Great Voices Sing John Denver

Placido Domingo & John Denver, ca. 1980

I associate John Denver with road trips: rolled down windows, long ribbons of asphalt, and a carful of untrained singers happily caroling "Take me home, country roads." I think of his singing as characterized by a simplicity redeeming a sentimentality that might otherwise seem oppressively earnest. The project of having opera singers interpret these open-air ballads was one I viewed with intense if somewhat skeptical curiosity. The undertaking was the brainchild of Denver's arrangers, and facilitated by the considerable influence of Placido Domingo (more details here.) I couldn't resist the opportunity to review the resulting album, especially since I'm currently staying with my mother, whose adolescence coincided with Denver's heyday, and who therefore led Denver sing-alongs on road trips. Her enthusiasm for the project was great; and so I undertook my critical listening with her helpfully at hand as a one-woman control group for my bias towards loved singers and potential indifference to Denver's lyrics. The album's attempt to find a meeting ground for Denver's music and operatic voices met with decidedly mixed results. Too many of the arrangements were dominated by sentimental strings wallowing in the predictable harmonies common to many classical crossover or pseudo-classical albums. I thought that allowing the participating artists to cross further over into Denver's musical language--or, indeed, simply a greater variety in the arrangements--would have been, on the whole, more felicitous. On the whole, I'm inclined to regard the disc more as a curious conversation piece than anything else, but my mother enjoyed listening to it enormously (including the heckling of misfires), leading me to the conclusion that it may be more successful with John Denver fans than diehard opera lovers, for situations where those two categories don't overlap.

Ogni farfalla da uno spillo è trafitta

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

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.

Roméo et Juliette: L'heure s'envole

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.

Iphigénie en Tauride: partage mon bonheur

Christoph Willibald von Gluck, c. 1775

I think it's shocking that there should be unsold tickets going for student prices for the opening night of Iphigénie en Tauride with Susan Graham and Plácido Domingo.   Shocking (I'm trying not to gloat.)  I don't know where the usual buyers of orchestra prime seats were, but they were missing out.  It was my first live experience of any Gluck opera (Really Shameful Confession,) and I loved it (for a quick summary of the plot go here.)  The dark intensity and haunting beauty of the music were beautifully communicated, and Stephen Wadsworth's production--not to mention the vocal performances--caught nicely both the emotional immediacy and the ritual unfolding of the drama.  And before I go any further, Gentle Readers, I must confess that I am woefully under-informed on the debates of baroque performance, so I'm just going to give my impressions and beg for your clemency.

Plácido Domingo: ad multos annos

I suspect that Plácido Domingo himself is one of very few people in the world who can keep track of his prodigious and prodigiously varied achievements. As the opera world dons party hats, figuratively speaking, for his seventieth birthday on Friday (I rather hope that literal party hats might be involved somewhere; there was at least a surprise party) I thought this would provide a good excuse for the post I've long felt I've owed him, anyway.  Plácido Domingo was one of the first figures in the world of opera I came to know: he's been Virgil to my Dante for much of the core operatic repertoire, and is primus inter pares among my Honorary Operatic Uncles. So, I'm putting on my own figurative party hat.

Egli muore! o, ciel, ei muore!

Last Sunday, as posters around the city and banners on websites insistently reminded me, the Oscars were awarded. In theory (leaving aside the probably disheartening answer of how the system of nomination actually works) this celebrates Excellence in Film Generally. And I have a confession: besides Cinematography, the acting categories are usually the only ones--if any--that really arouse my partisanship. (Related confession: I don't see many films, because if I have a choice between spending $12 on a film and $20 on an opera...!) And all this is leading up to something: what about acting in opera?

Fach Schmach

The title of this post is intended to be read in German, as a confession of shame [Schmach] rather than a dismissive splutter of indifference. Yes, among the Really Shameful Confessions which seem to be piling up is that the concept and limits of fach have been a source of confusion to me. Of course, I've done enough opera listening to understand that a tenore di grazia and a Heldentenor are on opposite ends of a spectrum where lirico and spinto come somewhere in between. But what about a lirico spinto? What about singers who transition into (predominantly) one type of repertoire from another? What about Placido Domingo? When more experienced devotees (usually in the line for Rush Tickets at the Met) started talking about a singer's fach, I remained shyly silent, trying to understand what was going on and what the disagreements were about.

Like the protagonist of Daddy-Long-Legs, however, I usually cope with not understanding things by quietly going and reading up on them. The faithful branch libraries of the NYPL provided me with Fred Plotkin's Opera 101 (clearly mendacious subtitle: "a complete guide to learning and loving opera.") I found it less patronizing than I had feared (hooray), frequently entertaining, and on pages 125-43 (sneakily viewable through Amazon), informative about fach. What about Placido Domingo? may be a question for the ages, but I feel better informed now. Whew!

Viva Simon, del popolo l'eletto!!!

All three of those exclamation points, I would have you know, are in the libretto of Verdi's Simon Boccanegra. I have just finished listening to this opera, which I love, on the Met broadcast (sadly too busy to make it downtown) and am still a little choked up. I made the acquaintance of Boccanegra by seeing it absolutely cold in Frankfurt in 2007, in a strikingly successful minimalist production, with Zeljko Lucic unforgettable in the title role. While preparing oneself for a performance with some combination of score, libretto, recordings, and history may be the nobler path, I had a fantastic evening entirely caught up in the Hitchcockian suspense of Verdi's drama. This time, more prepared but scarcely less on the edge of my seat, I was treated to Placido Domingo as the Doge, the great James Morris as Fiesco, Adrianne Pieczonka as Amelia and Marcello Giordani as Gabriele Adorno. (Stephen Gaertner was Paolo; perhaps my greatest tribute to his performance is that I originally left him out of my list because of being angry at him. Who could hate Simon Boccanegra? Only evil, sneaky conspirators! Edit: Gentle Reader Bearitone has corrected my original listing of Nicola Alaimo in the role.)