Sta in voi salvarlo

Monday night was my third experience of Tosca in Luc Bondy's much-discussed production.  It still strikes me as far from coherent, but last night it did offer some interesting ideas.  These ideas didn't so much present a complete or compelling picture as float among costumes of 1800, film noir lighting, and Ikea furniture, but there they were.  The lighting and staging both seemed even more Tosca-via-Raymond-Chandler than I remembered.  An elderly gentleman sitting behind me, who had seen Tebaldi and Milanov, among others, in the role, plaintively remarked: "Well, it does focus one's attention on the singing, which I suppose is the point.  But... I think a good production should say something."  Well said, sir.  One curious aspect was that all three of the principals seemed to have acquired something of Tosca's tendency for self-dramatization.  Cavaradossi seemed the least aware of this, so maybe the overtly histrionic delivery was the fault of blocking.  The theatrical Scarpia of Falk Struckmann, however, was deliciously, ironically self-aware; of this more later.  My chief problem with the production remains that its visual and dramatic language is neither coherent, nor clearly propelled, as far as I can see, by ideas (other than general cynicism.)  Hence the title of this post: what the production communicates is left largely up to the singers.

Mia Tosca idolatrata

At the risk of losing all credibility by enthusing effusively for two successive operas, I have to say that Wednesday's "Tosca" was an extraordinary experience. I am firmly and passionately in the camp that argues for "Tosca" as intelligent, effective drama. There are so many moments in it which leave me in awe of Puccini--how did he know to do that?--and I am a happy believer in Tosca and Mario and Scarpia as complex, passionate people. So, my susceptibility (but also the choosiness that is based on love!) having been established, onwards.

To be honest, I can't quite say "ogni cosa in te mi piace" about the Met's current production, but let me try to follow the King's advice from Alice and begin at the beginning (and, when I come to the end, stop.) Luc Bondy's stark new production, and the Met audience's reaction to it, have both achieved notoriety by this point. But having seen it twice now (in standing room for the glamor--and, as it turns out, for the boos--of the season premiere) I think I can honestly say that... it's hit and miss. In Act I, the image of the Virgin at which Tosca prays is invisible to the audience. The space in which the action of Act I takes place is simply a stark, slightly untidy work space. Act II is... well, I still think it's ugly. Scarpia's walls are mustard-yellow and chocolate brown; he has aggressively magenta sofas, large maps on the walls, a writing desk (of course!) and a tiny table with one straight chair and one armchair for his "povera cena." And a throw rug which looks like something from IKEA gone wrong, which I was mercifully spared this time by standing in the orchestra instead of at the top. Act III is, again, stark, monumental. No angel, but a sheer staircase leading up to the battlements on the right, and a hatch in the center for the soldiers' entrances and exits. It's a comfortless, exposed place; the production as a whole does not seek to distract from the bleak realities of the plot. The approach is mostly naturalistic, with a few exceptions in lighting (stark spotlights on Angelotti's entrance, an ominous, hospital-bright glow from the off-stage room in Act II) and blocking (there's no plausible reason for Scarpia to enter the church and climb a staircase so that he overlooks the entire set... but it sure does make an entrance!) I think the first and third acts work well; I don't think a sensualist like Scarpia would have an ugly study! but there. More images from the whole thing here.

Vissi d'arte, vissi d'amore

Poor Tosca's cri de coeur has perhaps suffered from being so very beautiful. It's become--perhaps it has always been--a showpiece. We're accustomed to hearing it as a proof of technical facility and artistic accomplishment. And I admit, I know I've sat back in a university recital hall thinking, "Fine, show me," instead of honorably doing my best to think of the devout, passionate woman caught in an impossible situation in 1804 Rome. Tosca has garnered praise and blame for its melodramatic tendencies, and I'm not denying that a soprano being asked for sexual favors (ahem) by a corrupt baritone police chief in order to save her tenor lover from execution has, to put it mildly, rather an air of the contrived about it. But who can remain unmoved when Tosca sings what has sometimes been called her credo: her almost childlike enumeration of her good deeds, her unquestioning giving of herself in love, in charity, in song, ending with the heartbroken, unanswerable "why?"