OPERA OBSESSION

Rienzi: Sage an, hast deine Sendung du vollbracht?

2012-01-31T23:13:00.002-05:00

Opera Orchestra of New York: Chauvet, Matos, Storey (c) AP Photo

Wagner's 1842 opera Rienzi is a heady cocktail of medieval history and political idealism, shaken together in grand operatic fashion (libretto here.) Hardly a curiosity from a noted composer's juvenilia, Rienzi was among Wagner's most popular operas during his own lifetime. Music historian Carl Wilhelm Bauck, writing in the 1860s, characterized Rienzi as possessing "an unusual power, a living spirit, [and] a design of massive, even at times imposing dimensions, and that this all springs from an imagination that surrounds all that enters its purview with burning colors." Another early review praised its "energy of feeling and warmth of imagination." That it is rarely performed, and still more rarely staged, may be partly due to the demands of this form: elaborate processions--and a cast of dimensions to make Cecil B. DeMille proud--do not come cheap. There is also the question of how to piece the opera together; the original manuscript has been "lost, presumed destroyed" since the Second World War, so some cuts are inevitable and, given its massive length (over 8000 bars) further editing is a commonplace. The three-hour version given by the Opera Orchestra of New York (slightly shorter than the EMI recording) was missing some ambassadors and a ballet, but the former are easily omitted from the elaborate plot, and the latter perhaps a prudent excision from this concert performance. (I didn't notice specifics of other cuts; Zerbinetta's report on Likely Impossibilities will almost certainly have a more detailed and thoughtful consideration of these issues.) What of the work itself? Like the early critics cited above, I was drawn in by its musical and dramatic vividness. Many of Wagner's characteristically rich harmonies are present, as are his concerns with the individual's relationship to social institutions. But all of this inhabits, in structural and stylistic terms, the world of grand opera--most decidedly, the world of Meyerbeer--rather than the late nineteenth-century orchestral landscape which Wagner himself did so much to create.

Götterdämmerung: So gut und schlimm es geh'

2012-01-30T00:34:00.000-05:00

In a world where the gods don't matter, why should we care about their downfall? In the last installment of his Ring, Robert Lepage has banished the gods to plaster-of-Paris altars, which are exploded (almost comically, I regret to say) in the conflagration of the Gibichungs' hall. An exploration of how the (misplaced?) religious devotion of the mortals is used to justify their own decisions was, however, lacking as far as I could see. The Gibichungs' society, indeed, was surprisingly functional, as were the sibling relationships of Gunther, Hagen, and Gutrune. Theatrically, I felt that this was the best yet of the Lepage productions, but its apparent lack of conviction is a crippling defect. (For instance: the Norns' weaving creates a series of impressive images, but its unraveling is not attuned to the moment when the music registers the horror of "Es riss!") Without either an argument for wider significance to the events of Götterdämmerung, or an ironic commentary on the lack of such significance, the production is reduced to a series of tableaux, which no amount of grandeur can save from triviality.

The musical performances were of a high standard, and offered much to ponder, even if dramatically shackled by the vagueness of the production. Rather than a Götterdämmerung of grandeur, guts, and glory, Luisi gave a reading of the score which was transparently detailed, intimate, even introspective. I really appreciated this--the Rhine journey was at its most gorgeous--although it was perhaps not without its drawbacks. The timpani before Siegfried's death, dying into silence, could have been the last rattle of breath, the last flutter of a pulse; the crash of sound that initiates the Trauermarsch can hardly fail to stun, but I wanted it to overwhelm. The portrayals of the singers were also characterized by impressive emotional nuance, which Lepage must have taken care over (but this is Götterdämmerung, where it is never just about the individual.)

Le roi et le fermier: Il ne faut s'étonner de rien

2012-01-27T07:36:00.000-05:00

The forces of Opera Lafayette are currently giving "Le roi et le fermier," Pierre-Alexandre Monsigny's 1762 opera, its "modern world premiere" on a tour which started in Washington, D.C., came to NYC on Thursday, and will finish up at Versailles. In musical and dramatic style, the piece is in transition between genres. (An early printing of the text by Sedaine calls it a "comedy with bits of music.") There is a great deal of dialog, a little recit, and quite a few ariettes and ensembles. The whole is, if not sensational, clever and charming, and the performers of Opera Lafayette put it across well.

Monsigny himself complained of the difficulties of mounting the piece, remarking that it needed not only an able musician and accomplished artist, but a friend who would trust him in his risky experiment with "a new genre of music." The plot was drawn from the English theater "or rather," according to Monsigny, "from an old story which has nothing but to substantiate it but tradition. Charles V or Henri IV (says tradition) got lost in a forest one night, as he was returning from the hunt. He took shelter with a woodcutter, and there experienced, for perhaps the first time, how a man behaves to another man when lacking, through ignorance, the profound respect which he ought to have for his king." Monsigny was enchanted by the dramatic possibilities this opened up for the articulation of truths about human nature and human society. The censors of 1762 were less delighted. Although the social critique seemed relatively gentle to my post-1789 sensibilities--wickedness lies in the abuse of power, not the system of power--it was sufficiently sharp to earn its composer respect in his old age as "Citizen Monsigny."

Not just Broadway's lullaby: Five Borough Songbook

2012-01-23T14:10:00.002-05:00

The Five Boroughs Music Festival is an undertaking to which I'm admittedly partial. With (mostly) young artists, a wide-ranging repertoire, and lots of enthusiasm, their self-appointed mission is to bring creative classical programming to all of NYC. Loud cheers from this outer-borough blogger. Their latest project has been the commissioning of twenty songs, from twenty different composers, celebrating the city's architecture, history, and inhabitants... and even, wryly, its transit system. This has given rise not only to an acclaimed concert series, but also the festival's first recording.

I was a bit apprehensive about the coherence of such a deliberately kaleidoscopic project, but the aural odyssey through so many styles proves to be as oddly hypnotic as watching the pieces of colored glass fall into seemingly inexhaustible combinations. This approach to creating the songbook ensures discoveries for any listener, but also that these discoveries may be different for each. My own tastes inclined towards the rich texts of poets re-focused through their lean, contemporary settings (there is Whitman, of course, but also Auden and, to my delight, Julia Kasdorf for Yotam Haber's "On Leaving Brooklyn.") There are also, though, delights in Lisa Bielawa's "Breakfast in New York," which feels like a compressed song cycle, the setting of conversations overheard in the city's diners.

Poisoned Kiss: Vaughan Williams at the Bronx Opera

2012-01-15T17:05:00.002-05:00

Act I: Coffey and Davis (c) Andrew Liebowitz/WrightGroupNY

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived in an enchanted forest a maiden whose name was Tormentilla. She was placed there by her father Dipsacus, a powerful enchanter who raised her on a diet of poisons. She learns to her horror that her first kiss will be fatal; a scheme designed by Dipsacus to punish the Empress (whom he loved in his youth) by killing her only son. Tormentilla, however, had already given her heart to that very youth, Amaryllus, while believing him to be a goatherd. Her maid, Angelica, was meanwhile courted by Gallanthus, the prince's valet. A sojourn in Golden Town allowed Tormentilla and Angelica to experience the pleasures of high society, but failed to distract Tormentilla from thoughts of her sad plight. Aided by the spells of hobgoblins, Amaryllus found his way to her; overcome with emotion, the lovers kissed. The Empress spirited away her unconscious son. Since she, intuiting her former lover's plan, raised Amaryllus on antidotes, she was shocked to find that he languished near death for mere lack of his beloved. Softened by recollections of her own youthful passion, she allowed their union. She and Dipsacus were reconciled, Angelica married Gallanthus, and the hobgoblins were affianced with the Empress' mediums. And, Gentle Readers, they all lived happily ever after.

Such is the plot of Ralph Vaughan Williams' rarely staged opera (or, as he called it, romantic extravaganza,) The Poisoned Kiss. Saturday night saw the opening performance in a run by the Bronx Opera which marks the work's professional premiere in New York. From its 1936 premiere onwards, the work has been compared to the oeuvre of Gilbert & Sullivan; the Bronx Opera treated the music with the seriousness it deserved, while acknowledging the drama's farcical elements. There is a widely-held critical opinion that Vaughan Williams' music and Evelyn Sharp's libretto for The Poisoned Kiss do not always complement each other stylistically, with blame usually being attached to the libretto. Ursula Vaughan Williams reports that Sharp "took the story more portentously" than the composer had intended, with "too much of the triumph of love." Correspondence indicates that Vaughan Williams intention was to write a light comic entertainment; staged, I think it succeeds admirably. (I had wondered whether the topical humor of '36 would still work; it appeared to be enjoyed by all.) Satire and farce reside mostly in the libretto, and its commentary on the drama which expresses itself in lyrical phrasing and lush harmonies.

Reading List: Don Juan in Hankey, PA

2012-01-07T19:16:00.000-05:00

Gentle Readers, rejoice, for I am going to review a book which is actually new, authored by none other than Gale Martin of Operatoonity. Don Juan in Hankey, PA is Martin's debut novel, and might be described as a fantasy on themes by Mozart. The plot centers on the sometimes blundering attempts of a small-town opera company to ensure their survival--and, if possible, put themselves on the map--through renewing their leadership, and landing a performer with star power for a production of Mozart's most widely-known masterpiece. Like the dramma giocoso from which it takes its inspiration, the novel's genre and tone can be slippery. A gleefully melodramatic tale, Don Juan in Hankey, PA stars barihunks, masked men, and other implausible beings, including some ghosts who are among its most sympathetic characters. But under the surface of this romp lies a very dark tale indeed.

The Enchanted Island: Insubstantial Pageant

2012-01-01T16:53:00.000-05:00

To their credit, the creators of The Enchanted Island (in contrast to publicity materials) do not pretend that it is a baroque pastiche. The work would be better described as a new opera using old music. I'm afraid that a parable about wine and wineskins springs to mind. For despite the excellent music and fine singing, the evening as a whole was something of a disappointment. The opera is not without charm; but all the charm is on the surface. "We like to wrestle with destiny," proclaims David Daniels' Prospero at the conclusion of Act I, as he muses on his lot and that of humanity. For Prospero, and for the production, the vital differences between magic and interference were perilously blurred. I can't explain why the lovers from A Midsummer Night's Dream ended up on Prospero's isle; I'm far from sure there was a reason. Although the profound power of forgiveness was invoked throughout and celebrated at the conclusion, I didn't see that the characters or their society were transformed by it. Giving you a synopsis and an itemized list of the music may be all I can do for you, Gentle Readers. (And how I wish I could, instead, give you a meditation on what the work was about.)

Phelim McDermott's production created a phantasmagorical utopia. The sets, by Julian Crouch, were influenced by eighteenth-century stage scenery, Maurice Sendak illustrations, and steampunk. The overall effect was as magically immersive as a children's book. McDermott himself described his desired effect as being that of a child's dream of opera; William Christie likened it, aptly, to Disney's Fantasia. As you may have guessed, Gentle Readers, there is a "but" of explosive force upon my lips (Phantom Tollbooth reference intentional.) I saw little meaningful or coherent development of character or plot. I anticipate your incredulous responses: yes, both Shakespeare and Handel, upon whose work the evening was substantially based, were masters of psychological insight. The Enchanted Island was not. Jeremy Sams' libretto had moments of subtlety and insight which left me waiting--eagerly and in vain--to see them developed. It was very clever, but sometimes too clever by half. The possibilities of exploring questions of gender, power, and colonization were acknowledged and passed over, in favor, it seemed, of a quartet of lovers, a series of spells, and a dizzying succession of arias. The contrivances whirled by at a pace requiring music originally intended for emotional exploration to serve the needs of exposition. The fine cast gave committed performances, but I wish they had had a better vehicle.

Nights at the Opera: 2011

2011-12-22T00:21:00.000-05:00

Time blurs strangely together towards the end of the academic term, and I can't quite believe it's late December already... but I seem to have seen my last opera of the year, so it must be true. To cheer the longest night of the year, here's 2011's non-hierarchical, gleefully subjective round up of some of the past year's highlights: great nights, standout performances, and exploring the city's many opportunities for opera.

5 Great Nights

Not without difficulty, I've picked out a handful of the nights that reminded me of opera's glorious possibilities, by surprising me with their musical excellence and emotional immediacy. In alphabetical order:

Atys, Brooklyn Academy of Music. I saw this glorious gem in September, and it set a standard that the rest of the autumn never quite reached. The ensemble work of Les Arts Florissants was precise, elegant, and passionate, evoking seventeenth-century splendor and creating timeless enchantment. The production is now available on DVD.

Bluebeard's Castle, with the New York Philharmonic. Including a concert performance may seem like bending the rules, but so much of Bluebeard is about perception and imagination that I thought it worked well. Lighting was used well, and the musical values were superb. Esa-Pekka Salonen drew fiery and subtle playing from the orchestra, Gabor Bretz was a charismatic Bluebeard, and Michelle DeYoung a stunning Judith, emotionally rich and vocally luxurious.

Don Giovanni, with the Budapest Festival Orchestra. This production, seen at the Mostly Mozart festival, has been the year's most talked-of among my friends, often to the detriment of more costly and less creative endeavors. Ivan Fischer was behind the idea which had the cast clad in contemporary evening dress, moving among dancers who formed the sets, reflecting the titular antihero's view of the world. There were allusions to classicism and romanticism, there was very fine singing, especially from Laura Aikin as Donna Anna, and Fischer led the BFO in a hair-raising, fire-and-brimstone reading of the score in its Prague version.

Die Walküre, at the Met under James Levine. I'm breaking a bigger rule here, and ignoring the (non-)contribution of the production. But the performances I saw gave me a list of indelible moments--the twist of anguish in grüße mir Wälse, for instance--and their dramatic sweep was irresistible. The orchestra gave of their best under Levine's leadership, and the performances were deeply moving, from Siegmund and Sieglinde's first entranced encounter to the finale through which I sobbed. Twice.

Wozzeck, another highlight of Levine's curtailed spring schedule at the Met, a stunning, searing performance of Berg's claustrophobic masterpiece. All of the singers inhabited their roles fully, and sang them excellently.

Rataplan, rataplan! Fille du Régiment returns to Met

2011-12-16T11:30:00.000-05:00

Machaidze, Brownlee, ensemble (c) Met Opera/Marty Sohl

The good old Twenty-First is back at the Met this winter, lifting spirits as always. Laurent Pelly's production flirts with kitsch, but I'm fond of it; its slightly off-kilter whimsy is a good fit for Donizetti's lighthearted, lightly caricatured hijinks. Yves Abel led the orchestra this time around, in a reading which was sympathetic to the characters' emotional troubles, but always seemed to know there was another joke around the corner. Maurizio Muraro reprised his turn as Sulpice, and was joined by Ann Murray as the Marquise, Lawrence Brownlee's ardent Tonio, and Nino Machaidze as the titular heroine. Kiri Te Kanawa was present as an irrepressible Duchesse de Krakenthorp.

Harmonie du soir: Karita Mattila at Carnegie Hall

2011-12-12T20:36:00.000-05:00

Karita Mattila's Saturday night recital offered an evocative selection of sensual art songs from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (full listing here.) Partnered with Martin Katz, Mattila spun hypnotic melodies of fin-de-siècle seduction. I was bewildered, however, both by the number of empty seats and by the behavior of those who were there. In the first half of the program, applause from all levels came after each song, persistent, but sounding almost perfunctory. There was welcome silence during the Sallinen set, and then applause after two of five songs by Joseph Marx. I wanted to tell the applauders to take a glass of absinthe and relax, and let Mattila and Katz work their magic uninterrupted.

Poulenc, date unknown

The first half of the recital was devoted to cycles by Poulenc and Debussy, both structured around the texts of a single poet to whose work the composer was specially drawn. Poulenc's Banalités, with texts by Apollinaire, comprised a series of vignettes united by wry wit rather than mood, from the lightly satirical "Chanson d'Orkenise," to the sensually languorous "Hôtel," through the poems to place that are "Fagnes de Wallonie" and "Voyage à Paris." The last song in Poulenc's cycle, "Sanglots," moves the furthest from realism, taking the listener through a series of romantically morbid images. The virtues of Katz' sensitive accompaniment were on full display here, as he let single notes and richly rolling chords convey equal intimacy of despair. Debussy's Cinq poèmes de Baudelaire, setting poems from Les Fleurs du Mal, continued our odyssey into impressionistic treatments of romantic love. Although Mattila's voice sounded somewhat exposed and fragile at the top, she sang with beautiful coloration of tone throughout, and admirable attention to text. (I was glad of having the texts open on my lap, for I didn't catch every syllable, but she treated the many examples of wordplay or extended metaphor with intelligence.) Here, too, Katz was her worthy partner in drawing out the expressive richness of Debussy's harmonies.

Quello freme, questa è pazza: Barber of Seville at Amore Opera

2011-12-10T14:04:00.000-05:00

After Mozart and Mercadante earlier this autumn, Amore Opera's "Fall Figaro Fest" is concluding with the beginning of the story, and Rossini's indefatigable factotum. The staging all but winked at the audience, treating the fourth wall like a curtain to be pulled aside to say: isn't this all a glorious joke? It is, of course. The orchestra played energetically for Richard Owen, but sounded unfocused and ragged at points (an opening night liability, perhaps.) The humidity was a problem for the string players, but they battled it valiantly, retuning at the interval. One aspect of the performance which struck me as peculiar was that it was performed in Italian and English, with recitative in English and the rest in Italian; the easy flow of Rossini's music resulted in a number of non sequiturs in bilingual conversations. (Apparently this performance tradition endures from Amato Opera.) The supertitles broke partway through, and my neighbors seemed to be grateful for the English, which had a "cask of Amontillado" joke but left out the cheese and macaroni. Still, Barbiere's conspiratorial ensembles, conspicuously exchanged letters, and silly disguises don't strike me as particularly dependent on word-by-word comprehension. I have special respect for the singers dealing with the mental gymnastics of using two languages in rapid alternation. Amore Opera's mixture of veteran and up-and-coming singers gave broad, engaging performances, and to judge by the reactions of those around me in the audience, good times were had by all.

In smaller roles, Sanford Schimel made a fine Fiorello, and Pavlina Horakova brought an expressive, distinctive mezzo to Berta. Alan Smulen was a slightly dry but solid Bartolo, aptly fussy and unafraid of making the deluded doctor openly ridiculous. Jörg Schnass sang Don Basilio with fine diction and vivid theatricality; "La calunnia" was given with appropriately oily glee. The Rosina of Elizabeth Treat was pert without being precious, using her bright, agile soprano with confident flair. She had fine chemistry both with her ardent suitor and with the charming Figaro. Andrew Whitfield sang the role of Almaviva with vivid engagement (giving just a hint in the first act of the wandering eye and weak will which lead to such grief later on... but letting the audience forget that in the charm of the rest of the performance.) Whitfield has a warm, pleasant timbre, and he sounded freer as the evening went on, interacting well with the other singers. Scott Lindroth's Figaro was often covered in the outdoor scenes with the Count, but this was rectified subsequently. Lindroth was appropriately cheeky, conveying sly self-satisfaction through well-shaped phrases. It all ended with half the population of Seville in Rosina's room, celebrating successful conspiracies and joyful prospects. The opera runs through January 1.

Curtain call photos:

Sunday Special: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland

2011-12-04T00:30:00.000-05:00

This Sunday Special, Gentle Readers, is brought to you thanks to my Aunt Dorothy, through whom I have discovered a Berlin-based vocal ensemble reinventing Christmas carols. But before I get to the Berliner Solistenchor, there is Bach. Don't tell the liturgical police, but I'm a week late, as this cantata was written for the first Sunday in Advent, to celebrate the beginning of the new church year. Still, I am a believer in Bach at all times:

Isn't it lovely? The useful Bach Cantatas website has extensive information on it here. In considerably simplified form, it survives in many Protestant hymnals, making it a candidate for the creative talents of the Berliner Solistenchor.

Le veau d'or est toujours debout: Faust at the Met

2011-11-30T11:54:00.000-05:00

For Faust's much-touted return to the Met stage, the Met orchestra and Yannick Nézet-Séguin gave Gounod's score of their best, and brought out the best in it. There was fine singing, as well, with René Pape a standout as a magnificent Méphistophélès. Des McAnuff's production, however, lacked coherence, and lacked likewise a clear central idea to give either intellectual or emotional urgency to the drama. As a gentleman in front of me in line for champagne at the interval observed, it's hard to get romance going in a chemistry lab. If McAnuff had picked a chemistry lab of the early twentieth century and stuck to it--the Devil with an offer for unscrupulous career advancement, Marguerite as a bachelor girl secretary, perhaps--this might have been more effective. Going a less literal route could work as well. But the religious and romantic sentimentality of the central acts was left untouched, and, as far as I could tell, played without irony and without commentary, which made very little sense in this context. Also, I can't help but take issue with a production that chooses to evoke two of the twentieth century's greatest collective traumas--the First World War and the detonation of the atom bomb--and then not integrate them in the drama in a way that makes it clear how they affect the characters.

Die alten, bösen Lieder: Ian Bostridge at Carnegie Hall

2011-11-29T12:16:00.000-05:00

Bostridge; photo (c) Simon Fowler

Ian Bostridge and Thomas Adès created an extraordinarily rich, revelatory program at Carnegie Hall on Monday evening (complete program listing here.) From the outset, their partnership was characterized by a boldness in interpretation which brought intensity and intimacy in equal measure. John Dowland's "In Darkness Let Me Dwell," with its struggle for articulacy, its embrace of "hapless joy," set the tone for the evening; Adès' own "Darknesse Visible" was given without any pause, rising out of the eerie silence, shivering with sounds jarring and haunting. Bostridge's assurance with text and sense for phrasing brought an aptly hallucinatory feel to György Kurtág's Hölderlin setting. The liquid, exquisite opening of "Im wunderschönen Monat Mai" was brought out of the silence created by the previous piece, guiding us into a Dichterliebe that, initially dreamlike, would become increasingly like a fevered nightmare. The incisive, often ironic edge to Adès' playing supported Bostridge's savage interpretation, most notably in "Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome," in the delirious "Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen" and the bitter, furious attack of "Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen." Bostridge's cycle was fascinating throughout, bringing a wonderful range of vocal colors and unexpected twists to the phrasing. "Die alten, bösen Lieder," with its anticipation of death, descended almost into sprechstimme, a chilling, comfortless eulogy.

Goethe, Gounod, and Faust

2011-11-26T11:27:00.000-05:00

"French composers love those German sufferers that then they can bring to joy." --Jonas Kaufmann (Opera News interview, 2011)

"Die unbegreiflich hohen Werke / sind herrlich wie am ersten Tag." - Faust 249-250

Delacroix, "Mephistopheles devant Faust," 1826

Gounod's Faust was the first work performed at the Metropolitan Opera House, in 1883. The 1859 opera enjoyed an almost unrivaled popularity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; George Bernard Shaw famously complained that a professional critic in London had to spend approximately a decade of a twelve-year career listening to Faust, and that he himself had been nearly blinded by prolonged exposure to Mephistopheles' red spotlight (his full Faust-assessment can be found in this book.) In Gaston Leroux' Phantom of the Opera, Faust is the opera chosen to represent both vocal virtuosity and dangerous sensuality (a connection emphasized in this film adaptation.) In Jean Renoir's film about WWI, Grand Illusion
, it is presented as plausible that "Anges Purs" would be known by every French officer. Critical interpretations of the opera often cluster around the question: how did Faust achieve such status?

Io spero ancora: La Bohème charms again

2011-11-23T23:00:00.000-05:00

Cafe scene from Act II, Susanna Phillips as Musetta (c) Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

Despite disappointment at last year's La Bohème, I went again on Tuesday, and I'm glad I did. My own enjoyment of the evening was augmented considerably by the fact that I was there in the company of a friend for whom this was her first opera. She loved it, and having someone to comment in the intervals on how impressive the street scene was, or how beautiful the lovers' reconciliation under the snow, helped me appreciate it as well. The "business" in Franco Zeffirelli's apparently deathless production seemed less fussy to me this year, too. Louis Langrée led the orchestra in a beautifully sensitive reading of the score, with nice shaping of phrases and real delicacy of touch. I was happy to hear the music receive the attention to detail I think it deserves (I still await a performance of Bohème where I actually hear the final chords of each act.) The quality of the vocal performances ranged from respectable to excellent; the latter adjective is awarded, not lightly, to Hei-Kyung Hong's deeply-felt Mimi.

Der bleiche Mann ist ein Vampyr! Marschner rarity at Liederkranz

2011-11-19T13:00:00.000-05:00

The opening night of the Liederkranz Foundation's production of Der Vampyr was a treat for me, and the rest of the audience seemed equally enthusiastic. I overheard a great many "I don't know this opera at all; do you know it?" conversations in the foyer, but there was also the gentleman who, at the interval, was comparing its chord structure to that of Der Freischütz, and noting how indebted the role of the vampire was to that of Don Pizarro. Der Vampyr, an 1828 work of Heinrich Marschner is, of course, interesting for its place in the development of nineteenth-century opera, but it's also dramatically and musically engaging on its own terms; no passion for its much-touted anticipation of Wagnerian leitmotivs is required. With limited theatrical resources, but considerable creativity in using them, the Liederkranz crafted a fine presentation of this seldom-performed opera.

The plot of Der Vampyr is based on an English short story, and follows a trajectory of high Schauerromantik. Exploration and explanation of the characters' emotions in romances and arias makes up a significant part of the score (although the most dramatic scenes are through-composed, moving away from the structure of alternating Sprechgesang, arioso singing, and chorus.) In contrast to the original material, and another opera based on it, Marschner's work (with libretto by his brother-in-law) ends not with madness and death, but with happiness for its young lovers, achieved through rejection of the ineffective patriarch's authority and the taboo of oath-taking. The triumphant moral is: ,,Wer der eig'nen Kraft vertraut, fest auf Gottes Hülfe baut, den kann Nichts erschüttern!"

Nabucco: non implora che la vita del suo cor

2011-11-18T01:40:00.000-05:00

True confession: I like Nabucco. While it may not have the structural elegance and masterful pacing of later Verdi, I find its experimental exuberance very exciting. Not only is there lots going on in the score, but the libretto (by Temistocle Solera) contains fascinating layers of ambiguity and ambivalence. So I got myself into standing room for the last performance of this season's run of the opera at the Met. It was a fine musical evening, weighed down somewhat by the ponderous production. Paolo Carignani and the Met orchestra took the music seriously and played with admirable emotional sensitivity (I loved the gorgeous cello solos especially.) I thought the tempi a little slow at the outset, but that may have been biased by the desire to have the coughers and pawers-in-plastic-bags around me shut up. And Zaccaria does go on. Since I've already written a mini-essay on Nabucco's wealth of interesting ideas about religion, political power, and gender (as perceived by me) I'll limit myself here to saying that I didn't see exploration of any of the above by Elijah Moshinsky's production. This may have been partly due to careless revival direction; the blocking and gesturing flirted dangerously with caricature. Having the Israelites and Babylonians with their characteristic architecture on opposite sides of the Met's giant turntable did, I suppose, suggest parity or mutual dependence between these apparently antithetical political and religious systems... but that's being generous.

The singers, to their credit, managed to transcend this awkwardness to a significant degree. Elizabeth Bishop, as Fenena, warmed up to display a pleasingly rich, dark-hued soprano, and her expressive singing helped make Fenena credible as a soprano with a backbone. Carlos Colombara sounded a bit dry at the top of his range, but he had excellent gravitas and admirable vocal agility as Zaccaria. This was my first time hearing Yonghoon Lee in a full role, and I was impressed from his first notes onward by his sweet, bright-toned tenor. More variation in coloring might have helped give the role dramatic depth, but he was a pleasure to hear. Elisabete Matos, as Abigaille, had the unenviable task of taking on one of those roles to which the adjective most frequently applied is "impossible." Having heard a hum of excited anticipation, I was somewhat disappointed, but I don't have comparative evidence. I thought her pitch could turn erratic and her sound rough at the top of her range, but she had thrilling chest tones, and really impressive agility on the passages of runs required. Also, Matos used her voice adventurously, diving across octaves with reckless commitment. As a coherent dramatic portrayal, I felt the Nabucco of Željko Lučić came together better. He sang solidly throughout his range, authoritative and compelling in the first half, and with touching lyricism in the scenes where the deposed emperor battles for his sanity. The production limited the dramatic vocabulary of the role sadly, but I was still impressed.

The non-eponymous central character of Nabucco, though, may be the chorus. Of course, there is "Va, pensiero," and it was introspective and impassioned and lovely, but there is also a lot more. As Israelites and Babylonians, the chorus comments, exclaims, supports, rebels, and judges throughout. And the forces of the Met did so very well, with incisive, expressive singing, perhaps most strikingly in the final chorus to Jehovah, sung without the orchestra. It was a treat to hear the excellent Met chorus, for once, in a starring role.

Curtain call photos:

Dark Sisters: Blaze a trail beyond the canyons

2011-11-12T12:00:00.000-05:00

Seeing Nico Muhly's Dark Sisters at Gotham Chamber Opera was an unexpected opportunity, and, as it turned out, a deeply unsettling experience. The plot could be described as a fantasy on themes from the headlines, exploring and imagining narratives behind the 2008 raid which took 400 children from a Texan FLDS community into custody, following allegations of physical and sexual abuse. Transforming these events and the commentary on them into an opera has yielded intriguing results. Muhly appears deeply aware of the (problematic) histories of opera's focus on the suffering and singing of women. Dark Sisters is a work which is intensely focused on both, but also on the power of histories and myths--individual and collective--and on the tense issue of how narrative is controlled, often by men for women. With the first explosive, destabilizing contact with the outside world before the curtain's rise, the music is left to deal with the tensions resulting from, and revealed by, the dramatic event. The music given to the small ensemble (led sensitively by Neal Goren) is strongly atmospheric, and more than a little unsettling. Strings murmur ominously; a solo cello wails. There are strong contributions from grouped and solo woodwinds as well (nice oboe work) with brass only occasional, but dramatically effective. The ensemble also features a harp, a piano, chimes, and a wind machine. One curious characteristic of the opera is that, although the music certainly changes in texture to indicate shifts in mood and atmosphere throughout, there is not a strong evolution in the style of the music to follow the crisis-punctuated disintegration of the community. The precise, poetic libretto of Stephen Karam works symbiotically with the music; it might seem exaggerated or heavy-handed as a play; the music gives it nuance and ambiguity. The nature of the drama works against both dramatic eruptions and strongly individualized voice writing, although the latter does, as it were, break through.

The set was simple, and usually empty, with a raked stage colored like the red Texan earth, and projections depicting the changes in a large and troubled sky. In fine operatic tradition, portents in nature echo the cataclysmic events of the plot; the distressed opening ensemble takes place during a lunar eclipse. Movements throughout are strongly stylized; changes from this deliberate and limited vocabulary of physical expression signal trouble (Rebecca Taichman directed, and made the choreography clear and expressive.) The first act takes place entirely within the household, and within the women's imaginations. In the second act, the opera audience is suddenly a television audience confronted with an all-too-familiar invasive news program. The role of the prodding reporter is doubled with that of the prophet (reinforcing the theme of the male control of narrative, and the breakdown of that control.) The wives grouped together in the interview room were seated on stage; projections were used to show us the probing, interpretation-imposing closeups of the TV reportage as they sang. It is in this scene that the final fracturing of the community begins; when the curtain falls several scenes later, the long-term effects of this fracturing are still unclear.

Che fascino! che accento! Adriana Lecouvreur

2011-11-09T10:36:00.002-05:00

The melodramatic plot of Adriana Lecouvreur is easily parodied, but its music is less easily dismissed. With fine and passionate singing, Francesco Cilea's verismo concoction was given vivid life by the Opera Orchestra of New York. Alberto Veronesi led the orchestra with fine feeling for the energy and emotion of the score. A brisk pace and light touch in the first and third acts, especially, helped set off the emotional crises in which Veronesi was not afraid to luxuriate (not to say wallow.) There were some issues of clarity, and the orchestra was perhaps, on the whole, a bit loud, but it was a fine performance. The New York Choral Ensemble did a creditable job with the difficult task of being an excitable crowd while in serried ranks on bleachers. The self-conscious historical detail and oft-repeated motifs of the score might have faltered in their effect were it not for the accomplished and emotionally intense performances of the singers. Angela Gheorghiu displayed vocal daring--and temperament to spare--as the titular diva, and Jonas Kaufmann sang the role of her cavalier thrillingly.

If you really feel you need a synopsis of the opera, you can find one here; there's also a handy diagram which sums things up even faster. Adriana's theatrical colleagues acquitted themselves respectably enough. Craig Hart, once fully warmed up, was a convincingly autocratic prince, if not a particularly threatening one (his role suffers somewhat in concert, as it usually involves a considerable amount of stage action. The same is true of the abbé; my impatience with the latter is probably due more to role than singer.) Ambrogio Maestri made an excellent Michonnet; the buffo leanings of the role were minimized in his warm and sympathetic portrayal of Adriana's confidant. His baritone was warm and supple, and he sang expressively throughout, with a poignant "Ecco il monologo"; his Act III admonishment to Adriana ("Noi siam povera gente") I found very moving. Anita Rachvelishvili gave a spirited and forceful performance as the Principessa di Bouillon. The size of her voice was impressive, and her diction was good, but she struggled with intonation problems throughout the evening. Still, her dramatic commitment was fierce, and she had good chemistry with the other principals.

Udite, udite: Richard Tucker Foundation Gala

2011-11-07T21:39:00.002-05:00

In his opening remarks on Sunday evening, Barry Tucker thanked the loyal audiences of the Richard Tucker Foundation Gala who made the concert a tradition. From the comparatively cheap seats, I enjoyed it for the first time, (upgrading from the Foundation's free citywide concerts.) The all-star lineup had undergone some serious shuffling in the weeks and even days preceding, but I had no reason to complain of the final results. Angela Meade was feted as the Tucker Award winner, and surrounded by colleagues of international stature (Opera Chic provides additional background.) The chosen selections relied more on star power than subtlety for their success, but the latter was not wholly lacking, and the former was often a delight. Members of the Metropolitan Opera orchestra provided sensitive support, playing with fine energy throughout under the leadership of Emmanuel Villaume. Their opening bacchanal from Samson et Dalilah was played with panache, employing sensual rubato in the woodwinds and embracing the clashing of brass and cymbal with gusto. After this orchestral prologue, the evening was turned over to the singers. The program seemed to be organized more around the singers' need for rest than around shared themes in the selections, with occasionally curious results. The overall quality, however, was high.

Se vuol ballare: operatic histories of the French Revolution

2011-11-05T21:13:00.000-04:00

Verily, Gentle Readers, opera follows me around, even into the fastnesses of the library. I have been spending the past week immersed in the historiography of the French Revolution, and uncovering some intriguing aspects of opera history in the process. The eighteenth-century opera house was a theater of political representation and an arena for political debate; the disappearance of the ancien regime glories of Lully and Rameau were precipitated more by changes in public mood than changes in musical taste. The public debates over the style of Gluck vs. that of Piccini were as heated as more overtly political disputes (if not quite at the level of the mid-century querelle des bouffons.) The 1774 premiere of Iphigenie en Aulide caused furor not only because of its style, but also because of its subject matter. (Go here to hear Clytemnestre defy the authority of a king and father.) Piccini's rococo dramas were immensely popular. His Italian style, however, was decried by those who wanted natural simplicity and national character in their music. Here an excerpt from Piccini's 1760 work "La Cecchina, ossia la buona figliuola:"

As seen in the above clip, the opera flirts with social transgression despite the subtitle: La Cecchina, a sweet-tempered maidservant, is in love with a marquis. Shall their union be prevented by class boundaries? Fortunately not... as she turns out to be the daughter of a baron. Rousseau himself penned a musical drama entitled Le Devin du Village, extolling sentiment and simplicity. Gretry, meanwhile, was quoted with inflammatory effect at a military banquet, where an aria from Richard Coeur-de-Lion ("O Richard, o mon roi") was sung in commiseration with Louis XVI at "the universe being arrayed against him." And so, indeed, it might have seemed to be. The much-touted changes in mentality which facilitated the social revolutions of the end of the century find eloquent utterance in Mozart. After years of defying tyranny in opera seria, Mozart has Figaro kick over the cart, with a little help from Beaumarchais:

Ich lausch dem Gesang: Siegfried at the Met

2011-10-28T11:39:00.003-04:00

Despite some very fine singing, and some very fine orchestral playing, the Met's new Siegfried was less than fully satisfying. Robert Lepage promised hyperrealism, and this he delivered; the Machine has come into its own as a representational set. But that is all it is (and it nearly ground to a halt, with ominous clanking, between the second and third scenes of Act III; that Siegfried did not fear the fiery cliffs was indeed impressive.) The visual influence of Fritz Lang was apparent, and I was reminded of a cherished childhood possession, The Story of Siegfried. This is more than a failure to provide a clear and consistent interpretation; this is a problem. Siegfried is the only one clad completely in "medieval" costume; the rest are more directly inspired by the nineteenth century. I find it hard to believe that anyone charged with directing the Ring could be unaware of, or insensitive to, the problems in depicting Mime and Alberich in working-class clothes of the nineteenth-century, and then making them unrepentant and unsubtle schemers against our nature-child hero. Worse: Mime is made into a child-stealing hunchback. This allows Lepage to visually echo, in the dying Sieglinde's futile reach for her child, the dying Siegmund's reach for his wife. But: that is not how you deal with the question of whether or not Mime is an antisemitic caricature, Robert Lepage. [Update: Likely Impossibilities has a post about this.] After this, Brünnhilde as Pre-Raphaelite fantasy--Waterhouse would have been proud of that radiant, autumn-haired woman, shift-clad in a meadow--seemed positively innocuous. The few non-literal touches in the staging--Wotan causes the sun to turn blood-red in Act I, and unrolls the bark from around his staff in Act III--I found more confusing than illuminating.

Sui maccheroni il cacio v'è cascato: Barbiere di Siviglia

2011-10-27T11:53:00.005-04:00

My theory that it's impossible to leave a good Rossini performance without a smile on your face (and at least one fragment of melody stuck in your head) stands. Despite some less-than-inspired conducting from Maurizio Benini, Wednesday's Barbiere made for a thoroughly enjoyable evening, with fine singing and fine acting from all. Isabel Leonard's vivacious, brilliantly sung Rosina was a delight, as was Rodion Pogossov's irrepressible Figaro. Bartlett Sher's production could be accused of having a gimmick or two too many, but I think the frothy exuberance of it suits the plot and music well.

The conducting of Benini did not strike me as rising to the level of the singers. Tempi were workmanlike, and there was not much dynamic nuance, either (the orchestra almost covered the singers at a few points.) I think I noticed Isabel Leonard and Samuel Ramey giving subtle cues to keep the conductor with them during their arias; this helped. Rossini's score still triumphed, but I wished it had been handled with a lighter touch. The singers, thankfully, handled Rossini's bel canto flourishes and no less extravagant comedy with panache. Maurizio Muraro gave a splendid buffo turn as the deluded Dottor Bartolo, with a warm, solid bass and a perpetually put-upon air. The Don Basilio of Samuel Ramey, who sang with comedic relish and vocal assurance, was likewise a treat. Ramey's vocal gravitas was used to hilarious effect when the rest of the company is trying to pack him off to bed, and "La calunnia" was a delight.

Alexey Kudrya, in his Met debut, made an ardent Almaviva. He sang with great musical sensitivity, and his serenades to Rosina were lovely. ("Cessa di più resistere" was omitted, which I thought very wise, given that Kudrya sounded somewhat thin at the top of his range.) Isabel Leonard gave the best performance I've heard from her; she handled the challenges of the score not only with skill, but with grace and wit. Rosina's runs and trills were executed beautifully, and were made an integral part of Leonard's vivacious portrayal. Rodion Pogossov was her theatrical equal: a cheeky, charming, and apparently tireless Figaro. With vocal charisma and agility, he was quite plausibly the indispensable engineer of events he claims to be. He shone especially in the duets with Kudrya and Leonard (and of course in their hilarious trio.) It may be cold and rainy in New York, but in sunny Seville, all's right with the world.

Curtain call photos:

Maltese Tenor: Joseph Calleja launches CD at LPR

2011-10-26T08:45:00.000-04:00

Having eagerly awaited the U.S. release of Joseph Calleja's new album, I ventured down on Monday to hear him perform at Le Poisson Rouge in honor of its launch. This was, for me, an adventure outside my comfort zone. Walking down Bleecker Street, I passed the building with the suited men in clipboards supervising its entrance, which was further presided over by an oversized fish skeleton. I was sure it couldn't be the place I wanted. It was. "Where do I get my ticket?" I asked the man who stamped my hand. "That is your ticket," he said pleasantly. Oh. The staff were friendly and accommodating to me and the other confused-looking folk who were clearly outside their usual concert-going habitat as well. I'm still not sure how I feel about black paint on the walls. "It was like a scary Bond villain lair!" I wailed to the Beloved Flatmate later. "Or... a club?" she said. Oh.

Propped against a pillar, I tried to take deep breaths. Calleja was greeted by the audience with enthusiastic applause, and greeted us in turn with warm cheer which did much to help me relax. In addition to singing, he provided buoyantly good-humored banter throughout the evening. (Announcing the album: "The original project concept was The Three Maltese Tenors, but the other two candidates were a dog and a falcon.") And then he sang. "Ma se m'è forza perderti" was the bold opener, and for me one of the highlights of the evening. Calleja's rendering was elegant and impassioned, and I understood every syllable.

Poetry in the Pity: Britten's War Requiem with the LSO

2011-10-25T14:33:00.000-04:00

I was not in the forefront of the standing ovation for Sunday's performance of the War Requiem. This was because I was shaking and my legs had gone rubbery. My Really Shameful Confession is that, in listening to recordings, my admiration for the ambition and intelligence of the piece remained somewhat detached, not to say dutiful. The reading provided by Gianandrea Noseda and the London Symphony Orchestra was taut and unsparing. Strings shivered; there were fearful fanfares and sad bugles; the percussion was appropriately terrifying. There were angular, angry crescendos that were as much barbed wire as cathedral spires; pianissimi hushed with reverence, and hushed with fear. The London Symphony Chorus was likewise superb, with sharp diction, impressive dynamic nuance, and great attention to the needs of the text (the eerie "Dies irae" comes to mind particularly.) The American Boychoir, performing offstage, contributed sensitive work as well.

Missa Solemnis: Beethoven with Sir Colin Davis and the LSO

2011-10-23T10:16:00.001-04:00

"Even as I apologize for my bad handwriting, I ask God to pour his blessings richly on Yr Highness' head. Your new career, which is so concerned with the love of humankind, is surely one of the finest [schönsten], and Yr Highness is sure to be one of the finest examples--in secular or spiritual affairs--in it." --Beethoven writing to the Archduke Rudolph, 3 March 1819.

In preparing for Friday night's concert with the London Symphony Orchestra, I read about the work's genesis (Beethoven was a writer of surprisingly entertaining letters,) happily cycled through recordings, and dutifully consulted the Cambridge handbook. Then I went, and lost myself in sound: sound solemn and exultant, earthy and sublime, reconciling those apparent dichotomies in a way unmistakably Beethoven's own. This was my first time hearing the LSO live, and I was impressed by their clean, full sound and by the grace with which details emerged from the whole. The orchestra seemed keenly attuned to Davis' impassioned conducting. Despite very deliberate tempi, the energy of the piece never flagged. The contrasts built by Beethoven between the movements, and even between sections of movements, were emphasized, but these contrasting parts came together to form a magnificently coherent whole.

La bella scena: I due Figaro at Amore Opera (U.S. premiere)

2011-10-19T11:57:00.003-04:00

Amore Opera's season continues ambitiously, with the American premiere of I due Figaro, an 1826 opera by Saverio Mercadante. Following the recent rediscovery of the manuscript score in Madrid, Mercadante's work returned to the stage in Salzburg this summer under the auspices of Riccardo Muti (production video here.) The festival of Figaro operas Fred Plotkin speculated about at the time is now being brought to the stage by Amore Opera. I due Figaro postdates Rossini's Barbiere, and its narrative is the latest of the Mozart-Rossini-Mercadante triad, but it is based not on the third part of Beaumarchais' trilogy, but on a French play of 1795. Mercadante's setting of the libretto by Felice Romani not only exploits its comedy, but explores its emotional subtleties. The controversial plot sees Count Almaviva's attempts to assert himself as a domestic tyrant aided and abetted by Figaro. The latter is considerably changed here from his earlier incarnations: he wants to remain in his master's good graces, and earn a considerable fee, by promoting the suit of the socially ambitious lackey who wants to marry Inez, the daughter of the Almavivas. Inez, however, loves another: Cherubino, who has grown into a handsome and self-assured colonel (and is still a mezzo.) Poor Inez despairs with the extremity of the adolescent she is, and Rosina wants to help her daughter marry for love ("What misery," she sings in her aria, "to marry for convenience alone!") The hundred tricks in this opera, though, are chiefly carried out by Susanna. As the latter says, "Alfin siam femmine, cervello abbiamo"; after all, we are women, and are clever. This explicit overturning of the right order of the world--the libretto plays extensively with the idea of the household as a microcosm of society at large, and the count's 'rightful place' at its head--scandalized conservative regimes of the early nineteenth century, and makes for delicious and thought-provoking comedy.

Whether thanks to longer rehearsals or the bel canto experience of conductor Gregory Buchalter, the orchestra seemed more coordinated and energetic in the Mercadante than the Mozart. There were a few moments where stage and pit threatened to come unstuck, but on the whole things were carried off smoothly and with sensitivity to the nuances of the action. The staging (put together by Nathan Hull, who must be as busy as Figaro himself) was straightforward, wittily emphasizing the piece's comedy. Spanish dance rhythms abounded; this local color was reinforced for the fandango-ignorant audiences of the twenty-first century by dancing where possible, and deployment of fans by the ladies. In the ensembles, especially, I found Mercadante's style reminiscent of Rossini (which I mean to use as a stylistic point of reference for this unfamiliar score, rather than a 'poor relation' slight.) In a number of instances, the tone of the music undermined the stated irony of the characters' actions... or their stated sincerity.

Folle Giornata: Le Nozze di Figaro at Amore Opera

2011-10-16T21:21:00.000-04:00

"This is an awfully long opera," said the man seated behind me at The Marriage of Figaro on Friday, "but there isn't a bad bit in it." Amore Opera has opened their third season in style with what is arguably the most transcendent of human comedies, a gem among gems of the operatic repertoire. The cheerful good humor shared by staff and audience seemed a fitting tribute to Mozart's masterpiece. The informal hospitality of hors d'oeuvres and wine shared by chatting groups of friends and strangers made the lobby of the Connelly Theater seem a sort of natural extension of the count's household. The intimate size of the theater (which seats just a hundred) also contributed to the cozy atmosphere of an evening which had clearly been prepared with love.

José Alejandro Guzmán, conducting, was attentive to singers and players, correcting for coordination more than once. The orchestra sounded noticeably ragged at times, but this may improve over the course of the run. The game string section was done no favors by the humidity of the warm room, which caused some tuning issues. I could have looked for more nuance in dynamics and tempi, but the playing supported the action on stage. Generally, this emphasized the comedies of the piece rather than its tragedies (and, parenthetically, I was surprised by what I perceived as a lack of eroticism. Perhaps this may change as the singers settle into the production.) All of the singers were done a disservice by the English translation. A majority of the audience seemed to be unfamiliar with the opera (to judge by the synopsis-checking that was going on around me, and the breathless suspense with which my seat neighbor followed the concealments of Cherubino) so I see the point, but I was constantly hearing Da Ponte's beautiful Italian in my head. It's not, of course, that English is inherently ill-suited to being sung, but having the musical phrase that should open out into "contenta" end in "as I am" thwarts its emotional effect. And "Should my dear master want some diversion" just does not breathe irony and defiance like "Se vuol ballare, signor contino."

Don Giovanni: Cogliere io vo’ il momento

2011-10-15T11:57:00.000-04:00

Amid a plethora of painted shutters and dancing peasants, it was the Don himself who brought the color and life to Thursday's Don Giovanni at the Met. Michael Grandage's staging was Sevillian and serviceable. The lighting by Paule Constable reflected the progress of the unfolding day, and used chiaroscuro to suggestive effect, echoing the plot's preoccupation with identity mistaken and revealed. The casinetto is a richly appointed townhouse among the many which slid into different configurations as the action progressed. The opulent eighteenth-century costumes (Christopher Oram) made social distinctions clear. But, although the production was not entirely unreflective, I still found it somewhat unsatisfying. It was clear that Grandage was aware of the gender and class hierarchies shaping the plot, but his own ideas on these subjects weren't strongly developed in visual terms. Many episodes of the dramma giocoso were played--I thought--too close to comedy, but that may be largely a matter of taste. I found the hellfire of the finale grotesque rather than terrifying. Fine singing and exciting orchestral playing made for a dramatically engaging evening, but I wish the production had been helping more.

The Met orchestra and Fabio Luisi gave a vigorous account of the score which did not sacrifice detail to its generally fast tempi. From my vantage point, I couldn't see Maestro Luisi moving between podium and harpsichord, but transitions occurred seamlessly. The chaos of the party in the Act I finale was handled brilliantly. Delicacy in intimate or introspective sequences was savored, and the ominous chords of the Commendatore were delivered with bone-shaking relish. (To those around me who whispered during the overture: now you know the fate of malefactors; I hope you are suitably chastened. To those who were hastening down the aisles before the closing ensemble... be warned! Be warned!)

Russian Romanticism at Carnegie Hall: Gergiev and the Mariinsky do Tchaikovsky

2011-10-11T23:33:00.002-04:00

Spring Plowing: Alexsey Venetsianov, 1820s

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, despite or because of the widespread popularity of much of his music, has often been regarded as a composer of more passion than profundity. I confess that I've even wondered from time to time whether my own regard for him wasn't at least partly the result of really, really good emotional manipulation via the seductions of Swan Lake etc. The Mariinsky Orchestra is currently performing a series of concerts at Carnegie Hall, bringing a powerful reminder of Tchaikovsky's skill and creativity with the symphonic form. In Monday night's concert, the pairing of the third and fourth symphonies provided a fascinating journey through the many moods of Romanticism.

"I am now composing a new symphony, but am taking it steadily, not spending all my time on it, and taking long walks." --Tchaikovsky in a letter to friends, summer of 1875

In the first half of the concert, the third symphony charmed with a robust, Romantic pastoralism. Although the symphony is sometimes known as the "Polish," the adopted dance forms of its five movements evoked a robust rusticity which (however artificially constructed) did not have the specific national connotations which that title suggests (see this article by R.S. Edgecombe for more context on the use of dance forms such as the waltz in the Romantic symphony.) Thanks to the musicians of the Mariinksy, this seemed full-blooded rather than merely quaint. The dark-hued strings evoked fields ripe for the harvest, and the well-handled woodwind solos the dancing with which the harvest was celebrated. The romanticism I always associate with Tchaikovsky was indeed present, but in the exuberant celebration of nature and those who lived close to it, worlds away from Sturm und Drang. The tempest was to come.

Interval Adventures: Wagner with William Berger

2011-10-09T23:25:00.000-04:00

Josef Hoffmann: Das Rheingold

This past week, the Beloved Flatmate and I enjoyed the rarity of a Friday night out... listening to a talk on staging the Ring! Thanks to the Met Opera student program, this was free of charge for us; it may have been for the larger public as well, but I wasn't able to find that information. Our entertaining (yes, really) and informative speaker was William Berger, author of, inter alia, Wagner Without Fear. Mr. Berger, diplomatic throughout, offered a historical overview of Ring stagings, divided into three categories, which he purposefully created and compromised almost in the same breath. (The Beloved Flatmate and I were taking mental notes on pedagogy, too.) Our three sample productions were all from Bayreuth: 1876, Josef Hoffmann; 1951, Wieland Wagner; and 1976, Patrice Chéreau. They were characterized, respectively, as representative, abstract, and conceptual... but before we got too far into all that, we began, appropriately enough, in the River Rhine.

Sunday Special: Autumn in the Air

2011-10-02T17:21:00.000-04:00

It's a beautiful October afternoon in NYC: days of rain have resolved themselves into crisp, windy weather, with sunshine slanting through clouds. I am, predictably enough, indoors doing work. On the bright side, I have a pot of tea, a nest of blankets, and some gorgeous music. Hopefully the following clips can contribute to your own Herbststimmung.

The first choice and the most obvious is Mahler, Das Lied von der Erde, "Der Einsame im Herbst." Equally obvious choices were Bernstein and Ludwig to interpret it:

Next is the gorgeous Rachmaninov song, "Harvest of Sorrow" (op. 4 no. 5.) Here's Christa Ludwig again, which I attribute more to a surprising dearth of versions on YouTube than my own favoritism. If you have recommended recordings of Rachmaninov songs, do please share, Gentle Readers.

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Lieto evento: Anna Bolena at the Met

2011-09-28T08:25:00.000-04:00

The modern performance history of Donizetti's Anna Bolena has been defined by its divas. For its first performance at the Met, Anna Netrebko took on the titular role and made it her own. David McVicar's austere, imposing sets worked to keep the drama moving inexorably forward. Having experienced his smart, sexy Trovatore, and admired his Salome, I was surprised by the extent of its traditionalism. Still, it was sleek and mostly unfussy, and Personenregie seemed solid (I do wonder how many of Anna's dramatic moments may be attributed to the director, and how many to the diva.) The Met orchestra were on excellent form, and Marco Armiliato's conducting was supportive, if not electrifying. There was much fine singing--notably from Tamara Mumford as Smeton--but Netrebko was without question the strongest presence.

Dolci e bei momenti: snapshots from the Met gala

2011-09-27T14:36:00.000-04:00

The Metropolitan Opera season has officially begun! Let joy be unconfined! Let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlor (to quote Groucho Marx in "A Night at the Opera.") I've been humming Donizetti for the past twenty-four hours, and may not come down from my opera high for some time yet. Last night's Anna Bolena was a great occasion: there was the frisson of feeling that one was part of an Event; there was the sense of homecoming accompanying the "firsts" of the season: approaching that facade, seeing all the familiar front-of-house faces, and climbing all the stairs before settling into the standing room places at the top of the Family Circle; and most importantly, there was a heck of an opera performance. But before I get to writing up the performance, here are some snapshots of the audience.
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Allons, allons, accourez tous: Lully's Atys at BAM

2011-09-22T22:14:00.000-04:00

Les Arts Florissants. Photo (c) Pierre Grosbois

At the conclusion of Wednesday's performance of Atys at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, I was standing in the last row, clapping and shouting to express my delight and my gratitude; but I might as well have been silent upon a peak in Darien. My only previous acquaintance with Jean-Baptiste Lully's opera (Really Shameful Confession) had been through Les Arts Florissants' 1987 recording. Experiencing the ensemble's live performance of the work was a revelation. The device of employing the sumptuous decor and costumes of the ancien régime made sense of the opera's masques and dances, and its earnest debates on love and reason, tyranny and freedom, duty and desire. The magic of the evening, though, lay in the miracle of its coherence: orchestra, singers, and dancers together created an elegant, expressive performance.
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Opera and religion: assorted thoughts on Nabucco

2011-09-14T20:23:00.002-04:00

Persian warriors depicted on the Ishtar Gate (Pergamon Museum, Berlin)

I apologize, Gentle Readers, if it seems less than gracious to emerge from blog silence with such a weighty topic in tow. But here I am, seething with thoughts! Nabucco being one of the first operas on the Met's fall schedule, I thought it was high time I got to know more of it than "Va, pensiero." I did so thanks to a musically brilliant performance from La Scala, under Muti, with Renato Bruson as the titular king, and Ghena Dimitrova an astonishing Abigaille (DVD.) The production was a curious (if undeniably, even excitingly grand) affair, with costumes and decor appearing to be inspired by Assyrian art and architecture, possibly descriptive passages from the Old Testament, possibly medieval representations of biblical scenes, possibly nineteenth-century Orientalist fantasies, and almost certainly Star Trek. The cumulative effect was visually stunning; the architecture, especially, was gorgeous. But there were huge amounts of exploration not being done. It seems to me that, even before discussing possibilities for complicating Verdi's drama, acknowledging the ambiguities and complexities inherent in it would be a herculean task for any director. If you feel like bearing with me while I mull over some of these ambiguities and complexities, Gentle Readers, read on!
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Damrau, Thielemann, Strauss: Poesie

2011-09-07T00:22:00.001-04:00

My expectations of Diana Damrau's most recent recital disc were stratospherically high. Damrau is a singer whose technique and musical intelligence I admire, and here she is partnered by none other than Strauss-specialist Christian Thielemann leading the Münchner Philharmoniker. At first listen, I was a little disappointed; the rich detail and intense passion of Strauss's lieder did not come through with the clarity I expected. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say "in the manner I expected," since more, and more attentive listening led to a revision of this judgment. Not all of the songs come through with equal individuality, in my opinion, but Damrau's security of phrasing and excellent diction keep them on a firm footing throughout. With Thielemann and the orchestra I cannot find fault; dynamics and tempi were handled with nuance and insight. Indeed, Damrau and the other musicians seem on this disc to do the reverse of tearing a passion to tatters: subtlety and restraint allow the rich intensity of Strauss's "miniatures," as Damrau calls them, to shine, perhaps differently than the listener expects them to.

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Dov'è eravamo? September miscellany

2011-09-01T19:11:00.000-04:00

September is upon us, Gentle Readers, and with it the return of additional academic responsibilities. This autumn will be the second half of my preparation time for the oral exams for which I have been studying throughout the summer. I'm also teaching two classes, full to bursting with students who need to acquire skills, and who I hope will acquire some enthusiasm for the subject. I know, it's nothing to do with you... except that all this activity will probably result in a somewhat pared-back blogging schedule. The other possibility is that I will go slightly insane and attempt to take refuge in my familiar rituals of attending classical music events, resulting in a frenzy of emotionally overwrought responses to same. Stay tuned to find out what happens! In any case, I'll be enjoying the glorious golden weather and the autumn fruit, and I hope you'll be able to do likewise. I'll take this opportunity to note that subscribing to posts in some form (whether by RSS feed or following the blog) will save you the trouble of checking back for posts that aren't here. For now, though, Gentle Readers, I leave you with Keats and Rilke, and one of the few lesson scenes in opera which does not involve disguises and/or crazy hijinks.
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Mistress, Queen, Romantic Heroine: The Many Roles of Anne Boleyn

2011-08-27T20:02:00.001-04:00

Anne Boleyn: 16th century portrait

Anne Boleyn has proved as fascinating to posterity as she was to Henry VIII. Scholars and dilettantes, poets and painters, have been fascinated by the second of the (in)famous English king's wives, the first to be executed... and that after accusations of plotting regicide, and committing adultery with no fewer than five men, including her own brother. The subject is temptingly sensational, as a glance at a list of fictional works concerning the unfortunate queen demonstrates. The debates are virtually inexhaustible: how credible did the charges against her have to be? were they only a means to a desired end? desired by whom? I won't pretend to answer all these questions, but in honor of the 1 month countdown to the Met Opera's season opening performance of Donizetti's opera (I'm excited!) I present a brief summary of Anne's political and posthumous career.

Among the many historical inaccuracies of Donizetti's thoroughly Romantic opera, perhaps the most striking is the unanimous sympathy expressed by the chorus of courtiers for the queen herself. In actual fact, the factionalism of Henry's court was lively, bitter, and, in some scholarly interpretations, the chief cause of Anne Boleyn's downfall and eventual death. During the years of Anne's favor with the king (longer than their marriage) members of her family and their allies were granted influential positions; such influence attracted envy, and in the years of Anne's uneasy position as Henry's mistress, it would be all too easy to claim that the king's judgment had been led astray by his passion. Even after her marriage and accession to the throne, even after the death of Katherine of Aragon, there were those who persistently referred to her as "the Concubine." What of Anne herself? Much ink, scholarly and otherwise, has been spilled in attempting to analyze her character and her motives. I personally find her more credible as player than pawn. In fictional accounts of her story, naturally enough, legal innocence has been equated with good character, the definition of which is, of course, relative. Modern novelists have read between the lines of her story to find a vivacious heroine whose attempts at self-expression and self-assertion brought her downfall. For the Romantic movement which influenced Donizetti, however, she was a heroine of a very different sort.

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Mozart's Sister: sharing a room with genius

2011-08-23T14:56:00.008-04:00

Based on the above trailer, I suspected that René Féret's film "Nannerl, la soeur de Mozart" (U.S. release under the title "Mozart's Sister,") might be a bit predictable, even a bit cheesy. But it also seemed to promise gorgeous costumes, elegant filming, good music, and a title heroine defying early modern gender role expectations. So when it arrived in NYC this past weekend, I went to see it with a friend. In many ways, I was pleasantly surprised; the narrative was more carefully constructed and nuanced than I was expecting. And it was a lovely film to watch: the quotidian detail was nicely handled, the color palettes evocative, the acting subtle. Still, I found it less than satisfying. Its story is of course largely speculative, but as Virginia Woolf wrote at the outset of A Room of One's Own, fiction may contain more truth than fact. What I found irksome was the apparent difference between the story the film seemed to me to be telling, and the story it seemed to think it was telling.
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Getting to Glimmerglass: notes and photos

2011-08-19T10:47:00.005-04:00

The first thing I noticed about the Glimmerglass Festival, I noticed sometime before getting there: it's in the middle of nowhere. More precisely, it's in the middle of rural New York, reached by a succession of two-lane roads meandering through a succession of small towns. The program explains that the opera house (built in 1987, a little more than a decade after the festival's inaugural season) is located on farmland donated by a late chairman of the Glimmerglass board. The program also emphasizes the festival's local roots and ongoing local connections; I'd be interested to know how large the audience catchment area is, as it is quite a trek to get there, and not directly accessible by public transportation. If the festival is building its success off a primarily local audience, that's fascinating in itself.

Now, if one has the means and leisure to make Glimmerglass the centerpiece of a vacation, it is an awfully nice spot in the middle of nowhere. It's almost directly on the shore of Lake Otsego, and the somewhat self-consciously quaint, but still charming Cooperstown, is only a few miles removed. A post-opera stroll along Main Street (where Zerbinetta and I crossed paths with several other audience members) revealed the Cooperstown specialties to be bed-and-breakfasts, baseball, and ice cream. This being dairy country, the ice cream was great. Also tempting is the presence of a nearby brewery. Obviously I don't have the means or the leisure to do a Glimmerglass weekend, but although getting there was a hike, the festival does offer a 50% student discount on tickets. Now, a half price ticket is my kind of offer, and I don't think it's too widely taken advantage of; I suspect Zerbinetta and I may have knocked a few decimal points off the average age of the matinee audience.

Photos and more:
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Medea, aspra ben tu punisci

2011-08-18T00:51:00.001-04:00

Medea, Euripides' brilliant, brutal drama, has been adapted as an opera more than once, and no wonder. Here's the plot: Medea is a sorceress, of royal and divine blood. Aphrodite makes her fall in love with Jason. Medea helps him complete a series of impossible tasks, marries him, and flees her country with him; they end up in Corinth. Here, Jason takes it into his head to marry the king's daughter. Medea, feared and ostracized as a barbarian and sorceress, pleads the justice of her cause in vain. In revenge against the faithless Jason, she kills his bride. Then, she kills the children she bore him: to save them from a worse fate at the hands of her enemies, or to punish their father... or both. Luigi Cherubini's 1797 opera has orchestral passages of tempestuous foreboding, confrontation between Medea and Jason crackling with the threat of violence, tense political drama in her pleas to the king of Corinth, and a great scene with the chorus invoking the gods' blessing on Jason's new wedding, while Medea demands of the same gods their aid in accomplishing her vengeance. Although Medea is given passages of anguished inner debate about the fate of her children, the orchestra is busy foretelling doom. It all ends with the entire chorus being terrified and ineffectual (hey, it's based on Greek drama, what did you expect?) and portents in heaven and on earth.

The last performance in this year's run of the opera at Glimmerglass did not quite capture this sense of fateful urgency and human anguish. For a start, there was the production. There was one unit set with sliding doors at the back and some geometric shapes to liven things up. A serpent alluding to Medea's earlier deeds twined across the doors, and the sun hung prominently in the sky on the backdrop. The Golden Fleece, once brought in by the Argonauts, hung in the center in a rather ominous manner (here a golden helmet with rams' horns; vague memories tell me this may be based on scholarly research/speculation, but it's not in Graves.) The Personenregie was hardest on poor Glauce (the second wife); it turned her into a hapless creature with fewer brains than a sheep, easily distracted from her forebodings and sense of guilt by shiny things, and prone to giggling with a gaggle of maidservants. This made me more than a little angry; it undermines the suspense of wondering if Glauce will take the robe and crown of Apollo which Medea has poisoned, diminishes the tragedy of Glauce as a struggling, sympathetic character, and adds scenes of implausible giggling.

Then there was the business of classical allusion. If you know that Medea is the granddaughter of Phoebus Apollo, then the sun which marks the passage of time, and ends bloodily eclipsed, adds a layer of drama; otherwise, it seems a bit pointless (or this was my assessment, having remembered about halfway through that Medea was descended from the sun god.) Then there are the Furies. They first appear at the finale of Act I, darkly shrouded women wearing Medea's costumes for Acts II and III, respectively. This could be an interesting way of engaging the debate about whether the characters are driven by fate or their own choices, and pointing to the complexity of Medea's personality, but I didn't think it was very clearly developed. They spent a lot of time standing around being darkly shrouded. And there were only two of them. A quick Google search surely could have established that the Erinnyes, or Eumenides, or Furies (they are called all three in the libretto) are three, and that they specialize in driving people mad, aggressively. If not snakes and a scourge, could we at least have had some scary face paint and menacing gestures? But I'll end this rant and get on to the music.
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Tosca: La cosa bramata perseguo

2011-08-14T16:34:00.004-04:00

Il convegno: Hempstead House

The Tosca I attended on Saturday evening was the first performance in the North Shore Music Festival's inaugural season. I enjoyed myself immensely; the performance was passionate, but my reasons for estimating the evening as a rousing success are external as well. The audience seemed to consist primarily of couples and families who had chosen to attend for the sake of a nice night out at the venue; to judge by the response to the pre-performance question, few had seen Tosca before. Several I spoke to (and more I overheard) were attending their first opera. And to judge by the applause, they loved it. I was fascinated by the concept of going for new audiences with what struck me as a proposal harking back to the nineteenth century: come out to a stately home, have a nice meal, socialize with neighbors and peers, hear world-class music. I was also fascinated by how well it worked. That it did so was, of course, substantially due to the quality and passion of the performance.
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Mozart, Beyond: "Jupiter" and Vesperae Solennes de Confessore

2011-08-10T16:07:00.009-04:00

Iván Fischer, in a recent interview, offered the following paradoxical definition of Mozart's work: that it lies beyond categorization. This might seem closer to platitude than analysis, but I found myself pondering it as I reflected on Tuesday night's performance. Sacred or secular? Transcendent or exuberantly earthly? Under Fischer's baton, the Mostly Mozart Festival Orchestra approached Mozart's music without an ounce of false reverence, and created a thoroughly involving performance. This was my first time hearing the "Ave verum corpus" in a concert hall. Fischer waited for the audience to settle into (relative) silence before beginning. The orchestra and singers from the Concert Chorale of New York gave an inward, passionate performance. It may be a piece of less than five minutes' duration, but it's a gem, and I was grateful that it wasn't tossed off as a prelude to the body of the concert. (It's one of my favorite "Music at Communion" pieces.) Fischer kept his baton raised to preclude applause, and the organ played during the choristers' withdrawal. We were allowed a few moments of silence and refocusing for the magnificence of Symphony No. 41.

For magnificent it was. Fischer led with unflagging energy (I couldn't help but grin, watching his enthusiasm,) and the orchestra responded in kind. The first movement was propulsive without seeming too weighty, the different sections playing off each other delightfully. Its energy built steadily to the climax; again, a generous pause preceded the transition into the andante. Here, too, I felt the orchestra found the fullness of emotion at the heart of the movement without over-indulgence or caricature. The third movement was splendid without being excessively stately, the contrapuntal glories of the fourth were magnificent, celebratory, festlich... and the whole was more than the sum of its exquisitely composed parts.

I confess to not knowing the Vesperae Solennes de Confessore well; on this hearing, the work seemed to me a gorgeous example of Mozart's talent for making a piece a stronger example of its genre by pushing that genre's boundaries. Fischer led the orchestra in a detail-rich account; tempi were brisk, but not rushed. The Concert Chorale (directed by James Bagwell) contributed confident, responsive singing. The soloists (Lucy Crowe, Helen Karloski, Brian Dougherty, and Scott Wheatley) not only contributed fine individual work, but the colors of their voices blended very nicely in their ensemble passages. This was my first chance to hear Crowe live, and I was most impressed. She had sweet, secure sound, and exhibited impressive control in the agile coloratura demanded by the "Magnificat" as well as the more lyrical, more famous "Laudate Dominum." The triumphant "Amen" was a joyous affirmation. We applauded heartily, and were sent out a little more hopeful than we arrived.

Don Giovanni: A torto di viltate tacciato mai sarò

2011-08-08T01:09:00.001-04:00

The man, the myth, the opera: approaching Don Giovanni is no easy task. But "approach" is too timid a verb for what the Budapest Festival Orchestra did with Mozart's monumental, genre-challenging score, here performed in the Prague version. Under the baton of Iván Fischer, the BFO's interpretation was characterized by brisk tempi and forceful dynamics. The score's humorous touches were handled deftly, but this reading emphasized the passionate seriousness of Mozart's work. Especially noticeable to me in the strings was a fearless romanticism, unexpected but very welcome. From my balcony seat, there was a balance issue from time to time, but with an orchestral performance this full-blooded and thrilling, I minded hardly at all (and less, perhaps, than I should have.)

Budapest, Palace of Arts/Zsuzsanna Peto

Jessica Waldoff, in Recognition in Mozart's Operas, has called Don Giovanni the most "discussed, deliberated, and disputed" of Mozart's operas. Elsewhere, Andrew Steptoe observes that Giovanni "ranges from transcendent demonic hero to trivial philanderer, and critical opinion has been equally divided." The staging of the festival performances, designed by Iván Fischer, acknowledges the ambiguities of the work: actors, clad and painted in white, shaped their bodies to define the set and to become props, as well as serving as dancers and chorus. According to Fischer, this choice was made to represent the realm of the opera from the central character's perspective: Don Giovanni's world is defined by bodies; I thought this minimalist approach worked very well. The lack of scene-changes kept the pace of the drama relentless, its episodes clearly related in logical, inexorable succession. The action of the piece is quite literally set in motion when the seducer, clad as an adventurer in a black cape, tips a statue reminiscent of Bernini's Apollo and Daphne onto the Commendatore, fatally wounding him. Another advantage of the staging was that it diffused the potential for skepticism at the Commendatore's appearance ("It's only a white costume/makeup...") Quite obviously, that is not the point. When the Commendatore does at last appear, the impossible apparition is composed of all the actors, who had previously formed Don Giovanni's chair and dinner table; his entire society, his entire environment, is arrayed against him.

Reading List: Butterfly's Child

2011-08-01T21:05:00.002-04:00

The opera is Cio-Cio-San's. I for one don't care what happens to [insert choice epithet] Pinkerton. But there remains the boy: "Tu, tu, piccolo iddio!" The jacket of Angela Davis-Gardner's novel, Butterfly's Child, promises to answer the niggling question of what happened next. The synopsis of the opera given at the front of the book indicates that it's not just intended for enthusiasts. The enthusiastic blurbs by other novelists promised that it was a page-turner, and this I certainly found it to be. A central thread of it is also a Bildungsroman trajectory for Benji, Butterfly's son, taken to live with Pinkerton and Kate. But the relationship of the novel to the opera is not as straightforward as it seems at first.

The sections of the novel which I found most successfully realized were those concerning Benji's early childhood. I thought Davis-Gardner traced his process of coming to terms with his environment sensitively and with a vital touch of humor. And she does paint the environment, the American Midwest in the early twentieth century, very well; I very much enjoyed the descriptions of the weather, the changing seasons, the flora and fauna of Pinkerton's Illinois farm. The protagonists and antagonists in the drama of Benji's acceptance in the community are divided more clearly into camps than seems perfectly natural, but the characters are deftly drawn. Nor is Benji the only protagonist. In addition to a schoolteacher, a veterinarian, and Pinkerton's rather formidable mother, we have Pinkerton (who goes by Frank in the novel) and Kate themselves. In brief: Pinkerton is a sorry specimen, and long-suffering Kate is sympathetic, but I thought they were the most complex characters in the book. The eternal question of "Just how terrible a person is Pinkerton?" is brought up for consideration. And Kate, for whom I rooted staunchly, is a fascinating creature: deeply religious, very sensitive, and fiercely intelligent.

Selma Jezková: Royal Danish Opera in NYC

2011-07-30T02:42:00.000-04:00

Photograph (c) Miklos Szabo

Poul Ruders' 2010 opera, Selma Jezková, had its U.S. premiere on Friday; its single New York performance occurred as part of the Lincoln Center Summer Festival. Commissioned in the last season of Kaspar Holten's tenure as the director of the Royal Danish Opera, we saw it in Holten's production and with the same singers in the principal roles. And it was searing. There is much in the title role reminiscent of the opera repertory's most familiar tragic heroines: Selma is a passionate woman both willing to undertake a gesture of self-sacrifice, and seen as cruelly sacrificed to an unforgiving society. But Ruders knows this is a complicated business. Selma is not without agency, and whether her martyrdom is moral or misguided is open to discussion. One thing is certain: there is no redemption in her death, or after it.

The opera takes its inspiration from Lars von Trier's 2000 film "Dancer in the Dark," but its musical world is its own, and the drama it presents, though revolving around the same events, also has a substantially different emphasis. (An interview with Ruders explains further about the work's genesis and its relationship to Von Trier's work.) This was my first exposure to Ruders' operatic works--Really Shameful Confession--and I was struck, and moved, by the yearning, tragic dissonances of the score; by the strong vocal characterization; and by the feeling of dramatic inevitability communicated through the music. Trimmed and telescoped from the events of the film, Ruders' work depicts an atmosphere and society much more hostile than von Trier's, brilliantly evoked and criticized in Holten's production. I left feeling convinced that society is broken... but that with works this smart, opera, at least, should have an exciting future.
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From the Met archives: Elektra

2011-07-25T00:37:00.000-04:00

I'm hoping to get my hands on the DVDs of recent Elektra productions, but this one is at least recently released: included in the Levine anniversary set from the Met is an Elektra from a 1994 Met telecast. So far the DVD is only available as part of this boxed set, but the packaging, as well as fiscal sense, would seem to indicate that an individual release may be forthcoming. The sound and picture quality is perhaps not up to digital-everything standards, but it's significantly better than that of tapes made from the telecast. (And there's much virtue in that "perhaps"; my television set was rescued from the fate of being thrown away; it still functions perfectly well, most of the time. Nothing about it, however, is high definition.) Otto Schenk's production highlights the size of the Met's stage more than the events and emotions of Strauss's opera, I'm afraid. His palace is washed in a spectrum of colors from sickly yellowish-green to sickly greenish-yellow, which is echoed in the maidservants' costumes (okay.) Everyone else gets robes left over from a Sunday School play, except Elektra, in black. With a few happy exceptions, though (I did find the death dance chilling) it was fairly unexciting. This being Elektra, the music makes up for it.
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Treuloser Holder! Konwitschny's Tristan on DVD

2011-07-21T13:48:00.006-04:00

I have not forgotten your collective request for opera DVD posts, Gentle Readers! Now, I do realize that reviews of recent DVD releases are more likely to be valuable than ones for those with a decade's figurative dust on them. But I found Peter Konwitschny's take on Götterdämmerung so impressive that I tracked down his Tristan. Then the unexpected affordability of summer festival events (hooray for student tickets) lured me away and has let this languish... but here it is! Enjoy, and if you've seen it, please do comment with your thoughts; my vague sense is that my positive response may be a minority one. It's a deceptively simple production, but don't let the streamlined visuals fool you, and don't let the hideous couch put you off. I thought this was brilliant, and I found it profoundly moving. I'm not sure how to judge a Tristan orchestra on a DVD; how am I supposed to tell what they're doing if I can't feel it through my bones? That said, I liked the warm sound of the Bayrisches Staatsorchester, which played sensitively and passionately for Zubin Mehta. If there's a choice between the drama and the philosophy of the piece, they emphasized the former.

The dramatic performances are all scrupulously detailed. Brangane and Kurwenal (Marjana Lipovšek and Bernd Weikl) are well-characterized and well sung. Kurt Moll is a Marke of immense dignity; his voice is too worn for pure beauty, but he uses it masterfully. The King in this production is a frail old man, but he loves Tristan and Isolde and they love him, and the fact that, nonetheless, tragedy divides and breaks them... yes, it's always tragic, but it was very humanly so, here. Jon Fredric West gave a conscientiously thought-out Tristan, but he never sounded fully comfortable to me; there was a tendency to come out of his vocal lines with a shout. I was dreading Act III, but the vocal issues bothered me there least. Waltraud Meier took my breath away. Repeatedly. The first time through the DVD, I wondered whether the production would work without an Isolde whose every thought you could see, and whose erotic energy was (for me, at least) a force of destabilizing intensity. The second time through, I became fairly certain that it would. Welcome to the Tristan where the realm of eternal night is staged. Oh, and there is no love potion. Frau Minne kenntest Du nicht? Nicht ihres Zaubers Macht?
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Bruckner and Adams: Matters of Life, Death, and Art with the Cleveland Symphony

2011-07-17T23:13:00.002-04:00

To begin this post, a confession: I usually feel that in the symphonic repertoire, a little late Romanticism goes a long way, and sometimes have sighed over the fact that there really isn't any such thing as "a little" late Romanticism. But I went to the two last concerts in the Cleveland Symphony's Lincoln Center stay, because I do like the Cleveland Symphony, I really like John Adams, and with student prices, I thought I ought to give Bruckner a try with one of his greatest advocates leading the interpretation. With as passionate an expert as Franz Welser-Möst on the podium, Bruckner not only held my interest, but left me intellectually stimulated and emotionally overwhelmed.

Saturday night's concert was devoted entirely to Bruckner's eighth symphony. The orchestra used the 1887 Nowak version of the score, which brought the work to about an hour and half in length (cf. remark about no such thing as a little late Romanticism.) It was indeed massive, but no part of it felt extraneous. I struggled for a metaphor to communicate the magnitude of the symphony's impact; it was not a "force of nature," but a force of art. Never did referring to the architecture of a piece seem more apt: this symphony took shape like a temple. Everything seemed under perfect control, but there was not an ounce of hesitancy or undue restraint. This was a performance blessedly free of bombast, so that the real sources of excitement, the shape and color of Bruckner's sound, the skill and subtlety with which he deployed his vast forces, could be better appreciated. Yes, Brucknerian subtlety, Gentle Readers, from the string section that had luscious sound on everything from its delicate pianissimi to fiercely assertive, pulsing forte, and from the woodwinds which shaped expressive solo lines, and blended beautifully as well. The glorious brass section could not be called subtle, perhaps, but they were as finely responsive. Welser-Möst led with fierce, fearless energy and precise control. I couldn't help but think of the connection Pythagoras saw between mathematics and music: behind these sounds lay the rules of the world.
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Salut à la France!

2011-07-14T11:16:00.000-04:00

Constructing national identities is a messy business, but tackling political injustice is always worth celebrating. Natalie Dessay is, I believe, also always worth celebrating! Le quatorze juillet seemed like an appropriate time to post this gem from Dessay, who has just been made a Chevalier de la Légion d'honneur (Mady Mesplé was also among those honored this year.) Is it possible to watch this without smiling? Here's to our hopes, here's to our loves. And as long as we're celebrating, why not find a nice bottle of Bordeaux and open it in honor of liberté, égalité, fraternité?

L'alto motore novo splendore a ciel prepara

2011-07-11T16:45:00.002-04:00

Peter Paul Rubens, Jupiter and Callisto, 1613

Francesco Cavalli's 1651 opera Calisto has its origins in the mid-seventeenth century heyday of Venetian opera, when composers and librettists scrambled to keep up with the demands of a voracious public (recording here; synopsis here.) Its three-act structure was just becoming standardized; its libretto was the last of his long-term artistic partnership with Giovanni Faustini. Calisto intertwines mythological narratives in what Wendy Beth Heller has called the "essentially inaccessible... realms" of Arcadia and the cosmos, reimagining the Ovidian tale of Calisto as a parable of female desire, and staging the paradox of Diana in love. In Venice, it was not a success. In Brooklyn, however, with the Vertical Player Repertory performing in the shabby-romantic courtyard of Proteus Gowanus, it held its audience enthralled. Ably sung by a youthful and energetic cast, the opera also benefited from creative use of its space. A small ensemble of period instruments, led by Jennifer Peterson at the harpsichord, provided unexpectedly full sound. The comic tone chosen for the unfolding of the plot devices was in better keeping with the seventeenth-century spirit than my own, but the VPR's interpretation of the opera's fantastical elements was an admirable example of doing much with little. Arcadia was evoked by a profusion of potted plants; the gods descended from the heavens on an ancient fire escape; dancers embodied the stags of Diana and Juno's peacocks. On the whole, it all worked remarkably well.
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Magic Fresh and Familiar: Peter Brook's "A Magic Flute" comes to Lincoln Center

2011-07-09T12:12:00.004-04:00

Thanks to the availability of student tickets for Lincoln Center's summer festival events, I was able to treat myself to Peter Brook's luminous production of "A Magic Flute," Mozart's opera pared down and opened up into a fable so engaging, the strength of its ideas may not fully hit you until the end. Here there is no chorus, and no orchestra, but the central drama of Mozart's opera is intact. Additional dialogue in French replaced some of the Sprechstimme and changed and expanded other parts of it (the piece was originally put on in Paris.) Two actors with speaking roles, William Nadylam and Abdou Ouologuem, guide the characters through their trials and provide explanation where necessary. These disparate elements came together to make elegant and moving theater, with a simple space well used (production video here.)

Raphael Bremard (Monostatos) and Malia Bendi-Merad (Queen of the Night)

Brook took the drama of the piece seriously, without letting it become heavy-handed, and the audience responded well. Either the audience was liberated by the unfamiliar context from a mistaken notion that complete silence is always necessary in the opera house, or quite a number of them were experiencing Mozart's jokes for the first time. It made a refreshing change to not be the only one laughing (except once, when according to my companion the surtitles weren't funny at all. But Papageno was!) Brook's solution to the most notorious dramatic problems of Magic Flute was to omit or transform them: it is Monostatos' soul that is black, and the Queen of the Night's crime is not to be a woman in power, but to be proud and hypocritical in her use of that power. And when these are corrected, she participates, reconciled, in the society wo Mensch den Menschen liebt.
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Reading List: Literary Fantasias

2011-07-05T11:42:00.000-04:00

I read Mawrdew Czgowchwz on a beach, and chuckled through it happily. It's a linguistically exuberant, insouciantly implausible fable in which the outsider is insider, love conquers all, and everyone's operatic dreams come true. McCourt creates a fantastical version of New York City in which everyone's identity is defined by their connection to opera; those of the city's denizens who are oblivious to the art remain gray, undifferentiated masses, but sympathetic policemen can be relied upon to respond to the irresistible strains of Puccini. The book is so packed with references to and literary riffs on "opera culture" (the sorts of audience members, conductors, and singers one seems to find in all times and in all places) that I am quite positive that I missed some (possibly many) of McCourt's metatextual gestures. I still enjoyed, however, the cast of characters that included a strawberry-ice-cream-eating warlock, a mysterious cook, and a certain Countess Verdi-Dov’è.

The plot, meanwhile, celebrates its own impossibility. The heroine of the title (whose last name is pronounced "gorgeous," a device extensively played upon) is a diva who creates her own fach and sings everything from Ulrica to Isolde. "For all that is bewitching in the idea," to borrow a phrase from Elinor Dashwood, I found that locating so many fantasies of opera-goers in this one figure, ultimately undermined the wish-fulfillment pleasures I got out of reading it. Her supporters and intimates are the "Secret Seven" who first discover her voice, and become her ardent champions in a situation of rival divas which echoes history but ascribes to the singers' partisans the dedication of political radicals. And this politicization is typical of the book's Weltanschauung, as it were: opera is not only art, but also politics, religion, even sex. McCourt gleefully raises, and even seems to controversially answer, numerous questions about what makes opera, its artists, and its audiences what they are. But the book remains resolutely ludic. The verbal fireworks of Rita Dove's Sonata Mulattica, while equally high-spirited, treat their subject more seriously, and for my taste, more satisfactorily.
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Passione: Una avventura musicale

2011-07-03T19:14:00.002-04:00

New York City being squally this weekend, I decided to explore Naples via John Turturro's film on Neapolitan musical culture, "Passione." Admittedly, the phrase "musical culture" seems either redundant or limiting in view of the film's implicit contention that the music of the streets of Napoli is the city's culture, or that its culture is absorbed into and expressed through its music in an unusually direct way. The film is a kaleidoscopic composite of interviews, archival film, staged sequences, and footage of multigenerational, multiracial groups of Neapolitans singing and dancing in the streets. Documentary? Technically, I suppose; but large segments of the film seem to be inspired by the Neapolitan "Sceneggiata," mini-dramas structured around song. The moments of narration by Turturro are few and brief; although this gives rise to a temptation towards oversimplification, the film itself, I thought, remained exuberantly chaotic.

An interview with Turturro about the process of filming may be found here. Towards the beginning he makes the claim that many of the ironies and nuances of Neapolitan music, the rough edges which it celebrates or attempts to exorcise, are lost when its songs are regarded as merely nostalgic or sentimental ballads. And certainly the music and musicians of the film demonstrate the wild variety of genres and emotions present in Naples' musical landscape. There is self-dramatization, of course; there is self-irony; there is a deep consciousness of the city's long and often troubled history. After a song to San Gennaro, the soloist said: "We don't ask for miracles; we demand them." Some of my favorite segments came from the interviews with the staff of a travel agency, who voted on their favorite Neapolitan singer (Sergio Bruni won) and then proceeded to emulate his style "with due respect, with due respect." Also wonderful were three brothers who ran a record shop and held forth enthusiastically on everything from the origins of popular song to early recording technology. The fine reviews the film has received praise it for dismantling Neapolitan stereotypes. I'm not sure... much of this film seemed to say that my suspicions about Naples being a mysterious, multifaceted place, shabby and perhaps occasionally sinister, but drenched in melody and sunshine, are all true... only more so. But all the Neapolitan-speaking Italian-Americans surrounding me in the theater seemed quite satisfied, so I suspect there may be layers of Neapolitan irony that I wasn't apprehending. The film certainly does dismantle the stereotype of Neapolitan music as unrelentingly sweet, sunny, and sentimental. What of Naples' most famous musical son? Enrico Caruso beamed and waved in a few seconds of film, and sang "A Vucchella" over the closing titles. The soundtrack is available here; excerpts from the film below.
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Pop, Opera, and Palm Trees: New York City Opera and Rufus Wainwright on the Riverfront

2011-06-29T12:15:00.001-04:00

It was New York City Opera's Twitter feed that alerted me to their Tuesday evening concert, part of this year's River to River Festival. The musically eclectic evening was organized around the enthusiasm of Rufus Wainwright, singer-songwriter and opera aficionado par excellence (Olivia Giovetti has an interesting article contextualizing Wainwright's ventures into opera here.) That Wainwright, who acted as a sort of master of ceremonies, was irrepressibly effervescent was not a surprise. More surprising was that George Steel emerged before the performance (to only applause) to welcome the audience in a speech in which he said that it was his "happy job" to be the General Manager of New York City Opera. Although he claimed that they would be soon "bringing the people's opera back to the people" by exchanging the "travertine fastness" of Lincoln Center for venues around the city, no further details were forthcoming, and the circulation of information on a petition by the orchestra hinted at a still-unsettled state of affairs. Mais revenons à nos moutons: we heard a handful of Wainwright's songs, two selections from his opera Prima Donna, and a selection of chestnuts and rarities representing some of his favorite works from the standard operatic repertoire. The City Opera was well-represented by its quartet of singers, and an audience overflowing the Winter Garden at the World Financial Center lapped it all up.
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Midsummer: Make Music New York

2011-06-25T15:43:00.001-04:00

As the summer solstice approched, I was inwardly lamenting that New York didn't have anything like Paris' annual Fête de la Musique. And then I discovered that, actually, it does: the local chapter, so to speak, is called Make Music New York. Although considerably smaller than the parent festival, it's a similar composite event: free music performances in a variety of genres almost as great as its variety of locations. So, on Tuesday, the Beloved Flatmate and I enjoyed great Vietnamese sandwiches, and heard ukuleles in Washington Square Park, harmonicas on Lafayette, and a rock band on MacDougal Street. We also discovered that bohemia is alive and well in a cafe called L'Orange Bleue (I couldn't help humming "Momus! Momus! Momus!" under my breath.) Predictably enough, though, my favorite part of the afternoon was a clever collaborative program by members of Amore Opera and the Art Song Preservation Society of New York. Admirably engaged with their appreciative audience, their presentation assumed that their shifting crowd of listeners might not know either the operatic or art song repertoire well, but would be perfectly capable of enjoying it. And we did!
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An Adventurous Vixen at the NYPhil

2011-06-23T13:12:00.001-04:00

"My music remains young through contact with the eternally young rhythm of nature." --Janáček

To be honest, I found the scope and hyperbole of the NYPhil's advertising campaign for their latest collaborative event with Giants are Small rather irritating, but it seems to have paid off: last night, Avery Fisher Hall was very close to full with a healthy mixture of symphony stalwarts, twenty- and thirty-somethings, and European tourists. (Parenthetically, I didn't see many children in the audience. I did read articles about how Vixen is Not For Children Because It Has Sex And Death In It. But I read the Brothers Grimm when a child myself, and so was unimpressed by this argument.) As Andrew Porter once observed, avoiding "a Disneyish cuteness in the staging" can be difficult. I thought last night's effort succeeded reasonably well. Having the orchestra on stage behind the woodland glen (in the field of sunflowers) helped in this regard, as did the choreography of animal/human interactions. The costumes, too, balanced evocation of the animal and human, never to better effect than for the hens' print-dress plumage. Clifton Taylor's lighting design effected seamless transitions, transforming a sandy bank into a bridge, or the vixen's den into the table of the village inn. There was fine singing--some of it excellent--and the orchestra luxuriated in Janáček's musical landscapes. Lushness was emphasized over detail, I thought (though I should note that I'm not very familiar with the score) but the strings were on their best form, and both atmosphere and characterization were handled well.
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Reading List: Christa Ludwig's memoirs

2011-06-19T19:30:00.001-04:00

"So what you need is a complete harmony of your technique of movement on stage, and the expression of your interpretation, with the music, and with the pure singing itself. This isn't easy, Lord knows, but if you get a singer who has command of all of that, then you get a sort of miracle, like Maria Callas. I don't think I ever succeeded in putting all this together. Maybe with Dorabella, or the Dyer's Wife. But that decision lies with the audience."

Well, Gentle Readers, I have returned from a week of sand and sun and reading about opera instead of about medieval history. The first entry in this blog's summer reading list is, perhaps unsurprisingly, the memoir of Favorite Mezzo, Christa Ludwig. Definitely the Opera has organized her own (hopefully continuing) series around the question of Should You Read This Diva's Memoir. I have several answers for you, Gentle Readers! If, like me, you think Christa Ludwig is pretty fabulous, the answer is a resounding "Yes!" If you want a biography neatly organized into thematic chapters in chronological order, you might find it frustrating. But if you are intrigued, or even elated, by the prospect of an idiosyncratic narrative, give it a try. The first part of the book, indeed, is mostly chronological; but then it takes flight. We get descriptions of Ludwig's relationships with, opinions on, and reminiscences about, various conductors; a mini-essay on what makes a prima donna; descriptions of a healthy handful of her roles, and her relationships to and opinions on them; questions of interpretation; thoughts on travel, superstition, knitting, marriage, studio recordings, opera houses around the world... you get the idea. For me, at any rate, the tone makes it reminiscent of sitting in an aunt's living room, drinking her coffee while she shares stories.
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Modernism, Morbidity, and Eroticism with the NYPhil and Deborah Voigt

2011-06-12T18:47:00.002-04:00

Arnold Böcklin, Der Toteninsel (New York version, 1880)

The musicians of the NYPhil are back in town and, under the baton of David Robertson, were in excellent form on Friday night, giving an intriguing program of Shostakovich, Rachmaninov, and Schoenberg. And before I give my impressions of the proceedings, I would like to step onto a metaphorical soapbox for a moment and deplore the fact that the hall was far from full. Advance student tickets were available; there was a week-of special price offer for all e-mail list subscribers for any seat in the house. This is the NYPhil, people! You know, one of these world-class institutions this city does so much boasting about. I sat in the orchestra, with a fifteen-dollar ticket that I knew I'd only have to buy fifteen minutes before the bell. You're neglecting your arts organizations and depriving me of my traditional student-hardship narratives! And more importantly, you're missing out! On Friday, we got three pieces from the tumultuous early years of the twentieth century, passionate considerations of nothing less than matters of life and death. Oh, and sex. That too.
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Stuttgart Ring: Götterdämmerung

2011-06-10T11:59:00.000-04:00

Is Götterdämmerung an intimate interpersonal drama? Yes, according to Peter Konwitschny... but also a parable about the perils of being too proud and preoccupied in the affairs of your own household, or larger community constructed as homogeneous. I admit to being confused at first by the refugee Norns, but then it all started to make sense. I think. The production was visually eclectic, with late twentieth-century costumes, but elements of the medieval for the Gibichungs, e.g. torches, bear hunting, a giant mead hall. (They also had bottled beer which I can only assume was regionally-appropriate.) A nineteenth-century landscape painting also showed up behind Brünnhilde's Fels. The orchestra was, as in previous installments, wonderfully adept at bringing out the details of the dense score with warm, shimmering sound. The singing was fine and characterizations thoughtful, but the standout was Eva-Maria Westbroek as an unexpectedly fascinating Gutrune. Konwitschny (who came out at the curtain calls, scooped conductor Lothar Zagrosek off his feet in a bear hug, and was vigorously applauded) had, I suspect, a lot of fun playing around with the opera's ideas about gender, as well as those about community. On the whole, I thought this paid off very well.
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Stuttgart Ring: Siegfried

2011-06-07T08:26:00.005-04:00

The Jossi Wieler and Sergio Morabito production of Siegfried is, so far, the installment of the Stuttgart Ring I've liked best. It has a wildly different atmosphere for each act, but its sets become progressively less realistic, with Mime's shabby, cluttered 1960s house (complete with hideous couch) giving way to a nuclear-dystopian abandoned factory where Siegfried's lack of fear is truly impressive under the circumstances. Later on, we see Erda-as-Sylvia-Plath (I think) in a shabby, dim apartment. The cleanliness and spaciousness of Brünnhilde's bedroom, after all this, is a palpable relief, though the room is starkly, blindingly white (with the exception of the bed's rich green covers. No, it's not subtle. But neither is the breathless finale of Wagner's music.) From the opening of the opera, which finds Mime in an apron, peeling potatoes, to its conclusion, with Siegfried and his bride botching their attempts to put a new sheet on the bed, the production is preoccupied with gender and gendered roles. An easy target, perhaps, but I thought the production treated it thoughtfully. Occasionally it felt as though an idea was stuffed in and left under-developed, but on the whole I found it effective and interesting. The orchestra, under Lothar Zagrosek, was richly atmospheric and richly nuanced. And I was very impressed by Jon Fredric West's well sung, unusually sympathetic Siegfried.
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Schauerlich und süß: Pierrot Lunaire & L'Histoire du Soldat

2011-06-06T08:58:00.053-04:00

"What an amazing score! An orchestra of five musicians. Sounds appeared, which never were heard before. Sometimes it sounded like an orchestra of 100." --Otto Klemperer on Pierrot Lunaire

"So sure was Schoenberg's touch in his incubus of a clown that it is as if the Pierrot into whom he breathed life has gone on to shape his own history, to frighten us into believing that he emerged from nowhere, has no ancestors, no attachments and, most provocatively, cannot die." -Jonathan Dunsby, Schoenberg: Pierrot Lunaire

Via Entartete Musik

It turns out that Schoenberg's music itself is far less intimidating to me than musicologists who write about it. I got myself a whole stack of books out of the library, and kept finding alarming utterances along the lines of "Indeed, this can seem thorny and impenetrable..." (Yes, the Really Shameful Confession here is that the only Schoenberg works I'd previously heard live were his first chamber symphony, some cabaret songs, and Pelleas und Melisande... nothing thorny and impenetrable.) So I looked at Schoenberg and his World, and Inside Pierrot Lunaire, and listened to the Sinopoli recording, and headed off to hear it on Saturday with great excitement, but also a certain amount of fear and trembling. Thanks to Operamission, I had a great time soaking it all in, along with a fierce rendition of Stravinsky's L'Histoire du Soldat, and the rest of the audience in the space at the Gershwin Hotel seemed to as well. [Update: video of the performance is available here.]
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Stuttgart Ring: Die Walküre

2011-06-01T07:34:00.000-04:00

After watching Christoph Nel's version of Walküre, I have concluded that I am musically spoiled by the Met. I even had a moment of weakness in which I wondered whether being faintly bored by a production was better than being deeply frustrated by one. This was a Walküre which lost mythic romance without substituting gritty bite. The program notes inform me that the director saw his role as that of a psychoanalyst, who wanted to reveal the internal conflicts and ambivalences of the characters, using "today's materials." I'm sorry, but putting Sieglinde in a print dress rather than a medieval kirtle does not automatically make her plight more moving. Brace yourselves, Gentle Readers; I'm going to rant! Act I of the staging specializes in emphasizing the obvious. In introducing gestures mimicking those of lust into Siegmund and Sieglinde's first exchange, I would accuse it of reducing the profound to the profane. Awkwardly stylized movements sat oddly with a set and properties which are insistently mundane. Robert Gambill's voice is leaner than what I usually expect from a Siegmund, but he had some beautiful phrasing, and I liked his tone. I found him sympathetic, as well, though it would be hard not to feel sorry for a man wearing a Lycra tank top, knit shorts, and an iridescent blue windbreaker. He also contributed moving moments in Act II, though he seemed a shade underpowered (the Stuttgart audience loved him, so maybe he was fine in-house.) Angela Denoke was, similarly, a slightly small-voiced Sieglinde, and I thought she had some intonation problems, but I'm not sure whether that might be the fault of the recording. The sword bore an unfortunate resemblance to a butter knife, but what the staging did with it was rather interesting: first visible as a sword of light on Sieglinde's body, the weapon itself is revealed when the walls open out during "Du bist der Lenz."
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Stuttgart Ring: Rheingold

2011-05-30T12:03:00.001-04:00

Staatstheater Stuttgart

I'm still making a list of opera DVDs with which to gratify your wishes, Gentle Readers. None of the libraries in my life have the Lehnhoff Elektra (yet!) but my university has acquired the Levine/Met anniversary collection. Meanwhile, I'm working my way through the 1999 Ring from Stuttgart. I may not make a habit of watching each reviewed DVD twice, but that's what I'm doing with this set. For Regietheater the productions (each by a different director) may be fairly straightforward, but most of my opera-going life has been spent at the Met, with the consequence that I am liable to get distracted by inessential questions such as "Why does Alberich kill the rabbit?" (I'm pretty sure it's not an allusion to this.) So, without further ado, onward: where better to commence a summer of DVD-viewing than with the beginning of the world?

In Joachim Schlömer's production, we don't start out in the River Rhine, but rather in Valhalla, which is an elegant Gilded Age mansion. The entire cast is on stage for the opening chords, which in this atmosphere seem ominous. They gradually melt away during the overture, but characters are often on stage when they aren't "supposed" to be, creating unexpected interactions or observations which transform or highlight relationships. Fasolt's attraction to Freia, for instance, is established before the giants' "first" entrance. (My interpretation was that it had also been spurned; according to the notes in the booklet, however, Freia reciprocates Fasolt's affection and they are cruelly kept apart by politics. I did not get this at all.) The production as a whole reads Rheingold as a drama of intrafamilial and social conflict, rather than a fate-of-the-world myth. Alberich, in an ill-fitting suit, is subjected to cruel and crude bullying at the hands of the Rhinemaidens and Wotan and Loge. The social status of Donner and Froh is uncertain; Froh could be a tennis pro. Freia has to wear high heels of oppression, while Michaela Schuster is Fricka as a businesswoman of near-caricaturish ruthlessness, intelligent and manipulative. (The element of caricature came from her aggressively unsuitable suit, not her expressive singing.) The giants are businessmen with briefcases. I'm not sure of the Rhinemaidens' social status, either--they seemed awfully pert and entitled if they were intended to be the gods' servants--but they were well-sung and fun to watch, with Margarete Joswig a wonderfully vivid Flosshilde.
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Reading List: Mozart the Dramatist

2011-05-26T10:57:00.000-04:00

“Opera of all arts offers the opportunity of the most direct expression of emotions by the least naturalistic method.”

“Mozart is charming—indeed, ravishing—up to the very limit of our tolerance of pleasure…. Appreciation of Mozart is a matter of being moved.”

Brigid Brophy’s Mozart the Dramatist is, from a literary standpoint, a treat. Her fluent, sparklingly inventive prose is compulsively readable, and her frequently wicked wit is a delight. The book, thematically arranged, is not a comprehensive survey of Mozart’s “development” as dramatist. Rather, it is an impassioned and fascinating Plädoyer for his cultural significance, and an analysis of his five most famous dramas (Die Entführung aus dem Serail, Le Nozze di Figaro, Don Giovanni, Così fan tutte, and Die Zauberflöte) in light of their eighteenth-century context and in relation to Mozart’s own life. First published in 1964, I read the 1988 revision which includes a preface on Idomeneo and La Clemenza di Tito. Mozart the Dramatist boasts such tantalizing chapter titles as “Women and Opera,” “Opera, Cities, and Enlightenment,” and “Singing and Theology.” Who could resist?

The scintillating confidence of Brophy’s prose does come with far fewer footnotes than I would like. Her analysis of Mozart contains a great deal of eighteenth-century cultural history, argued with great persuasiveness. The comparisons she draws are always intriguing, not least in the chapter on “The Rococo Seducer” which treats Clarissa, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and Don Giovanni. Brophy draws on painting and philosophy to discuss the enlightenment period towards nature, science, and fantasy. She has a two-chapter consideration of Die Zauberflöte in the context of eighteenth-century interest in mystery cults, not neglecting the opera’s internal contradictions about women. (She sees Mozart as a feminist, and Pamina as an emotionally complex figure with agency. I’m less convinced than I’d like to be, but I’ll be going back to the libretto with Brophy next to me.) She also argues in some detail the why and how of Mozart’s and Jane Austen’s psychological realism.

All of this I found ultimately more fascinating than compelling. It is not only her view of Don Giovanni as an “unconsciously autobiographical” work, “an eternal enigma, an unstaunchable wound in the cultural consciousness of civilization,” which is heavily reliant on Freud. There is little contextualizing or criticism of Freud himself; his categories of analysis are taken as axiomatic. Furthermore—what I found just as problematic, and more irksome—the Enlightenment is continually and insistently placed in stark, monolithic contrast to the Middle Ages. I very nearly wailed aloud at points. Because apparently the eighteenth century invented the concept of the individual, and free thought. And no one questioned the medieval belief system (singular!) which was imposed from above. Really? Just ask Thomas Aquinas about that one! Or Bede, or Boniface, or the peasant who told Jacques Fournier that the devil appeared to him in the form of a tree. This oversimplification does, I think, mar Brophy’s analysis. But it’s still thought-provoking… and it’s still a fun read.

Support Your Local Orchestra! Or, In Which the Mahlerjahre Catch Up With Me

2011-05-23T11:10:00.003-04:00

I think I have been to more Mahler within the past twelvemonth than I had previously heard live, ever. There was a bone-shaking 8th Symphony with Gergiev and the Mariinsky; Colin Davis, Bostridge, and Röschmann with Des Knaben Wunderhorn; Thomas Hampson singing the Kindertotenlieder (not blogged, but an intelligent, sympathetic, searingly direct performance); and James Levine and the Met orchestra with Das Lied von der Erde in what was, even for them, superlative form. And today, I ventured out for a concert of the New York Symphonic Arts Ensemble with songs from Des Knaben Wunderhorn and the 4th Symphony. I am glad to have gone, and very glad to have discovered the NYSAE. And I must and will praise the audience, who coughed discreetly between movements and applauded only after the conductor lowered his baton (yes! truly!) In fact, I may have been The Bad Audience Member; my concert-going companion told me that I fidgeted noticeably in the second half. Sorry. I would offer to make penance, but I think I've already been punished enough by the auditorium's seats.
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Kate Royal: A Lesson in Love at Carnegie Hall

2011-05-21T14:11:00.001-04:00

I bought myself a ticket to Kate Royal's Carnegie Hall recital as an end-of-semester treat; not only was I not disappointed in my first hearing of her live, but I found myself pleasantly surprised by how well the evening's concept worked. The program followed closely the content of her latest album, which she introduces here:

I admit, I was more than slightly skeptical about the premise of a pastiche song cycle of sorts. I discussed this with a nice older lady afterwards (Carnegie Hall made the evening part of their "Salon Encores" series, which gives everyone a free glass of wine and a chance to chat about the program; very nice) who confessed to similar doubts about the attempted integration of different languages, eras, and cultures into a single narrative. But in the event, Royal won me (and my conversational partner) over: she sang with passion and dramatic nuance. Ably accompanied by Christopher Glynn, she varied the pacing of transitions between songs, as well. Sometimes she paused to savor expectation or satisfied longing; at other times the intensity of passion hurtled us from one vignette into the next. One such change made for one of the evening's most successful moments: a breathless transition from Hugo Wolf's "Erstes Liebeslied eines Mädchens" into Schubert's "Gretchen am Spinnrade." Oh yes, she did.
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Mitridate, Rè di Ponto

2011-05-19T13:53:00.004-04:00

Mozart's first opera seria, Mitridate, Rè di Ponto was first performed in 1770; according to Stanford University's OperaGlass, no revivals are known to have taken place before the twentieth century. The run now beginning at Little Opera Theatre of New York marks its first full staging in this city. For fuller information on the production and participants go here; for a nice introduction to the piece, and a little background on Mozart's operas in New York, see this article by Fred Plotkin. The libretto and score are available online. According to Jörg Krämer, Mitridate was the opera which, using the highly respected opera seria form, established Mozart as a force to be reckoned with, a Berufskomponist rather than a Wunderkind. Wednesday's performance certainly showed off Mozart's gift for expressive melody; the opera's emotional insights sometimes seem to be achieved against the contrivances of the plot, but there is much both to appreciate and to ponder.
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Sunday Special: Summer Schedule Survey

2011-05-15T01:14:00.000-04:00

Well, Gentle Readers, on the academic and opera-house calendars, summer is here. As a budding academic, I'm thrilled: three months to focus on my work! (Don't laugh. At least, don't tell me you're laughing. Thanks.) As an opera-goer, I am in mourning; my grad school stipend doesn't really stretch to travel for summer festivals. Although, if there is something absolutely amazing that you think I mustn't miss, to which public transit will take me to from NYC, do let me know. I'll count my pennies. So, Gentle Readers, I seek your advice. What should this blog do with itself over the summer months? I do, of course, have the Met's free concerts and the Mostly Mozart festival and a handful of other things on the calendar. Operamission has a number of summer events, as well. But I want more, and this is where you come in. Tell me what I should do, see, listen to, and read! If the NYPL has an opera DVD or book, it can be mine (and I've already ordered a brace of memoirs from Amazon's German site... stay tuned!) As for events in the city, I will spread my budget as far as it can go... and, schedule permitting, review anything for the price of a comp ticket (ahem.) Don't be shy, Gentle Readers: tell me what you'd like to see here, and do feel free to expand on this in the comments section.

Being Turned On By The Opera: Die Walküre, my mother, and Jonas Kaufmann

2011-05-11T06:01:00.001-04:00

My mother, lord love her, has long regarded--and listened to--my opera obsession in more or less suffering bewilderment, or more or less bewildered suffering. More than one broadcast was curtailed by a long-suffering maternal: "Darling, can you turn the screaming off?" In a brave spirit of zeal for wider experience, though (and for understanding her crazy daughter,) she has come to the opera with me before: to Cenerentola, known as "the pretty one," to Turandot, "the elaborate one," and, now, to Walküre. After Turandot, I had promised that we could go to a show on her next New York visit, and I wouldn't make her try opera again. How I got from there to loaning her my handkerchief during Wagner is a story which I offer not only for your entertainment and edification, Gentle Readers, but also for your consideration as a case study in opera audience development. Because I am, now, allowed and even encouraged to get her to try this opera thing again, as long as it's a "nice, dramatic one" like Walküre.
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Ariadne auf Naxos: Töne, töne, süße Stimme

2011-05-07T22:29:00.001-04:00

This has been a good spring for Strauss at the Met. After a luxurious Capriccio, we get Ariadne auf Naxos with an incredible cast under the baton of Fabio Luisi. Luisi's passionate, precise conducting was a joy, evoking the disparate characters of the prologue's bustling drama, and opening out into glorious, sweeping lyricism when this was called for. I'm not an Ariadne-expert, but I thought the orchestra was appropriately knowledgeable and gently ironic as well. (Parenthetically, I was seated between a lady who knows the opera backwards and loves it passionately, and the personal trainer of one of the cellists, who was hearing it for the first time. We all loved it.) Elijah Moshinsky's production--pictures from previous runs here and here--I thought very successful in the prologue. The opulence of the house was established, there was not-too-broad comic business for the Tenor and Prima Donna, and a detailed treatment of both relations within the comic troupe and the group of musicians, and the increasingly hostile relationship between the factions. I wasn't entirely sure how much of the opera staging was supposed to be taken seriously; it seemed to me that Moshinsky was choosing to amplify its ambiguities, rather than interpret them. I did like the treatment of the constellations and the presentation of Najade, Dryade, and Echo, but I thought the opening up and closing of various layers of cloud backdrops got to be a bit much. Still, the finale was musically glorious.

Bryn Terfel... Bad Boy?

2011-05-05T23:12:00.010-04:00

It ain't necessarily so. Bryn Terfel is, however, an extraordinarily chameleon-like performer, whose unmistakable timbre is used on his latest CD to evoke a remarkably diverse cast of unsavory characters. I treated myself to Terfel's Bad Boys CD in the holiday mood inspired by the unexpected chance to hear his Scarpia last month; I've been enjoying it as much as I had hoped. What I had not expected was for listening to it to be a feel-good experience. It is impossible for me to hear Terfel's Dulcamara brazenly charming Donizetti's rustici without doing a little dance step around the apartment. "When the Night Wind Howls" from Ruddigore is simply a treat (and I think it would be even if I did not have a sentimental fondness for the piece, which I tried to make my father teach me by rote when I was about seven.) Even in the portentous finale of Don Giovanni--sung by Terfel, Terfel, and Terfel, with the help of good sound engineering and great voice characterization--Leporello draws a chuckle. In Terfel's hands, the Devil--whether from Gounod's Faust or Boito's Mefistofele--is a perfect charmer.

I don't mean to imply a lack of effective characterization in keeping the various villains distinct; in this I think Terfel succeeds remarkably well. Moreover, I was quite impressed, on the whole, with the organization of this musically eclectic album (for complete track listing go here.) A few of the arias do inevitably wrest one into the world of the opera and then drop one unceremoniously out again. "Tre sbirri, una carrozza, presto," purrs Terfel, and I'm in Sant'Andrea. Iago's credo is another such piece for me. I thought the tempo for "Ha! welch ein Augenblick!" fast--shouldn't Pizarro be luxuriating in sadistic pleasure?--but loved the smooth snarl Terfel brought to it. A special treat is Anne Sofie von Otter (no less!) as Mrs. Lovett in "Epiphany" from Sweeney Todd. I'm not really an enthusiast for Sweeney Todd (Really Shameful Confession?) but with their vivid and subtle and intensely human characterization, the scene comes across brilliantly. I'd say I'm getting as much enjoyment out of the CD as those involved in its creation did, but the competition looks stiff:

Sunday Special: Der Mai ist gekommen

2011-05-01T16:46:00.003-04:00

By the piano of my ancestral establishment lives a two-volume collection of German folk songs, and in that collection is a special section for Mailieder. I am wildly in favor of having an entire genre of songs devoted to May, and its traditionally associated joys of sunshine, going for long walks, and falling in love. Here is my favorite of these songs, "Der Mai ist gekommen."

Richard Tauber:

Erich Kunz, with photographs which, I swear, could have been taken on some of my 1st May Wandertage of years past:

And as a bonus, here is Fritz Wunderlich singing--what else?--"Im Wunderschönen Monat Mai," from Dichterliebe:

Die Walküre: Wes Herd dies auch sei

2011-04-26T14:50:00.005-04:00

Final scene: Voigt, Terfel; (c) Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

In brief, I thought the best thing about the Met's Walküre was its phenomenal orchestra, and the worst its Picket Fence of Symbolism, as I am calling the set. Update: the Met has posted pictures; tellingly, most of them focus on the singers. The singing was thoroughly committed, and held many pleasant surprises. In the program was printed a "conversation with the director." Lepage was asked how he planned to engage the new dimensions of Walküre, after Rheingold. "Suddenly," said Lepage, "we deal with love and nature. Walküre is a piece where there are snowstorms, where there is lightning..." I had a sinking feeling. Lepage has often spoken of his fascination with the landscapes of Iceland, whence, of course, much of Wagner's source material hails. And so we got a Walküre obsessed with landscapes, rather than ideas. I grant, the forest for pursuer and pursued to weave through was effective, and yes, having the gods' conversations of Act II on top of a volcano can be an (unsubtle) metaphor for potentially explosive undercurrents. But I was not seeing a Walküre with landscape-as-metaphor. Lepage belabors the point of desired fidelity to the work. Failing to explore its layers and its ambiguities is, I would argue, a serious failing in this respect.
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Jesu, meine Freude

2011-04-22T23:36:00.001-04:00

I decided that, on Good Friday, Die Walküre would come under the heading of "all the vain things that charm me most." So I went to church. The paradoxes and mysteries of this liturgical season have had a great deal of music dedicated to them, and so I also went down to Immanuel Lutheran for a concert featuring J.S. Bach and Buxtehude. (One of the most valuable things I learned living in Germany was vigilance in looking out for free and cheap concerts of Bach and/or Buxtehude.) In addition to the church's choir, this evening of Good Friday music featured the contributions of early music group ARTEK, whose midday, midweek, midtown concerts I have often enjoyed. And I had a beautiful evening. ARTEK were impressive as ever, and the choir sang with passion and sensitivity to the music.

For me, lover of both German baroque music, and the wonderful old German that goes with it, the selections were a treat. After "Halt, was du hast" by Johann Michael Bach came Buxtehude's "Jesu, meine Freude." My favorite movement of this is without a doubt the bass solo "Trotz dem alten Drachen." Obviously this is a great deal of fun to say, but it is also an inspiring text in a vigorous setting, here sung by Eric Edlund. ARTEK had a moment to shine with Johann Rosenmüller's "O Jesu süß." Buxtehude's beautiful "O clemens, o mitis" was given with a lovely interiority by Tiffany Rosenquist and members of ARTEK. The J.S. Bach "Jesu, meine Freude" (BWV 227, text here) was given last, wisely. See you on the other side of Easter, Gentle Readers.

My Philadelphia Orchestra: Tribute in Tribulation

2011-04-19T21:47:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, there was big and shocking news for the classical music world: the Philadelphia Orchestra filed for bankruptcy. The Philadelphia Orchestra. I say "shocking news"; maybe better-informed folks were less than surprised, but I was both taken aback and deeply distressed. The most detailed response I've seen in the news comes from Peter Dobrin in the Philadelphia Inquirer. Musicians distributed leaflets and staged "play-ins" before the board's declaration of bankruptcy; in the aftermath, the official message of the orchestra carried unpleasant overtones of desperation. As if that weren't enough, the American Federation of Musicians has denounced the move. The orchestra's Twitter account continues to try to drum up support. Its website says they're restructuring. Under these messy and murky circumstances, I'm disinclined to obey the frantic plea for financial help. But I resist this plea only by gritting my teeth and repeating, mantra-like, "solution for the musicians, solution for the musicians." Because I do love the Philadelphia Orchestra. I think of it not only as the, but as my Philadelphia Orchestra. And to relieve my mind, and in deep gratitude to all the musicians who have made, and continue to make the orchestra what it is, here is why.
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Tosca è un buon falco!

2011-04-17T17:34:00.013-04:00

I wasn't planning on seeing Tosca again this season. But then, at the end of Saturday's radio broadcast of Wozzeck, they announced that, unfortunately, James Morris was ill, and would be replaced by Bryn Terfel as Scarpia in that night's performance. I couldn't resist. Having gone, I know that I would have been seriously missing out by not hearing Violeta Urmana's tigress of a Tosca. Licitra was robust, but it was the clash between Terfel and Urmana that gave the evening its energy, for me; the orchestra contributed beauty and drama.
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Expressive Urgency: Christopher Rouse at Carnegie Hall

2011-04-16T12:46:00.001-04:00

Christopher Rouse: press photograph

A varied and exciting program at Zankel Hall served as my introduction to American composer Christopher Rouse. A look at his website, with lists of awards, and ringing endorsements from Marin Alsop and John Adams, among others, had convinced me that I was missing out. I was delighted to discover his intelligent use of eclectic influences in four very different pieces. Rouse's passionate enthusiasm about music shone as clearly through the works themselves as through his charming conversations on stage. The audience--diverse, be it noted, in age and ethnicity--responded to the man and his music with eager appreciation.
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Opera Singer on the Silver Screen: Certified Copy

2011-04-13T01:03:00.032-04:00

I could say that I was motivated to see Abbas Kiarostami's Certified Copy by a sense of guilt about only knowing the Iranian director's work second-hand, or by curiosity to see what sort of role had been made for William Shimell, and what the baritone would make of it. But, although both of these things would be partially true, they leave out the overwhelming, deciding factor that got me to the cinema, and that is that I have a massive celebrity crush on Juliette Binoche. In all the films I've seen her in, she has left me with an impression of inimitable elegance, and a sense of the emotional truth of the journey undergone by whatever character she portrays. Reviewers seem to drift towards describing the film as a bittersweet, thoughtful romantic comedy (using at least three of those four words; rearrangement optional.) I think it would be more accurate to call it a discussion of philosophy, aesthetics, communication theory, and socialized gender roles. For this, I believe, it certainly is, although it also remains determinedly enigmatic and ambivalent. Binoche and Shimell, with other characters drifting in and out of their narrative, discuss and debate life and art, while wandering through Tuscany. What's not to like? Read more »

Sunday Special: #operaplot

2011-04-10T22:19:00.000-04:00

Rejoice, lovers of opera and witty banter: the season of #operaplot is upon us! What is #operaplot, you ask? A week (April 11-15) of opera lovers laughing maniacally while hunched over their computer screens, summarizing their favorite profound works of operatic art in a maximum of 140 characters of whimsical poetry or prose, and enjoying the efforts of others to do the same. It takes place on Twitter, under the auspices of The Omniscient Mussel (Twitter handle @missmussel.) While the game's the thing, it's technically a competition, with an impressive prize pool and a celebrity judge, the amazing (and, as demonstrated here, funny) Eric Owens:

I imagine that if you are on Twitter, you are already aware of this impending hilarity; if you've been waiting for an excuse to take the Twitter-plunge, this is a good one! It's a spectator sport, too, which I very much enjoyed last year. Even without a Twitter account, you can simply put #operaplot in the search bar and chuckle as you watch the entries tick by. If last year is anything to go by, the fun won't end on the 15th, either, as the entries are collected and collated, and opera nerds, er, enthusiasts everywhere put their heads together to match cryptic Tweets with the operas they describe. I'm very excited. For rules and FAQ, go here. I will, of course, be hunched over my own laptop, laughing maniacally, making my own submissions, and delighting in those of others.

Le Comte Ory: Ah, la bonne folie

2011-04-09T23:57:00.022-04:00

Le Comte Ory offers up a potent comedic cocktail of crazy disguises, games with gender, and mistaken identities (in bed!) If you're at all fond of Rossini, I imagine you have already succumbed to the charms of Juan Diego Florez, Joyce DiDonato, and Diana Damrau, who besides being stunning singers, are gorgeous and articulately charming people (it's just not fair, is it?) Here, they were at their most charming, and vocally excellent. I was hoping for something more cerebral from the candy-colored production, but I found it nigh-impossible to retain resentment when offered Joyce DiDonato in pirate boots and coat. The theater frame was unobtrusive, adding a quirky raison d'etre for chandeliers and curtains, but not extra layers of narrative significance, and all of the costumes appeared to be from the eighteenth century instead of the story's medieval setting of origin. To Bartlett Sher's credit, there was a knowing quality brought to the hijinks (most notable in the person of Diana Damrau's radiant Countess Adele) which acknowledged--if it did not really explore--many of the issues of gender roles, societal expectations based on class, and the often uneasy nearness of sexual and spiritual passions. I laughed harder than I thought, but with singing of that quality, I would have had to try very hard not to enjoy myself.
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Wozzeck: Der Mensch ist ein Abgrund

2011-04-07T10:19:00.016-04:00

Alan Held as Wozzeck; (c) Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

I'd been looking forward to the Met's Wozzeck for some time, but I didn't expect to love it. It was, of course, abysmally bleak. It was also brutally honest, surprisingly beautiful, and almost unbearably poignant: in short, one of the finest nights I've had at the opera this year, and perhaps ever. For a synopsis, go here. The tragedy was inevitable, and it had me on the edge of my seat. The singing and acting of all the principals was of an exceptionally high level, and James Levine led the orchestra in a reading of the score which I found coherent, detail-rich, and gorgeous. It was not aggressive; I overheard some muttering that it was, in fact, too beautiful a rendering. Well, not for me; I thought the subtleties were eloquent of despair.
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Nina, o sia la pazza per amore

2011-04-02T08:25:00.006-04:00

Giovanni Paisiello

The Manhattan School of Music's senior opera showcase was, this year, devoted to eighteenth-century box office king Giovanni Paisiello's "Nina." Thither, accordingly, having found out about this via La Cieca's invaluable NY opera calendar, I went. There's a promotional video here for the Cecilia Bartoli headlined production from Zurich in 2002, which has totally enchanted me via YouTube (you may recognize the tenor as well.) There was another production at La Scala under Muti with Antonacci in the title role, but the work, while it may be 'rediscovered,' has a long way to go to repertory. Zachary Woolfe has an article in the New York Times where he briefly outlines and considers Nina's relation to her mentally unstable sisters in the operatic repertory. Unfortunately unfamiliar with the music (I haven't managed to connect with that Bartoli DVD yet) I joined an audience of family, friends, and faculty (the latter including Catherine Malfitano, in a fabulous purple wrap) for an enjoyable foray into an opera which seems to deserve to be less of a rarity. Update: Greetings, deluge of readers looking for a Nina review! If you were involved with the performance, thanks again. Whoever you are, thanks for stopping by; I hope you enjoy.

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Il primo sole del aprile

2011-04-01T15:18:00.001-04:00

Although, like Mimi, I live on the top floor of a shabby building in an exciting city, I will have to wait some time for the first sun of April; New York is covered in a chilling mixture of rain and snow. But in an antic mood appropriate to April Fool's day, and in despite of the gruesome grayness of the weather, I thought I would share with you, Gentle Readers, some moments of sheer silliness from the operatic byways of YouTube.

Even the most dedicated Wagnerians--even when singing about the End of the World--can have a giggle. Georg Solti will put you back to work before too long, of course, but:

Few things are sillier than old-fashioned English translations of opera libretti. This fortunate interviewer had Nicolai Gedda (who seems to have stricter ideas about what constitutes a "cad" than the interviewer, disconcertingly,) Joan Sutherland, Tito Gobbi, and Mildred Miller gathered around his piano. So he decided, albeit with relatively pedantic intentions, to give them a "rather flowery" translation of the Rigoletto quartet. Hilarity ensues.

For comparison, here's what happens when they're turned loose on the real thing.
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Höheres gilt es als Zeitvertreib

2011-03-29T17:15:00.002-04:00

Kaiser and Fleming; (c) Ken Howard/Metropolitan Opera

Wort oder Ton? Ton und Wort... The Met's elegant Capriccio helped me understand better how Richard Strauss' last opera could be both a concatenation of playful jokes about the operatic genre, with heavy helpings of Straussian irony, and a thoughtful exploration of some of the unresolved (unresolvable?) questions of how opera--and all art--moves us, and why. In the hands of an accomplished cast, the conversation in this conversation piece seemed both witty and genuinely-felt, rather than merely self-absorbed (this was a problem I had while merely reading the libretto and listening to recordings, I admit. And yes, I realize how funny it is that that should be the case with this particular opera.) I may never become a devotee of Renee Fleming, but I think she's at her best in Strauss, and her diva-charisma was of not insignificant importance to creating a credible Madeleine. Those in the countess's orbit ranged from creditable to excitingly good, so I had a lovely night, though I never experienced the quasi-mystical emotional release Madeleine extols.
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Caro elisir!

2011-03-25T11:00:00.005-04:00

Lomeli and Nistico; photo (c) Carol Rosegg

Let me say at the outset that I like L'Elisir, and think that it's sweet and can even be profound, as well as being incontrovertibly funny. And there were not-insignificant aspects where I felt that the City Opera's current production fell short of realizing this, but with a fundamentally good-natured Dulcamara, a Belcore who didn't take himself too seriously, an Adina who can trill journeying credibly towards self-awareness, and a perfectly adorable Nemorino, there was enough to keep me happy. Let me get all my complaining about Jonathan Miller out of the way first, though. Although the production is sleek enough, I didn't feel it was insightful. I had hoped for possible poignant emphasis of social difference... but I didn't get much of that. The surtitles were updated to 1950s America along with the rest of it, and as a gentleman in front of me observed, aside from the scudi ("bucks",) there aren't significant obstacles to this. But I didn't think the production did anything (well, it did slapstick comedy, against which I admit a bias.) The Personenregie (credit to stage director A. Scott Parry) was nice when it wasn't slapstick; and the singers were creditably game in it all.

Opening Doors: Esa-Pekka Salonen and the NYPhil

2011-03-23T15:16:00.004-04:00

On Tuesday night, Esa-Pekka Salonen drew from the New York Philharmonic an exceptionally fine performance, where passion and energy overflowed, but not at the expense of nuance in dynamics, tempi, and of course, in drama! The opening piece, György Ligeti's "Concert Românesc" was overflowing with passion. I was unfamiliar with the piece, but I'd love to hear more of it; the program note informed me of Ligeti's interest in folk music, and echoes of dancing tunes (and Alphorns!) were clearly audible. Deliciously surprising things happened to the form, there was off-stage brass, great, vigorous playing from the entire orchestra, and delightful violin work--given the Gypsy influence, I'm tempted to say fiddling!--by Glenn Dicterow in the finale, which made me want to get up and dance. I assumed Haydn's 7th symphony had been selected because its common title, "Le Midi," giving it a thematic link to the Bartók. The program note was helpful here, too; apparently the symphony was composed shortly after Haydn entered the employ of the Esterházy family, explaining how he made it into a series called "Hungarian Echoes." Salonen and the orchestra also made a good case for its inclusion as a work that, like the other two on the program, pushed the boundaries of expected form and had a lot of fun doing it. The music was rendered with a passion, precision, and panache that Haydn certainly deserves but too seldom, I think, gets.
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Bluebeard's Castle: Doing My Homework

2011-03-22T23:27:00.005-04:00

My initial excitement for Bluebeard's Castle with the NYPhil was based on knowledge of the work's reputation alone, but over the past fortnight or so, I worked to change that. I started with the two recordings available through my university library. Because the opera gods smiled on me, one of these featured Christa Ludwig (excerpt here,) and the other featured Anne Sofie von Otter (inexplicably, that CD seems to be $50.00, but you can get the MP3 for $7.99; excerpt here.) Not the least of the reasons this pairing proved a fabulous introduction was that these mezzos presented wildly different interpretations (of course, Istvan Kertész and Walter Berry on the first recording, and Bernard Haitink and John Tomlinson on the second, are hardly chopped liver... but it's all about the mezzos for me. Especially these two.) Anyway: Christa Ludwig was a gorgeously warm Judith, overflowing with tenderness, her voice radiant with love and the need for love. Her performance was complemented by Walter Berry's clearly suffering Bluebeard, who wanted Judith as a person, not a trophy. Their tragedy, then, was that of two people who loved each other and couldn't find ways to communicate everything that needed to be said. That was heartbreaking; the Von Otter/Tomlinson recording was deeply unsettling. Von Otter's Judith was (I thought) afraid from the beginning, but also fiercely proud. I could almost see the defiant tilt of her head, and she demanded Bluebeard's trust as her right. This was a battle of wills with Tomlinson's outwardly immovable Bluebeard... which neither won.

My brain seething, then, with confused thoughts about romanticism, modernism, and gender, I turned to scholarly articles. I have discovered a lack of consensus (somehow unsurprising.) I have, however, discovered a number of other things as well! This very cool collection of essays includes one on "Bluebeard, Hero of Modernity" which places Bartók's opera in the context of lots (and lots and lots) of modernist anxiety about how to (re)define gender roles and public and private relations between men and women. In the same collection, there's a musicological article which taught me the word isomorphic, and about why the chords of F# and C sound so creepy together, and about the diabolus in musica (ooooh.) Also interesting to me were the connections between Bartók and the author of the play/libretto for Bluebeard's Castle, Béla Balázs. The men shared interests in both Hungarian folk music, and in symbolist drama like that of Maurice Maeterlinck, of Pelléas et Mélisande and Ariane et Barbe-Bleue fame. A chapter in a book by a psychotherapist sees the work as depicting "a failure to cross a threshold into a full conjoined intersubjectivity." Er, yes? More interestingly to me, the author noted musical cross-references to earlier works which Bartók had dedicated to earlier loves (he dedicated Bluebeard's Castle to his wife... no comment.) Carl Leafstedt, in The Cambridge Companion to Bartók, links the work (Bartók's only opera) to his other stage works as a "portrait of [modernist] loneliness"; meanwhile, Judit (!) Frigyesi, in this book, analyzes the influences of peasant and Gypsy music (even though he wouldn't admit it!) on Bartók's musical language. I've been having fun--can you tell? I still have more questions than answers, though. Hopefully I haven't bored you all to tears, Gentle Readers; tomorrow comes the more interesting post on what the NYPhil, Gabor Bretz, and Michelle DeYoung made of it all, and what I made of them. In the meantime, here's conductor Esa-Pekka Salonen talking about Bartók.

Sunday Special: Så som i himmelen

2011-03-20T17:18:00.001-04:00

I've been away from NYC's surfeit of live music opportunities for a few days, paying a filial visit to rural Pennsylvania. To my surprise, a meditation on music found me there. Why does music have the power to move us so profoundly? How is the way a world-class orchestra makes--and experiences--music different from that of an only-sometimes-in-tune village choir... and how is it similar? These are just a few of the questions I find myself mulling a few days after seeing Kay Pollack's 2004 film Så som i himmelen (As it is in Heaven.) I still can't decide whether its exploitation of audience expectations is shameless, or a stroke of genius... or both. I admit, freely, that I am sentimental (though hopefully not a sentimentalist.) And I happen to like the Lives Transformed Through Music plot (cf. Les Choristes.) I can't help it. And, at least at several days' remove, I think "As it is in Heaven" succeeds astonishingly well, despite (or because of) introducing several familiar plot arcs at once.
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Adoring the Anti-Diva: Christa Ludwig

2011-03-16T00:17:00.005-04:00

Today is the birthday of my very favorite mezzo ever, Christa Ludwig! This provides an excellent excuse for me to gush, so brace yourselves, Gentle Readers. I've been an admirer of hers since first listen, which was to her Brangäne for the 1966 Böhm Tristan. I will always imagine "Habet Acht!" in her voice. The fact that Ludwig's Brangäne is so emotionally as well as vocally rich contributes no small part to the recording's success, for me. (She recorded the role again under Karajan.) So much for the grounds of initial respect. But it was her Leonore which made me fall in love.
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Queen of Spades: Three, Seven, ACE

2011-03-12T12:14:00.005-05:00

I have a new object of hero-worship and his name is Andris Nelsons. I spent much of Friday night on the edge of my seat (which, unbelievably, was in the orchestra section and obtained at student price 15 minutes before curtain.) The Met's Queen of Spades, in a suitably moody production, romantic and stark by turns, and always stylish, is cast this season without a weak link; each of the principals brought impressive vocal artistry and theatrical intensity to their respective roles. Pictures from previous runs of Elijah Moshinsky's 1995 production may be found here and here; update: pictures from this run here. I feel I'd be better able to evaluate it if I were more familiar with the score, or other productions, but it served well to highlight the contrasts between the "normal" world of St. Petersburg and the fateful trajectory of the obsessed Hermann. I'm not quite sure I understood the device of the picture frame, although it did serve as a dramatic demarcation between Hermann and society in the scene at the ball and elsewhere. The restricted color scheme also helped keep even the grandest scenes from the merely spectacular (a scenery-applauder was shushed, and my soul rejoiced, but unfortunately they found strength in numbers on two occasions. Premature applauders were also shushed, twice! Overheard conversations confirmed the impression that although there were empty seats, those who were there were enthusiasts.) For a quick synopsis of the opera go here.
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Il dolce suono mi colpì

2011-03-10T00:43:00.004-05:00

I went to Tuesday's performance of Lucia di Lammermoor for the sake of the singing, but the quality of the performances from the four principals surpassed my expectations. Even in a production which didn't give them much help, I thought they also each managed to give a striking dramatic portrayal as well. Despite some inconsistent conducting and the tragic absence of a glass harmonica (beautifully played flute solo, but I want my eerie esoteric instrument, please!) Donizetti's bel canto masterpiece shone. As far as Mary Zimmerman's production goes, I think a stylized visual vocabulary based on the tropes of Gothic literature is actually a neat idea for Lucia, and the mixture of exaggerating certain elements (see the moon, above) with naturalism didn't strike me as too jarring (pictures here.) However, and this is a not inconsiderable criticism, I didn't feel the production gave much support to the dramatic arc of the plot or the inner life of the characters; the stand-and-sing syndrome had a tendency to manifest itself. The production did leave space for the characters to have inner life, and the two final scenes were, I thought, superior to the rest of the production in this respect, with Edgardo's death scene visually echoing Lucia's madness very movingly.

Roméo et Juliette: L'heure s'envole

2011-03-08T12:25:00.017-05:00

I went to the second performance of the current run of Roméo et Juliette at the Met, and found it overflowing with charm, but rather lacking in sustained tension, erotic or otherwise. Vocally, though, I was quite impressed; according to seat neighbors, things were more solid on that front than on the first night. Guy Joosten's production, frankly, did nothing for me. I like a perspective drawing or a constellation map as much as (well, probably more than) the next person, but "It's the Renaissance!" strikes me as insufficient for a driving production idea. The firmament was also very present, echoing the motifs of the libretto, but not in a visually consistent way; elegant maps and models ("It's the Renaissance!") were supplemented by Space Age photographs, mostly of nebulae, on the back wall. Then there was a solar eclipse, and then there was something resembling an Escher drawing. I don't know what it was supposed to be doing there... possibly representing that violence leads nowhere. But we knew that already.
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Tanti affetti in tal momento: Joyce DiDonato at Carnegie Hall

2011-03-07T00:09:00.001-05:00

In one of the charmingly chatty intervals in which Joyce DiDonato enthusiastically filled her audience in on the background of the music she was singing, she speculated with a chuckle that, had her academic specialty been vocal performance instead of music education, and had she proposed beginning a recital with Haydn's "Scena di Berenice," the proposed project would have received failing marks. However, on Sunday afternoon, not only did she start with this, she did "Tanti Affetti" as an encore. In between were songs of Cecile Chaminade, more lovingly-sung Rossini, a new Jake Heggie cycle, and a smattering of serenades. I was boggled by the ambition of this, but DiDonato sailed through it all with a smile as stunning as her technique.
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Sunday Special: Singing of spring

2011-03-06T00:24:00.000-05:00

Like everyone else in the Northeastern United States, I imagine, and legions elsewhere, I have begun to doubt the approach of spring, even as I desire it. There is still snow on the ground here, and a few warm days have only served to sharpen the contrast with the freezing temperatures. (At least they aren't much below freezing.) But yesterday had warm sun with its cool breeze; and I saw the first buds on a tree this past week, and the first nubs of green bravely poking above the ground. So here is a medieval musical miscellany to go with this changeable season:

And as an addendum of sorts: did you know that Hermann Prey (he bodes well to become a Sunday Special celebrity!) recorded some of the works of the Minnesänger? I didn't before starting on the creation of this post, but now I do.

L'Africaine: A Love Triangle and a Poisonous Tree

2011-03-03T15:55:00.009-05:00

Principals of L'Africaine 1865 premiere in costume

L'Africaine is Meyerbeer's final opera, polished and premiered posthumously. In my quest to read up on it, I found a site for the Meyerbeer Fan Club which shows its age, but contains discographies and links to scholarly articles, not to be despised. There's a synopsis here. It would seem not unstageable in the twenty-first century--see this detailed review of a 2004 production by the Opera du Rhin--despite the drama deriving from encounters between Europeans and an extravagantly exotic Other. The identity of this Other is somewhat flexible; the libretto--by none other than Eugène Scribe--started out with the action in Africa and Spain, but later revisions placed the story in Portugal and India. No civilization has a monopoly on stock villains in the opera, as there is both a character who invokes Indian gods against sailors, and an Inquisitor; in fact, the dagger-wielding, pagan-gods-invoking Nelusko is a fairly complex character. The only libretto I could find was an English translation of the hilariously ornate variety. (Also impressively ornate are the headdresses worn by Selikas of the past.) As far as I could judge from the text, there are both subtleties and ambivalences in how the characters are presented. These uncertainties and inconsistencies, I would argue, make this fantasy narrative about Vasco de Gama, his ambitions, and the two women who think he's just the dishiest thing, more stageable rather than less. My cursory investigation seems to reveal a dizzying lack of consensus among scholars as to the actual natures and motivations of the characters. Naturally this entails a certain amount of disagreement as to the Point Of The Opera as well. The Opera Orchestra of New York skipped past the historical-philosophical debates in the tagline: Torn Between Two Lovers--How Will It End?

My impressions are of course hampered by the fact that this was my first hearing of the music, but I was favorably impressed, if not transported. Eve Queler was--understandably and, I think, commendably--applauded with a fervor that acknowledged her role as the OONY founder. However, while the orchestra gained in energy over the course of the evening, I suspected that the music could have been given more variation in dynamics and tempi to communicate the emotional drama of the score. Maybe I'm looking for something that's not there, but the orchestration, the vocal characterization, and the libretto all seemed to suggest the possibility for more intensity than I experienced. Still, the music was interesting and evocative. Piccolos, soft cymbals, and a triangle may seem like a musical cliché in the introduction of the Exotic Other, but if everyone else was copying Meyerbeer, one can't blame him (except for Orientalism.) The scene where de Gama's plans are debated in council was dramatically great--factions of a male chorus shouting at each other over an orchestra, with more important characters voicing their own motivations as well!--and the music of the mysterious island was lushly sensual. I'm not familiar enough with the score to say whether or not there were cuts; the music and drama developed smoothly, though.
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Rossini on a Rainy Day: Petite Messe Solennelle with the New York Choral Society

2011-02-26T10:33:00.003-05:00

Bon Dieu; la voilà terminée, cette pauvre petite messe. Est-ce bien de la musique sacrée que je viens de faire, ou bien de la sacré musique ? J'étais né pour l'opera buffa, tu le sais bien ! Peu de science, un peu de cœur, tout est là. Sois donc béni et accorde-moi le Paradis. -- Gioachino Rossini, dedication to Petite Messe Solennelle

I was rescued from the doldrums of a rainy Friday by the generosity of Taminophile, who magnanimously made it known that he had a spare ticket to Rossini's Petite Messe at Lincoln Center. I jumped at the chance, and had the very great pleasure of--finally!--meeting the charming Taminophile, discussing bel canto, and listening to Rossini! I have conscientiously not read his blog post on it yet, but you all should (not only is he charming, but he knows a lot more about Rossini than I do.) My homework on the 1863 piece--which, although I'm familiar with movements from it, I don't think I'd previously heard in its entirety--was facilitated by this Philip Gossett article, so I could appreciate it without feeling too clueless. And it was exquisitely lovely; I'm at a loss to know why it isn't more often performed, especially as Rossini's original call for twelve singers would seem to be well within the reach of any church with a well-developed music program. There were, I admit, a few moments where I had to remind myself that repetition and embroidery are key hallmarks of the Rossini style, and I just needed to sit back and relax and bask in it. And bask I did.
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Interval Adventures: Shopping with the City Opera

2011-02-24T22:16:00.001-05:00

I've been keeping my nose to the academic grindstone this week, but succumbed to the blandishments of the advertised Spring Vintage event at the New York City Opera's thrift shop, and headed down for a look around. Now, I'll admit that I feared that what were advertised as "unbelievably low prices" on vintage Dior, Yves Saint Laurent, Missoni, etc., and prices in any way approaching approachable for the graduate student's budget might be poles apart. But I went down, and lo! I found the promised land of thrift shops.
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