Ogni farfalla da uno spillo è trafitta

I have a Really Shameful Confession, Gentle Readers: before last night, I'd never seen Madama Butterfly live. I don't know how many times I listened to recordings before being able to do so without an intermission to stalk wrathfully around the apartment, grumbling choice epithets for Pinkerton... but I digress. I went for the sake of Patricia Racette's Cio-Cio-San, and out of curiosity about Anthony Minghella's production; neither disappointed. Seen in person at last, Minghella's production is indeed stunningly beautiful, as well as overtly theatrical. With so problematic a text, it struck me as no bad expedient to force the audience into awareness of how artificial the presentation of this brutal drama as romantic spectacle is. The Personenregie was musically sensitive and highlighted personal interactions intelligently and poignantly. While the stylized crowd scenes appear as through Pinkerton's (exoticizing, Othering) perspective, more intimate moments are staged to reflect Butterfly's point of view. This is haunting in the orchestral lead-in to Act II (one moment, domestic bliss; the next, Pinkerton simply disappears) and during the Humming Chorus, but perhaps most effective in the ecstatic finale of Act I, a fantasy of lanterns and showering peonies. (All that said, the staging is not unproblematic, as Zerbinetta of Likely Impossibilities has pointed out.) Racette's performance was the musical highlight, though other singers made notable contributions as well.

Plácido Domingo's conducting, alas, was disappointing: a lack of focus glossed over much of the orchestral detail, which resulted in a failure to create, much less sustain, dramatic tension (there was no erotic promise, no threatened violence.) This may have saved my mascara, as it pulled me back from the edge of immersion more than once; this I resented. The excellent work of Tony Stevenson as Goro garnered the most enthusiastic applause of the evening, barring that for the prima donna. He did not indulge in comic gimmickry in gesture or voice, mercifully, relying instead on incisive, sly diction and strong singing. Laurent Naouri made a sympathetic Sharpless, using his warm, smooth baritone with expressive phrasing and attention to text. He was thoughtful in small gestures, as well, creating a portrayal alive to the consul's divided loyalties. Maria Zifchak's earthy mezzo contrasted nicely with Racette's sound, and she sang strongly as the pragmatic, compassionate Suzuki. As Pinkerton, Roberto De Biasio sounded much more at ease than the last time I heard him. He gave good impulsion to the careless officer's tossed-off phrases, but also sang with real sweetness of tone in the tender moments of the first act. He also, admirably I think, made Pinkerton despicably weak-willed and self-pitying.

Patricia Racette created a multifaceted and deeply moving portrayal of Cio-Cio-San. Graceful and even self-effacing in movement, she gave Butterfly with an always-visible gravitas, aided by the strength and security of her lower range. Her warmth was always anchored by a sense of her own dignity, secure enough to be generous. I lost track of the number of times I got misty-eyed, as her familiarity with the role unfolded the tragedy in small moments; no phrase went unconsidered. (To cite but one example: the tense agony of her asking Suzuki if Pinkerton is still alive was almost unbearable.) The top of her voice could sound fragile, but her commitment was thoughtful and unwavering. Her Cio-Cio-San chose death as the only release from a trap created by others. And her death was staged as spectacle, and I stood aghast.

Curtain call photos:

Cast: Naouri, De Biasio, and Stevenson in foreground

I was unprepared for Minghella's last theatrical image: the diva as sacrificial victim. I wasn't sure whether or not the rest of the enthusiastically applauding audience felt as uncomfortable as I did.

Patricia Racette