Knight at the opera
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Faust vs. the Met? We won! Nov. 25, 2008
One hell of a job is all I could think while walking home from the Met's Damnation of Faust. Two weeks after seeing them try to turn
A-Bomb builder Robert Oppenheimer into a Faustian figure in the largely forgettable Dr. Atomic, it was a real pleasure to see Hector
Berlioz's treatment of the classic plot with the devil for youth and love, written by Goethe among others.
For all its rich material, it's an opera that doesn't get dusted off very often. The current production is the Met's first staging since 1906. It's
essentially a montage of sketches on a Faustian theme that Berlioz composed and presented over several years that he glued together into an
opera. It didn't fly in his day and getting all the parts to fit apparently has bedeviled opera companies since.
Interactive videography and some seriously athletic staging orchestrated by production manager Robert Lepage and designer Holger Forterer
really helped to pull together the mash-ups of emotions in the plot. Set changes at the twist of a video dial were the easy miracles. Demons
scurried up walls. Heavenly seraphim floated in. Faust and his beloved Marguerite float in an on-screen dream world or become consumed
with emotional fire on the big 3D screen that filled the stage behind them. Although it bordered on a Music Television Video show, it
effectively allowed the twisty plot to logically unfold.
What better conductor for a score that changes directions more often than turns at Le Mans than James Levine, who drove the production
like a well-tuned Porsche. With only four singers, the real work was done by the pit crew, and coordinating those instrumentalists with the
offstage band.
Berlioz literally wrote the book on orchestration and he didn't disappoint in the opera he'd hoped would define his career. A Wagnerian-sized
orchestra with all sections fully staffed, plus four harps and extra percussion, barely squeezed into the pit. Not surprisingly, the army of
instruments was used sparingly for just the right tone color to portray the emotions on stage. A diabolical little serenade Mephistopheles
uses goad Marguerite into falling for Faust, for instance, sounds like it could be plucked on a guitar, which was Berlioz's instrument. All
strings plucking away in pizzicato turned the orchestra into one hell of a big guitar. A simple ominous gong marked the signing of the
contract that damns his soul.
Baritone-bass John Relyea projected well as the devil himself, lithe and oily with no goal but the fun of trapping some hapless mortal's soul.
Susan Graham was the kind of soprano any tenor could love, absolutely voluptuous in sound and appearance. She had the nerve to be
presented on big screen in Part IV and sing the ending aria while scaling a ladder above the stage curtain to enter heaven in the epilogue. Our
Faust Marcello Giordani had the notes nailed but seemed a little preoccupied on the acting end. It is one of those epic singing roles for
tenors, and he's also doing Verdi's Requiem, Pinkerton in Butterfly for the Met this season. Plus he's Romeo in Vienna, Gabrielle in
Barcelona and Calif in Budapest. That's a lot of shifting gears in roles not to mention flights and hotel rooms.
Thank heavens Marcello and the rest of this huge cast of singers, instrumentalists, dancers and supporting crew can get together to present
this classic reminder of human frailties that can lead to damnation.
One hell of a job is all I could think while walking home from the Met's Damnation of Faust. Two weeks after seeing them try to turn
A-Bomb builder Robert Oppenheimer into a Faustian figure in the largely forgettable Dr. Atomic, it was a real pleasure to see Hector
Berlioz's treatment of the classic plot with the devil for youth and love, written by Goethe among others.
For all its rich material, it's an opera that doesn't get dusted off very often. The current production is the Met's first staging since 1906. It's
essentially a montage of sketches on a Faustian theme that Berlioz composed and presented over several years that he glued together into an
opera. It didn't fly in his day and getting all the parts to fit apparently has bedeviled opera companies since.
Interactive videography and some seriously athletic staging orchestrated by production manager Robert Lepage and designer Holger Forterer
really helped to pull together the mash-ups of emotions in the plot. Set changes at the twist of a video dial were the easy miracles. Demons
scurried up walls. Heavenly seraphim floated in. Faust and his beloved Marguerite float in an on-screen dream world or become consumed
with emotional fire on the big 3D screen that filled the stage behind them. Although it bordered on a Music Television Video show, it
effectively allowed the twisty plot to logically unfold.
What better conductor for a score that changes directions more often than turns at Le Mans than James Levine, who drove the production
like a well-tuned Porsche. With only four singers, the real work was done by the pit crew, and coordinating those instrumentalists with the
offstage band.
Berlioz literally wrote the book on orchestration and he didn't disappoint in the opera he'd hoped would define his career. A Wagnerian-sized
orchestra with all sections fully staffed, plus four harps and extra percussion, barely squeezed into the pit. Not surprisingly, the army of
instruments was used sparingly for just the right tone color to portray the emotions on stage. A diabolical little serenade Mephistopheles
uses goad Marguerite into falling for Faust, for instance, sounds like it could be plucked on a guitar, which was Berlioz's instrument. All
strings plucking away in pizzicato turned the orchestra into one hell of a big guitar. A simple ominous gong marked the signing of the
contract that damns his soul.
Baritone-bass John Relyea projected well as the devil himself, lithe and oily with no goal but the fun of trapping some hapless mortal's soul.
Susan Graham was the kind of soprano any tenor could love, absolutely voluptuous in sound and appearance. She had the nerve to be
presented on big screen in Part IV and sing the ending aria while scaling a ladder above the stage curtain to enter heaven in the epilogue. Our
Faust Marcello Giordani had the notes nailed but seemed a little preoccupied on the acting end. It is one of those epic singing roles for
tenors, and he's also doing Verdi's Requiem, Pinkerton in Butterfly for the Met this season. Plus he's Romeo in Vienna, Gabrielle in
Barcelona and Calif in Budapest. That's a lot of shifting gears in roles not to mention flights and hotel rooms.
Thank heavens Marcello and the rest of this huge cast of singers, instrumentalists, dancers and supporting crew can get together to present
this classic reminder of human frailties that can lead to damnation.
EVERY OPERA
Bob rants
about the Met's
performance as
he has for
decades as a
season ticket
holder. Here
are selected
notes of past
performances.
Yeah, yeah, we
all have ideas,
but Bob's are
shaped with a
Master of Music
from Ohio
University and
a deep feeling
that opera
spared his
favorite horn,
the trombone,
from complete
obscurity.
Bob rants
about the Met's
performance as
he has for
decades as a
season ticket
holder. Here
are selected
notes of past
performances.
Yeah, yeah, we
all have ideas,
but Bob's are
shaped with a
Master of Music
from Ohio
University and
a deep feeling
that opera
spared his
favorite horn,
the trombone,
from complete
obscurity.
A bomb of nuclear proportions Nov. 5, 2008
Dr. Atomic became my season opener at the Mets last night. That's the N.Y. opera house, not the ball team. The development of the atomic
bomb surely was a milestone of operatic proportions and presenting Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, the physicist who spearheaded the U.S.
effort, as a Faust-like figure seems inspired. Where composer John Adams fell flat with this 2005 work that is debuting at the Metropolitan
this season, is character development. Had the plot extended to after the war, when Oppenheimer rued the misery his invention created, or
better presented some of the sensitive side of this genius, it might have stirred feelings that his miserable soul was worth saving. Instead the
entire action revolves around the tension in the few weeks leading up to the test at Los Alamos, N.M. Cookie-cutter characters are
bellowing like reality TV stars over rhythmic pulses of a Phillip Glass-like score. Quotes from Oppenheimer's and his wife, Kitty's, favorite
poets are woven into a libretto that consists largely of text extracted from documents of the day. However, the angular, unmelodic lines
convey little emotion except vexation. One has to admire the singers and the orchestra for pulling off this demanding score with
accompanying tape and off-stage singers and instrumentalists. Conductor Alan Gilbert's Met debut was truly a trial by fire! The pit had
interesting effects instruments like a contrabass clarinet, contra-bassoon gamelons and other special percussion effects. Sets effectively
propelled the mind back to a 1940s Army base. The sense was completed with costuming civilian men in broad fedoras and suits, women in
midi-length dresses of the day and soldiers in replicas of mens' and womens' World War II uniforms. Oddly, it had two acts, the traditional
structure for comic operas. Maybe composer Adams plans to add the third act that'd turn this farce of an opera into a serious work of art.
Dr. Atomic became my season opener at the Mets last night. That's the N.Y. opera house, not the ball team. The development of the atomic
bomb surely was a milestone of operatic proportions and presenting Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, the physicist who spearheaded the U.S.
effort, as a Faust-like figure seems inspired. Where composer John Adams fell flat with this 2005 work that is debuting at the Metropolitan
this season, is character development. Had the plot extended to after the war, when Oppenheimer rued the misery his invention created, or
better presented some of the sensitive side of this genius, it might have stirred feelings that his miserable soul was worth saving. Instead the
entire action revolves around the tension in the few weeks leading up to the test at Los Alamos, N.M. Cookie-cutter characters are
bellowing like reality TV stars over rhythmic pulses of a Phillip Glass-like score. Quotes from Oppenheimer's and his wife, Kitty's, favorite
poets are woven into a libretto that consists largely of text extracted from documents of the day. However, the angular, unmelodic lines
convey little emotion except vexation. One has to admire the singers and the orchestra for pulling off this demanding score with
accompanying tape and off-stage singers and instrumentalists. Conductor Alan Gilbert's Met debut was truly a trial by fire! The pit had
interesting effects instruments like a contrabass clarinet, contra-bassoon gamelons and other special percussion effects. Sets effectively
propelled the mind back to a 1940s Army base. The sense was completed with costuming civilian men in broad fedoras and suits, women in
midi-length dresses of the day and soldiers in replicas of mens' and womens' World War II uniforms. Oddly, it had two acts, the traditional
structure for comic operas. Maybe composer Adams plans to add the third act that'd turn this farce of an opera into a serious work of art.
Peaceful season closer May 1, 2008
My 2007-08 Met Opera series sputtered to a close tonight with Satyagraha. Named for Mahatma Gandhi's peaceful resistance movement,
the opera was based on his life while developing the protest method as a young lawyer in South Africa in the early 1900s. The topic surely
has depth worthy of operatic treatment. Alas it was trivialized with Philip Glass's mind-numbing New Age score for Constance DeJong's
libretto.
Sung in Sanskrit, a language as dead as Latin, the work was performed without the benefit of a translation being available to the audience.
Occasionally chestnut sayings of Gandhi or Tolstoy, with whom he corresponded, were projected on the scenery, sometimes in English and
others in Sanskrit. Paper machete monsters wandered the stage from time to time. A few times they obviously represented action of the
plot, but mostly they their symbolism was a mystery. The gargoyles and an active stage crew that raised and lowered miscellaneous props
from the ceiling provided some movement. Otherwise, staging was nearly as static as a concert performance of an opera.
Glass orchestrated Satyagraha with a small ensemble of strings and woodwinds – no horns or percussion – to blend seamlessly with an
electric combo organ, which also was present to fill in possible gaps when wind instrumentalists caught breaths. There was virtually no
change in timbre as they played rapid arpeggios that rarely strayed from a few chords surrounding do. This busy repetitive matrix drifted
below a descant of reliably dramatic fortissimo vocal lines that could be understood by all the Sanskrit speakers in the audience. Glass's
signature sound gave refreshing twists in collaborations with Glam Rocker David Bowie and fellow New Ager Brian Eno. But after nearly
four hours of trance music, I was glad to go OM.
My 2007-08 Met Opera series sputtered to a close tonight with Satyagraha. Named for Mahatma Gandhi's peaceful resistance movement,
the opera was based on his life while developing the protest method as a young lawyer in South Africa in the early 1900s. The topic surely
has depth worthy of operatic treatment. Alas it was trivialized with Philip Glass's mind-numbing New Age score for Constance DeJong's
libretto.
Sung in Sanskrit, a language as dead as Latin, the work was performed without the benefit of a translation being available to the audience.
Occasionally chestnut sayings of Gandhi or Tolstoy, with whom he corresponded, were projected on the scenery, sometimes in English and
others in Sanskrit. Paper machete monsters wandered the stage from time to time. A few times they obviously represented action of the
plot, but mostly they their symbolism was a mystery. The gargoyles and an active stage crew that raised and lowered miscellaneous props
from the ceiling provided some movement. Otherwise, staging was nearly as static as a concert performance of an opera.
Glass orchestrated Satyagraha with a small ensemble of strings and woodwinds – no horns or percussion – to blend seamlessly with an
electric combo organ, which also was present to fill in possible gaps when wind instrumentalists caught breaths. There was virtually no
change in timbre as they played rapid arpeggios that rarely strayed from a few chords surrounding do. This busy repetitive matrix drifted
below a descant of reliably dramatic fortissimo vocal lines that could be understood by all the Sanskrit speakers in the audience. Glass's
signature sound gave refreshing twists in collaborations with Glam Rocker David Bowie and fellow New Ager Brian Eno. But after nearly
four hours of trance music, I was glad to go OM.
Go nuts at the Met March 27, 2008
Prokofiev's version of Dostoyevsky's The Gambler just packed my senses. What a production! No less than 31 solo singing roles and an
orchestra pit packed so tight it's a wonder it didn't burst when they inhaled in unison. With that big of crew, it's no wonder it doesn't get
staged too often. Too bad, although many might pass on it since it doesn't leave an audience with a tune to whistle on the way to the
subway home.
Local regulars who were peddling their ducats outside the Met had no problem selling them to tourists with pockets packed with euros.
English was a second language in the audience, with Russian and German predominating.
Nearly all singers and the conductor, Valery Gergiev, were Russian. Bringing out the best in Prokofiev and Dostoyevsky was a matter of
nationalistic pride and deep-felt sensitivity to the social norms that contributed to the plot and orchestration. Prokofiev's experiment with
what Germans would call sprechstimme – speech-song – meshed wonderfully with the angular bombastic orchestral parts to convey the
dizzying madness of waning aristocrats losing their dwindling fortunes to their addiction to gambling. All singing and instrumental parts
seemed impossibly demanding, making sense only in an ensemble setting.
Costuming was early 20th century, when this was written. The sets capture casino glitz with an earlier flair, but touch on casinos today
with lighting effects and movement. The cast acted up a storm, especially our lead gambler Alexei, played by Vladimir Galouzine. This
energetic role would've left Pavarotti clutching his chest early in Act I of IV.
An unfortunate stage accident is the only way death could be introduced to the plot, oddly. Characters threaten mass mayhem. People try to
commit suicide. Duels are challenged. The orchestra includes a full "hit squad" of three trombones and a tuba, plus two harps to transport
souls beyond. What a waste of good talent. The stage was ripe for a pile of bodies, but these losers can't pull it off.
They just go mad.
Prokofiev's version of Dostoyevsky's The Gambler just packed my senses. What a production! No less than 31 solo singing roles and an
orchestra pit packed so tight it's a wonder it didn't burst when they inhaled in unison. With that big of crew, it's no wonder it doesn't get
staged too often. Too bad, although many might pass on it since it doesn't leave an audience with a tune to whistle on the way to the
subway home.
Local regulars who were peddling their ducats outside the Met had no problem selling them to tourists with pockets packed with euros.
English was a second language in the audience, with Russian and German predominating.
Nearly all singers and the conductor, Valery Gergiev, were Russian. Bringing out the best in Prokofiev and Dostoyevsky was a matter of
nationalistic pride and deep-felt sensitivity to the social norms that contributed to the plot and orchestration. Prokofiev's experiment with
what Germans would call sprechstimme – speech-song – meshed wonderfully with the angular bombastic orchestral parts to convey the
dizzying madness of waning aristocrats losing their dwindling fortunes to their addiction to gambling. All singing and instrumental parts
seemed impossibly demanding, making sense only in an ensemble setting.
Costuming was early 20th century, when this was written. The sets capture casino glitz with an earlier flair, but touch on casinos today
with lighting effects and movement. The cast acted up a storm, especially our lead gambler Alexei, played by Vladimir Galouzine. This
energetic role would've left Pavarotti clutching his chest early in Act I of IV.
An unfortunate stage accident is the only way death could be introduced to the plot, oddly. Characters threaten mass mayhem. People try to
commit suicide. Duels are challenged. The orchestra includes a full "hit squad" of three trombones and a tuba, plus two harps to transport
souls beyond. What a waste of good talent. The stage was ripe for a pile of bodies, but these losers can't pull it off.
They just go mad.
Love this Romeo and Juliette Dec. 20, 2007
Romeo and Juliette died about an hour ago, but the Met's show just revved me up. It was the second time I'd seen Gounod's tale of the
star-crossed teens. Last year I swapped tix to a warhorse show to see something different, and was glad to see it on the regular series this
year, especially with a real cast upgrade.
Tenor Placido Domingo, who'd sung Romeo in past years, conducted. He's hyper-sensitive to singers and the drama. It was the first time
I'd seen Joseph Kaiser, as Romeo. He has hunky youthful looks and almost enough power to balance Juliette, sung by Anna Netrebko. She's
a drop-dead gorgeous Russian soprano, and the two were fully capable of acting as well as Tony and Maria in West Side Story, while
effortlessly belting out songs. Anna surely must have titanium vocal folds because Juliette is singing almost non-stop in five acts and she
didn't seem to get warmed up until the lines approached double fortissimo and the stratosphere. Yet when she was cranking out sound, her
face reflected the mood of the moment. Even during a deserved applause of over a minute, she held character.
Gounod's score is somehow lush yet spare. The orchestration is sumptuously rich French romantic but without extra color instruments
Italian Verdi might've used like a bass clarinet for pathos or a piccolo for levity. Bagging four bodies with a hit squad of only two trombones
and no tuba seems light; but French horns in low register doubling bass fiddles gave a brassy bottom at crucial death scenes. This might've
been the only French opera I've seen without a ballet, and the program notes say one exists that usually isn't performed.
There was plenty of movement to compensate for a lack of dance in Johannes Leiacker's set. It melds a sense of alchemy and religion of
the time with modern effects. Period oil paintings of Verona as the overall backdrop gounded the drama and Jorge Jara's costumes.
Tonight's 320th Met performance of this opera was live-cast on Sirius Satellite Radio channel 85. Hmm. If good stuff is available on this
medium, maybe it's time to consider it?
Romeo and Juliette died about an hour ago, but the Met's show just revved me up. It was the second time I'd seen Gounod's tale of the
star-crossed teens. Last year I swapped tix to a warhorse show to see something different, and was glad to see it on the regular series this
year, especially with a real cast upgrade.
Tenor Placido Domingo, who'd sung Romeo in past years, conducted. He's hyper-sensitive to singers and the drama. It was the first time
I'd seen Joseph Kaiser, as Romeo. He has hunky youthful looks and almost enough power to balance Juliette, sung by Anna Netrebko. She's
a drop-dead gorgeous Russian soprano, and the two were fully capable of acting as well as Tony and Maria in West Side Story, while
effortlessly belting out songs. Anna surely must have titanium vocal folds because Juliette is singing almost non-stop in five acts and she
didn't seem to get warmed up until the lines approached double fortissimo and the stratosphere. Yet when she was cranking out sound, her
face reflected the mood of the moment. Even during a deserved applause of over a minute, she held character.
Gounod's score is somehow lush yet spare. The orchestration is sumptuously rich French romantic but without extra color instruments
Italian Verdi might've used like a bass clarinet for pathos or a piccolo for levity. Bagging four bodies with a hit squad of only two trombones
and no tuba seems light; but French horns in low register doubling bass fiddles gave a brassy bottom at crucial death scenes. This might've
been the only French opera I've seen without a ballet, and the program notes say one exists that usually isn't performed.
There was plenty of movement to compensate for a lack of dance in Johannes Leiacker's set. It melds a sense of alchemy and religion of
the time with modern effects. Period oil paintings of Verona as the overall backdrop gounded the drama and Jorge Jara's costumes.
Tonight's 320th Met performance of this opera was live-cast on Sirius Satellite Radio channel 85. Hmm. If good stuff is available on this
medium, maybe it's time to consider it?
Rondine is a lot to swallow Feb, 26, 2009
Giacomo Puccini's rarely performed confection La Rondine is as lush and beautiful as it is disturbing. Somehow this rich dessert becomes
less satisfying as it's consumed.
Courtesan Magda is Rondine, French for swallow, who dares to fly toward the sunny emotion of true love, only to have underlying morality
quash the dream she shares with her soul mate, Ruggero. The plot conjures thoughts of La Traviata. Unlike Violetta's death to tuberculosis
that puts a tear-jerker end to Giuseppe Verdi's masterpiece, though, you feel like shooting this prostitute for breaking the heart of her true
love to return to the flesh trade.
This is a mature work for Puccini. Riffs of Magda's swallow song waft throughout much like the love song of Chio-Chio San, another
Puccini courtesan reaching for true love, in Madama Butterfly. What keeps Rondine from being as cloying is comic relief by her maid and a
poet who aspires to marry into wealth. Puccini's stint in Vienna, home of operettas and waltzes, added a light step to the music.
Romanian Angela Gheorghiu is as desirable of courtesan as any guy could ever hope for. She nails Magda with a voice and bod as
voluptuous as her acting. It fairly matched her Ruggero, Giuseppe Filianoti. Romanian tenor Marius Brenciu, making his Met debut as the
poet Prunier balanced with New Orleans soprano Lisette Oropesa as, coincidentally, Lisette the maid. Met vet Samuel Ramey seemed as
classy yet aloof as you'd expect a wealthy courtesan-hiring lothario like Rambaldo to be.
Enzio Figerio's sets made you wish to be transported to pre-World War I in Paris and Nice. The bustle and décor of Bullier's, the bistro
where Magda and Ruggero fall in love, is so romantic and chaotic. It's where the ballet that must be in every French opera occurs and it left
no doubt about the pulsing vibe of this pickup bar. Late romantic orchestration adds richness to the sweet melodies with spritzes of
disturbing harmony that hint of 20th century sounds, which were coalescing as this opera debuted.
It was odd seeing this opera revolving around the excesses of the wealthy, dredged up by the Met to celebrate Puccini's 150th birthday, as
we battle a recession. La Rondine debuted at the Met 80 years ago and played only a few seasons as the "big depression" rolled in. The
disinterest in staging has been blamed on the downturn. Or was it a growing sense of a lack of substance as the plot unfolds.
Giacomo Puccini's rarely performed confection La Rondine is as lush and beautiful as it is disturbing. Somehow this rich dessert becomes
less satisfying as it's consumed.
Courtesan Magda is Rondine, French for swallow, who dares to fly toward the sunny emotion of true love, only to have underlying morality
quash the dream she shares with her soul mate, Ruggero. The plot conjures thoughts of La Traviata. Unlike Violetta's death to tuberculosis
that puts a tear-jerker end to Giuseppe Verdi's masterpiece, though, you feel like shooting this prostitute for breaking the heart of her true
love to return to the flesh trade.
This is a mature work for Puccini. Riffs of Magda's swallow song waft throughout much like the love song of Chio-Chio San, another
Puccini courtesan reaching for true love, in Madama Butterfly. What keeps Rondine from being as cloying is comic relief by her maid and a
poet who aspires to marry into wealth. Puccini's stint in Vienna, home of operettas and waltzes, added a light step to the music.
Romanian Angela Gheorghiu is as desirable of courtesan as any guy could ever hope for. She nails Magda with a voice and bod as
voluptuous as her acting. It fairly matched her Ruggero, Giuseppe Filianoti. Romanian tenor Marius Brenciu, making his Met debut as the
poet Prunier balanced with New Orleans soprano Lisette Oropesa as, coincidentally, Lisette the maid. Met vet Samuel Ramey seemed as
classy yet aloof as you'd expect a wealthy courtesan-hiring lothario like Rambaldo to be.
Enzio Figerio's sets made you wish to be transported to pre-World War I in Paris and Nice. The bustle and décor of Bullier's, the bistro
where Magda and Ruggero fall in love, is so romantic and chaotic. It's where the ballet that must be in every French opera occurs and it left
no doubt about the pulsing vibe of this pickup bar. Late romantic orchestration adds richness to the sweet melodies with spritzes of
disturbing harmony that hint of 20th century sounds, which were coalescing as this opera debuted.
It was odd seeing this opera revolving around the excesses of the wealthy, dredged up by the Met to celebrate Puccini's 150th birthday, as
we battle a recession. La Rondine debuted at the Met 80 years ago and played only a few seasons as the "big depression" rolled in. The
disinterest in staging has been blamed on the downturn. Or was it a growing sense of a lack of substance as the plot unfolds.
Rigoletto is sweet revenge April 9, 2009
Giuseppe Verdi's Rigoletto seems so moralistically righteous that it's tough to fathom what censors of his day saw wrong about this
adaptation of Victor Hugo's 1832 play Le Roi s'amuse. After all, the cursed misshapen misfit in the title role gets serious comeuppance for
his mean streak and unbridled desire for revenge when his plot to kill the sex-crazed duke who deflowered his precious daughter, Gilda,
backfires with her murder by the very assassins he'd hired to kill the duke. But dramas that included assassinations and trysts developing
from flirtatious winks during Catholic Church services weren't taken lightly in the mid-1800s in the politically divided land mass we now
call Italy. Censorship led to at least four variations of the opera circulating simultaneously during Verdi's lifetime. Being a freelancer, he was
happy to collect royalties on all of them. Fortunately enough of the original notes were saved to provide us with the classic we enjoy today.
Joe Green never disappoints musically and nobody stages opera like the Metropolitan. It's one of their warhorses that never grows stale, not
even at the N.Y. company's 824th performance of the score. Zack Brown's sets and costumes transported listeners to Renaissance times, a
period grudgingly accepted by Verdi to get his work staged after censors panned contemporary France. The opera gave conductor
Riccardo Frizza his first gig with the Met. The Brescia, Italy, native paced the performance to a tee, wrapping it up on time and on budget
at 11 p.m. Apparently Met execs know enough to factor rapturous outbursts of applause into timing a performance by a cast and orchestra
that delivered wonderfully. Our Gilda was German soprano Diana Damrau, who's brought many roles to life at the Met. Our Rigoletto
(Roberto Frontali), Duke (Joseph Calleja), and assassin Sparafucile (Raymond Aceto) homogenized well with Damrau as Met vets.
Sparafucile's sexy sister and partner in the murder-for-hire business, Maddalena, was sung and very realistically acted by newcomer
Viktoria Vizen. Hopefully this delicious raven-haired mezzo-soprano will have more reasons to come to New York from her Kecskemet,
Hungary, home.
There was only one disappointment of the evening, but it's a big one. It was the last show of the regular season unless I spring for another
ticket or two. Hmm. This is conductor James Levine's last scheduled stint of leading Richard Wagner's Ring Cycle.
Giuseppe Verdi's Rigoletto seems so moralistically righteous that it's tough to fathom what censors of his day saw wrong about this
adaptation of Victor Hugo's 1832 play Le Roi s'amuse. After all, the cursed misshapen misfit in the title role gets serious comeuppance for
his mean streak and unbridled desire for revenge when his plot to kill the sex-crazed duke who deflowered his precious daughter, Gilda,
backfires with her murder by the very assassins he'd hired to kill the duke. But dramas that included assassinations and trysts developing
from flirtatious winks during Catholic Church services weren't taken lightly in the mid-1800s in the politically divided land mass we now
call Italy. Censorship led to at least four variations of the opera circulating simultaneously during Verdi's lifetime. Being a freelancer, he was
happy to collect royalties on all of them. Fortunately enough of the original notes were saved to provide us with the classic we enjoy today.
Joe Green never disappoints musically and nobody stages opera like the Metropolitan. It's one of their warhorses that never grows stale, not
even at the N.Y. company's 824th performance of the score. Zack Brown's sets and costumes transported listeners to Renaissance times, a
period grudgingly accepted by Verdi to get his work staged after censors panned contemporary France. The opera gave conductor
Riccardo Frizza his first gig with the Met. The Brescia, Italy, native paced the performance to a tee, wrapping it up on time and on budget
at 11 p.m. Apparently Met execs know enough to factor rapturous outbursts of applause into timing a performance by a cast and orchestra
that delivered wonderfully. Our Gilda was German soprano Diana Damrau, who's brought many roles to life at the Met. Our Rigoletto
(Roberto Frontali), Duke (Joseph Calleja), and assassin Sparafucile (Raymond Aceto) homogenized well with Damrau as Met vets.
Sparafucile's sexy sister and partner in the murder-for-hire business, Maddalena, was sung and very realistically acted by newcomer
Viktoria Vizen. Hopefully this delicious raven-haired mezzo-soprano will have more reasons to come to New York from her Kecskemet,
Hungary, home.
There was only one disappointment of the evening, but it's a big one. It was the last show of the regular season unless I spring for another
ticket or two. Hmm. This is conductor James Levine's last scheduled stint of leading Richard Wagner's Ring Cycle.
Life after House of the Dead Nov. 12, 2009
It's a good idea to read Fyodor Dostoevsky's From the House of the Dead or at least the Cliff Notes on it before taking in Leos Janacek's
operatic adaptation of the novel. The work debuted at the Metropolitan Opera on Nov. 12 and will be shown in theaters on March 20.
Janacek truncates the story, but reading it first helps in following the plot of Dostoyevsky's stint in a Siberian prison in the 19th century.
Being sentenced to these hard-labor prisons was truly a fate worse than death, which was adequately portrayed by Patrice Chereau's
production amid Richard Peduzzi's bleak set. Alexander Gorianchikov, Dostoyevsky's character, was more of a presence than a leading
role. He is flogged to near death shortly after his first-act arrival for telling the commandant that he is a political prisoner, and set free by a
drunken commandant at the end. Prisoners Luka, Skuratov and Shishkov advance the plot by telling tales of why they're in jail in
sprechstimme. There are no melodies to whistle heading home from this opera, but Janacek's orchestration will keep ringing in your ears.
The stark but complex score was directed by Esa-Pekka Salonen in his Met debut. Identifying the leading players was at times difficult in a
stage filled with men creating mayhem while wearing the ragged costumes designed by Caroline de Vivaise. However that only seemed to
extend the woes of the leads to lesser players. Although the setting and prisoner tales were grim, a sense of love of mankind and life itself
prevailed as it does in the novel.
Dostoyevsky considered his time in prison for involvement in a liberal group as a defining moment that helped him appreciate that every
person deserves respect or at least understanding. In one hour and 35 minutes, this rarely performed opera will help to reset one's moral
compass.
It's a good idea to read Fyodor Dostoevsky's From the House of the Dead or at least the Cliff Notes on it before taking in Leos Janacek's
operatic adaptation of the novel. The work debuted at the Metropolitan Opera on Nov. 12 and will be shown in theaters on March 20.
Janacek truncates the story, but reading it first helps in following the plot of Dostoyevsky's stint in a Siberian prison in the 19th century.
Being sentenced to these hard-labor prisons was truly a fate worse than death, which was adequately portrayed by Patrice Chereau's
production amid Richard Peduzzi's bleak set. Alexander Gorianchikov, Dostoyevsky's character, was more of a presence than a leading
role. He is flogged to near death shortly after his first-act arrival for telling the commandant that he is a political prisoner, and set free by a
drunken commandant at the end. Prisoners Luka, Skuratov and Shishkov advance the plot by telling tales of why they're in jail in
sprechstimme. There are no melodies to whistle heading home from this opera, but Janacek's orchestration will keep ringing in your ears.
The stark but complex score was directed by Esa-Pekka Salonen in his Met debut. Identifying the leading players was at times difficult in a
stage filled with men creating mayhem while wearing the ragged costumes designed by Caroline de Vivaise. However that only seemed to
extend the woes of the leads to lesser players. Although the setting and prisoner tales were grim, a sense of love of mankind and life itself
prevailed as it does in the novel.
Dostoyevsky considered his time in prison for involvement in a liberal group as a defining moment that helped him appreciate that every
person deserves respect or at least understanding. In one hour and 35 minutes, this rarely performed opera will help to reset one's moral
compass.
Waltz up at the Met Oct. 22, 2009
Richard Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier may be nearly 100 years old, yet it'd seem right in place in any supermarket tabloid gossip rag. It kicks
off with a cougar enjoying a dalliance with a lad who ultimately meets the age-appropriate girl of his dreams when he's called upon to
deliver a silver rose – a symbol of betrothal – on behalf of a Baron Ochs. Sophia, the lovely lass, is repulsed by the fading Don Juan,
especially after melting at first sight of Octavian, the rose bearer.
Various subplots of family matters, royalty mixing with bourgeois, and points of honor and legality combine with finely orchestrated hoaxes
with lots of visual and verbal gags. Four and one-half hours after conductor Edo de Waart dropped the baton, the young lovers are united,
her dad gets the cougar Marschallin and the lecherous baron ignominiously gets the door. Drama queen Lindsay Lohan and her staff of
flacks couldn't have generated more scandal.
Strauss cast Octavian as a mezzo-soprano, who sings many a duet and trio along with the two female leads, lending a shrill timbre to the
vocal score. Kristinn Sigmundsson put as much bottom to the sound as possible as Baron Ochs. However even this powerful bass can do
only so much against some of the highest octane sopranos at the Metropolitan Opera gas pump: Renee Fleming as Marschallin, Miah
Perrson as Sophia and Susan Graham in the pants role.
What kept it from turning into a screech competition was the lush orchestration that swirls the plot along with waltzes by the Viennese
master composer. The audience didn't mind that the dance form wasn't around in the mid-1700s when the plot was set. It just floated from
the grandeur of Vienna recreated in Robert O'Hearn's sets and costumes, across Lincoln Center Plaza and into the New York City subway
as if on a dance floor under the stars.
Richard Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier may be nearly 100 years old, yet it'd seem right in place in any supermarket tabloid gossip rag. It kicks
off with a cougar enjoying a dalliance with a lad who ultimately meets the age-appropriate girl of his dreams when he's called upon to
deliver a silver rose – a symbol of betrothal – on behalf of a Baron Ochs. Sophia, the lovely lass, is repulsed by the fading Don Juan,
especially after melting at first sight of Octavian, the rose bearer.
Various subplots of family matters, royalty mixing with bourgeois, and points of honor and legality combine with finely orchestrated hoaxes
with lots of visual and verbal gags. Four and one-half hours after conductor Edo de Waart dropped the baton, the young lovers are united,
her dad gets the cougar Marschallin and the lecherous baron ignominiously gets the door. Drama queen Lindsay Lohan and her staff of
flacks couldn't have generated more scandal.
Strauss cast Octavian as a mezzo-soprano, who sings many a duet and trio along with the two female leads, lending a shrill timbre to the
vocal score. Kristinn Sigmundsson put as much bottom to the sound as possible as Baron Ochs. However even this powerful bass can do
only so much against some of the highest octane sopranos at the Metropolitan Opera gas pump: Renee Fleming as Marschallin, Miah
Perrson as Sophia and Susan Graham in the pants role.
What kept it from turning into a screech competition was the lush orchestration that swirls the plot along with waltzes by the Viennese
master composer. The audience didn't mind that the dance form wasn't around in the mid-1700s when the plot was set. It just floated from
the grandeur of Vienna recreated in Robert O'Hearn's sets and costumes, across Lincoln Center Plaza and into the New York City subway
as if on a dance floor under the stars.
Have a bender at the Met Dec. 3, 2009
Jacques Offenbach's Les Contes d'Hoffmann became the latest victim of general manager Peter Gelb's drive to freshen the Metropolitan
Opera's repertoire. When Bartlett Sher's new production debuted last night, the drama on poet Hoffmann's three failed love affairs was
fast-forwarded to the 1920s for the most part. Some characters didn't get the memo and mingled in costumes ranging from the 17th
century to 2009 pole dancing attire. Hoffmann bought his suit somewhere in the 1940s. Gratuitous modern-metaphorical sets were lowered
and raised at various times, replacing cast action that had propelled earlier productions with mere scenery movement. Yet mixed costuming
and colorful mechanical stage changes might make sense to a besotted poet telling his woes to the regulars in Luther's Tavern.
What saves the show is the power of Offenbach's genius realized by top-flight musicians.
Tenor Joseph Calleja as Hoffman was wonderfully matched with his leading ladies: Kathleen Kim as Olympia the mechanical doll; Anna
Netrebko as Antonia the dying diva and Stella the prima donna in her prime; and Ekaterina Gubanova as the courtesan. Baritone Alan Held
was powerful as Hoffmann's nemesis as Coppelius the optician whose glasses made the mechanical doll seem real and Dapertutto, who
spurred the courtesan Giulietta to steal Hoffmann's reflection. Unfortunately the production deprived Held a chance to be a truly diabolical
Dr. Miracle in killing off Antonia. Better luck next rewrite. Netrebko's awesome power as Antonia was to die for. Kate Lindsey, who sings
Hoffmann's Muse throughout, was at the opposite end of the Met volume knob, yet she's belted some powerful Wagner roles for the
company. The balance this pro achieved worked. The love interests in each act are supposed to be centers of attention. The Muse is an
inner voice that floats throughout. She might not even physically exist, yet the Muse observes and tweaks scenarios until she nudges poet
Hoffmann back to his typewriter after his night of debauchery on the town. Now there's a plot every freelancer can understand. James
Levine led a flawless orchestra. If this cast is recorded, buy the CD.
Jacques Offenbach's Les Contes d'Hoffmann became the latest victim of general manager Peter Gelb's drive to freshen the Metropolitan
Opera's repertoire. When Bartlett Sher's new production debuted last night, the drama on poet Hoffmann's three failed love affairs was
fast-forwarded to the 1920s for the most part. Some characters didn't get the memo and mingled in costumes ranging from the 17th
century to 2009 pole dancing attire. Hoffmann bought his suit somewhere in the 1940s. Gratuitous modern-metaphorical sets were lowered
and raised at various times, replacing cast action that had propelled earlier productions with mere scenery movement. Yet mixed costuming
and colorful mechanical stage changes might make sense to a besotted poet telling his woes to the regulars in Luther's Tavern.
What saves the show is the power of Offenbach's genius realized by top-flight musicians.
Tenor Joseph Calleja as Hoffman was wonderfully matched with his leading ladies: Kathleen Kim as Olympia the mechanical doll; Anna
Netrebko as Antonia the dying diva and Stella the prima donna in her prime; and Ekaterina Gubanova as the courtesan. Baritone Alan Held
was powerful as Hoffmann's nemesis as Coppelius the optician whose glasses made the mechanical doll seem real and Dapertutto, who
spurred the courtesan Giulietta to steal Hoffmann's reflection. Unfortunately the production deprived Held a chance to be a truly diabolical
Dr. Miracle in killing off Antonia. Better luck next rewrite. Netrebko's awesome power as Antonia was to die for. Kate Lindsey, who sings
Hoffmann's Muse throughout, was at the opposite end of the Met volume knob, yet she's belted some powerful Wagner roles for the
company. The balance this pro achieved worked. The love interests in each act are supposed to be centers of attention. The Muse is an
inner voice that floats throughout. She might not even physically exist, yet the Muse observes and tweaks scenarios until she nudges poet
Hoffmann back to his typewriter after his night of debauchery on the town. Now there's a plot every freelancer can understand. James
Levine led a flawless orchestra. If this cast is recorded, buy the CD.
A bloody good show at the Met Jan. 7, 2010
Turandot, Giacomo Puccini's tale of an ice princess, was warmly received at the Metropolitan Opera. This production has yet to undergo
general manager Peter Gelb's drive to modernize the repertoire, so the audience was treated to Franco Zeffirelli's sumptuous sets and Anna
Anni's and Dada Saligeri's intricate costumes.
Turandot holds a grudge against men and challenges princely suitors to answer three riddles for her hand in marriage. Those who fail are
tortured and executed. By the time our hero, Calaf, arrives the princess has planted dozens of bodies in the royal cemetery. Despite urging
of everyone from his dad, a slave who truly loves him named Liu, the emperor of China and his clerics, Calaf takes the challenge. The lusty
lad not only solves the puzzles, but wins her true affection.
The production's biggest flaw ironically kind of worked drama-wise. Despite his ample frame our Calaf, tenor Philip Webb, was easily
overpowered by sopranos Maria Guleghina as Turandot and Marija Kovalevska as Liu. Yet the drama is about women with deep emotions,
Liu's intense love and Turnadot's equally intense hatred. Calaf is just another guy who carries his brain between his legs. He's the kind of
shallow fellow who deserves the ice princess he gets instead of the real prize, Liu, who ends up being just another cadaver.
To pull off so many deaths, the opera has two harps to accompany souls to the afterlife and a big hit squad of brass. Besides horns in the
pit, there are backstage sections and ones in the top rows of the audience providing an antiphonal effect. You can't hear this at home
through the TV. Written in the late '20s, the score orders saxophones, colorful woodwinds like a bass clarinet and bass bassoon, lots of
percussion from bells, chimes and gongs, plus an organ. All this extra firepower did not work in Webb's favor in tutti passages.
Puccini did not have the pleasure of hearing his final opera. It was finished posthumously by Franco Alfano, a successful opera composing
contemporary. He was Puccini's competition on the Billboard chart. Considering what Alfano pulled together that's now beloved under
Puccini's name, it would be nice to hear what he wrote and produced under his own imprimatur.
Turandot, Giacomo Puccini's tale of an ice princess, was warmly received at the Metropolitan Opera. This production has yet to undergo
general manager Peter Gelb's drive to modernize the repertoire, so the audience was treated to Franco Zeffirelli's sumptuous sets and Anna
Anni's and Dada Saligeri's intricate costumes.
Turandot holds a grudge against men and challenges princely suitors to answer three riddles for her hand in marriage. Those who fail are
tortured and executed. By the time our hero, Calaf, arrives the princess has planted dozens of bodies in the royal cemetery. Despite urging
of everyone from his dad, a slave who truly loves him named Liu, the emperor of China and his clerics, Calaf takes the challenge. The lusty
lad not only solves the puzzles, but wins her true affection.
The production's biggest flaw ironically kind of worked drama-wise. Despite his ample frame our Calaf, tenor Philip Webb, was easily
overpowered by sopranos Maria Guleghina as Turandot and Marija Kovalevska as Liu. Yet the drama is about women with deep emotions,
Liu's intense love and Turnadot's equally intense hatred. Calaf is just another guy who carries his brain between his legs. He's the kind of
shallow fellow who deserves the ice princess he gets instead of the real prize, Liu, who ends up being just another cadaver.
To pull off so many deaths, the opera has two harps to accompany souls to the afterlife and a big hit squad of brass. Besides horns in the
pit, there are backstage sections and ones in the top rows of the audience providing an antiphonal effect. You can't hear this at home
through the TV. Written in the late '20s, the score orders saxophones, colorful woodwinds like a bass clarinet and bass bassoon, lots of
percussion from bells, chimes and gongs, plus an organ. All this extra firepower did not work in Webb's favor in tutti passages.
Puccini did not have the pleasure of hearing his final opera. It was finished posthumously by Franco Alfano, a successful opera composing
contemporary. He was Puccini's competition on the Billboard chart. Considering what Alfano pulled together that's now beloved under
Puccini's name, it would be nice to hear what he wrote and produced under his own imprimatur.