The Enchanted Island: Insubstantial Pageant

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.

Maltese Tenor: Joseph Calleja launches CD at LPR

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.

Don Giovanni: Cogliere io vo’ il momento

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!)