Věc Makropulos

The plot of Janáček's Makropulos Case is driven by intrigues legal, historical, and--not least--sexual. The Met's current revival of the 1926 opera is powered by a performance of radiant intensity by Karita Mattila. Elijah Moshinsky's 1996 production is sleek and effective, with Art Deco lines to the claustrophobic lawyer's office, a self-satirizing sphinx backstage at the opera, and (seen above) a sleek apartment which dissolves in the denouement. Central to the production was the image of the diva, and the question of how she is seen by others and herself. Jiří Bělohlávek led the Met orchestra in an account which seemed to emphasize romantic sweep and mysteriously shimmering detail. I speak (Really Shameful Confession) from a position of almost complete ignorance of the score, but I savored the brio and sensuality of the performance.

Nabucco: non implora che la vita del suo cor

 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:

Ariadne auf Naxos: Töne, töne, süße Stimme

(c) Cory Weaver/Metropolitan Opera

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.

Queen of Spades: Three, Seven, ACE

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.