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Freed from the thematic restraints of the past two seasons (Shakespeare in 2008, all Orpheus, all the time, in 2007), Glimmerglass Opera presented a satisfyingly varied lineup this year: Menotti's Pulitzer Prize-winning The Consul (seen Aug. 7) shared the bill with Verdi's La Traviata (Aug. 8 matinée), Rossini's La Cenerentola (Aug. 8 evening) and Purcell's Dido and Aeneas (Aug. 9).

Anybody who has ever been thwarted by an officious gatekeeper will feel his blood pressure rise watching Menotti's depiction of the Kafka-esque web of bureaucracy that exists even in democracies. Like Oz and Godot, the Consul is the absent, possibly nonexistent savior of a ragtag bunch of émigré hopefuls. Seeking to flee a repressive totalitarian state, they gather in the consulate of an only slightly less repressive-seeming country, where they regale the Consul's disinterested Secretary with their tales of woe. The principal applicant is Magda Sorel, whose husband, John, a wounded freedom-fighter, hides in the hills, waiting for assurance that his wife, child and mother have secured visas, before illegally crossing the border himself. Stalked by the secret police and racing the clock to save her sick child, the nervous, unprepossessing Magda becomes the consulate's unlikely vox populi, taking on the Secretary in her big dramatic aria, "To this we've come." She ultimately gets her visa, albeit too late.

Soprano Melissa Citro handled Magda's vocal demands with arresting power and an admirable lack of stridency, but she remained a bit of a cipher dramatically. Despite her intensity, she appeared emotionally detached and physically restrained. During John's rare appearances, she hardly seemed to register his presence. Joyce Castle picked up the emotional slack as the simultaneously defiant and broken Mother, and baritone Michael Chioldi made a sturdy, heroic everyman John. The three soared, full-voiced and well matched, in their Act I trio, one of the score's surprisingly lyrical moments. Leah Wool delivered a crackling performance as the Secretary, a fastidiously cute Cerberus relishing her world of little privileges — bottled water, coordinated outfits and evening plans. Tenor John Easterlin, who spent 200 hours learning magic for this production, acquitted himself in masterly fashion as the pompadoured, leisure-suited Magician. His impressive sleight of hand, which included producing a live rabbit, seemed second nature, as did the smooth high notes he tossed off simultaneously. Baritone David Kravitz was sympathetic as the well-meaning, indefinably pathetic Mr. Kopfer.

The remaining roles were filled by members of the Young American Artists (YAA) Program. As the Secret Police Agent, Robert Kerr displayed a strong, sizable baritone and the relaxed confidence that accompanies real power. Eve Gigliotti, always focused and in character, made a big impression in the small role of Vera Boronel. Valentina Fleer, as the nation-less Anna Gomez, suggested gaunt heroin chic, carting around her worldly possessions in plastic bags. Jacqueline Noparstak's appallingly Midwestern Italian marred an otherwise prettily sung Foreign Woman, but Kevin Wetzel made the most of his brief scene as Assan, the glass-cutter. Sam Helfrich's direction was clean and unfussy, while Kaye Voyce's ongepotchket costumes, Jane Cox's harsh fluorescent lighting and Andrew Lieberman's multipurpose cinderblock cafeteria evoked the unremitting bleakness of a Soviet country twenty years behind the rest of the world. The only casualty of the design was Magda's suicide, which was suggested rather than depicted. David Angus, Glimmerglass's newly appointed music director, kept a tight rein on the proceedings, relishing the lush, liquid opportunities as well as the score's angular menace.

The standout portrayal of the season was Mary Dunleavy's world-class Violetta. Her effortless, nuanced acting and flawless singing, together with Jonathan Miller's blessedly cliché-free direction, made this Traviata a sublimely memorable experience. Miller, famous for stripping away operatic artifice, likes to stage the big moments sitting down, inviting both singer and audience to experience the power of words and music more directly. Dunleavy's "Ah, fors'è lui" was a tour de force of understated truth, so introspective that one felt embarrassed to be eavesdropping on such a private moment. Collapsing exhausted on a sofa, she quietly tested the resilience of a long-abandoned dream of respectability and true love. "Sempre libera" was neither triumphant nor desperate but an affectionate farewell to an outgrown philosophy.

Ryan MacPherson was appealingly puppyish and country-boy innocent in his role debut as Alfredo, convincingly maturing as the character does. Reportedly suffering from allergies, he struggled a bit in Act I, hovering just under pitch in the upper-middle voice, and he seemed to have slightly different tempos in his head from those chosen by conductor Mikhail Agrest. However, he found his comfort zone in "O mio rimorso," and his high notes were spot-on and secure throughout (though he opted out of the high C). During their first encounter, he pulled up a chair behind Violetta and pleaded his case over her shoulder (staging that was echoed in Germont père's Act II entreaty). This dangerous proximity turned Violetta's disingenuous "dimenticarmi" and Alfredo's ardent "croce e delizia" into erotic sparring; one could practically see the words wrestling for dominance in the quivering air between them.

Malcolm MacKenzie was a stentorian Germont, singing with a steely beauty that matched the character's resolve. Because MacKenzie softened less than some Germonts, Violetta became even more virtuous, embracing him simply for his connection to her beloved. Among the YAAs, Michael Krzankowski was a surly, watchful Baron, John Rodger an affable, chummy presence as Gastone. Liza Forrester made a wily Flora, kittenish in Act I, a vixen in male drag at her Act II costume party. Rebecca Jo Loeb was an Annina with attitude, feisty and protective of her mistress. Isabella Bywater contributed confectionary period costumes and shabbily grand moveable walls.

After the poignant realism of La Traviata, I was fully prepared to enjoy the promised screwball comedy of Kevin Newbury's Depression-era Cenerentola, except that there was way too much screwball and not nearly enough comedy. This chaotic mugfest was a potent reminder that comedy comes from character and situation, not from people making faces and acting silly. It's too bad, because conductor Joseph Colaneri led a buoyant, energized performance, and Newbury's thoughtfully considered update had many clever, revealing touches. Don Magnifico's larder was empty, but his bathtub was full (of gin); the portrait in the prince's handsome library offered a dorsal view, so as not to queer his disguise as his own valet; and the front-of-scrim breadline allowed set changes over the tail ends of each scene.

Unfortunately, that same specificity was often absent from the staging, particularly the cluttered ensembles, and was also lacking in several performances. The exceptions were Keith Phares's dashing "prince for a day" Dandini, John Tessier's endearingly self-effacing Ramiro and YAA Joshua Jeremiah's gentle, effective Alidoro. Arriving in a raccoon coat, Phares indulged an impulse to mime gunning down his retinue, mafia-style. Summoning Ramiro, he kept the bell going, relishing the novelty of doing the ringing for a change. Addressing his "subjects" unexpectedly, he nervously spat out his comments in one breath. His comedy was truthful, his laughs well-earned. Phares also sang divinely, as did Tessier, a handsome blond ringer for Britain's Prince William. With his naturally graceful carriage and clarion, effortless runs up to high C, he emerged as the heart of the piece, winning the biggest hand of the night with his "Sì, ritrovarla io giuro."

It seemed that Newbury encouraged the ladies in his cast to clown beyond their capabilities or, in the case of the title role, the requirements of the character. Julie Boulianne has all the makings of an ideal Cenerentola/Angelina. Petite and waif-like, but with a flexible, plummy, clarinet-hued mezzo, she easily straddles the role's contradictory requirements of youthful physicality and vocal maturity. However, her characterization here was bizarrely splintered. When singing, she was earnest, vulnerable and true, with an impressive command of the character's natural dignity, but when she was reacting "comically," she mugged and moved spastically, as if navigating a sea of banana peels. Boulianne was at her best, soignée and confident, in a slim, silver gown in the ball scene, and in her dispatch of an excellent "Non più mesta."

YAAs Jamilyn Manning-White and Karin Mushegain played Clorinda and Tisbe as boozy, woozy floozies. Though they displayed fine voices, their physical business mainly took the shape of generalized flailing that made their shenanigans difficult to interpret. As Don Magnifico, Eduardo Chama was the genuine buffo article, delivering his music with great sound and comic brio, and his duet with Phares was a highlight, but even his performance could have used an editor. He did, however, get the evening's best joke: when he dictated a letter and insisted his name be in all caps, the projected titles dutifully obliged.



Mumford, Moore and Harvey in Glimmerglass Dido and Aeneas © Richard Termine 2009

To honor the 350th anniversary of Purcell's birth, Glimmerglass offered four performances of his compact masterpiece, Dido and Aeneas, semi-staged by Jonathan Miller and led sparklingly from the harpsichord by Michael Beattie. Dressed, presumably, in their own clothes (no costumer was credited), the young ensemble suggested rival high schools, with Dido as queen bee, rather than Queen of Carthage. In addition to echoing Purcell's compositional imperative (he wrote the opera for a girls' boarding school), the recasting of the relationships — Aeneas as BMOC, Belinda as BFF and the Sorceress as a disaffected goth mischief-maker — rendered them more immediate and relevant for both performers and audience.

Tamara Mumford spun gorgeous, melting sounds and deftly conveyed Dido's wounded heart and pride, while Joélle Harvey delivered a cheerily sung, do-good Belinda. David Adam Moore was a hunky Aeneas, the throb of his rich baritone capturing his frustration. After his spat with Dido, he left the stage via the house, excusing his behavior to the audience, muttering, "She had her chance!" YAA Anthony Roth Costanzo is a star in the making. His snarling, cockney Sorceress was delicious but never obscured the power of his stunning, secure countertenor. Kathryn Guthrie and Liza Forrester were his enthusiastic hench-witches, and Rebecca Jo Loeb, as the Sailor, reinforced my impression of her from Traviata as a singer to watch.

However, the real star of this production was the ensemble. It's amazing what a finely tuned collection of solo-quality voices can achieve. Diction was superb, and dynamics were sensitively felt. The singers also contributed naturalistic character touches, as when Costanzo and Forrester produced a cellphone during "Thanks to these lonesome vales," staged as a picnic, and texted photos of themselves to an absent friend.

JOANNE SYDNEY LESSNER

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