It has hardly ever received money from the Arts Council, though it still aspires to be the national light-opera company, and to that end, it has expanded its repertory to include Offenbach, Johann Strauss and Lehár.
Under its current musical director, John Owen Edwards, however, it has reasserted musical values that were in danger of being lost in the final years before closing in 1982. Orchestra and chorus were slick and punchy on this occasion, and vocal standards among the principals were high.
The work itself, showing the interactions between Britain's House of Lords (all male in 1882) and the inhabitants of fairyland (all female, except for Strephon, the hero, the upper half -- to the waist -- of whom is fairy, the lower half mortal), is among the best of the Savoy series. As designed by Mark Bailey, Martin Connor's staging was entirely traditional, and though sticking largely to Gilbert's script may have its virtues, the opportunity for topical references seems too good to be generally ignored. The satire of the original of course has not entirely lost its point: at the last count, ninety-two hereditary peers remain as legislators in Britain's Upper Chamber.
Gill Pert gave a joyous, grand-toned account of the Queen of the Fairies, replete with voluminous low notes and a keen sense of self-mockery, while Paul Bentley avoided the dangers of going too far with the role of the Lord Chancellor in his amiably articulate performance. Maria Jones was a pleasing exponent of the title role, Charlotte Page a strong Phyllis (the Arcadian shepherdess who's a tough little cookie underneath). Paul A. Heywood's Strephon was clear in his dialogue, though underpowered in his singing. Sullivan's score remains a delight, and Gilbert's jokes still generate much laughter. Surely even Queen Victoria would be amused.
GEORGE HALL
MILAN While La Scala undergoes extensive renovation work, the company is using a new opera house -- the Teatro degli Arcimboldi -- situated in an ex-industrial suburb to the north of Milan. It is not particularly easy to reach from the city center, and it has had a number of teething troubles since its inauguration with Liliana Cavani's production of La Traviata on January 19, but at the performance of Samson et Dalila on February 20 it seemed to be functioning fairly well. The auditorium is larger than that of La Scala (there were even a number of empty seats on this occasion), and the acoustics are very different: decidedly better for the voices (which carry well from all points onstage), while the orchestra produced plenty of volume but rather lacked definition and immediacy of detail. This impression may, however, have been a result of Gary Bertini's conducting -- secure and proficient but offering no special insights into Saint-Saëns's score.
A bigger problem concerns the illumination of the auditorium during performance: the light-hued wooden walls and the white ceiling, together with glaring exit signs, create an ambience better suited to concerts than to operas -- or at least to opera performance as we have known it since Wagner introduced the idea of the fully-darkened auditorium in the late-nineteenth century. With the stage lights reflecting so strongly into the auditorium, it was difficult to concentrate on Hugo De Ana's highly cinematic production, which was first staged at Genoa's Teatro Carlo Felice in November [see OPERA NEWS online, Mar. 2002]. Details that proved compelling and original in Genoa seemed merely irritating in Milan, and it is a pity that Plácido Domingo (Samson) and Olga Borodina (Dalila) did not wear the Kabuki-like masks worn by their predecessors -- Dolora Zajick and Clifton Forbis -- which had contributed considerably to the overall effectiveness of the production, creating an intense atmosphere of ritualized action.
For both tenor and mezzo, it was the first performance in Saint-Saëns's opera at La Scala (where the work was last staged in 1971). Both were magnificent in many ways -- Domingo's legato-drenched line and generous phrasing compensated for a few moments of unease on high (La Scala abandoned the lower diapason adopted for Domingo's earlier performances of Otello), and Borodina's almost insolent ease in maneuvering her luxuriant voice across a wide range was impressive indeed -- yet on the whole, they seemed to be ably simulating rather than really living the emotions evoked by the characters.
Ildar Abdrazakov repeated his fine Abimélech heard in Genoa, but Jean-Philippe Lafont forced his voice excessively as the High Priest, and veteran bass Bonaldo Giaiotti's intrusive wobble distracted from the moving utterances of the Old Hebrew. The chorus proved stronger in volume than in specificity of phrasing, and the same can be said for the orchestra.
STEPHEN HASTINGS
PARIS Gilbert Deflo's 2000 production of Massenet's Don Quichotte returned to the Bastille with some interesting cast changes. Although the lighthearted, circus-style production fails to match the tone of the work, at least the revival had a different dramatic focus. While Samuel Ramey in the first run had been a self-contained, solitary hero, this time around the relationship between the Quichotte of José Van Dam and the Sancho of Alain Vernhes was rightly at the center of the work. Vernhes's performance was splendidly sung, in communicative French, exceptionally moving in his attention to his master's distress. Van Dam cannot begin to match Ramey in terms of vocal splendor, and the voice now has an unresponsive patch at the lower end of the register, which upsets this master technician's line at one or two crucial moments. However he remains a fine diseur, and the Belgian bass's legendary vocal nobility guaranteed the admiration of the public (Feb. 6).
Béatrice Uria-Monzon, France's leading Carmen, was new to the role of Dulcinée; her performance was disappointing. At her entrance, she looked sensational, but she was too intent on proving that her plumy mezzo was ready for Azucena, rather than taking the trouble to sing the text and music with the direct simplicity it requires. Taking over from James Conlon, promising young French maestro Stéphane Denève conducted with panache, and the interlude before Act V was beautifully played, but Denève still tends to push forward too relentlessly, occasionally leaving the chorus in a breathless heap of garbled consonants.
STEPHEN MUDGE
BARCELONA In 1993, cellist and conductor Jordi Savall, the Catalan pioneer of early music, produced an astonishing version of Monteverdi's L'Orfeo at the Liceu. It was the Spanish premiere of the earliest surviving operatic masterpiece. The staging, by Gilbert Deflo, stretched the resources of the theater's backstage area to the limit, and the fire curtain was removed in order to place a giant mirror that would reflect the gold-and-crimson decadence of the hall. During restoration of the fire curtain, in January 1994, the regular curtain caught fire, and the theater was reduced to ashes. Now, three years after the Liceu's triumphant rebirth, that momentous production of L'Orfeo returned. (In the meantime, the production opened the 2000-01 season at Madrid's Teatro Real).
Savall's understanding of Monteverdi's riches has deepened, his art has grown beyond technical perfection in these nine years. His forces, Le Concert des Nations and La Capella Reial de Catalunya, are a flexible, solid, exciting ensemble, and the musicians seem to share the joy Savall finds in this music. Since Deflo requires the musicians to dress in period costumes, the orchestra and choir (positioned at either side of the playing area) are very much a part of the theatrical performance. Their acting gives the public the impression of attending the opera as it might originally have been performed at the court of Mantua, in 1607. As the lights faded, trumpets and cornetti sounded the fanfare from the balconies flanking the stage; Savall, in a flowing black gown, entered from the back of the hall, and the illusion was complete.
For this much-anticipated revival, Savall drew his cast from old and loyal collaborators, several of whom belong to his family. The exquisite soprano Montserrat Figueras, Savall's wife, who sang Euridice in 1993, now opened the proceedings as Music. Her soft, joyful rendition of the prologue proved a perfect appetizer to the delights to follow. The couple's daughter, Arianna Savall, now sang Euridice. Her voice has been trained from the cradle for this repertoire, and it sounded promising, but she had yet to find her way among these experienced partners.
Furio Zanasi was a robust, determined Orfeo. His voice sounded rather dark and monotonous for this role; it came as no surprise that this Orfeo failed to convince Caronte to take him to the underworld but succeeded instead in putting the boatman to sleep. However, Zanasi's technical mastery and expressive acting helped him sail through this difficult role. When Orfeo returned to Thrace without his wife, Zanasi delivered his grief with poignant precision.
In this cast, teamwork clearly was prized, and all seemed to share one artistic credo, yet mezzo Sara Mingardo stood out in a rich, expressive lament as Silvia, the messenger who brings news of Euridice's death. Antonio Abete (Caronte, wearing a Greek mask) sounded truly otherworldly. Daniele Carnovich's bass is a gift of nature, but he relied too much on the sheer power and beauty of his voice: his Plutone lacked the authority of a god. At his side, Adriana Fernández used her powerful, creamy soprano persuasively; Plutone never could say no to this Proserpina.
The stated aim of Deflo and Savall is "to create a musical and aesthetic bubble where the public can be absolutely immersed in the work, its time and its humanistic message." In the event, the whole performance was bathed in a glow of quiet happiness. Even the constrained whirling of the eighteen dancers, an image projected and multiplied in the enormous mirror that faced the audience, seemed to reflect youth in the eyes of a good-humored old sage.
ROBERTO HERRSCHER
MOSCOW The first two new productions of the Bolshoi Theater's current season revealed a new strategy for lifting the company out of its artistic doldrums. It is a potentially radical one, since it involves modifying, perhaps even dismantling, the strict repertory system under which the company has long operated, at least in theory. The repertory system has been called Russia's gift to the theatrical world, yet at the Bolshoi it has become more of a curse, as the company has struggled to cast operas with a diminished corps of singers. The Bolshoi has always had a place for guest artists, but now the idea is for more productions with fixed runs of performances and specially assembled casts. Fewer singers will be contracted for the season, more will be paid on a per-performance basis. If all goes according to plan, the Bolshoi may even come to resemble other major opera houses.
The main force for change is Alexander Vedernikov, the new principal conductor appointed last summer after Gennady Rozhdestvensky's abrupt resignation as artistic director. (As of press time, the latter post remained unfilled.) Change will not come overnight, and how much opposition Vedernikov will encounter within a theater known for its factionalism remains to be seen. The initial productions were not in fact new but borrowed, but this can be forgiven, since the Bolshoi had to scramble if there was to be any novelty this season. (Rozhdestvensky had done little planning.) The scenery for La Forza del Destino was conceived by Antonio Mastromattei for Naples's Teatro San Carlo in 1982. With its vaulted arches and painted backdrops, it looked old-fashioned even by Bolshoi standards, and Carlo Maestrini's routine recreation of his father Carlo's staging could have been improved upon by any number of Russians. The initial cast on the day after Christmas included tenor Sergei Larin, the result of a new initiative to lure former Soviet singers back to the Bolshoi. But by January 8, the principal singers were largely different, as was the conductor. Vladimir Andropov drew accomplished playing from the orchestra but could not prevent lapses in ensemble, and he sometimes set sluggish tempos.
Though the cast was not one to establish the Bolshoi as a mecca for voice buffs, at least there were no seriously weak links. Ludmila Magomedova sang all of Leonora's notes with musical and dramatic commitment, in a voice that lacks genuine Verdian luster. As Don Alvaro, Georgian tenor Badri Maisuradze sang with more grace than his hefty sound and burly physique would lead one to expect, and there's more Italianate ping to his sound than most Russian tenors possess. Vladimir Redkin offered a stylish, cleanly sung Don Carlo. Alexander Naumenko lacks the power associated with Russian bassos, but his Padre Guardiano was smooth-sounding and dignified. Yelena Manistina was a vivid, bright-voiced Preziosilla, Mikhail Dyakov an appealingly youthful Melitone.
The performances of Forza were the first by the Bolshoi, an indication that the company's Verdi tradition, whatever its strengths, is spotty. Another Italian opera bowed at the Bolshoi in February, when the company mounted Cilèa's Adriana Lecouvreur for the first time, though the opera had been heard there in a 1989 La Scala tour, with Mirella Freni. Fond memories of the latter event no doubt contributed to the Bolshoi's decision to borrow that very production, which had been new the same year. Adriana was an inspired choice, greeted by the Russian press warmly and without the condescension that American critics routinely and unfairly display toward this opera (seen Feb. 19). Paolo Bregni's quasi-unit set has a structure of open arches stretching across the stage that permits the area beyond to be curtained off. Lamberto Puggelli's staging could thus differentiate intimate scenes from grander ones, and the device ingeniously helped capture the opera's theatrical ambiance.
As the celebrated eighteenth-century actress Adrienne Lecouvreur, Nelly Miricioiu may not efface memories of Freni (to say nothing of Olivero, Tebaldi or Scotto), yet her performance had the measure of the role. With some of the freshness gone from the voice, the plain, sometimes opaque sound she produced took some getting used to. Her opening aria, "Io son l'umile ancella," was a less-than-ravishing vocal experience. But she projected strongly in the Act II duet with Maurizio, and her declamation of Racine in Act III was compelling and not overstated. Most important, she met the challenge of the intense last act with an expertly shaded "Poveri fiori" and some deeply affecting singing in the bittersweet final duet. As Maurizio, Bulgarian tenor Boiko Zvetanov, sporting a powdered wig, looked more like Mozart in a production of Amadeus than the dashing Count of Saxony, but at his best he produced a handsome, silvery sound. Italian baritone Massimiliano Gagliardo, younger and vocally lighter than the usual Michonnet, also made a favorable impression, and the one Bolshoi regular among the four main roles, Irina Dolzhenko, sang the Princess of Bouillon with a strong current of energy and commanding mezzo tones. Asked at a press conference why he had chosen Adriana, Vedernikov said simply that he loved the opera. His affection made itself felt in the glowing orchestral textures and rhythmic nuance of his performance.
GEORGE LOOMIS
VIENNA Jenuºfa exists in several versions, the result of frequent revisions since its premiere on January 21, 1904. Seen on February 27, the Staatsoper's new Jenuºfa, a coproduction with Brno (where it is due in January 2004), marked the first performance of the widely-used 1908 version in the house, which was the first outside Czechoslovakia to stage this opera (in 1918). The Staatsoper continued to rely on Max Brod's German translation -- not that much of it was comprehensible, despite some of the singers' best efforts.
Robert Israel designed huge, oppressive sets -- for Act I, a mill interior, the great, beamed structure of which also served as the cottage interior in Act II; for Act III, two-story, off-white, boarded walls -- all graphically depicting the characters' overpowering social situation, underlined by Marie-Jeanne Lecca's costume designs, work clothes. (The wedding guests and chorus were dressed in folk costumes.) Director David Pountney found the character development and emotions strong enough to stand without any reinterpretation. The "folk" elements were given their due but were not distracting, serving rather to point up the social constriction of a community where everything runs on preordained, traditional lines. His strong delineation of character extended even to the minor roles, who were all presented as three-dimensional figures, rather than as mere devices to help the story along. This was by far the most compelling production of this opera that I have seen and definitely Pountney's best work for the house.
He was greatly assisted by the acting strengths of the two central performers: Angela Denoke as Jenuºfa and Agnes Baltsa as her stepmother. In the past, I have found Denoke rather cold and intellectual, but here her committed performance was most compelling, as was the way she developed the character from the self-centered girl infatuated with the wastrel Steva to the mature, forgiving woman. As one might expect, Agnes Baltsa was a dominating figure, unsparing of her vocal resources and easily quelling the villagers at her first entrance. For all her forbidding strictness, one never lost sight of her guiding motive, her love for her stepdaughter, even though there are only occasional glimpses of this in the text. Torsten Kerl (Steva) and Jorma Silvasti (Laca) were a well-contrasted pair of half-brothers, though their performances were not so riveting as those of the two ladies. Wolfgang Bankl and Walter Fink gave fine cameos as the Foreman and Mayor, and veteran Anny Schlemm's Grandmother maintained the general level of excellence.
Conductor Seiji Ozawa made an auspicious debut as music director-designate -- his house debut was of course many years back. Those with longer memories of the Staatsoper agreed that they had never heard such a beautiful reading of the score. Naturally, Janácek's own lighter scoring helped, but the transparency of sound was exceptional, and the repetitious phrases accurately matched the singers' phrasing, while the dramatic aspect was given full measure.
CHRISTOPHER NORTON-WELSH
PRAGUE French composer Laurent Petitgirard (born 1950) conducted his own recording of his first opera, Joseph Merrick, dit Elephant Man, with libretto by Eric Nonn, for Harmonia Mundi in May 1999, at the Opéra Garnier de Monte Carlo (reviewed in our issue of May 2001). He will have to wait until the end of this year to see its first French staging, in Nice, but in the meantime he conducted the work's world stage premiere, in Prague, on February 7.
It's an interesting intellectual exercise to hear this peculiarly English story, redolent of East End London fog, slum streets and pubs (not to mention Jack the Ripper's territory and period), sung in French, with projected titles in Czech, in the neo-Baroque splendor of Prague's State Opera House. But any fears that an English reviewer might feel short-changed were dispelled by a wholly gripping, always challenging production, directed by Daniel Mesguich, with sets and costumes by Frédéric Pineau. All the performances were conducted with considerable verve by the composer.
For those who have read the memoirs of the great Victorian surgeon Sir Frederick Treves or those who have seen David Lynch's luminous film or Bernard Pomerance's play, Petitgirard has several surprises. (A couple of years after Petitgirard composed this piece, Philip Glass wrote music for the current Broadway revival of Pomerance's play.)
The Elephant Man is seen dimly from behind in the forty-five-minute first act, and he remains completely silent. The principal role in Act I is that of the showman, Tom Norman, depicted as totally unlike the sadistic, drunken brute in Lynch's film. Petitgirard sees him as an amiable, flamboyant man devoted to Merrick's care and determined to be an English P. T. Barnum. When Treves comes on the scene, there's a heart-stopping surge in the music, as he contemplates Merrick's body behind the canvas of the booth, before Merrick emerges. Treves is stunned by the awfulness he sees. It is only after Treves and Norman have fought/sung their even-handed duel/duet for possession of the Elephant Man that Merrick, installed in the London Hospital, utters a word.
Petitgirard had originally considered using a countertenor but finally settled on a contralto voice for Merrick; musically this is both effective and affecting. Contralto Jana Sykorová wore a brilliantly constructed face- and body mask, turning this Merrick into an exact simulacrum of Treves's brilliant clinical description and bringing to life "a man who cannot smile but who can sing" (to borrow the composer's own description). Sykorová's performance was a tour de force. Female vocalization brought out, better than any man's could have done, the striking combination of pathos and dignity exuded by Merrick in the different versions we've seen.
Petitgirard's several felicitous inventions include a chorus of doctors singing the Hippocratic Oath. He transmutes the actress Mrs. Kendal into an anonymous vamp called simply "The Coloratura" (M. Todorová), who disrobes in her vain attempt to seduce Merrick. Todorová sang with quite fearsome attack in a role and a scene of brutality. In a fine coup de théâtre, as Merrick deteriorates, a double is brought on to play cards with him; the hospital bed is then transformed into the same showman's caravan we saw at the beginning of the opera. While Lynch and Pomerance treat Merrick's death cautiously, Petitgirard has no doubts at all: this Elephant Man commits suicide by removing the supporting pillows from his bed and lying down to sleep like a normal human being. As Merrick knows, the weight of his massive head will snap his spine, and he will die.
Other standouts in the cast were the finely sonorous Treves of baritone Petteri Falck and the lyrically enthusiastic Tom Norman of tenor Philippe Do.
Petitgirard's music, always pleasant, sometimes elevating, never dull, is tinged with echoes of Britten, whom he admires, and, as he puts it, Petitgirard uses "one syllable for each note, like Ravel." Out of what is surely musically intractable material he has fashioned a totally absorbing musical drama.
T. G. ROSENTHAL
OSLO Characterizing Elsa as a "borderline case" was perhaps Alfred Kirchner's most inspired stroke for his new production of Lohengrin for Den Norske Opera, a company premiere (seen March 5). It made weird sense to explain Elsa's childlike faith in the kindness of a stranger as a sign of mental deficiency. Otherwise, this particularly silly excursion made a mockery of Wagner's masterpiece. Perhaps the intent was to limn the sublime moments in ordinary life. But Kirchner's plebeian setting and mundane gestures created a scenario at odds with Wagner's story of noblemen at a crisis point -- audience laughter frequently interrupted the flow of the score, and one came away feeling confused and cheated.
The overture began as the sun rose over the kingdom of Brabant, a riverside vacation trailer park, circa 1960. A violent, cloudy sky loomed over an Astroturf lawn that met the riverbank upstage. The king's herald stood watch atop a lifeguard chair; a beehive-coiffed sunbather lifted a languid arm from her plastic lounger. Elsa, in knee-length tennis whites, stood upstage, gazing over the water, then rushed downstage to share a wordless, ecstatic moment with the audience as the music surged. Miniskirted uniformed maids wandered in, spearing litter, as the remaining female choristers appeared in tennis whites or senior-citizen vacation togs. The men's chorus -- Telramund's men in black scuba gear (and carrying oars), Saxons and Thuringians in olive-drab fatigues -- marched onstage, huddling and galumphing. King Heinrich, a red towel tossed around his neck, was shown to a folding beach-chair. A Monty Python-ish quartet of trumpeters rushed in and out to play fanfares. Telramund bounded in, wearing red soccer clothes, abandoning his soccer ball for an oar ("Hier mein Schwert"), while Ortrud, clad in a black sweat suit and sneakers, was given to skulking around and vehemently pushing up her sleeves. There was much girlish scurrying about by the womens' chorus; the tennis players rushed downstage to kneel in prayer as Elsa described her dream, while the maids and men ran upstage to jump up and down and wave at Lohengrin, in a three-piece white-linen suit, who floated in on a red-rubber raft pulled by a barefoot boy, who wore an inflatable swan toy around his waist.
Act II was set among the R. V.s parked on the grounds. Telramund was banished to the roof of his camper as Ortrud sulked below; their domestic squabble involved some furniture tossing, and she yanked a fluorescent light from the camper to illuminate her face for her monologue. Elsa appeared from her camper, into which she invited Ortrud (to watch satellite TV?) as the two women bonded. As night faded, a dozen Brabantine scuba-divers piled out of one the campers (a four-sleeper) and arrayed themselves across the stage for pushups. The maids arrived to scrub down the campers, while the tennis ladies played a bit of badminton before dressing Elsa in bridal white. At act's end, the thwarted Ortrud rubbed bright red ointment onto her wrists, which she then smeared on Elsa's veil before the horrified neighbors.
For Act III, the newlyweds returned to the riverbank, stopping frequently to smooch as they carried sleeping bags to a tent fashioned from the bridal veil. The chorus sat cross-legged in a circle around them, at one point joining hands to rush the pair with playful whoops, before they tiptoed away. By then the viewer was conditioned to expect the unexpected, and the following stretch of "normal" acting read as a directorial lack of imagination.
Despite the onstage shenanigans Wagner's glorious music managed to triumph over the trivial, because the musical performances were splendid. Tempos provided momentum without cheating the grandeur and mystery of the score. The orchestra played gorgeously under the direction of music director Olaf Henzold. Brass and wind solos were sonorous, expressive and precise, and the Act III antiphonal fanfare was thrilling. The partially covered pit and generous acoustic of the hall allowed for wide dynamic range without covering the singers.
Individual performances were mostly strong. Attention directors: if René Pape is unavailable, consider Gudjon Oskarsson, whose Heinrich was vocally sumptuous and personally magnetic. Judith Juon's Ortrud brought down the house with her intense presence and ample, focused tone. John Treleaven as Lohengrin poured out generous heldentenor sound, tiring only briefly during "In fernem Land." Trond Halstein Moe sang a brash, sturdy Telramund. Magne Fremmerlid carried his weight as the King's Herald. Only Ingjerd Oda Mantor was vocally miscast as Elsa, her sweet lyric instrument pushed into stridency.
SUSAN BRODIE
STOCKHOLM That Stockholm's Folkoperan would tackle such an ambitious project as Das Rheingold was news by itself. Known for its spare, imaginative, illuminating readings, always in Swedish, Folkoperan is a largely self-supporting regional theater company with modest resources. But artistic director Claes Fellbom, who conceived, directed and provided the singing translation for this Rhenguldet, pulled off a largely satisfying account of Wagner's grand fairy tale. The succession of creative tableaux did not in retrospect create a cohesive whole, but the images were insightful and clever without being jokey.
The audience entered a smoke-filled theater to behold an empty, rubble-strewn stage, with a pit at its center. The orchestra was arranged behind wire mesh around the back and side walls of the stage; harps and percussion were placed on side platforms above the strings and brass. As the overture ended, a mirrored ceiling above the stage descended to form a sharply raked platform, and stagehands and the Rhinemaidens, the latter in sexy combat chic, arranged plastic sheeting that reflected watery blue light. Two of the Rhinemaidens were harnessed to bungee cords, which allowed them to "swim" through the air or bounce tantalizingly close to Alberich, and the third mounted a machine-gun stand, or held guylines to steady herself on the steep stage. When Alberich finally managed to scramble up the steep slope to seize the gold (revealed in a shaft of light), other lights dimmed, the Rhinemaidens disappeared, a brisk wind blew debris across the now-empty stage (and the first few rows of the audience), and spinning amber warning lights flashed. The canted stage lifted to reveal the original stage, which now resembled a construction site. The gods appeared as guests at a 1930s house party: Wotan natty in pinstripes and a glossy eyepatch; priggish Donner in a dark suit; mincing, childish Froh, dressed as a Formula 1 driver. Petulant Fricka, in pigeon-breasted black satin and too much jewelry, toted a goblet and a four-pack of Freixenet splits. As the gods inspected an architect's model of the neo-fascist Valhalla, two burly construction workers arrived to collect their fee: Fasolt wheeling the sniffling Fafner in a wheelbarrow. Pretty, hapless Freia was duly kidnapped, and as the youth-drained gods pondered their next recourse, the lights darkened for intermission. After the interval, Loge and Wotan descended to Nibelheim, where Alberich, now a dictator in glittery camouflage and epaulettes, lounged in a gauzy column of golden light, sipping Champagne and tormenting Mime. The Nibelungen were four dark-hooded, raincoat-clad drones carrying aluminum suitcases. Loge experienced the power of Tarnhelm when Alberich turned into a giant hand that wrapped around the demigod. Back in Valhalla, the Nibelung treasury was revealed to be a collection of laser discs. After the Donner-invoked storm cleared, the gods were left in the glow of hundreds of tiny white lights to celebrate their housewarming with Champagne and a Valhalla-shaped cake. The Rhinemaidens, now blind, stumbled with white canes to guide their way across the stage.
Musically, the evening was satisfying but not serious competition to Bayreuth. The orchestra (reduced in number from Wagner's scoring), conducted by Kerstin Nerbe, took some time to warm up. (The horns were especially slow.) The musicians' exposed position increased the usual difficulty of a pianissimo opening. The ensemble was clean except when the high-perched harps and timpani were prominent.
There were no real weak links vocally, and all the acting was specific and well thought-out. Rhinemaidens Christina Högman, Lena Susanne Norin and Madeleine Barringer filled the vocal, dramatic and athletic demands of their roles with skill, energy, and allure. Ulf Lundmark's Alberich was mesmerizingly unpleasant. Johan Rydh as Wotan produced firm sound but did not project convincing godlike authority. Marianne Eklöfäs delivered real vocal glamour as Fricka. Staffan Jennehov (Loge) chose a covered tone for much of his performance, but he blossomed when he allowed his bright tenor to open up. Fredric Hellgren sang well and acted with convincing gusto in the well-contrasted roles of Mime and Froh. Curt Appelgren's robustly sung Fasolt was complemented by Mikael Axelsson's brighter-voiced Fafner. Lena Susanne Norin's Erda was arresting if ultimately not earthy. The singing translation made a clear attempt to echo the audible poetry of the original German, and Linus Fellbom's lighting design made an indispensible contribution to the magic of the evening.
SUSAN BRODIE
NORTH AMERICA HOUSTON Even among the educated classes, "seraglio" isn't exactly an everyday word, let alone (unless you're Hugh Hefner) a common experience. So Houston Grand Opera transposed Mozart's harem opera, Die Entführung aus dem Serail, to a more modern -- and mobile -- setting (seen March 8). While Mozart's opera betokened a late-eighteenth-century infatuation with the mysterious Middle East, stage director James Robinson and designer Allen Moyer reimagined it almost a century and a half later, the 1920s, when the dying embers of the Ottoman Empire took on a freshly romantic glow. And they set it aboard that great East-West connection, the Orient Express.
The concept worked far better than one might think, right down to a clever twist on the ladder with which Belmonte and Pedrillo plan to rescue their sweethearts, Constanze and Blonde. The forced intimacy of railroad cars, even these dazzlingly decorated ones, both freshened the drama and heightened the sense of confinement. An added benefit, in the 1,000-seat Cullen Theater, was a focusing and projecting of the voices. (Would that set designers more regularly considered this issue!) HGO also had a splendid cast of singers who knew how to project without forcing, and who made something of their words. Coached by Rice University German lecturer Richard Spuler, who also played the speaking role of Selim, even the spoken German text was amazingly clear and communicative.
Both vocally and dramatically, Elizabeth Futral's Constanze would be hard to outdo. By turns flaming, flickering and floating, her soprano wrapped ravishing beauty around Mozart's phrases. A bit one-dimensional in the libretto, Constanze here became more believable because she was at least tempted by Selim's blandishments. (His "tortures" were turned into temptations: gifts of opulent rugs, jewels, dresses and furs.)
Eric Cutler was a purposefully awkward but ardent Belmonte, his lyric tenor clear, carrying and expressively inflected. Scott Scully was a delightfully comic Pedrillo, with a slightly smaller but still incisive tone and elegant declamation. Kristin Reiersen's vibrato sometimes suggested trilling, but her bright, sweet soprano and spunky personality made her an irresistible Blonde. Joshua Winograde was a blustering bully of an Osmin but also a wonderful drunk when Pedrillo plied him with "wine" (actually, it appeared, martinis). Winograde brought a handsome, well-focused bass to the role, but he lacked some of the lower notes and didn't always land in the middle of pitches. Spuler was a debonair Selim in Omar Sharif mode, now in white double-breasted suit, now in tux. But, at least in the opening performance, he exuded too little physical energy, and his speaking wanted more projection.
HGO music director Patrick Summers got beautifully finished, stylish playing from the orchestra, with sparing vibrato from the strings. But he tended to go for lyric prettiness at the expense of some needed rhythmic urgency. Costumer Melissa Graff and lighting designer Paul Palazzo deserved praise for their additions to the production's pleasures.
SCOTT CANTRELL
CHICAGO Following Nikolaus Lehnhoff's staging of Parsifal for Lyric Opera, it was a relief to experience Mozart's Die Zauberflöte (Feb. 22) in August Everding's witty, warm-hearted production. Since its unveiling in the 1986-87 season, the late German director's magical staging of Mozart's comedy has become the most beloved of Lyric's repertory favorites and one of the hottest tickets in town. Faithful to the spirit of Mozart's opera, it offers lovable animals, colorful scenic design, eye-popping stagecraft and infectious good cheer; Everding's Flute seems to grow in stature with each revival.
This season, Lyric presented an almost uniformly excellent cast. Paul Groves proved a worthy Tamino, handsome and stalwart; he sang with virile tone. Though there were brief flashes of a gritty undertone in "Dies' Bildnis," the Louisiana-born tenor sustained Mozart's lyrical aria with elegant style and a firm line. Making her American opera debut, soprano Dorothea Röschmann showed why her Pamina has been so widely acclaimed in Europe. Graceful and attractive, the German soprano was a sweet yet intelligent heroine, bestowing her lovely voice with lush tone and agility; her "Ach, ich fühl's" was beautifully poised and affecting.
Yet the evening belonged to Gerald Finley as Papageno. Delightful and broadly comical, the Canadian baritone brought an ample, rounded timbre and enormous zest to his character. Finley's rich voice blended wonderfully with Röschmann's in "Bei Männern," and his own arias were as impressively sung as vividly characterized. Mary Dunleavy's Queen of the Night brought the only disappointment; the soprano encountered persistent problems with the high tessitura, and she was rhythmically shaky even with Davis's indulgent tempos; her approximate F-sharps were shrieked more than sung.
As Sarastro, Matti Salminen produced subterranean low notes that sounded just as ripe and imposing as they had the night before, when the Finnish bass had sung Gurnemanz. Egils Silins was a dignified Speaker, David Cangelosi a manic, well-sung Monostatos; Kelley Nassief, Melina Pyron and Beth Clayton were wonderfully fantastical as the Three Ladies. Some droopy string intonation in the overture betrayed some battle fatigue after Parsifal the previous evening, but Andrew Davis soon had his musicians energized, bringing wit and sparkle to Mozart's endlessly invigorating score.
Lyric's latest revisiting of Puccini's La Bohème marked the seventh outing of the aged yet still effective Pier Luigi Pizzi sets, given their premiere three decades ago. Despite this work's popularity, the Bohèmes at Lyric have proved at best indifferent and at worst embarrassing affairs, with uneven casts and tyro directors thrown into an opera that can be counted on to pack the hall regardless of who's doing what onstage. This season, in the second of two rosters, Lyric fielded a strong cast. Combined with some quirkily offbeat directorial flourishes from Richard Pearlman (director of Lyric's Center for American Artists) and richly idiomatic musical direction from Bruno Bartoletti, that made for a lively, effective showing of Puccini's warhorse.
On the production's closing night (Feb. 23), Frank Lopardo's Rodolfo took a while to warm up, with an underpowered "Che gelida manina," scooping up to the top C and briefly getting separated from Bartoletti's orchestra in the process. He soon recovered and sang with fine ardor and sturdy dramatic focus, albeit with strenuous forcing of his essentially lyric instrument at some key junctures. (Give Lopardo credit however for not interpolating the show-offy high-C in "O soave fanciulla," showing that the peacefully contented version Puccini actually wrote is much more effective.)
Patricia Racette was a superb Mimì, pretty of face and voice, and acting with dignity and economy. Racette occasionally displayed some hardness at the top of her range, but for the most part she sang with wondrous delicacy and sensitivity, with a beautifully sustained pianissimo in "Donde lieta uscì." In her house debut, Swiss soprano Noëmi Nadelmann made a glamorous yet bimbo-ish Musetta; she sang her waltz song with spirit and bright, youthful timbre.
California-born baritone Rodney Gilfry commands the stage with such natural ease and dramatic authority that, even in the most hectic moments at Café Momus, one's eyes keep darting back to see the reactions of his Marcello. Gilfry's brawny timbre may not be the most mellifluous around, but he sang with immense authority. Rarely has a Marcello registered with such imaginative detail and dramatic impact. Erwin Schrott's weighty bass made Colline's farewell to his overcoat more than an interruption.
Pearlman's direction had dubious touches: having a supernumerary punch out a flirting Marcello (the strapping Gilfry, no less) was ill-advised, as was a tasteless bit of business with a chamber pot amid the Act IV highjinks. Pearlman also managed to ruin the delicate coda of "O Mimì, tu più non torni" by having Rodolfo attempt to scribble a mustache on the sketch of Musetta drawn by the despondent Marcello. His blocking was otherwise creative and effective.
Bartoletti, the company's music director emeritus, has this music in his veins, if not always on the end of his baton. This time around, the veteran Italian conductor registered all the big moments, providing lift and rich string sheen to Puccini's climaxes. He also painted the quiet moments with the most delicate chiaroscuro, as he did with the dying string phrases that accompany Mimì's final breaths.
LAWRENCE A. JOHNSON
PITTSBURGH The enterprising casting of Pittsburgh Opera artistic director Christopher Hahn has been undermined this season by illnesses and cancellations among its scheduled star performers: Carole Vaness withdrew from Salome, Inva Mula from Lucia di Lammermoor. Then, during the rehearsal period for Madama Butterfly, Patricia Racette withdrew from her first attempt at the role since student days. She was replaced by Paula Delligatti, an experienced Cio-Cio-San and veteran of Francesca Zambello's controversial production, which she had performed in Houston during its original 1998 run. Delligatti herself suffered from swollen vocal cords and had to resort to cortisone and vocal rest between shows to get by, but she scored a personal triumph nonetheless. Delligatti is a most appealing performer, who acts with her voice and body alike to make every moment meaningful. Pacing herself carefully on opening night (March 16), the soprano trod lightly in her opening scenes, while still soaring securely up to the optional high D-flat in her entrance. She held back in an overly restrained "Un bel dì" but poured out emotion in "Che tua madre" and rose to dramatic heights in a full-throated, deeply moving death scene. Her voice is lyrical for this role, but it has a distinctive, ear-catching timbre, and Delligatti manages her resources with high intelligence and technical savvy.
Zambello's concept (re-staged by Garnett Bruce, on striking sets designed by Michael Yeargan) placed crucial scenes in the American Consulate. This worked in Act I but seemed senseless later on, when the action and words refer specifically to Butterfly's house. Japanese extras bringing tea to their American hosts distracted from the story line, but the visual depiction of the humming chorus and interlude leading to Act III (here performed quite beautifully as originally composed, without intermission between the scenes) was very effective. Moreover, music director John Mauceri had rethought the score, adhering "for practical reasons" to the final (standard) version, but restoring the full orchestration (including tuned gongs), as well as some crucial lines of text that were altered and sentimentalized in the composer's revisions. Zheng-Cao's Suzuki lacked vocal depth but made a good foil for the heroine, blending sweetly in the flower duet. Tenor Alfredo Portillo's slim vocal resources, however, were heavily taxed -- often inaudible in the middle range, shouted at the top. Malcolm Mackenzie's Sharpless was solid if bland, Dong-Jian Gong's Bonze roughly intoned. Veteran Joseph Frank's Goro took focus every time he appeared. Holli Harrison's portly, overbearing Kate Pinkerton was curiously cast against type.
ROBERT CROAN
DALLAS Dallas Opera ended its 2001-02 season with a respectable Tosca, a reprise of a production done originally in 1987 and repeated in 1996, which has held up well. Designed by Ulisse Santicchi, with stage direction by Giulio Chazalettes, the production features lavish renderings of the church of Sant'Andrea della Valle, the Palazzo Farnese (replete with malachite-colored walls and appropriate Empire furnishings) and a massive Castel Sant'Angelo. The production maximizes a sense of space in all three acts, notably in the first, in which a two-tier set allows the "Te Deum" to be sung on a second level directly above the floor on which Scarpia delivers his soaring "Va, Tosca."
Carol Vaness made much of the dramatic possibilities inherent in the title role. Her Tosca was athletic, kittenish, jealous, seductive, fearful, despairing, inspiring and heroic by turns. Both musically and dramatically she embodied the quintessentially mercurial heroine. There were some problems, however. In "Vissi d'arte," her first notes in any long phrase seemed uncertain of pitch. It took her a while (here and elsewhere) to settle into her phrasing. When comfortable with the line and the pitch, especially in her deep, lustrous chest tones, she sang with tenderness and delicacy.
Carlo Ventre was a gruff Cavaradossi with a pronounced, sometimes wobbling vibrato. Unlike Vaness, he encountered trouble at the ends of phrases, which he was unable to sustain. He began "E lucevan le stelle" smoothly enough, but by the end he had played himself out. Earlier, in Act II, he defied Scarpia by barking, rather than singing, "Non lo so." In the same act, he squawked his "Vittoria!"
Richard Paul Fink turned in a performance of Scarpia that made the villain sound both weasely and triumphant, insinuating and bluff. By and large, he was vocally secure, but his upper register was thin, and he occasionally sounded dry. The middle range was impressive, and he opened up magnificently in "Va, Tosca," and in the feral soliloquy that opens Act II. Donald Sherrill made a sympathetic Sacristan, George Cordes a fearful Angelotti.
Conductor Edoardo Müller did not provide much by way of focus, control or attack for the orchestra. The pacing was often sluggish, and the orchestra seemed to come in after, rather than on top of, the beat. In the orchestral prelude to Act III, the strings were sluggish and squeaky; the clarinet solo, however, was beautifully handled. Whatever failings the production manifested, the audience was given visible and audible proof that Tosca is virtually a foolproof opera, a model of musical and dramatic economy of means, of power and tenderness at all levels.
WILLARD SPIEGELMAN
NORFOLK Like a house of cards after a stiff breeze, the house of Agamemnon was a jumble of collapsed walls and lopsided windows in Virginia Opera's new production of Elektra, designed by John Conklin. The stark-white debris, piled up on one side of the stage, was complemented by Robert Wierzel's moody, if predictable lighting (blood red for every whiff of violence) and Tracy Dorman's more or less Edwardian costumes. There was a minimum of props, among them a wicker table and chairs where Elektra and her mother were served tea during their confrontation. Served tea? Yes, and the server was no less than the ghost of Iphigenia, in the form of a young, wistful dancer who glided in and out of the picture, not always to great effect. (She first materialized to gaze at Elektra just as Agamemnon's eldest daughter sang "Allein! Weh, ganz allein.")
Though this extra character didn't add a lot to the proceedings, she caused no real harm. The action flowed vividly under director Lillian Groag's guidance. Her staging of that tea scene worked particularly well, creating a perfect set-up; Klytemnästra melted at the sight of the all that sweet formality, making her more vulnerable to Elektra's venom. The mother-daughter battle was perhaps the most arresting moment in a sturdy performance (Jan. 30) at the art-deco-flavored Harrison Opera House. Pamela Kucenic brought her trademark stamina to the title role, unleashing a remarkable stream of orchestra-defying tones and managing to hold some tender sounds in reserve for a touchingly molded recognition scene. Though her ax-swinging death-dance was a bit over the top, the rest of the soprano's performance was as commanding theatrically as it was musically; the way she crept up on Klytemnästra, hands in strangle formation, was but one example. As the queen, Barbara Dever offered finely nuanced acting, and she truly sang the notes, putting her lush low register to maximum use. (An edginess in the upper reaches seemed only fitting for this character.)
Dinah Bryant captured the frailty and tension of Chrysothemis. She also managed to tap the role's bel canto possibilities; what the voice lacked at the lower end was more than made up for in the sweet, soaring phrases at the top. Marc Embree's Orest had considerable visual and vocal presence (weak low notes notwithstanding). Randolph Locke made a dynamic Aegisth. The rest of the cast provided solid support; notably vibrant, technically poised singing came from the two sympathetic servants, Fourth Maid (Joanne Robinson) and Fifth Maid (Tiffany Jackson). Peter Mark's conducting could have been tidier in a few spots, but he propelled the score along with admirable sweep. The brass stumbled on their first note, then recovered nicely to crown the orchestra's very respectable contribution to this first presentation of Elektra in the Commonwealth of Virginia.
TIM SMITH
NEW ORLEANS Midway through Act I of Turandot (seen March 7), the grand chancellor, Ping, exclaims that Turandot does not exist. But Calàf isn't convinced, and neither was the New Orleans audience. By the time the talented cast, in this third production of New Orleans Opera's season, unraveled the mystery of Turandot, the audience was cheering.
Anna Shafajinskaia has received excellent reviews for her performances elsewhere of the title role; New Orleans was fortunate to hear an artist who had the vocal power to fulfill all that Puccini asks of Turandot. The soprano obviously had given extensive thought to her characterization. One was particularly struck by the way she retreated into a sly, manipulative attitude after Calàf solved her three riddles. However dramatic, this approach ignores Puccini's music, which indicates Turandot's panic, in some of the opera's most expressive writing. Shafajinskaia's "dragon lady" make-up detracted from the qualities that are supposed to have drawn countless men to their deaths.
Eduardo Villa, her Calàf, is a stolid figure, possessed of a strong, resonant, serviceable tenor. He is best described as a "singing actor" -- meaning he only acts when he sings. During the death of Liù (a doubly poignant scene because it marks the end of Puccini's contribution to the opera), Villa's Calàf didn't even stick around: he lost himself in the crowd and sneaked off stage left. (In fairness, he may have been directed to do this.)
Soprano Sally Dibblee, one of Canada's most promising singers, was a passionate Liù, giving the slave more Italianate qualities than one might have expected. Jay Baylon was an expressive Timur, especially effective in Liù's death scene.
As written by Puccini, Ping, Pang and Pong are problematic. Are they a sinister, grotesque trio or escapees from a Mikado troupe? Stage director David Morelock failed to resolve that question or to offer any sense of character; the trio was given mincing choreography without style or interest. As Ping, Daniel Mobbs's excellent baritone anchored the trio; Mark James Meier (Pang) and Samuel Cook (Pong) were his colleagues.
In Puccini's operas, place is always important, whether the setting is Japan, Rome or the Golden West. Rustic in design and with little imagination, the sets (from Atlanta Opera) for this production lacked the fantastic element of Turandot's China. The Emperor was suspended on a trapeze, but that was as exotic as this production got. Morelock's staging of the magical kiss -- all-important to this opera -- drew laughter from the audience, probably due to Turandot's "swoon" that followed it. Performers and directors should reread the directions in the score: Turandot is supposed to stand transfixed, not to move or to participate in any embrace.
Conductor Robert Lyall led the excellent orchestra -- maintaining the proper balance between stage and pit. Morelock and chorus master Carol Rausch kept a disciplined hold on the large chorus. The chorus is essential to the success of this opera, and this group delivered, from the enchanting Act I welcome to the rising moon to the finale.
FRANCIS MONACHINO
HONOLULU Fantasy reigned in Hawaii Opera Theatre's stunning new production of Strauss's Salome, directed by HOT's general artistic director Henry Akina, designed by New York illustrator Thomas Woodruff and lit by HOT's resident designer Peter Dean Beck. Together, they infused new understanding and delight into a well-known work.
A spectacularly huge full moon shining through a spider's web dominated the set, reducing Herod's tangled court to a steaming jungle microcosm. Woodruff transformed the basic set -- showing the entrance to the palace, the cistern and courtyard -- into a bizarre world of rock spires, crystal vanity balls, brilliantly colored flagstones, tangling vines and a round reflecting pool that shone with silver moonlight. Costumes, also by Woodruff, featured wild tropical flowers: Salome's flouncy, hothouse-orchid dress, Herodias's fabulous Venus-fly-trap gown with fly ornaments in her hair; Herod's anthurium headdress. Even the Jews wore sprigs of lily orchids in their turbans, but those not of Herod's court wore plain garb, the Nazarenes in simple robes and Jochanaan in rough animal hides. Spider webs proliferated into a motif, binding all members of the court from Herod down to his guards. Beck's lighting shifted almost constantly, echoing, foreshadowing, commenting on the drama: Jochanaan radiated warm orange hues; reds accented Herod's court, then flooded the stage with insanity; and Salome died highlighted by the pool's strange moonlight. The initial effect was dramatic and inspiring, but it bordered on sensory overload, at times overwhelming the music. Familiarity eventually softened the effect, so that music and visuals matched more evenly, each adding significance to the other.
Akina gathered an exceptional cast, reaching a new level for HOT. Kristine Ciesinski created a memorable, passionate Salome. Despite an unfocused edge to her highest register and a disconcerting tendency to swoop down wide leaps, Ciesinski exhibited excellent agility, a dramatic middle register and admirable control, ranging from a fortissimo that carried well to a silver pianissimo thread. Ciesinski, slender enough to be convincingly seductive, also danced well. Choreographed by Hawaii's Betsy Fischer, Ciesinski conveyed Salome's wavering between revenge and love, her hesitation before dancing for Herod as well as her desire for Jochanaan. With unusual insight, Fischer clarified the point at which Salome crossed over into insanity, as she slowly shed her party dress to emerge, like a butterfly in reverse, in a skin-tight, blood-red sequined gash of a gown festooned with the anthuriums of power appropriated from Herod.
Kenneth Riegel was a magnificent, multi-faceted Herod, and his clear tenor rang through the hall whether in command, whimper or whine. Every word, every inflection was audible, and Riegel shaped his singing as naturally as speech. However despicable, Riegel's Herod had presence and was surprisingly sympathetic. David A. Okerlund's deeply resonant voice, with a hint of virile rawness, created a powerful, prophetic Jochanaan, and Ruthild Engert's impressive Herodias, with her richly colored mezzo and impeccable enunciation, grinned Grinch-ishly through her meddling.
Conductor Ivan Törzs, using a scaled-down orchestra, sculpted a responsive, nuanced interpretation, equal parts intellectual and emotional, that supported the singers.
RUTH O. BINGHAM
INDIANAPOLIS An almost spring-like evening set the stage for a most charming and sparkling Don Pasquale by the Indianapolis Opera (Clowes Memorial Hall, March 8). Amy Hutchinson staged the overture to introduce the characters and the regal set for Pasquale's home: no modest abode but a palace, complete with statuary hall. Norina's digs were hardly less opulent (originally designed by Lynn Pecktal for Cleveland Opera). Pasquale was also attended by a flock of close-hovering servants available for costume changes and prop transfer and removal. Hutchinson's staging concentrated on the characters' humanity, aiming for the gentle smile rather than the belly laugh. The audience responded warmly both to the staging and to the projected English titles.
IO's customary visual opulence was coupled with a strong vocal performance. John Davies was the best of buffos, his Pasquale an ebullient soul, strongly sung, with golden tone, quicksilver articulation and very little distortion for comic effect. Kishna Davis's role debut as Norina was a treat. She lists Aida and Bess in her repertoire, so it came as no surprise that this was no tweety-bird coloratura. Davis boasts a full-fledged spinto voice of goodly size, rich, dark and warm, yet with sufficient flexibility to get through the part's intricacies. Her vocal display was marred only by a tendency to drop into a kind of parlando at phrase-endings, for comic effect. Davis provided a most attractive stage presence, charming and witty, as she bounced and flounced about the stage with more than a touch of the sultry vamp.
Curt Peterson's fine-grained, agile tenor and graceful musicianship were just right for Ernesto. He easily survived the tentatively played, uncomfortable trumpet solo that introduced his Act II aria. Stephen Salters, as Dr. Malatesta, delivered a winning physical characterization, but his singing was dry and wooden. James Caraher urged the Indianapolis Chamber Orchestra to a big, roly-poly sound, often too loud, yet surprisingly fleet. The members of the IO Chorus were a sturdy lot, relishing their brief choral assignments.
CHARLES H. PARSONS
SAN JOSÉ The eighteen-year-old San José Opera- -- Irene Dalis's showcase for young singers -- presented its premiere performances of Massenet's Manon in a simple yet effective production (seen Feb. 23). The work was sung in French, using a heavily cut edition of the score that did away with the entire first scene (Cours-la-Reine) of Act III, for example. The orchestra was reduced, too -- which, given the small size of the Montgomery Theater (519 seats), was not necessarily a drawback.
It was an enjoyable evening, thanks largely to the singing of the two principals. Sandra Rubalcava was a charming Manon, with a bright, well-focused soprano that the shrill acoustic of the hall did not always show off to best advantage. She entered as a wide-eyed country girl, giving a sense of coquettish wonder to "Je suis encore tout étourdie," and she successfully illustrated the character's transformation into a worldly woman as the opera progressed. Sweet-voiced Adam Flowers was equally impressive, conveying both des Grieux's impulsive ardor and his devotion to Manon through singing that seemed to come straight from the heart. Both Rubalcava and Flowers sang in excellent French.
The rest of the cast was less consistently satisfying. Joseph Wright (Lescaut) has a big, handsome voice, but both his singing and his acting need more focus -- and the less said about his French, the better. Kirk Eichelberger (Brétigny) was a more commanding presence, vocally and theatrically; one was sorry not to hear more of him in the excised scene of Act III. Joshua La Force (Guillot) was an able comprimario, comical in the early acts and villainous enough in Act IV to garner vociferous hissing from the audience during the curtain calls.
Alexander Katsman conducted enthusiastically, choosing generally sensible tempos, though he rushed insensitively through des Grieux's Act II rêve ("En fermant les yeux"). Stage director Olivia Stapp had the cast maneuvering quite well around the theater's small stage. Giulio Cesare Perrone's off-white sets created an atmosphere of tarnished elegance, complemented by Julie Engelbrecht's unpretentiously elegant, pastel-colored costumes.
The program guide promises that Opera San José audiences can look forward to more Massenet offerings in future seasons.
ANDREW FARACH-COLTON
WILMINGTON OperaDelaware, with its thirty-two-year-old Family Opera Theater, has long led the nation in commissioning and performing children's opera. Its first annual Children's Opera's Festival offered guest stints by four other troupes, as well as "Family Fun Days" with clowns and face-painting, but the clear centerpiece was the world premiere of Evelyn Swensson's From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Acting as composer, librettist and conductor, Swensson, whose previous credits include musical versions of The Jungle Book, Anne of Green Gables and The Enormous Egg, served up a well-constructed, eclectically scored and highly enjoyable afternoon (March 2). Leland Kimball's bright, upbeat production showcased a multi-generational plethora of acting, dancing and music-making talents from the Wilmington region. My seven-year-old niece was not alone in loving the show: this Files seems a natural for professional and community ventures of all sizes.
E. L. Konigsburg's 1967 book, an instant classic, portrays two smart, resourceful siblings (Claudia and Jamie Kincaid) escaping their happy but overbusy Connecticut home for adventures in New York City. In brilliantly imagined detail, the children hide in the Metropolitan Museum, bathing in the (now vanished) fountains, stowing belongings in sarcopaghi and absorbing a lot of art along the way. Drawn to an angel statue thought to be by Michelangelo, they eventually solve its mystery in the mansion of its donor, the book's formidable narrator, Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.
Swensson's libretto keeps many details in place, here and there sounding a more "family-friendly" tone. Jamie's (and Mrs. Frankweiler's) cheating at cards barely gets mentioned, and for reasons of stage closure the Kincaid family is reunited almost instantly, with marital plans (unthinkable in the book) implied between Mrs. Frankweiler and her lawyer, who turns out to be the children's grandfather. Musically, Swensson achieves an inclusive style serving to introduce children to different genres of theater music. The beginning evokes Virgil Thomson: what later gets sung as "The Met! The Met!" is borrowed from The Mother of Us All's "The Vote! The Vote!" Along with pop ballads, parlor songs, a Gilbert & Sullivan-style trio and a fun rockish duet for two janitors, Swensson quotes and echoes widely, providing colorful interludes tied to the children's waking and dreamed perceptions of the museum's art: ballet music for Rodin's dancers, a polyphonic hymn for the medieval collection, a teacher's "exotic" Egpytian lecture with melismas out of Prince Igor, Khovanshchina's Persian dance for a scary mummy ballet, and so forth. In addition, a stirring tribute to New York (to which Konigsburg's book is a valentine) featured bits of the toreador song (to distinguish one New York "Met" from the other) and Don Pasquale (a pageant cameo by Jenny Lind, alongside George Washington and the Statue of Liberty). The childrens' numbers are considerately scored; in the magnificently picturesque Grand Opera House, the combination of ineffective miking and overbright brass textures from an orchestra seated at auditorium level sometimes undermined the adult singers' ability to put across the text.
Claudia's longest solo will make a fine audition song for child sopranos, though few are likely to perform it so well as did eleven-year-old Megan Beale, who was outstanding: poised, graceful, with excellent diction and a fine voice.
Less spontaneous, Marios Falaris (age ten) was still spirited and amusing as Jamie. Carol Rosenberg lent Mrs. Frankweiler a cultivated soprano and imposing pizzazz. Among the scores of other committed area performers, standouts included Heidi Bretz (Jenny Lind/Teacher), Cal Brackin and Ray Murphy (Janitors), Lee Fisher (Mr. Kincaid), the gifted ballerinas and tap dancers, and tiny J. J. Del Rosario as bratty brother Kevin. But everyone contributed strongly to a fine enterprise.
DAVID SHENGOLD
STUDENT PERFORMANCES PHILADELPHIA. Lucrezia Borgia marked a milestone in Donizetti's development. Inspired by Victor Hugo's dramatic portrayal of the vengeance-driven heroine, Donizetti created a taut music drama filled with poignant arias, passionate duets and gripping scenes. The Academy of Vocal Arts Opera Theatre revived this masterpiece for the first time in Philadelphia since Montserrat Caballé portrayed the title role for Lyric Opera more than three decades ago. Music director Christofer Macatsoris, stage director Joel Silberman and a strong cast, led by Latonia Moore in the title role, revealed the intensity of Donizetti's score. At the end of the premiere (March 2 in the Helen Corning Warden Theater), the audience showered applause and cheers on the singers.
Charging the music with dark drama, Macatsoris summoned keen-edged playing from his orchestra. Though Donizetti's rhythms can sound rum-ti-tum and his melodies can blare when played indifferently, the score emerged with vital impact in this carefully prepared and boldly executed musical performance. Adding an authentic ring to the performance, the conductor used the revision of the original autograph score prepared by Roger Parker, which removes the florid cabalettas from Lucrezia's entrance scene and the opera's finale.
Silberman used the dark orchestral introduction to stage a pantomime that explained the tortured relationship between Lucrezia and Gennaro. In a brief tableau vivant, Lucrezia's domineering father, Pope Alexander VI, and her cruel brother, Cesare, wrested her illegitimate son from her arms and forced her into an unhappy marriage. Silberman unfolded the action simply and clearly. He filled the last-act party scene with vivid movement and staged Gennaro's death scene affectingly. Peter Harrison's spare set suggested the Renaissance period and allowed for easy transition between scenes.
The youthful cast rose to the considerable vocal and dramatic challenges in this demanding opera. Dressed in handsome costumes designed by Val J. Starr, Moore dominated the stage as easily as she commanded the music. Her bright, focused soprano soared through Donizetti's music and reached expressive heights in Lucrezia's poignant final aria. Shawn Mathey made a handsome, full-voiced Gennaro. His mellow tenor gained intensity and color in the moving death scene contained in the revised score. Rounding out the fatal triangle, Burak Bilgili commanded a resonant bass voice, with the snarling tone required for Lucrezia's jealous husband. In the pants part of Orsini, Soo-Yun Chung sang appealingly, although she lacked the vocal swagger for the celebrated drinking song.
ROBERT BAXTER
CONCERTS AND RECITALS NEW YORK CITY Cilèa's Adriana Lecouvreur doesn't seem a promising candidate for concert performance. Like other operas of the so-called verismo period, it's built for the stage. But Eve Queler and her Opera Orchestra of New York, unafraid of Giordano's Fedora a few seasons ago, went out on a limb with Adriana at Carnegie Hall on March 3, anticipating by eight months the centenary of the world premiere.
Queler was right in her casting instincts. Powerhouse mezzo Dolora Zajick was an obvious choice for the formidable seconda donna, the Princess de Bouillon, but it was chancier to entrust Adriana to Aprile Millo, whose career has had its ups and downs. As the conductor/coach must have known, and as the audience quickly found out, Millo has worked this role into her very bloodstream. Unlike many other modern singers, the soprano has studied history: verismo, quite as much as the bel canto period, has its style and traditions, forged by artists who made the roles live by imbuing them with intense dramatic conviction. Whether we're talking about Gilda Dalla Rizza, Carmen Melis, Magda Olivero, Clara Petrella, Zinka Milanov or Renata Tebaldi, Millo seems to have figured out how they got inside a verismo role -- what they did technically, how they felt interpretively. With her voice in firm control, she was able to put herself in that same exposed position, launch the composer's concept of Adriana and fly with it.
Exchanges between the two leading ladies generated plenty of heat, and each held her own with the leading man, Marcello Giordani as Maurizio, as he did with them. OONY's staple is big voices, competing with each other and with a full-size symphony orchestra. All three principals also had the ability to throttle down occasionally and spin out a phrase of more subtle intent. Granted, this didn't always happen. When Maurizio begged off from further involvement with the Princess in "L'anima ho stanca," pleading exhaustion, he did so in a steady stream of loud legato. Soon afterward, in a "secret" meeting with Adriana, he was still declaring his love from the rooftops.
But character was served, after a fashion. Zajick's "O vagabonda stella," couched in her habitually generous chest voice, was a model of bold suavity. Banter with the flirtatious Abbé in Act III wasn't her forte. What the mezzo captured best was the Princess's ruthless drive: here was a steamroller at work. Millo, on the other hand, caught the thrust-and-parry of Adriana's equal ego but more vulnerable nature. It may be expecting too much of a tenor character that he should prefer Adriana's type and avoid the Princess's, but Giordani's open throat suited Maurizio's spontaneity while at least hinting at his diplomacy -- a credible soldier, lover and aristocrat, with enough strings in his bow to appeal to two such different women. In his last duet with Adriana, he did try, with mixed success, to sing softly and expressively.
As the amiable stage manager Michonnet, baritone Anooshah Goleshorkhi could make himself heard, but his most telling moments brought an agreeable human dimension to all the scenery-chewing. His touching monologue in Act III, the only sustained mezzo-forte singing of the evening, drew respectful applause. The shorter roles were in able hands -- Charles Robert Stephens as the Prince de Bouillon, Anthony Laciura as the Abbé, Lorraine Ernest and Mary Ann Stewart as Adriana's fellow actresses at the Comédie Française, Barton Green and Terence Murphy as actors.
Ira Siff, whose work with La Gran Scena has shown observant reverence for the art he loves to spoof, directed the semi-staging. There were unconvincing moments -- for instance, when Adriana and the Princess faced each other too much to go unrecognized during the rescue scene of Act II. There was also legitimate, effective use of traditional clutch-and-stagger: Adriana sang "Poveri fiori" on her knees, bringing down the house, and died on her feet, held up by the tenor and baritone.
On the podium, Queler risked perilously slow tempos in that final scene. But it had been an evening of risks, and all of them paid off. In the first two acts, and notably in the lighter moments that leaven this melodrama, she caressed the score's contours with smoothness, zip and stylistic assurance, bringing out its melodious flow and piquant colors.
JOHN W. FREEMAN
A brace of early-spring Manhattan appearances by Anne Sofie von Otter confirmed her reputation as crossover diva of the moment. Von Otter's crossover bona fides lie not in her singing, which on all occasions remains classically shaped and supported, but in her manner of presentation, which is cordial, clean and occasionally chilly. Much of the material on her March 10 recital program with her frequent colleague Bengt Forsberg has been featured on their recordings together, but the mezzo's in-person performances on this occasion lacked the delicious air of spontaneity her best discs have; a well-stocked music stand was prominently featured and frequently (and, it must be admitted, artfully) consulted. A crisp, breezy Scandinavian song set (Haquinius, Aulin, Rangstrom, Nystroem) opened the afternoon, complete with a stern correction of a mistranslation in the Alice Tully Hall program as von Otter flipped the pages to begin Nystroem's "Otrolig dag." ("It is not an anxious day, but an amazing day he is writing about.") The five Schubert items that followed held the afternoon's best singing: a poised, elegant "Nacht und Träume," a sweetly funny "Geheimes," a defty colored "Ellens Gesange II" and a comic troubadour's traversal of "An Silvia." The second half of the program unwrapped a half-dozen bon-bons by Cécile Chaminade, whose work is featured on von Otter's latest solo CD (Mots d'Amour), and a quartet of turns by Kurt Weill. Von Otter let her heart bleed wistfully in "Nanna's Lied" and "Je ne t'aime pas," but the pungent English lyrics (by Howard Dietz) in Weill's "Schickelgruber" were lost in an atypically coarse-voiced belt. Encores offered something for almost everyone: a bluesy Tom Waits pop song, Carmen's seguedilla and ABBA's "Thank You For the Music."
Von Otter was back in Manhattan the following month for a concert with Mark Minkowski and Les Musiciens du Louvre-Grenoble (April 8). Von Otter glided through Bach's cantata "Ich habe genug" smoothly enough to pass muster, but her three Handel arias were, to my ear, far less successful: an arch "Resign Thy Club" (from Hercules), a soggy, self-indulgent "Scherza infida" and a coy, finger-and-eyebrow-wiggling "Dopo notte" (both from Ariodante). It must be said that mine was the minority opinion in Alice Tully Hall that night: the crowd went berserk. The balance of the program featured Handel's Concerto Grosso in G Major, Op. 6, No. 1, and Rameau's smashing Suite from Les Boréades.
F. PAUL DRISCOLL
Determined not to limit his career to Handelian heroics, David Daniels branched out into new repertory in his debut with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra in March. On a program devoted to exotic French works with a hint of orientalism, Daniels sang four of Berlioz's six songs in Les Nuits d'Eté and all five of Ravel's Mélodies Populaires Grecques, under the baton of another NYPO debutant, Paul Daniel, music director of English National Opera (heard March 7). The evening opened with a glittering rendition of Debussy's Danse Sacrée et Danse Profane, with Nancy Allen on harp, and concluded with a lively account of Beethoven's Second Symphony. Perhaps not surprisingly for a conductor who has spent so much of his career in the opera house (he was musical director of Leeds's Opera North prior to taking the reins at ENO), Daniel found the dramatic tension in each piece. The Philharmonic delivered one of its most consistent performances this season.
Men of several Fachs do sing Les Nuits d'Etés, with the composer's encouragement; at least one song was originally written with a baritone in mind, and most of the lyrics indicate a male narrator. However, the songs are more often associated with soprano and mezzo-soprano interpreters. (A helpful program note reminded the audience that, since the six songs weren't all written for the same voice type, some transpositions are required whenever a single performer attempts all six.) Daniels had originally announced all six, but for these performances he dropped "Sur les lagunes" and "Au cimitière," adding the Ravel songs as last-minute compensation. It's easy to suppose he had lost his nerve: especially since Régine Crespin's legendary 1964 recording (Decca 460973, seemingly sung in a single breath), audiences have come to expect lushness and power in the Berlioz songs, and those were precisely the qualities wanting in Daniels's interpretation. In "Le spectre de la rose," for example, where Berlioz calls for a crescendo on the words "j'arrive," Daniels fell into a register break and couldn't deliver the overwhelming surge of sound required. These songs also lie a little high for him. He delivered an intelligent, strong performance, but he was very, very careful, barely moving a muscle as he sang; by contrast, he relaxed and had a marvelous time with the Ravel songs, purring seductively in "Quel galant m'est comparable?" and allowing the complicated rhythms of the songs to sway him.
What sets Daniels apart from other countertenors -- indeed, from most singers -- is his ability to latch onto not just the emotion but the passion in the music. It's the kind of intensity encountered more often in verismo singers than in early-music specialists. That intensity makes his lamentation harrowing, his exultation blissful, and it marked his entire program this evening. "Le spectre de la rose" became a heartbroken reverie, "L'île inconnue" a joyous game, "Là-bas, vers l'église" a prayer. Daniels's performance of Baroque repertory already has pushed envelopes and shaken up audience preconceptions; he is liable to have the same effect no matter what he sings.
For his Carnegie Hall appearance with the Philadelphia Orchestra (March 19), Simon Rattle chose a two-part program that veered from the (intentionally) ridiculous to the sublime. With the composer at his side, Rattle opened with HK Gruber's "Pan-Demonium" Frankenstein!! and concluded with Mahler's Fifth Symphony.
Gruber's piece takes a series of nursery rhymes by H. C. Artmann (in English translation by Harriet Watts) and sets them to a busy score, in which members of the orchestra are called upon to do silly things: playing the kazoo, toy saxophone, plastic hosepipe (whirled overhead to create a pleasing whistle) and paper bags (inflated and popped, then tossed away, all to the beat of the music). Gruber has long identified himself with a movement to popularize music and to encourage the interest of children (I saw none present), and Frankenstein!!, written in the 1970s, resembles more than superficially the sort of "orchestras can be fun" concerts in which the late actor Danny Kaye (among others) specialized during that era.
Fun as it is, there is something creepy about this work, quite apart from its explicit subject matter: movie monsters, comic-book heroes and other pop-culture icons seen with a child's sensibility. The trouble lies with Gruber himself, in his role as narrator (or "chansonnier," as he styles himself). The poems are written in a child's voice, but Gruber (born 1943) is a grown-up. Seldom singing, he recites the text rhythmically in a creaky baritone and Viennese accent, conjuring the disquieting image of Lotte Lenya reading bedtime stories. Exactly what kind of gingerbread house is this? Gruber demonstrates an admirably unstuffy nature, and his music is indisputably listenable -- your grandmother, to say nothing of your kids, would have no objection to the score -- but his performance and the poems (when one can understand his English) are self-consciously cute.
The members of the Philadelphia Orchestra seemed to enjoy themselves immensely, and they couldn't have found a more enthusiastic conductor than Rattle, who led the world premiere of the full-length Frankenstein!! in 1978, when he was twenty-three. Rattle remains one of the most playful conductors before the public. In the Gruber piece, he was as much actor as conductor, gamely playing the kazoo and holding up two batons like a crucifix (to ward off Dracula). His very funny deadpan contrasted with his usual emotional intensity on the podium.
That intensity was again on view when Rattle and the Philadelphians performed Mahler's Fifth Symphony, a ravishing intimation of mortality and redemption. Rattle is no longer trying to play this score in under an hour, but some sections, including that part of the central scherzo marked "nicht zu schnell," were still too fast for the music's complex textures and the subtler nuances of Rattle's reading to be appreciated fully. (For the record, he clocked in at sixty-nine minutes.) The Philadelphians delivered a thrilling account, with especially strong contributions from the brass section and the harpist, who play such important roles in this piece.
WILLIAM V. MADISON
SAN FRANCISCO Although Michael Tilson Thomas has dabbled in composition since his youth, writing music became a serious pursuit only after his conducting career was firmly established. His latest work is Poems of Emily Dickinson, written for Renée Fleming, who gave the premiere with Tilson Thomas and the San Francisco Symphony on February 27. Cleverly orchestrated, the score evokes a range of Americana -- a wheezing country church organ in "Of God We Ask One Favor," a smoky jazz club in "Fame" and Copland's prairie harmonies in "Nature Studies." But while the music is skillfully written and superficially attractive, Tilson Thomas has yet to find his voice, a deficiency that is especially apparent because Dickinson's style is so individual. The vocal line tends to ramble, the word painting is too often blatant, and only rarely does one feel that the music has any real connection with the verses. "The Earth Has Many Keys" is perhaps the most convincing of the songs -- the spare accompaniment matches the poem's concision, the harmonies immediately draw in the ear, and the orchestral colors (glistening woodwinds and crunching bass) create what seems like an original and marvelously tangible sonic world.
Fleming, who so often has sung contemporary American music with appealing naturalness, was overly precious here, swooning and swooping where simplicity and directness were called for. And, unfortunately, she approached Strauss's Four Last Songs in a similarly sugary manner. Tilson Thomas set fast tempos, admirably following the composer's indications, but these did not sit well with the soprano. A few lines were ravishingly sung -- the long, arching phrases that end the third song, for example -- but for a singer with such an excellent and well-deserved reputation as a Straussian, this performance was a real disappointment.
The concert opened with a curiously dispassionate account of Tchaikovsky's overture-fantasy Romeo and Juliet and also included a manic performance of Strauss's tone-poem Till Eulenspiegels Lustige Streiche, in which poor Mr. Eulenspiegel had all the charm of a Hanna-Barbera cartoon hero.
ANDREW FARACH-COLTON
LONDON Russian tenor Daniil Shtoda strode onto the stage of Wigmore Hall for his first London recital (March 10) dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat. Young and handsome, he created an instant and positive impression, the eagerness of his manner combining with a certain modesty of approach.
The voice is outstanding, a lyric tenor notable for its liquidity, its warmth and the sheen on its surface. He has easy access to his top register, though there were moments when Shtoda's use of it seemed almost reckless in its prodigality. His is indeed a wonderful instrument but one that needs careful nurturing at this early stage in his career. Throughout the range, however, the quality of the voice is consistent and its production natural and easy.
Shtoda also possesses a natural ease on the platform and already knows to a nicety just how far to dramatize each song physically. A number of personal interpretive touches helped him make the music his own, but more are needed for his performances to become genuinely memorable.
He sang an all-Russian program, the first half comprising mainly early-nineteenth-century composers little known abroad, the second made up of more familiar items by Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky. The first half indeed had a salon-music feel to it, many songs registering as charming copies of foreign models rather than the characteristic products of the nationalist school of later decades. Not much of Alyabiev is remembered today, other than his once-famous "The Nightingale," and "I see your image" proved pleasant if hardly memorable. Similarly, the works of Gurilyov and Varlamov registered as attractive examples of the drawing-room romans. Shtoda delivered all these essentially lightweight pieces with a firm legato line, adding some finely controlled effects that gave the melodies color and shape. His feeling for the meaning of the texts was genuine though somewhat under-employed.
Arguably, this program should have been the other way around. In the more serious second half, and on what was more familiar territory for his listeners, the lack of specific detail in his textual response was more noticeable. But Rachmaninoff's "Lilacs" was properly dreamy in tone, Tchaikovsky's "Frenzied Nights" very well planned. Overall the sense of exploration contained in Shtoda's performances remains fresh and appealing, yet deeper, more interior areas in several of these songs were only glanced at. Above all, his greatest qualities shone through in the more purely lyrical pieces, where he and his audience could revel in the heady glamour of his tone and the impetuosity of his attack. He is a star, all right, and it will be fascinating to see how he develops.
His accompanist was Larissa Gergieva, who has coached him for the last five years, and to whose teaching he owes a great deal -- something he acknowledged gracefully in his behavior to her on the platform, which included a good deal of applause-sharing and hand-kissing. Her playing was conceived in the grand manner, wide-ranging in mood and skilfully adapted to the moment-by-moment needs of her dashing young charge.
GEORGE HALL
PARIS During the run of Don Quichotte at l'Opéra de Paris, José Van Dam found time to appear in two concert performances of Weber's Le Freyschütz (sic) conducted by Christoph von Eschenbach, with the Orchestre de Paris. The originality of the evening was the use of the Berlioz version of the work, written in 1841 for the Paris Opéra, where any hint of spoken dialogue was strictly forbidden. Berlioz himself was dubious about the enterprise, but given that this was the only way to allow the work to be performed, he consented to supply fifteen recitatives to Emilien Pacini's French text, a translation of the original German dialogues. Berlioz had been right to hesitate, and had he been an unknown composer, these recitatives never would have resurfaced. Besides prolonging the work, the somewhat pompous declamations sap the dramatic energy of Weber's masterpiece, giving the work some ponderously "grand" opera moments. The composer was aware of the problem: "These recitatives should be sung in a familiar and animated manner and not vociferously emphatic, but it is as difficult to obtain from an opera singer this light touch, as it is to get an elephant to walk like an Arab stallion."
Van Dam's performance as Gaspard (Kaspar in the original) was a little guilty of the slow and steady approach, but his French is always a joy to listen to, and it helped him deal professionally with the diction-only-zone of his once pungent bass voice. The most imaginative treatment of the extra text and music on February 14 came from Jean-Philippe Courtis as Kouno (Kuno), but his voice sounded out of sorts, with some dubious intonation from time to time. In his defense, the recitatives do have harmonic twists, which are either audacious or just plain odd, depending on one's point of view. The Kilian of Marc Barrard was an admirable interpretation; this high baritone, fondly remembered from last season's La Mascotte at the Opéra Comique, sang with easy, well-placed tone, which was instantly comprehensible.
The rest of the cast was more problematic. The orchestral manager announced that the singer originally scheduled to sing Max had developed what he pointedly referred to as "Berliozian" flu, and his replacement, Endrik Wottrich, had learned the French version of the role in just two days. In the circumstances the tenor did admirably, with a tightly focused, forceful, metallic ring to the voice, but naturally the French text remained at an experimental level. However in this he was not alone; both the sopranos of the evening were in need of projected titles. In the case of German-born Michaela Kaune, she redeemed her performance by singing Agathe's two arias with glorious, silvery tone -- but the performance of Annick Massis (Annette/Ännchen) possessed no such redeeming qualities. The role lies relatively low for this coloratura soprano; cloudy vowels and mushy consonants robbed her potentially well-sung performance of any credibility. Rounding off the proceedings was Carsten Stabell's warm, cavernous bass, but surely it would have been possible to find a singer with some notion of the French language for the important dramatic moment given to his character, the Hermit.
Eschenbach conducted with great style and panache, and the orchestral playing and chorus singing were outstanding, with beautifully played cello and viola obbligatos, and for once a smooth horn section. The audience reaction was enthusiastic, but it was difficult to get involved in Weber's supernatural drama in the utilitarian wasteland of the Salle Pleyel, where Samiel's spoken lines, performed by locally famous actor Jean-Claude Drouot, boomed out from a speaker at the side of the stage.
Wagner's 1842 opera Rienzi got a rare concert performance at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées on February 16. This Meyerbeerian monster of an opera, composed partly in Paris, was given in its condensed five-act version, which nonetheless runs for more than four hours. The music varies between the inspired and the bombastic. It is popular to malign the young Verdi for triteness when in martial mood, but in this work by his German counterpart, there are passages aplenty to raise a condescending smile. However, such passages are offset by much stirring grandeur, and the title role stands apart from the melodramatic whole. It was therefore disappointing when an announcement was made that tenor Thomas Moser was performing despite illness. In the event, though he looked under the weather, the American tenor phrased movingly throughout the opera. His obvious vocal discomfort at one or two moments only added dramatic pathos, and his Act V prayer was rightly the climax of the evening.
Otherwise, the platform was dominated by mezzo Yvonne Naef as Adriano, wearing a flamboyant evening gown that, while hardly in character, admirably suited the over-the-top aspect of Rienzi. She sang for the most part with thrusting dramatic tones, but her big Act III aria showed the part to be several notches too high for her. She recovered admirably but seemed stretched by the role. Nancy Gustafson took the rather anonymous soprano role of Irène; this usually committed artist only hit her stride toward the end of the evening. Earlier, she lunged at high notes in a vague, unsuccessful manner. Standouts in the supporting cast were baritone Peter Sidhom (his Orsini splendidly projected) and the promising German bass Alfred Reiter (Stefano Colonna). Claus-Peter Flor conducted the Orchestre National de France in a performance that captured the spirit of the work, though it lacked accurate orchestral detail. The chorus of Radio France, trained by Norbert Balatsch, was worthy and steadfast, despite some limp intonation from the sopranos.
It would take a festival staging in order to prepare the work with enough care to reassess its musical worth properly. The audience trooped through the evening with ever-diminishing energy but saluted the cast warmly at the conclusion.
STEPHEN MUDGE
photo credits: © Eric Mahoudeau 2002 (Liebermann's Medea); © Gianfranco Fainello 2002 (Alagna); © Bernd Uhlig 2002 (Fidelio); © Beth Bergman 2002 (Falstaff); © Beatriz Schiller 2002 (Arteta); © Carol Rosegg 2002 (Don Giovanni); © Dan Rest/Lyric Opera of Chicago 2002 (Winbergh); © Debra Hesser 2002/courtesy Florida Grand Opera (Flanigan); © Bob McCormack 2002/courtesy Tulsa Opera (Vixen)
OPERA NEWS, June 2002 Copyright © 2002 The Metropolitan Opera Guild, Inc.
IN REVIEW
From around the world Far from Cherubini: Liebermann's Medea (with Lindroos, Charbonnet) at the Bastille
Alagna's "boyish, terrifying" Canio, in Verona
McCarthy, Johansson in Deutsche Oper's"disastrous" Fidelio
Kindred souls: Blythe, Terfel in Met Falstaff
Artiste Arteta, the Met's "beguiling" Thérèse/Tirésias
Coleman-Wright, Magisano in NYCO Don Giovanni
Hail and farewell: Winbergh, Chicago's Parsifal
Flanigan, Florida's high-voltage Regina
Animal lovers: Gormley (Sharp-ears) and Cook (Golden-mane) in Tulsa Vixen
