This review was written in collaboration with David Salazar. 

On April 23, the Metropolitan Opera opened a new production of “Lucia di Lammermoor.”

This marked the second production of Donizetti’s masterpiece during General Manager Peter Gelb’s term. In 2007, the company brought a production by Mary Zimmerman which set the piece in Victorian times and created a ghost story out of the work. Zimmerman’s take had some flaws but overall was traditional in many aspects and created a vehicle for its sopranos to interpret and rework the blocking to make it suitable to their needs.

Fifteen years later the Met decided to bring Simon Stone, a transgressive theater and film director who had already directed operas in Europe, to helm the masterwork. It was always going to be a challenge due to the updating of the work from 17th century Scotland to a present-day town in the Rust Belt. Leading up to the premiere the production had garnered mixed reception on social media and the New York Times even predicted boos.

Safe to say those who were scared were right—Stone’s production was nothing less than a disaster.

Where to Look? The Distancing Effect of Too Many Screens

A few years back, Broadway put up a short-lived production of “West Side Story” by Ivo van Hove that was promptly shut down by COVID-19. But before that happened, audiences were given a chance to witness it. The main attraction of that show was that it featured massive screens that amplified the action taking place on the stage. And while it proved an interesting concept that allowed audiences to come closer to the action, it also proved distancing and confusing from a visual perspective.

Of that showcase, The NY Times said the following: “The fact that our focus is repeatedly splintered obviates much chance for emotional concentration and, consequently, the possibilities to be truly moved.” The review goes on to note two moments of crucial dramatic pull that were undercut by the inability to discern where he needed to place his focus. He notes that there is a television playing while Maria and Anita fight over the recent tragedy and that unfortunately, the critic found himself “trying to make out the grainy heads on the small TV and wondering what they had to say.”

Imagine this, but worse and you have Simon Stone’s take on “Lucia.”

From the very start of the opera until the end, the audience is forced to make a very problematic choice—watch a massive movie screen hanging over the proscenium (and sometimes even on the proscenium) or watch what is happening onstage.

When the curtain rises to open the night, we watch on a massive screen as Lucia is attacked in front of her house and then subsequently saved by Edgardo. The screen rises to the top of the stage and we are then shown the action taking place on stage and then on camera, both in real-time. Naturally, most audience members would be drawn to the screen for a few reasons—it’s novel for an opera production; as our own mobile devices would demonstrate, we are naturally drawn to screens; and in the case of this particular scene and others like it, it brings us closer to the action.

And one might make an argument for seeing the action happening up close makes for a unique operatic experience and potentially amplifies what is happening onstage.

But then the seams of the concept immediately start showing moments later.

The entire plot of Lucia hinges on Enrico’s impending ruin and the need to exploit his sister to save him. Getting in the way of that is her love for Edgardo, which Enrico needs to act on. Most of that is laid out in the opera’s opening scene though no one would blame any audience member that somehow missed all of it due to Stone’s decision to keep the cameras rolling and following Nadine Sierra’s Lucia up into her room and watch her paint some picture.

Splitting attention between seeing Sierra paint and attempting to keep track of Enrico’s entire scene is the kind of headache-inducing exercise that makes people run for the exits. Imagine having to sit through three-hours of the same exercise time and time again.

That entire opening scene (and baritone Artur Ruciński) was sabotaged not only by the distraction but by the tonal incoherence. Things that shouldn’t be funny somehow undercut the stakes of what is going on. As Enrico bellows his anger at the situation with his sister, Lucia takes selfies with Edgardo, drawing tons of laughs from the audience; ditto to a package of Goya beans, the only item that Mexican tenor Javier Camarena swiped at the counter given any sort of visual prominence. As Latin American audience members, we didn’t find that moment amusing in the least but simply reductive of not only our culture but ALL Latin American cultures. Nowhere else in the opera is Camarena’s Latin American identity explored or represented in the opera except in this one moment that was essentially played for laughs. It was stereotypical mockery clearly directed by a white person (fortunately, it’s also an easy one to fix).

In any case, Ruciński’s opening scene would not be the last to be sabotaged by big screens. Lucia and Edgardo’s big love scene was diminished by the fact that it was set in a drive-in movie theater with the screen playing a classic black-and-white film (would a Rust Belt town be playing an old Hollywood movie at a local drive-in 2022?). Once more, the attention was split between trying to follow the music and singing and watching the massive film on-screen and trying to figure out why this film (program notes indicate that it is “My Favorite Brunette,” a 1947 spoof of film noirs). As an audience member, one is under the assumption that anything onstage is essential and that it has a dramatic purpose for the storytelling. So if Stone is going to put up a black-and-white movie onstage while his two lovers are singing to each other, the basic understanding is that this movie has some symbolic importance that can better illuminate what Stone is saying about the opera. One would think that he didn’t pick the film by chance. So most of this scene was spent trying to figure out why this specific movie, a futile exercise if you don’t know what the film is. That in and of itself creates a distancing effect that distracts you from being in the moment with the story and characters.

The screens continued to be major issues throughout the second Act. Once more, the opening of this act begins with Enrico plotting. But at the top of the screen, Lucia is typing messages to Edgardo in real-time. Where do you think our eyes settle? No one would blame anyone for being confused about what is going on plot-wise because the two crucial scenes that explore Enrico’s motivation were completely undercut by screens. And this scene, where the stakes of the drama are building, was similarly undercut by laughter in the audience as Lucia checks out Edgardo’s pictures. The coup de grâce came a few scenes later when Enrico shows Lucia pictures of Edgardo’s “infidelity,” also via movie screen at the top of the proscenium. For Lucia, this is a major turning point in her downward spiral—the only man she’s ever trusted has betrayed her. Now this poor woman, after years of exploitation at the hands of an abusive brother, has no one to turn to. If you want to understand why she murders a guy later and goes mad, this scene is the one where it all starts to come undone. Except it was impossible to take it seriously with audience members “loling” as Lucia takes a look at the pictures.

One of the big challenges of doing real-time cameras (or doing ANYTHING with cameras in general) is that it requires tremendous coordination and precision. One poor move in the wrong direction by anyone involved (actor / lighting / camera / crew) and the entire illusion and suspension of disbelief can come undone. Unfortunately, this reality became all too clear at the end of the second Act, specifically during the moments preceding the sextet. The stage was so messily crowded with people that the camera operators seemed to lose their way a few times and the image actually broke the fourth wall and exposed the audience. But in other instances, the choreography was so chaotic that the camera’s images (which were generally quite attractive and well-lit) got exceedingly sloppy. It was a nightmare; the entire blocking of this scene came off as if it was still being rehearsed. Directing massive groups is a major challenge for any director, but especially for an opera director. Most opt for the “less is more” principle as a means of finding a balance between the leads and the chorus. Unless the effect is general chaos, the chorus isn’t doing much or is doing the same thing. But in this case, there was too much frenzied action happening at once. Edgardo and Enrico are facing off. Arturo is being inappropriate with Lucia. And in the background some chorus members are fighting, among other distractions. Throw in the crammed mis-en-scene and the mess of colors and the entire thing came off as random and improvised (and not in a good way).

The other challenge that can arise from using video in a real-life production is a technical misfire. Those who have been going to the Met Opera the last decade or so might have born witness to the endless misfires of “The Machine” for the Ring production. We have witnessed a handful of such disasters in which the technology stops working, the images misfire, or the system reboots. In the case of this “Lucia” production, the camera feed turned dark as the set transitioned to Lucia’s first big scene in Act one. Later on, the subtitles that had been appearing at the bottom of the screen throughout the performance disappeared for a long portion of Camarena’s first aria, forcing us to revert to another screen for the support, the one in front of each audience seat.

Photo: Marty Sohl / Met Opera

Almost

If Stone’s intention was to show a fractured mind and our own fractured attention spans via the screens, he managed to almost achieve that in two particular moments – Lucia’s two big solo moments. In the first, during “Regnava nel silenzio” the top screen actually opts for showing pre-recorded footage in which we see Lucia witnessing “the ghost.” The actress (whose name is not credited in the program) does some incredible choreography that coupled with the handheld visual style has a potent effect. And then during Lucia’s famed mad scene, we get a juxtaposition between what she is imagining with Edgardo and what is actually happening around her.

If these were the only two moments where the screens were used, then this experiment is likely more successful. But as it stands, this is a case of diminishing returns. You get to “Regnava nel silenzio” already exhausted and loopy from the use of screens in the opening scenes that the impact of the pre-recorded footage is gravely minimized. And the same holds true for the Mad Scene, though its lack of impact has as much to do with its placement as it does with its execution. The Mad Scene is a very long scene and somehow, the screens managed to expose that and make it feel endless. The big reason? The images we see on screen grow tiresome and repetitive. For long sequences all we see are the faces of Nadine Sierra and Javier Camarena in bliss, smiling at each other, kissing each other. It never really builds. Even when they are in a hotel bed, the intensity of their passion never grows, the scene never evolves. We get some evolution the third time the pre-recorded footage returns, this time showing how Lucia finds Edgardo’s gun. But it has the “too little, too late” effect.

The most awkward moment came at the end of the mad scene where after the music came to its conclusion, the curtain dropped and we were greeted to what initially seemed like “behind-the-scenes” footage. One could see Artur Rucinski clapping for his colleague Nadine Sierra as he walked by. Even though Sierra was supposed to stay in character, it seemed that she had fallen out momentarily and was almost laughing into the camera, which made the whole experience bizarre. Suddenly, she was back in character walking toward the camera on her way to shoot herself in the head. While the choice to conclude Lucia’s death scene was understandable, the transition was rather sloppy and severely undercut the effectiveness of the moment.

The other major distractor is one that is becoming all-too-common in the Peter Gelb era – the use of rotating sets. It seems that every production now needs it as a means of transitioning from scene to scene. Stone ups the ante by using it WITHIN scenes as a means to avoid blocking scenes. Time and again, we get the set rotating around as characters walk and talk. Lucia and Edgardo can’t have a conversation in a single space without the set needing to rotate. Lucia and Raimondo can’t have a conversation without the set rotating. Edgardo and Enrico can’t have their big confrontation without the set needing to rotate. And Lucia can’t have her mad scene without… you get the picture. It’s repetitive and makes every scene feel increasingly general and uninteresting; every single character dynamic essentially becomes one and the same. It becomes so predictable even that when some plot business has to happen, you can intuit that one of two things will take place – either the live video or pre-recorded picture will pop up on the screen above, or the set will start to rotate. One could argue that they are “walking around town” or in the case of the Lucia-Raimondo scene, walking around the house to reveal the wedding preparations. But the Edgardo-Enrico walk-and-talk is maddening for how it undercuts any chance of tension in that scene. Why is Enrico walking away from Edgardo when he was the one who searched for him? Where is he leading him? When the scene ends and Enrico just runs off, it left the scene in the same exact place where it started with nothing gained. In the past, this scene was cut from the opera; Stone makes a compelling case to have it cut from his own production.

The Mad Scene set rotation is the most, well, maddening of all. Not only is the top screen on at full blast, but the rotating set only exacerbates the frustration of not knowing where to look. This is the epitome of not being able to engage fully and become immersed in the world of the opera.

The biggest issue with both the rotating sets and video screens is not only how they distanced the viewer experientially but also undercut the characters and thus the story, which were massively underserved in a number of ways.

The Met Opera and its team went into overdrive in the run-up to this production, promoting this new production and how its choice of setting would help illuminate the opera. Among the things thrown about was that the mis-en-scene would show how Lucia was driven to drug use because of the abuse around her. While we get glimpses of the abuse (Enrico is stereotypical “white trash,” his face tattooed, a bottle always at his fingertips, and his fists always punching something), the drug abuse is… not really there. We see Lucia takes some opiates at one point early in the opera and that’s it. It doesn’t evolve beyond that or build in any meaningful way. The drug abuse was supposed to justify, at least in this world, why Lucia goes so crazy that she murders a guy; but the absence of that character detail not only undercut the entire enterprise, but made the climactic murder unintentionally funny.

When Lucia reappears after the murder of her husband, her dress is drenched in blood. Drenched. As if she was soaked not just in some of Arturo’s blood, but all of it. Then we find out, via Raimondo, that she murdered him with a fire hydrant. Yes, this is an opera in which a woman murders a man and loses her touch with reality. But that doesn’t mean that production should suddenly make a massive tonal and genre shift in which the tragic lead character is so bloody that it is cartoonish. And if that visual isn’t distracting enough, Stone adds in some zombie figures at another point. It’s a tonal mishap that should work in principle if it had any kind of emotional setup or build. For all the extra time spent with cameras and closeups, we just don’t know who this Lucia or anyone else really is outside of general terms like army boy,” “abusive drunk brother,” “priest.”

One could argue that the environment and setting tells us who she is by association, but that runs into the same trap of the Goya Beans early on – it generalizes the setting and the people living in it. Are we supposed to just accept that because the opera is “set in the Rust Belt” and see Lucia do drugs once that she’s always doing drugs or everyone in that world does? It’s a stereotype that pushes the storytelling into troubling waters.

Other issues arise from this – why does Enrico hate Edgardo? In the original, they are rival families. Here, we don’t have any of that background so that conflict is more vacuous. Is it racially motivated hatred? And if so, does that require that every Edgardo from here on out to be a person of color (again, nothing else seems to speak to Edgardo’s character or background)? Or that every Enrico be white? The context, as presented, is unclear.

Credit: Jonathan Tichler / Met Opera

Opera is larger than life, but our ability to suspend disbelief with works of the romantic era comes from the fact that its stories are told in distant times; its transcendence comes from its “Once Upon a Time” aspect and how it’s themes continue to relate to today. In that context we can better relate to the archetypal natures of the characters. But if the choice is to place the opera in a time that is more familiar to us, wherein we are supposed to see ourselves, then the detail work required is that much more essential in justifying the choices made. And there was potential for that. Goya beans aside, if you wanted to explore Camarena’s Edgardo as some sort of immigrant living out of his van (that’s how I tried to interpret it), there was undeniably space for that; when Camarena sings of the tomb of his ancestors, Stone easily could have included a moment wherein his cameras show us some detail of this past life Edgardo had. But the cameras ultimately served the opposite effect, dwarfing the people and the story at the expense of the technological novelty. Add in some strange creative choices (why is Lucia wearing a 1980s dress and why is Sierra moving it around like she would the dress of a medieval production of “Lucia”?) the entire enterprise came off as haphazard and unpolished.

So it was not surprising that when he and his team came out for curtain calls, Stone was received with a mix of cheers and jeers. It’s lamentable given that Stone is a tremendous filmmaker (just watch “The Dig” on Netflix to see a unique take on the form and structure of the period film), but it was wholly predictable (even the NY Times wanted people to prepare for it). And while one might argue that Stone’s overall execution for the piece was sorely lacking, he didn’t deserve them. His past work speaks for itself and to the identity that he has cultivated. We knew to expect a revisionist production that relocated the action to another time. We knew this would not be traditional alla Zeffirelli, Schenk, or even David McVicar. Stone was not hired to do that and his production for “Lucia” didn’t just materialize over the last week or two. It was approved and then rehearsed and developed for months. Ultimately, Simon Stone was in effect being Simon Stone, warts and all. That his experiment didn’t work (in our eyes) doesn’t mean he shouldn’t have attempted it when given the chance. In essence, to boo him on Saturday night was to boo a man for being true to himself, which I believe most people would agree is unfair. Instead, the boos, jeering, and protests from the audience should have been reserved for the person who put Stone (not to mention the numerous other directors before him), and the artists, in that position, time and again. The person who insists that this is what Met audiences want when, as the boos indicate many don’t.

None of this is to say that film technology, split screens, or displacement of time and setting do not have a place in opera. Of course they do. And perhaps even together (just check out the Opéra National de Paris’ production of “Faust”). But in recent Met history, these kinds of experiments have repeatedly missed.

A Great Maestro Amidst the Chaos

Perhaps what makes this “Lucia” all the more disappointing is that the production’s greatest sacrificial lamb was the music itself. As the only bel canto opera to take the stage in 2021-22, it was excruciating to see this legendary (and still chopped up score) become but a backdrop for the home videos throughout (and thus relegated to having being secondary at many moments).

If there was anything redeeming about the situation, it’s that the company brought on Riccardo Frizza on board to conduct; Frizza is not only the Donizetti Opera Festival’s Music Director, but he specializes in the composer’s music.

On this evening, the conductor opened up some of the cuts. Enrico’s cabaletta was repeated and the coda to “Tu che a Dio spiegasti l’ali.” The coda to “Veranno a te,” which is one of the most rapturous conclusions to a Donizetti duet was also opened and a pleasant surprise. However, other traditional cuts were kept, including the “Se tradirmi” and the Raimondo-Lucia duet, among others. No matter how many conductors attempt to patch up the score, it continues to sound awkward and loses the organic quality of Donizetti’s music.

Even on this evening when Frizza held the orchestra together with that organic flow, those cuts were felt. Perhaps where the Italian conductor excelled most was in bringing out the rich textures of the score like the opening harp solo in Act one which was both angelic and nostalgic (and as such, decidedly at odds with the staging). There was also a moment in the “Veranno a te” where Frizza brought out the lush violin melody that accompanied the singers. The orchestra also rose to great force during the faster sections which the conductor drove with rapid tempos including “Spargi d’Amaro,” “Se Tradirmi,” “Esci fuggi il furor che n’accende,” “O sole piu ratto a sorger,” and many of the interludes that connected into duets and cavatinas.

Frizza also emphasized the runs from the strings which were played with precision; he also gave some moments to the brass that are sometimes covered or not emphasized. And then there were moments of introspection like “Oh! qual funesto avvenimento” which Frizza took a bit slower and slowly built to its climax. Another standout moment was the glass harmonica solo by Friedrich Heinrich Kern, who really brought an evocative sound to the theater and created the atmosphere for the mad scene. 

Photo: Marty Sohl / Met Opera

Just High Notes & A Blank Stare 

In an interview, Nadine Sierra said, “I think people will leave this ‘Lucia’ thinking more about her as a real person than as a vocalist singing high notes.”

Unfortunately for her, it was quite the opposite effect.

For years Lucia has become a launchpad for sopranos to sing high notes and sing extended cadenzas that show off their vocal prowess. At times the music has lost its meaning in favor of ending an aria with an E flat so audiences can erupt in bravos (in reality, Donizetti never wrote a single E flat or D to conclude the passages of his music). But the music is filled with depth, from the ghostly melody of “Regnava nel silenzio,” to the hallucinatory “Spargi d’amaro,” to the haunting glass harmonica that opens the mad scene. And then there are those moments of rich and introspective music like “Soffriva nel pianto” and “il dolce suono” that does a deep dive into the psychology of the character.

The character itself is very modern, especially in the era of #metoo and discussions of mental health. Lucia is abused by her brother, abandoned by her lover, and manipulated by a religious figure. She is also dealing with the death of her mother. In essence, the men around her are toxic and she has to survive in a world dominated by them.

It is a dream for any actress and yes for a vocalist who can not only hit the high notes but can also express the psychological ramifications of the abuse she suffers throughout the opera. Sierra has performed the work throughout the world to great acclaim and clearly has an understanding of what she has to sing. She has some impressive and immaculate sostenuti where it seems like she won’t ever run out of air. Her middle voice is rich and round, something she amply displayed in the duet “Sofriva nel pianto” and in her opening lines of “Regnava nel silenzio.” That was also apparent in the sextet which she carried with a gorgeous ringing tone.

However, despite all the productions that she has done, Sierra’s Lucia is missing depth and elegance. The phrasing is oftentimes marred by awkward accents as heard in the “Soffriva nel pianto” and the interlude of the mad scenes where she awkwardly screamed. Her held-out notes neither crescendo nor decrescendo and despite their impressive sostenuti, they are often aimless. Her trills were also grainy, especially in the cadenza to “Regnava nel Silenzio” and during the “A si” in “Spargi d’Amaro” where she chose to emphasize the trills as laughs.

And then there were the high notes. Throughout the evening Sierra held out notes to end her duets, the sextet, and the mad scene emphasizing the importance of these interpolated notes. And while Sierra definitely has the Cs, Ds, and E Flats, on this evening every time she would go up to the extreme part of her voice, the timbre turned shrill and lost all the brightness that the much more appealing middle section has. During the end of her mad scene cadenza, Sierra’s trills turned flat and as she reached the high E flat that ends the section, the note sounded flat. She still ended the second part of the mad scene with a shining E Flat, probably the most memorable musical aspect of her entire evening.

Character-wise, Sierra’s Lucia had a blank stare that gave no understanding of what she was going through and how all the events around her were affecting her. To be fair, it’s a hard thing that she’s being asked to do – be subtle on camera and then perform for the person all the way at the top of the family circle when the cameras are off. It is two different approaches and methods of acting and she, more than anyone, was being asked to split essentially herself. It’s no surprise that she would approach a less-is-more approach when on camera, but it left her interpretation as one-note most of the time; this is precisely why using the screens and cameras less likely would have created a bigger effect in the grand scheme of things. As noted, her entire mad scene was sabotaged by the staging and between the split attention to the screen and the rotating set, it was virtually impossible to engage truly or immerse with the live interpretation of Lucia that Sierra was giving in that moment.

Photo: Marty Sohl / Met Opera

Vocal Fireworks Undercut

As noted, the role of Enrico was utterly sabotaged by the distracting film, making him ultimately a one-dimensional “villain.” Thankfully, the Met brought Artur Ruciński, who was without a doubt the vocal standout of the night with his polished and elegant baritone.

His opening aria, which was hard to concentrate on (again due to Lucia’s painting, the Goya beans, and the subsequent selfie), sounded clean and filled with muscular sound. The ensuing cavatina, “La pietade in suo favore” was sung with a booming baritone and outstanding flexibility. It was a great surprise to see the baritone open the cut and repeat it before interpolating a powerful high note and showing the character’s drive; he held the note all the way through the orchestral coda displaying not only his fantastic sound but also ever-impressive breath support.

In his following scene with Nadine Sierra’s Lucia, Ruciński sang with a suave tone that displayed his long legato lines and his immaculate bel canto line that explored his manipulative side. His duet with Javier Camarena was also fantastic as he brought strength to his voice, though his “drunk” acting and the aforementioned “blocking” undercut the tension of the scene. Both Camarena and Ruciński played to their strengths melding the voices to create great harmonies. He had some trouble with his opening lines “Ascolta. Di letizia il mio soggiorno” where you could notice the baritone’s coloratura turned a bit sloppy.

In the role of Edgardo, Javier Camarena had a mixed evening. His opening duet with Sierra was filled with choppy phrasing and at many times, the tenor sounded exhausted. One could hear cut-off phrases and some raspy excerpts in his high notes. The voice also never really blended well with Sierra’s and got lost toward the end of “Veranno a te” getting covered by the orchestra and his stage partner. In the sextet, he sang with vigor, especially in his lines “Hai tradito il crelo, e amor.” But Camarena struggled with his high notes.

In Act three, the tenor finally found his stride, singing an “O sole piu ratto a sorger” with great force and bringing some thrilling runs as well as long phrases. He even interpolated a magnificent high note to cap off the duet. The final scene “Fra poco a me ricovero” also saw Camarena singing some of his most beautiful phrases. He used the decrescendos and crescendos to shape the long lines that Donizetti wrote without exaggerating the expression. Instead, he sang with a delicate tone that transmitted the emotional suffering of his character. His “Tu che a Dio spiegasti l’ali” was also shaped with elegance and precision and also saw him singing with softer tones. The second repeat of the aria was incredibly effective as he gave the timbre a breathy feel that was evocative of the character’s death. Perhaps his only misstep was an awkward interpolated high note in the middle of the first part, which Camarena sang gorgeously but had a hard time getting out of as he decrescendoed it.

And while he had some effective musical moments, Camarena’s character never came to life as his costumes made him out to look like the Bumpkin Nemorino instead of the assertive Edgardo. It was a mishmash of poorly chosen costumes. On the camera, his performance seemed to become repetitive instead of illuminating.

In the role of Raimondo, Matthew Rose was celebrating his 100th performance at the Met. However, he was miscast in the role as his voice sounded nervous throughout resulting in many flat passages and a lot of breathy and vibrato-less singing.

As Arturo, Eric Ferring showcased a beautiful tone while Deborah Nansteel’s Alisa brought a gutsy mezzo filled with a full and resonant voice.

In the end, the Metropolitan Opera’s approach to bringing in a new and exciting audience ended up with a half-full theater.

The post Metropolitan Opera 2021-22 Review: Lucia di Lammermoor appeared first on OperaWire.

Opera Company of Middlebury’s utterly delightful streaming production of Leonard Bernstein’s “Candide,” originally broadcast in June 2021, is back for a few more days, and viewable on OCM’s YouTube channel through Mar. 1, 2022.

Don’t miss it.

The pandemic was the mother of innovation. And OCM created the best of all possible worlds (wink, wink) with this glittering gem. Most times, the camera work rivals that of big houses, and then some. When was the last time you’ve seen a camera-fitted drone flying around the Met’s pit and stage? I’ll guess never, but based on how OCM incorporated spectacular drone footage from inside the theater, New York’s behemoth has some catching up to do.

High-quality projections and brilliant trompe l’oeil abound, creating realistic sets that combined digital backdrops and physical props. OCM’s no-fear approach to experimentation, paid off in this imaginative production that never takes itself seriously: we catch glimpses of backstage action, a ground-based camera follows the drone, tracking it while it hovers like a dragonfly over the socially distanced orchestra, and the artists often break character when interacting with the meandering narrator. All of it done purposefully to serve the comedy.

Experimentation Pays Off

Director and Set Designer Douglas Anderson, stated in the program notes, “Orson Welles … said something to the effect that he was much more interested in experimentation than success. Our Candide is an experiment — over six months of working way beyond our comfort zone — and we’d love to hear if you think we’ve succeeded.”

You succeeded.

Anderson added, “We have a sneaking suspicion that even after Town Hall Theater re-opens, we might want to use online video for key projects.”

Please do.

The production’s creative team, led by executive producer Mary Longey, took the comedic gold inherent in Voltaire’s ribald critique, and upped the ha-ha factor. I laughed out loud frequently, causing my wife to give me curious side-glances. Ingeniously, OCM brought in Vermont’s former Governor, Jim Douglas, to play the role of the grandfatherly Narrator. Douglas’ storyteller has penchant for tangents, “irritating” those onstage, who with rolls of eyes, ask him to kindly move along with the story. Douglas possessed a keen sense of comedic timing and was a highlight of the show as he read in an oversized leather club chair from a storybook, and addressed the audience directly.

Music director Michael Sakir led a fresh and playful performance, grounding the comedy on Bernstein’s unforgettable melodies. Sakir’s band was spot on the entire show, and the closeups and drone shots of the instrumentalists lent the production an intimate and immersive feel. (Like a friend, the drone literally escorts you into the Town Hall Theater.)

Singing artists included smooth sounding tenor Quinn Bernegger in the title role of the picaresque tale, the impressive baritone Joshua Jeremiah as Candide’s lecherous tutor, Dr. Pangloss, whose physics “lesson” leads the naïve boy to put into practice his newfound knowledge. This he does with the lovely and very willing Cunegonde, played by soprano Cree Carrico, whose takeaway number, “Glitter and Be Gay,” was superbly sung. Rounding out the principal cast was the robust-sounding mezzo-soprano Tara Curtis as the Old Lady. In comprimario roles, bass-baritone Blake Jennings sang the role of Maximillian, mezzo-soprano Heather Jones that of Paquette, tenor Joshua Collier as Governor, Vanderdendur, and Croupier, and Kian Freitas as Captain, Martin, and Cook. The show was well cast, with all singing-actors adding their personal touches to the raucous satire whether in a principal or supporting role.

The Best of All Possible Worlds (During a Pandemic)

OCM produced “Candide” using strict COVID-mitigation protocols. All orchestra members wore masks, while wind and brass players played behind plexiglass, also in masks but with openings for mouthpieces. The ensemble was recorded two weeks after the orchestra, and divorced from both was the staging, but with the magic of cinematic special effects and advanced audio technology, the parts were seamlessly welded into a captivating whole.

OCM has something exciting going on, and it’ll be interesting to see what comes next after taking in the lessons from their first full-length digital offering. Not all of it was perfect, but perfect shouldn’t be the enemy of good, and OCM’s “Candide” falls squarely in between the two—which places it solidly within the realm of great.

The post Opera Company of Middlebury 2021-22 Review: ‘Candide’ appeared first on OperaWire.

Whether or not it’s been spurred by COVID, more and more companies seem to be making post-streams or online streams of their productions available. This one, of Verdi’s “Il Trovatore,” comes from Houston’s Opera in the Heights, a regional company that seeks to provide a platform for emerging artists and affordable and accessible productions for the Houston area. The company is named after its mainstage, Lambert Hall, on Houston’s Heights Blvd.

One advantage of all these presentations of course is the ability to see shows you would not normally have seen and performers you would not so easily have come across. We have all been starved for live performance in the past (nearly) two years but these days you can sit in Sydney or Glasgow and sample a range of productions (and casts) from Los Angeles to Texas as readily as you may once have watched performances live from the Met. It’s something of a plus.

And it was no doubt a major plus in the context of this particular production of Verdi’s seminal middle-period masterwork.

Up Close & Personal

An oft-repeated quote regarding “Il trovatore” is Enrico Caruso’s adage: “All it takes for successful performance of ‘Il trovatore’ is the four greatest singers in the world.” He was referring to the vital importance of the four main characters – tenor Manrico and baritone Count di Luna, rivals in war while vying for the love of soprano Leonora, but tragically unaware that they are brothers, whose relationship got mangled by the ‘sorceress’, mezzo Azucena, charged with exacting revenge against the Count’s family before the opera began.

The story can sound ridiculous summed up briefly, yet the close focus of this production which originated in a small venue, sharpened by close-up video work, served Verdi’s prescription for drama: “stupendous confrontation.” And the four principals Dane Suarez as Manrico, Natalie Polito as Leonora, Nathan Matticks as the Count, and Anne Maguire as Azucena served as strong pillars on which the drama could rest, ably assisted by the other members of the cast and a small but effective – in the ‘space’ – chorus – particularly effective in the famous ‘Miserere’ (when Manrico is facing death), which was here delivered from the side of the stage.

It was good to get up close, close to the text, and appreciate, for example, the intensity Natalie Polito invested in her recollection of the way Manrico (the “troubador” of the title) serenaded her (“Tacea la notte placida”), the urgency with which she remembered how he called her name. You could almost “see” her run to the balcony to listen to him. You could not only hear but see Matticks’ suppressed rage “Io fremo” when, as Count, thinking of his rival.

But it was good to have the feeling of being up close to the music too, as when Manrico (Dane Suarez) segued so logically into a mad sort of declamation for his cabaletta “Di quella pira” on learning that his supposed mother, Azucena had been apprehended by the Count’s men. All three of these principals would have been impressive performers live in the theater – their Act 1 trio (“Di geloso amor sprezzato”) was especially stirring.

Anne Maguire sang Azucena, on whose vengefulness the drama pivots. There was much riveting detail in the story-telling of her great numbers where she recounts the tragedies (the injustices) that have led to her bitter resolve: “Stride la vampa” and “Condotta ell’era in ceppi” – hushed illustration, mordant observation, a large vocal palette constantly beguiling the ear.

A Look Into the Future

A video production governs the eye and it was a shame not to be able to glance away occasionally and watch conductor Eiki Isomura as he ably controlled the pacing of this drama, but the orchestra surreptitiously fed the events. In some ways the video presentation exposed the limits of the venue which was on the small, or more critically, narrow, side. Long-shots revealed EXIT signs or one orchestral player singled out among the many who deserved recognition. But the close-ups of principals were well chosen and effective and suggested that this opera can succeed without the panoramic historical background that a person might assume is necessary.

Director Cara Consilvio’s conception of the opera’s events as taking place somewhat in the future where the Count is a billionaire, one of the 1 percent, helped overcome the difficulties that lie in the piece these days in relation to representation of the Romani, a band of which Azucena leads. It was a smart idea to make this wandering band a bunch of homeless people (a growing subset of the 99 percent in this future dystopia?), carting their belongings around in shopping trolleys. Crushing drink cans for recycling was a particularly smart way to compensate therefore for the lack of anvils on which to hammer in Act two’s famous “Anvil Chorus.”

Overall shot-selection was seamless, harmonizing well with the shape of the musical moments. And being able to watch online and not break for an interval revealed that Verdi’s opera gains from an unbroken momentum.

In fact, there were a number of revelations in this production. The story works if elucidated with surtitles (on video: subtitles) of the elegance and standard Eiki Isomura and Cara Consilvio provided and “Il trovatore” works as a chamber opera. In fact, that mode of presentation serves to tighten the focus on those four key roles, those lead singers, and their pursuance of those stupendous relationships.

The post Opera in the Heights 2021 Review: Il Trovatore appeared first on OperaWire.

Since then, the company has swiftly devised and introduced fresh modalities for presenting opera and deepening the relationship between on and off stage experiences. Whether by excluding subtitles to enhance audience engagement in the story, pairing performance with installation art to create immersive events, or illuminating the public on the creative process from original conception to finished product, it’s safe to say that the focus on increasing opera’s accessibility is certainly alive and well in California.

LA Opera’s newest digital short, “The First Bluebird in the Morning,” composed by Carlos Simon with librettist and playwright Sandra Seaton, and choreographed and directed by the esteemed Jamar Roberts, is a testament to the company’s commitment to presenting the art form in new ways. The film stars tenor Joshua Blue and dancer Lloyd Knight.

This star-studded work of multimedia cinematography challenges audiences to think about the meaning of freedom, who longs for it, and how it’s inevitably taken for granted by those who have it. The narrative relates the timely story of an incarcerated Black man who, in his downtime between monotonous chores and daily routines, watches a bluebird and nourishes hope of one day tasting the sweet nectar of freedom. It’s not because he wishes to live excessively, but simply, relishing little things like making bread, doing laundry, dressing himself, and watching the sun rise in the morning.

In Simon’s revealing summarization of the work, he writes, “This piece is a soliloquy of sorts from the perspective of an inmate experiencing life as a prisoner while finding hope and solace in the freedom of a bluebird. I’ve composed dark, brooding music to represent the mundane life of prison, which transforms later into a vibrant dance when the inmate gazes and admires the colorful bird.”

The Series, Creation and the Film’s Narrative

A remarkable part of LA Opera’s innovations has been their focus on further expanding their digital offerings. At the beginning of the pandemic, the company announced its exclusive partnership with the online streaming-service Marquee TV to livestream mainstage and related performances. This set the precedent for LA Opera’s commitment to new approaches to opera. “We plan to continue to feature and commission work from the most in-demand composers and visual artists for more digital shorts,” stated Vice-President of Artistic Planning Rupert Hemmings last year,  And continue they have. As of this writing, there are nine richly diverse shorts available for streaming!

Dedicated to changing the standardized modes of operatic performance into what the company calls “a visceral and visual storytelling format,” LA Opera’s Digital Shorts explore contemporary social issues and the breadth of creative possibilities when the operatic art form coalesces with other vehicles of expression. The coalition of mediums into an easily digestible and accessible experience enhances the perception of the music.

While film cannot authentically replicate the physical sensations of music, it can express an intuitive sense of interiority unavailable through in-person experience. Since the multifaceted aspects of opera performance can be overwhelming, streaming video’s start and stop buttons give the viewer a sense of ownership of their experience.

“The First Bluebird in the Morning” is the dynamic creation of a small, seven-member team who came together to produce a piece of audio-visual literature around the theme of mass incarceration and the human experiences behind the skewed rate of imprisonment among the Black population.

As of 2021, nearly 1 in 81 African-Americans are serving time in state prison, and, on average, Blacks are 1.3 times as likely to be sentenced to jail, according to The Sentencing Project. Shockingly, in 12 states across America, Black people account for more than half the state prison population, while in seven states the proportion of Black to White populations is 9-to-1.

Built upon this alarming foundation, Simon and Seaton collaborated on how to best express this devastating reality. The fruit of the collaboration was a four-verse soliloquy presented by the protagonist, an incarcerated young man named Joshua. The narrative follows the undulating, emotional threads of Joshua’s daydreaming in between the tedium of daily-life behind bars.

Filmed in a black and white, with a musical fabric that seems to go every and nowhere, and oscillates between jarring stratification of tenorial tonnage and supple strands of neo-Romantic and Ravel-like creaminess, the film destabilizes our preconditioned understanding of freedom by robbing the viewer of nature itself.

The film’s near meta-autobiographical narrative begins with a panning shot through billowy clouds that open to a gray-hued sky. The palette casts a foreboding aura over the otherwise bucolic blueness. Joshua is quickly introduced, standing alone underneath the canopy of a large tree, and surrounded by vegetation as sunbeams penetrate the rustling flora above.

Although the audience meets Joshua in nature, the real Joshua is locked inside an iron compound for reasons unknown, and perhaps unjust. When LA Opera’s dexterous tenor Joshua Blue awakens his range, it reveals the paradoxical and allegorical phenomenality of this film’s narrative.

After this initial introduction to the dialectic (and perhaps even diegetic) forces at play, the rest of the five-minute film plays out in a series of vignettes. However, each vignette (or self-contained dream) has no beginning, end, or observable identity of its own.

Lloyd Knight, principal dancer at Martha Graham Dance Company, immerses himself in the strife, anguish, and resilient convictions of Joshua in four different ways throughout the film—perhaps following the 12 stages of grief. For me, Nietzsche’s concept of “amor fati” (love of one’s fate) describes this digital short, particularly so when Blue lets out a final impassioned exclamation, and we see Knight silently accepting his destiny.

Music and Libretto as Artistic Synthesis

Describing the short-film’s musical direction, Simon wrote, “I’ve composed dark, brooding music to represent the mundane life of prison, which transforms later into a vibrant dance when the inmate gazes and admires the colorful bird.”

The work’s formal design, a rather precocious tertiary format with a porous introduction and nebulous coda that fades into a supercharged nothingness, underscores his declared sentiments. Joshua’s spirit wrestles with even the thought of eternal monotony that emanates from the gentle ripples of chamber abstractions and soft-hearted cooing, while the work’s main infatuation fills out with irresolute melodicism tinged with the hints of postmodernist vociferations à la Berg, Messiaen, and the Second Viennese School line.

Seaton’s extraordinary libretto semantically explains Simon’s sedate, dreamy sensuousness and looming existentialism interlaced with levels of disquietness typical of Romantic and neo-Romantic idioms. To me, the soundtrack of Joshua’s post-internment hopes throbs with a constantly replenishing, inchoate sense of self-awareness. With additional textural influences of dark jazz, back-room blues, and film noir amour, Simon’s score could be described as hypnagogic (infra)vitalism. Each push and pull of the musical fabric speaks volumes about composer, performer, and listener simultaneously.

As stated by Seaton, much of the libretto’s inspiration came from a combination of the chillingly ubiquitous feelings of COVID-inspired isolationism and the cataclysmic effects of sustained solitude on the human psyche, as well as her initial desires to write a libretto based on the narrative of a young man about to leave behind visible detention [prison] for liberated detention [parole].

The primary vehicle of expression in Seaton’s libretto is a vein of empathetic, yet unidealistic and rather unromantic sense of escapism—the kind which doesn’t seek to transport the believer’s consciousness, but neither wishes to invite active engagement in the immediate surroundings. Seaton notes that “Because the limitations of the space create tension, Joshua is in a constant battle to see if he can handle his small world.” He does this by adopting a relationship with routine that he doesn’t wish to become accustomed to, yet must act out daily for fear of punishment.

As espoused by Seaton herself, the sheer amount of work it took to create the libretto is exemplified through the text’s morphological synergy and relatively strong cohesion of narrative vision from beginning to end. Seaton’s libretto comprises three nearly syllabically identical verses, with a middle episode between the second and third, which, consequentially, fulfills the “Golden Mean” present in temporal-based art.

Further, Seaton’s usage of repetition to denote psychological tedium is brilliant. These observations are vital as the usage of stability and instability are perfect, linguistic realizations of Simon’s quasi-symphonic score, which refuses to rest until the last minute, and even then rest is only the perception of absent audibility.

The last paragraph of Seaton’s notes casts this entire project in a new light, and transforms Simon’s music from a psychological bricolage of musical effects and idioms to a “living” chanson under the volatile umbrella of legato intimacy.

Seaton writes, “I wanted the listener to infer his good qualities through observation, which in turn allows a listener to root for him and his release instead of resenting or doubting the presence of those qualities.” Simon realized the statement using semi-tonal chromaticism and pressurized vocal lines during the second verse. These suddenly break and return to the first verse’s diatonic atmospherics. Blue sang impeccably the third verse, which reads as Joshua’s pertinacious mantra, with seven growingly emphatic iterations of “Come morning” interspersed with the things he’ll do once liberated.

One mustn’t forget that Blue is but the agile invocation of Joshua. Encased within every authoritative lick of flame and sonorous vocalise of Blue’s are Joshua’s feelings of paradoxical motile immobility. The tenor handled the tension of stratospheric leaps and bounds in the upper register exceptionally well, and the prolonged usage of emphatic dynamics and demagogic legato doubles this. With such music, even well-seasoned tenors like Blue need a heightened awareness of technique at all times. Pianist Howard Watkins’ lush, Debussy-like arpeggiations and cellist Anja Wood’s resonant condolences underscore this, and seemed to speak the unpleasant yet necessary truth of Joshua’s situation; it will get worse before it gets better, but don’t dare stop looking for the bluebird.

When Cinema and Choreography Unite

Visibly “hidden” within the short film, whose length fully conceals its imaginative filling, is a novel, dare I say, even Renaissance approach to audio-visual storytelling. Jamar Roberts, director and resident choreographer for the Alvin Ailey Dance Company, handled the cinematic realization of Simon and Seaton’s handiwork using what I’d describe as a visually through-composed format. Few kinesics are repeated, with any repetition used to punctuate cues provided by the music, and underscored by textual orations.

In verse two, the audio-visual atmosphere radically changes to something wholly anagogic and surreal as Sisyphean “etudes” of motion, lacking any teleological drive, visually represents the enforced monotony and lethargic feelings associated with Joshua’s incarceration. Throughout the film, the use of black and white cinematography, optical tricks, and unseen light sources sets a new precedent for instrumental, visual, and oral personification of emotions.

This ability to play with the concepts of humane vs. ruthless, human vs. paradigm, and even sympathetic vs. repulsive, makes “hearing” the film a riveting experience from beginning to end, equal, at least in my reading, to the audience-minded Homeric epic, the caressing ache of a Tchaikovsky-like etude, or any 19th-century art piece styled in the elusive image of Symbolist esotericism.

The reader may think such assertions excessive or imprudent hyperbolism, but as someone who trained as a dancer, I’m enthralled by modern dance’s ability to tap into the brutal eroticism of uncultivated movements and volitional ownership of one’s faculties. The film incorporates several key elements into its body to heighten the choreographic life’s Nijinsky-like vulgarity.

While observationally “easy” in the sense that no excessive amounts of mastery or technical prowess is needed to complete any particular move, one can “feel” Knight’s exercising muscle, heightened heart-rate, warmed breath, and the forming beads of sweat.

It’s this sense of knowing and unknowing that underscores the entire film, and certainly the dance. Because there is no audio of the dancer, we are left to imagine what is and is difficult for the dancer. The strenuousness of the dance moves are not disclosed, leaving us in the dark to only theorize about what Knight might be feeling, as normally we could hear breaths and slaps of the body against surfaces; things that demonstrate a human is moving in front of us. But we are gifted no such luxuries, and the para-social relationship built by a dancer and their audience is not afforded.

I loved how director/choreographer Roberts only exhibited Knight’s face at the beginning, and ended with his back facing the camera, as if removing the thought of singleness from the picture entirely, perhaps making Knight a stand-in for a universal feeling of anomie?

A truly spectacular ‘Libera me’

As the malicious toll of time bangs steadily onwards, all around it, melody, tonality, rhythm, and meter dilapidate quickly under the sheer weight of Joshua’s existential suffering. And yet, amidst the mounting pressure and insurrectionist affections, as Saint Mark chronicling John’s baptism of Jesus Christ wrote, “the heavens broke open, and the Spirit descended upon him like a dove.” Or, in this case, a bluebird.

In Christian symbology, the bluebird represents the embodiment of the continued strength one needs when facing hardships, which seems too strong to handle alone. Joshua outwardly observes a bluebird, and inwardly sees his persevering hopes, desired happiness, and cleansed heart right waiting for him just out of reach from his tiny window.

With fragrant melodicism and bilious harmonies restored, and with the words “my time is up,” Joshua no longer feels hopeless, and instead manifests himself in the freedom he dreams. As the pianistic textures fill out with serene arpeggios and the cello’s timbre re-enters, the tenor’s incessant repetition of “Come morning” grows increasingly desperate until Joshua issues his last word-based dictation, “We’ll fly away.”

While the tenor takes (temporary) flight into Elysium, the cello gingerly floats downwards and melts into the broadened piano arpeggios of an unknowingly paradoxical Ravel-like Impressionism, where the sweet taste of childlike hypnagogia is knowingly laced with the painful understanding of the temporal continuum.

But Joshua’s faith isn’t broken just yet, nor is the bluebird out of sight. As the bluebird sings its dulcet yet sputtering diddy, Joshua hums as if not to let the moment go so fast into that good night. Abiding in the pensive euphoria and the comforting indulgences of directionless harmonies, Joshua walks between aged columns to a destination with no name, wearing an expression that has no face. The sound stops, and visuals end, but not the message.

I highly endorse this digital short and suggest everyone try to watch.

The post Los Angeles Opera 2021-22 Review: The First Bluebird in the Morning appeared first on OperaWire.

Written by composer Amanda Feery to a libretto by Megan Nolan “A Thing I Cannot Name” is, if defined in its broadest sense, a feminist work. Not only are both its writers women, but so too, are the director and the cast. Its narrative focuses on three women and their obsessions and desires, in which their psychology, and their relationship to their own bodies is explored. The perspective is exclusively female, men have no voice. Yet, this is not a work aiming to cross swords with the patriarchy or to exclude men.

On the contrary, it is work which should be of interest to women and men alike, shining a light, as it does, into the female mind. Also, obsession is not an exclusively female phenomenon, there is much in common to both sexes when obsession takes hold.

Three Women, Three Obsessions

Three women, with three different obsessions, who do not know each other, are connected by an apartment in which they have all lived at one stage during their lives. There is Rebecca, a young 19-year-old woman who obsesses about her unrequited love for an older woman. There is the more mature, 28-year-old, Jean who is consumed by her obsession for her partner’s ex-lover, and finally, there is Catherine, who is 36-years-old and desperate for a baby in order to escape her loneliness.

Nolan’s libretto is direct, insightful and hard-hitting, in which her references to the women’s bodies connects directly to the physical dimension of their desires and obsessions. Generally, Nolan presents their thoughts without any poetical softening of the text, thereby capturing the extreme and intense nature of their emotions, which she never allows to descend into cliché or lazy stereotypical phrasing. In the opening scene, however, she does use a well-placed metaphor which beautifully encapsulates the mindset of the three women, their voices combining to sing “How long the ashes gather, I have wished them to ignite.”

Feery eschewed any idea of using traditional forms, such as arias, and instead opted to use the music to highlight the text and to give form to the women’s emotions. Although employing only a small ensemble comprising violin, flute, double bass, electric guitar and percussion, Feery managed to produce an imaginative score with an interesting and wide-ranging array of textures. Dark brooding passages were successfully contrasted with more anxious, intense outpourings, and gave the music an engaging momentum. Her writing for the voice was nicely crafted and successfully brought out the depth of the women’s obsessions, anxieties and emotional turmoil. In particular, her decision to combine the singers in small ensemble passages displayed considerable dramatic and musical sensitivity, in which the overlay of their voices along with echoing effects highlighted their connection to each other, as well as their collective disconnection to the outside world.

Three Good Singing Performances

The role of Rebecca was parted by Kelli-Ann Masterson. Having reviewed her performances on a number of occasions in which she has always impressed with her bright crystalline soprano in roles which tended to be emotionally fairly neutral, it was interesting to watch her in a more emotionally demanding role. She proved herself to be equal to the task, producing a singing-acting performance of real quality in which she fully engaged with the role, and exploited the opportunities to display her ability to bring depth and nuance to her singing.

In fact, she seems particularly suited to such a role, maybe more so than the lighter, more emotionally passive parts, in which she has previously been cast.

Soprano Rachel Goode was cast in the role of Jean, who is obsessed with her partner’s ex-lover, to the extent that her obsession appears to have an erotic dimension. Goode created a strongly defined character in which she fully immersed herself, colouring her voice with emotional depth and intensity.

Catherine is the oldest of the three women and as such is more mature, if not less obsessive, in dealing with her desires. Mezzo-soprano Aebh Kelly playing the role, produced a sympathetic singing performance, in which she was able to capture the reflective nature of her character and expose her inner conflict, as well as her overwhelming obsession with having a child.

The conductor Elaine Kelly provided strong musical direction which brought convincing and  lively performances from both orchestra and cast.

The director Aoife Spillane-Hinks, aided by set and costume designer Jack Scullion, produced a naturalistic presentation, which centered on the apartment, with the decoration changing to reflect the different characters. She successfully used the possibilities of the camera to bring the viewer in close to each of the women, so that they are able to read the emotions in their facial expressions and bodily movements. By using a split screen she was able to juxtapose images of two or all three women, emphasising the connection which exists through their obsessions.

Overall, “A Thing I Cannot Name” can count as another successful short opera made for a screen presentation.

The post Irish National Opera 2021 Review: A Thing I Cannot Name appeared first on OperaWire.

Wagner’s dramatization of the encounter between Siegmund and Sieglinde—the Walsüng twins—is a remarkable and thrilling experience; even when it is an abridged concert version, performed in a faraway opera house with half a live audience, socially distanced, without the theatrical panoply of full-site production, full costumes and full make-up, and with the remaining audience sitting individually in their homes pressed to a cold, mechanical device. The exciting, passionate and powerful saga came home to us last week in the Bayerische Staatsoper production of Act One, streamed on our computer screens. In fact, the absence of all the conventional production aspects perhaps intensified the experience even more than we could have expected.

Jonas Kaufmann, Lise Davidsen and Georg Zeppenfeld, under the masterful conducting of Asher Fisch of the Staatsoper Orchestra, brought us this gift, as well as the renewal of live music in an opera house. Hallelujah! The full hour and a half performance, including three encores by the singers, ratified this three times over. Finally, we have some proof that opera will go on; and we will too.

From the Outset

From the opening bars Fisch set the mood with deliberate clarity and charge while the eerie heartbeat of the percussion, strings and brass thrust us into the danger and drama of the world. Kaufmann and Davidsen quietly entered and established the scene, taking their places on either side of the conductor. Though without sets or costumes, they immediately inhabited the cottage of the distant forest world and began the process of mingling life and magic, seemingly without effort. Not only was it their artistry creating this effect, but the sheer beauty of the music. In fact, it was the music that was the downbeat of the entire performance. As Siegmund declares, moments before Sieglinde enters, “This hearth I must rest in.” In other words, this is the world where we will live for this time: Wagner’s Walsüng world, his mythical planet, the land he bound us to for his Ring and for its tapestry of relationships, history, and reflections on time and meaning.

In this performance we had an opportunity to experience the developing romantic recognition of the brother and sister duo, even at a distance, and how they succeeded in depicting their growing intimacy, at once in the present as well as what they carried forth from the past. Subtle facial expression, a quasi-smile, a full one, an intense look of the eye, a tilt of the head, maybe a hand gesture or a simple step forward, conveyed this shimmering set of echoes. It was more than effective. Once the voices enlarged the field, we were flooded with depth. Layers of feeling were suggested and unfurled. Wagner knew what he was doing when he presented love in boundaries crossed and forbidden doors opened; through his unique leitmotif technique and alternate music associative harmonies and tonalities, we encountered a wealth of experience across the divide.

Bringing Necessary Richness

Each of the singers brought the necessary richness. Kaufmann with his aching trials endured; Davidsen with her buried beauty aiming to be free; Zeppenfeld with his defiant tyranny. The pacing was exquisite. Fisch never rushed over any of the exposition and the singers followed suit. Fisch laid out one color after another with orchestral suppleness, from winds to percussion, brass and strings, and back again. Increasing lines of darkness and danger were articulated as the tides of fear heightened.

The contrast of voices satisfied in the extreme. Kaufmann’s voice was rich and resonant as Siegmund strove to survive, Davidsen’s voice told of a power slowly and carefully unleashed, Zeppenfeld’s voice was that of dedicated authority.

As Hunding, Zeppenfeld remained at once an enemy and a leader, tightening the noose of violence and power, although his characterization remained happily ungangster-like.

Fisch’s orchestra bound all these threads together into an exquisite tapestry, underscoring distinctly the arc of the emotions conveyed. Never were we outside of the emotions either. The doors of trespass and eroticism were opened and we were swept up in a parallel drama of souls. Throughout, the pacing allowed for excellent silences as well. Dramatic action unfolded on musical currents and allowed us weighted moments of reflection. When Siegmund took a couple of steps and then was repelled by Hunding, we too did not mistake how danger lurked in the thoughts of tomorrow.

By quietly taking up their positions on either side of the conductor, Kaufmann and Davidsen immediately established the locale to express passion without contact, costumes, or closeness. Right away they became Siegmund and Sieglinde. What a skillful translation of life, story and drama! The artistry was impeccable. With only the music and the text to concentrate on, we found ourselves in the middle of a reality that sustained vitality without any conventional accoutrements. We heard Wagner’s declaration loud and clear: see what love brings! See what carefully inscribed music and text does to a listener!

The leitmotif remained clear and luminous as Wagner wove it into his unfolding narrative. Exceptional oboe and clarinet solos accented the meticulous rise and fall of the voices, as did those of the bassoons and gallery of French horns. Father Wolf, the oak tree, the sword Nothung in its trunk, retained their distinct identity and contributed to the escalating drama. Words and music retained unity. One seemed never more than another. Communication and expression remained one.

Kaufmann’s masterful articulation continued throughout his performance, exquisite and precise. He articulated each vowel and retained precision in each consonant. How satisfying! Tonally he was in good form, especially in the middle and lower range. Here there was even more than usual depth and wisdom. Instead of the young hero with ardent desire, he appeared as a man tried and true, rich with experience and maybe a touch of wistfulness. Some of his top notes came across less round than we may have liked, but his “Wälse! Wälse!” were rich and vigorous, sustained for almost a half-minute each. The cello preceding this cri de Coeur strengthened his identification with the family he sprang from and his pride and perhaps fascination with it still. As he sang, the weight of his meaning submerged us in his world, and for a moment we believed that this was all there was. The careful narration heightened that experience too. Nothing was left unsaid and yet nuance and resonance resounded. This artfulness allowed his Siegmund to plead his case, perhaps without intending to.

Sieglinde—Davidsen—stood between the two men, listening to their declarations and arriving at a plan of her own. She announced it with confidence rather than fear; an emotion she channeled more and more as she moved away from the Act’s opening. With rich, round and sumptuous tones she began to lead the way, drugging Hunding and pointing the way past him.  Like Kaufmann, Davidsen never sacrificed verbal clarity or used emotion for display. She meticulously reigned in volume too. Her singing remained luminous and voluptuous throughout, soaring and climbing as did her point of view. Sieglinde rose beyond her pain in her wish to bring down her violent husband and to aid Siegmund in survival.  She allowed her anger towards Hunding during his diatribe to show in subtle ways as well, with facial expression and subtle movements; she was never heavy-handed or crude.

Both Siegmund and Sieglinde matched their passion with elegance and carefulness, never begging or posturing with false heroics. They believed in each other as well as themselves. Throughout it all we heard the honest admission of feeling and the irresistible truth deriving from growing recognition. When Sieglinde admitted she even recognized her brother’s voice from the past, she was proud and triumphant: “You are Siegmunde. I am Sieglinde.” There was no rehash in this; it was discovery then and there. The trumpets and trombones came together as she revealed the story of the sword Nothung, and we triumphed with them as they united over this. Theirs was a love heightened by the bond of blood.

Georg Zeppenfeld injected his Hundig with dark anger and deliberateness. Fact and feeling were artfully conveyed. Bass and clarinet and oboes graced the fierce defiance he projected and kept these alive throughout his declaration. His voice resounded as if from the bottom of the earth.

By the time we came to Siegmund’s “Wintersturm und Glimmershein,” Kaufmann caressing the words—perhaps in preparation for his Tristan—the round tones and the alliteration allowed the exaltation of spring love almost to glide between the couple. They came toward each other without moving a step. Ardent and devoted, they displayed the sheer beauty of what Wagner wanted to convey. They were everything to each other. They were one and the other. “Liebe und Lenz,” love and spring united them, brother and sister and imminent lovers, showing complete and positive union. French horns highlighted the emotional excitement and the blend that revealed the wish and the apparent necessity of matching the right instrument with the weight of the words, as they did with each other.

After the conclusion of the recognition scene, we were gifted with three encores, the grand piano silently stealing onto the stage while the orchestra departed behind the closed curtain. Asher Fisch played for each performer.

Kaufman gave us Wagner’s gorgeous “Traume,“ sung with as much tenderness and longing as he had sung with passion till now. Davidsen sang Edvard Grieg’s “Våren“—The Last Spring—in Norwegian with sweetness and poignancy. Zeppenfeld’s sonorous and resonant voice treated us to Strauss’ “Wie schön ist doch die Musik.“ The conclusion came then after a glorious hour and a half that we will hopefully revisit again and again.

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In conception, it seemed like a great idea but the result was a mixed bag. The company used the whole theater, placing the orchestra and soloists on the stage with enough social distancing and the chorus was around the auditorium seats facing singers and the orchestra. There were also several lit candles around the auditorium which gave the theater an intimate feel.

But for all these clever performance effects, the concert felt fragmented especially with the operas performed in reserve order. Every piece except the overture to “Roberto Devereux” which began the stream, was incomplete. Considering how rarely performed these pieces are, it would have served the Dutch National Opera better to perform entire scenes with recitatives, repetitions, and complete ensembles to better understand the context of the scene and the works as a whole.

The concert had an international cast of singers led by Latvian soprano Marina Rebeka who performed the three queens, Spanish tenor Ismael Jordi who played the lovers, American mezzo-soprano J’Nai Bridges who portrayed the rivals, and Italian bass Roberto Tagliavini who sang the cruel Henry VIII.

The cast was rounded out by three singers from the DNO Studio, mezzo-soprano Maya Gour, bass-baritone Frederik Bergman and baritone Maksym Nazarenko.

The Production 

The stream was announced as a semi-staged production but upon watching it, I could not really understand why Jetske Mijnssen was credited as stage director when there was no staging. The singers just performed their roles in front of the orchestra and were distanced with minimum interaction.

However, I have to applaud the engineers who decided to use ambient microphones rather than individual microphones for the soloist. It allowed home audiences to get sound closer to the one they would hear in the theater and that made the experience all the more rewarding.

Roberto Devereux

As noted the concert began with the overture to “Roberto Devereux” conducted by Enrique Mazzola. It was a straight reading where he took no risks in dynamics and tempi. However, there was an emphasis on staccato phrases which allowed for clear articulation.

That was followed by Rebeka and Jordi singing the Elisabetta-Roberto duet from the first act. It is a duet that allowed both singers to show their pure Bel Canto technique and luxuriate in the long legato lines. Both had clean attacks on notes and opted for lyrical readings rather than a more dramatic approach. That being said Rebeka did accent some moments to emphasize the text and sang a splendid high D at the end.

The subsequent piece performed was a chorus that seemed to be out of place and rather odd given the chorus belongs to Act two. That was then followed by Sarah and Roberto’s duet that concludes the first act. The duet surprisingly began in the middle of the recitative, ”il vero intesi?” rather than the beginning “È desso.” The mezzo-soprano J’Nai Bridges sang the role of Sarah and possesses a dark timbre with a velvet quality. During this duet, she showed her really beautiful lower and middle register but when she was asked to go above the stave, the sound opened up and became a bit unstable. Some of the high notes sounded forced and heavy and seemed to be uncomfortable for her. It was the first time the mezzo is singing these Donizetti roles so they are likely to become more comfortable in the voice as she sings them in the next three seasons. Jordi, who sang Roberto alongside Bridges, seemed more comfortable using his beautiful timbre and impeccable mezza voce and pianissimi to navigate through the duet. Their timbres did match at many moments and they both ended the duet with a strong high A.

Maria Stuarda

The first piece of “Maria Stuarda” was Elisabetta’s first scene aria. The scene was heavily cut, but Bridges was very comfortable and expressive during the opening aria whose writing is mostly in the middle register. She did seem uncomfortable in the cabaletta, “Ah del ciel discenda un raggio” as the coloratura was a bit smudged and her higher register sounded tense and uneasy.

The following passage from the opera was the confrontation scene between Elisabetta and Maria. Here the whole cast was present and one must applaud the sound engineer who did a splendid job as all the soloists, chorus, and orchestra were perfectly heard. It was perhaps the most dramatic moment of the evening and one that gave us a preview of Bridges and Rebeka’s dramatic abilities and what audiences can expect when the two singing actresses get full productions. However, it was disheartening to see the repetition of the stretta cut. It shortened the drama but it was rewarding to hear Rebeka finish this vigorous piece with a climatic high D.

The final piece from “Maria Stuarda” was from the final scene of the opera. What surprised me once more was that instead of performing the whole final scene, the company opted for only “La preghiera”-The prayer. It is a short and masterful piece but out of context seems strange and unrewarding. Still, it is the most lyrical piece for the soprano in a role that is written mostly in the middle and lower registers. Rebeka therefore could show her crystalline timbre and her immaculate breath control. During the middle of the piece, she held a high G pianissimo for nine long bars before ascending to a high B flat on the same breath. She introduced the minor perfectly in style variations on the repetition.

Anna Bolena

The concert ended with selections from “Anna Bolena,” the opera the company was to have presented at the end of the 2020-21 season. The section opened with the great duet between Henry the VIII and Jane Seymour from the first act. It is a long duet and as expected they cut the opening recitative, “Oh qual parlar fu il suo” and began with Henry’s phrases, “tutta in voi.” This duet was Roberto Tagliavini’s single moment of the night and he proved to have great control of the Bel Canto style. He showed a gorgeous vocal line with an even timbre throughout his whole register. There was also easiness in his higher register and that allowed him to display Henry as an ardent lover and a tyrannical king. Bridges seemed more comfortable in this duet, especially in her higher register and it proved to be the best part of her performance.

Jordi sang Percy’s aria from Act two “Vivi tu.” It was cut as well in numerous spots including the recitative, the bridge after the aria, and the cabaletta was not repeated. However, this did not stop Jordi from showcasing beautiful top notes and an impeccable vocal line. His ability to sing in mezza voce created a constant chiaroscuro that gave shape and color to the aria. With such gorgeous phrases and impeccable taste, I couldn’t help but wonder why they chose this aria instead of the one from “Roberto Devereux,” which is considered one of the best tenor scenes written for Donizetti and a far more virtuosic piece.

The concert ended with a fragmented final scene from “Anna Bolena.” The scene immediately went to “Ah dolce guidarmi” bypassing the dramatic recitative which shows Anna’s delirium and madness and gives context to this beautiful aria. Rebeka’s sweet timbre matched the melancholic melody that Donizetti wrote and she brought masterful attention to dynamics and the legato line. But with this aria out of context, it sometimes seemed that Rebeka was more concerned with the Bel Canto style than Anna’s delirium. She also never managed to sing pianissimo and instead stayed in mezzavoce.

After the aria, Rebeka sang the final cabaletta “Coppia Iniqua.” She sang it beautifully with subtle variations on the repetition and masterful coloratura and high notes. It was impeccable singing for a piece that might just be the most difficult cabaletta written by the composer from Bergamo. The soprano ended the evening with a thrilling high E flat that once again showed her technical security and dominance of the style. It may have sometimes been an icy reading and the setup didn’t help the singers get completely into each scene.

Overall this was an amazing concept to showcase selections from the Tudor Queens trilogy, but the results were uneven as most of the scenes were severely cut. It seemed that if it was a way to introduce the operas to new audiences, a chronological order would have been better served. Yet it was still a good viewing experience as it was brilliantly filmed with a well-balanced sound. In conclusion, this was a nice preview of what is to come in the next three years and what should give these singers plenty of time to deepen their interpretations.

The post Dutch National Opera 2020-2021 Review: Donizetti Queens in Concert appeared first on OperaWire.

Love and lust, jealousy and power, greed and hate, infinity and finitude, community and individualism – all take their place in the four-hour-plus masterpiece and resolve into a statement of renewal and redemption. Francisca Zambello’s San Francisco Opera’s production makes sure to give each its due and then some. From narrative resolution of the plot – the end of the gods’ world, and Brünnhilde and Siegfried’s undying love – to the flame of sacrifice and purification necessary to reestablish universal and natural order, the quadrant of elements, earth, air, fire, water, the artful planting of the new tree by a young child, a girl, the majestic music conveying these resolutions, soaring and rising and setting us down, we have Wagner’s conclusion. It was more than fire.

More than Fire

“Götterdämmerung” begins with the Norns, the three daughters of Erda, Goddess of the Earth, who “weave the threads of destiny.” These roles were sung by Ronnita Miller, Jamie Barton, and Sarah Cambridge. Zambello attired her web spinners in green uniforms (from the ER? The Sanitation Department?), rubber aprons, gloves, boots, and sunglasses, as they are repairing a crucial maze of disconnected rubber cables. Fitting of Zambello’s vision of technological destruction of the world and nature, we meet soprano, mezzo, contralto, a perfect trio to highlight the significance of repairing this break as they work to fix it.

In Act one, Waltraute comes to beg her sister Brünnhilde to return the ring to the Valkyries and make sure they do not lose all their power. The same request yields the same refusal. Something else must occur for the order to be reestablished. Wagner hints that this is not a simple solution; in fact, not a solution at all. It takes Brünnhilde “truly” waking up, and Siegfried’s “betrayal” for this to occur. Acts one, two, and most of three are required for this to occur. The downbeat is not only set but continuing to intensify as the scenes unfold.

Projections splice the forming movement of this evolution with the unformed, shifting clouds and colors, giving us some sense of the dialogue that occurs in any human or philosophical process. And in the musical ones as well. Cascades of soaring violins and shape-shifting brass accompany us as we romp with the young girlish/boyish lovers, Brünnhilde and Siegfried on their rock, Iréne Theorin and Daniel Brenna playing out their affections with aplomb, and vocal charm. Each one defers to the other in words and gifts, their voices matching in piquancy and ardor. Siegfried gives Brünnhilde the ring and Brünnhilde gives Siegfried her horse, Grane, each gift dear to the giver and meant to symbolize the height of love. Sir Donald Runnicles lifts the orchestral texture with abundance. The chords and sweeping strings climax their declaration as “Radiant star” “Conquering light” and the affirmation that nothing can divide them.

When they conclude, another projection, coupled with strong brass, heralds change, as buildings and land are destroyed and the need for a new order arises. For moments, we might not even suspect the shadow Wagner has laid beneath them.

The two-hour Act one brings us into the house of the Gibichungs and details the shadow of evil in remarkable particularity. Zambello depicts this as a contemporary house with off white furniture, club chair and couch, leopard pillows and chair coverings. This is the first appearance of Gutrune, convincingly sung by Soprano Melissa Citro, her brother Gunther, sung by baritone Brian Mulligan, and Hagen, sung by bass Andrea Silvestrelli.

If we haven’t accepted the suggested shadow in the lovers’ embrace, Zambello underscores this in the dialogues of the trio –  corrupt talk and plans for destruction. Siegfried’s arrival sets the actual conflict, to be played out from here on in, in motion. Good, or at least innocent, is pitted against the malign, the intended or believed unshakeability of vows for love pitted against the desire for power and control. The accelerating music, the increasing volume of instruments included – there are 89 in the orchestra as a whole – heighten the tension we feel that the conflict escalates; Wagner’s inclusion of a potion to turn Siegfried from even his naïve course into powerless victim centerstage, escalates the downfall. Siegfried’s willful stubbornness to hold on to his point of view is strangely believable, Brenna dramatizing how insisting that he must see others with the face of trust. The potion complements this.

Yet, as he punches the leopard print pillow, as he questions Hagen as to how he knew his name, we watch the dramatic irony of the plot; Siegfried chooses not to question what’s going on any further. In addition, his minimizing the importance of the Tarnhelm and the Ring not only contrasts with Hagen and Gunther but indicates that for all his naiveté, he is further along the path of good than his hosts pretending sincerity. After all, he does not lust after the power Hagen and the Gibichungs do, but his naïve belief that if he doesn’t nobody else does gets him in trouble. A striking detail in the next scene when he comes to Brünnhilde with Tarnhelm on his head, pretending to be Gunther and dominating her, is particularly chilling. Where is “our Siegfried?” Is the Tarnhelm totally responsible? We can’t help but wonder.

Playing in and out of all the pledges of apparent loyalty is the “Wehe, wehe” motif, a perfect reminder of the dark thread being significantly woven through all that is going on. Hagen’s voice bellows and thunders as the earth finds its faults. Any minute there will be an “emotional earthquake.” Runnicles’ plies the depths of the orchestra here to echo the ponderous depths of evil being committed. Dead trees and scavenging ravens and crows amplify the energetic default of the ascending scales. When the Waltraute, played with exceptional powerful pleading and cajolery, by mezzo-soprano Jamie Barton we hear the orchestra pleading as well, for the sake of the world. Again the irony is played out as Brünnhilde begins to get the idea of what has happened with her father Wotan, and the real significance of the ring. The gods have fallen silent.

“If she would only give the ring back to the river maidens, then the world and the gods would be freed from its curse.” Instead, she vows never to renounce love and hold onto it. Let Valhalla crumble.

The significance here of this dynamic scene is how Brünnhilde has become truly mortal, with no godlike powers. The flute stays tucked into all the massive strings, fire flares, smoke ascends, and Siegfried’s horn call appears in the midst of all. Instead of loyalty, there is human betrayal and the beginning of human awareness of their doom. “Who am I?” Brünnhilde asks, and so does Siegfried.

Who Am I? Who are we?

Acts two and three are at great pains to show them – and we reap the emotional and moral fall. Zambello shows Hagen’s dream of Alberich his father with careful direction: “Schläfst du mein Sohn?” He repeats it several times, hoping to “wake” him from his partial awareness of how much cunning he will have to use to get the ring for himself. Is this what galvanizes Hagen ultimately to kill Siegfried? Brünnhilde’s revelation of Siegfried’s vulnerability in his back coupled with his father’s message turns him into more of a devil than even his father Alberich-cum-monster has been. The appearance of “his men,” the San Francisco Chorus, the first time the Chorus appears in this tetralogy, does much to strengthen his position and accent the duality Wagner intends at this point in his text.

We lose Siegfried, but we watch Brünnhilde embody her own self-mastery, and we grow with her into what Wagner considers a more faultless realm of human development. Siegfried’s death – the original musical composition Wagner created of The Ring – and  Love as she has lived it, i.e., with Siegfried, is a fool’s errand; there is something more.

“I have given all my knowledge to Siegfried.” And so we wonder too, what more is there? One thing is she cannot be prey in any way shape or form. Theorin does an extraordinary job here, moving with natural ease on stage from place to place, and showing her rapidly changing emotions with changing facial and bodily expressions. Her cry to the gods about how she suffers came through with strong conviction, just as Brenna’s painful awareness beams from him as he dies. The two convince through their art of singing and acting; we remain in rapture and strengthened by their increased awareness of who they are in fact; their earlier expressions of love a light touch compared to these moving expressions.

Sir Donald Runnicles amplifies these acknowledgments by the wealth of the percussion and Zambello by keeping the stage dark. The whole earth then appears in projection starting from down-stage right then rising upstage left, thus reminding us to keep the larger view of the opera firmly in mind: this is not just a personal quest but a more universal one. Further, Zambello makes sure we see the complementarity of this on earth as Brünnhilde and Gutrune embrace. We are on our way from a destructive man’s world to the positive embrace of human beings, in particular here, of women, even who have been pitted as rivals. It is at once earth-bound, and the best of the earth, and throughout the universe.

This precedes the immolation scene during which Theorin and the whole cast come together in one communal gesture. Brünnhilde is preparing the fire not just for herself but for all, at least symbolically. The music here, as it has throughout the whole opera, never stops, but for half a second of silence. It is a vast panel of sound onto which life is impressed and expressed. As Brünnhilde addresses herself to Wotan, before her death, she states with great confidence that she understands what has happened to her: “He had to betray me so I would become wise.” In other words, she has grown, she has emerged, she has evolved into what Wagner says how we must if there is to be love and universal order. Here Theorin sang with an apt pianissimo while in the background the “Wehe, Wehe” motif caught our ear.

Peace now, quiet, this is what comes of all this conflict and rage. The earth and all its elements, sink back into order as she returns the ring to the Rhine. Order is restored. The final moments when a young girl comes on stage to plant a young tree is a lovely stroke of affirmation. We are seemingly told: “Take what you want from my ashes, we draw what we can of this enormous expression of human greed, lust for power, and deceit, and what it brings us to in terms of the possibility of an alternative.”

The igniting of the fire sets the whole event in bright, telling light.

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It is an apt lockdown work. Days can pass repetitiously and interminably; month-on-month is wasted away by canceled projects and postponed lives. “L’heure espagnole” holds the mechanical passage of time against the distending and distorting effects our passions and pleasures have on experiencing it, and our attempts to claw it back. Jeffrey Lloyd Roberts’ Torquemada steals a moment of pleasure to gorge on a huge cream cake away from his duty tending the clocks of town – our masters in a world governed by efficiency. Medcalf turns the mule-driver Ramiro into a UPS driver – an especially apposite image of lives determined and serviced by schedule.

Concepción, the wife of Torquemada, is keenly aware of how narrow the window for her liaisons is, and urges speed on the part of her lover; the student poet Gonzalve squanders her offer of a dalliance by proposing to write sonnets and serenades about it instead. “I wasted time, and now doth time waste me”, as Shakespeare has it – but this time it is poetic vanity that gets in the way of a life lived.

Presenting Some Difficulties

The translation presents difficulty. Its double meaning is crucial. “L’heure espagnole” signals both what we would think of as “time” – a set of divisible intervals, like an hour or a minute – and time as what philosophers would call temporality, the lived experience of the flow of future into past, reality into memory: “how they keep the time in Spain”. It is a typically modernist preoccupation – Ravel composed his 1911 opera as Henri Bergson writes his famous disquisitions on time and memory and Marcel Proust the first volumes of “In Search of Lost Time.”

Ravel’s music delights in its own playful artificiality. It is marked by considered textural refinement, exquisitely crafted surfaces, precision-machined ostinati, and knowing invocations of traditional forms (such as in “Le Tombeau de Couperin”, or the jotas, habaneras and malagueñas given special flavor in “L’heure espagnole”). No wonder the exacting craft of the clockmaker attracted meticulous Ravel to the scenario contrived by playwright Franc-Nohain.

The absurd surrealist image the opera manifests in hiding its men inside clocks. Here their faces are superimposed through film over the faces in the distillation of Ravel’s art, blending the manmade with the natural into a strange and unique assembly. This slightly uncanny effect is reflected in Ravel’s approach to vocal writing for the work, which, with the exception of Gonzalve’s parody lyricism, is conversational in character, only ever so slightly lengthened and intensified by their being set to music.

The impression created, conversely, is more evocative of song, with an attendant psychological interiority and focus, in keeping with close-up camera work and the text’s extended, reflective monologues, which linger and hover. That these have the dreamy character of free association, gently probing the surface of feeling and desire, underscores the fact that the opera’s length – fifty minutes – is the same as that of a psychoanalytic session. This introspection can be wistful and searching – Ramgobin’s delivery driver ponders the complexity of women’s wants and wishes – as well as intense and claustrophobic, such as in Concepción’s mid-opera monologue, where “time hangs heavy on my hands” – too short of it while her husband is out, and painfully away that is passing all too quickly.

In this presentation, arranged and performed by Chris Hopkins, we lose, sadly, the dazzling orchestral soundscape and color palette attending the original version, retaining only a whisper of trumpet and the glitter of percussion, as well as ticks and chimes. But on the other hand, this piano-only version feels quite appropriate to the cramped interior of the Kensington shop- Howard Walwyn’s Fine Antique Clocks – where the show was filmed on location.

Fantastic Cast

Ross Ramgobin sang Ramiro with husky tenderness, balancing moments of strength and power with delicacy and warmth; he is deliciously cheeky and playfully coy.

Ashley Riches’ banker Don Iñigo Gomez was capricious and entitled, with Riches bringing power and gravel and richness to the role.

Jeffrey Lloyd Roberts sang a twinkling, gentle Torquemada, a figure of quiet pathos and comic vim – though one who, in the final scene, is able to make a pretty penny out of his wife’s indiscretions.

Elgan Llŷr Thomas was in a comically lustrous voice as Gozalve, extravagant in delivery and sense of line, more entranced by the clocks adorning the walls and his own poetic genius than poor Concepción.

Mezzo Catherine Backhouse gleamed and smoldered by turns as Torquemada’s frustrated wife: “I must smash something”, she explodes, “put porridge in the salad”. This is a taut, compelling little show; its hour-duration ebbs and flows with grace and style.

The post Grange Park Opera Review 2021: L’heure espagnole appeared first on OperaWire.

Here is the hero-to-be, Siegfried, son of the coupling of Siegmund and Sieglinde, deep in his forest home, with his parental surrogate, Mime. The encounter we witness at the start is full of baiting and irritation, brief attempts to resolve pique, and insistent demands of each to fulfill his own desire, Siegfried to find out who his parents were and what happened to them, and Mime, to inveigle Siegfried to get him the Ring and gain the power to rule the world.

After their characters are established in Scene one, the three acts unfold following the quest of each character and the ensuing contretemps – encounter with Alberich, the Machine Monster, the Forest Bird, the Wanderer, and, finally, Brunnhilde. It is a rich tapestry, filled with thrilling music and contrasting moods, and challenging psychological moments.

The highlight of Act one is Siegfried’s Forge-Song, the heaving of the hammer and the “hey te ho” of his vocal response, the swing of first one, then the other, creating an in tandem motion of the sun and the moon, the dark and the light, the love and the hate, of human beings in their world. Siegfried pieces the shards of his father’s sword Noting, together. The sword splits the Anvil when he succeeds at this. Each of the pairs, Mime and Siegfried, Alberich and Wotan, the Forest Bird and Siegfried, duet until all is resolved into the “Liebesbung”,Song of Love in Brünnhilde’s union with Siegfried. And what a highlight it is.

Star Tenors

American Heldentenor Daniel Brenna engaged us with extraordinary energy, liveliness, and vocal technique. Here was Siegfried sparkling, compelling, vigorous. Try to get that out of our heads? Unlikely. Try to dislike him ultimately, boor, bully, wild child? We can’t. He is too candid. Too honest. Too direct. Even his critique of Mime fits the style.

Yes, in human terms Siegfried is ungrateful for what Mime has given him. Tenor David Cangelosi’s Mime tells him plenty about that, and in full throttle. But acknowledge it as he does, Brenna’s Siegfried is not willing to substitute his dislike of his surrogate Father and Mother for contrived “ human”, i.e., social views. He is less than grateful for Mime’s rescue of him when Sieglinde bore him in the forest and dies; he dislikes him and is unwilling to say otherwise. He even brings with him a lively bear, a better companion, he says, than Mime. So, Siegfried mocks Mime and challenges his skill at reforging Notung, the sword of his father’s. He dares. He’s a fool, right? A blunt, open man, who is not afraid of doing what he wants and is proud of that.

Theatrically, it is refreshing, especially with the Forest Bird, Fafner, and eventually Brünnhilde. In fact, the contrast between conventional human values and what Siegfried expresses highlights Wagner’s aim to pit these against another set, part natural and unbridled and universal. This is no light matter. When Brünnhilde wakes and she discovers this, she exhibits uncertainty and doubt. Who can blame her? Asleep for 20 years and formerly a warrior-goddess, now she is on the human playing field. How should and can she act?

Exceptional Skill

Iréne Theorin, a well-known Swedish dramatic soprano, took us through the process with exceptional skill while bringing plenty of intensity, passion, dramatic flair, and beauty to the role At some moments her voice grew a bit shrill, but mostly, she sang with lustrous beauty and exceptional ardor. Her awakening on her rock was performed with moving detail, realistic and poignant. Her extraordinary smile alone gratified. She greeted Brenna’s Siegfried with delight and excited surprise. She loves him, she says, but he must stand back. She will not allow him to rule her with his passion either. He is smitten, but he is confused by this.

What Wagner is after here is to show us the perfect marriage of student and teacher. No master/slave portrayal, as many modern love portrays are. The would-be lovers have to explore how to be with each other but it is Brünnhilde who directs the show. Theorin’s vocal range coupled well with this dramatic power. Big, bold, and beautiful she is an ample beloved to Siegfried and the intricate and beautiful music leads us to consider love in the human realm other than what conventional human love may express. A new standard of conduct is afoot. While we may want to express our passion directly for what we feel as we have been conditioned to do, we are not simply free to do so.

As the opera unfolds, we see “anything goes” is not the point. The point is to suspend ourselves in the midst of strong feelings yet find ways to behave that fit who we are. Compare Fricka and Wotan, for example. While Fricka may be the Guardian of Marriage, it is not those laws that pertain to the ones Wagner details in the opera. Each character must sort it out for him or herself, and together. Daniel Brenna portrayed an affecting hero who must learn to love without rapacity while still ardent, who yearns but without greed or lust, and he learns this while he leans into Brünnhilde’s breast. It is a moving lesson.

So too with the Machine-Monster that Fafner, Raymond Aceto, has become. That is, until Siegfried kills him, cutting to the quick (the wire innards that make the machine run). But then, contrary to other human views, he feels sympathy and sadness for Fafner. It is one of the early connections that Siegfried makes, in fact, once he has dispensed with the need to make nice with Mime. for example, when he hands Mime a drink of his Pepsi Cola, while later repudiating Mime’s demand for human gratitude – this too is new.

(Credit: Cory Weaver)

Brenna’s Siegfried moved nimbly and actively up and down the stage, in and around the forest, over and under the rocks/caverns, all the time never failing to show us the same in his tenor sound. His voice carried the whole development without break, not only full of poignancy and almost sweet naivete, but amazing stamina. With the Forest Bird when he clownishly plays off-key music against the exquisite coloratura lyricism of Stacey Tappan, we have a rare moment of lightness and near-humor. The welcome relief of the first female voice when the Forest Bird arrives to aid Siegfried and Tappan sang with beauty and virtuosity; further, the two tossing Siegfried’s lovely turquoise scarf, a trace of Sieglinde, his mother, is also a charming and touching bit of staging.  Then too with Brünnhilde. While strong and abundant, it carries the message of his newness, and it does not lack vulnerability. How he manages to convey ardor without lust is exceptional.

David Cangelosi’s Mime was practiced and smooth; so smooth sometimes, feeling falters and we are given art alone. He somersaults, he cartwheels, he whines and pouts, he grabs and contrives so that even though we “feel” for his plight – the underappreciated “parent”, we only think we do. His voice conveyed but disappointed with regard to conviction. Baritone Falk Struckmann played Alberich, Mime’s brother. He came through with more expression, complete with his homelessness apparel, goggles, and shopping cart. He conveyed the confusion and hesitation of someone who has a goal but does not stay steady on getting it as soon as an obstacle appears.

Bass-Baritone Greer Grimsley’s Wotan made a difference here, steadying and persuading. He entered as Wanderer and convinced us with commanding and demanding authority. His voice was sonorous and full, deep and determining. We welcomed him when he appeared, knowing he would pull fraying ends together, which he did, first with Mime correctly answering questions put to him by Mime, using the motifs of Giants, Spear, Valhalla, and, in turn, puts questions to Mime. Another contest in which Mime comes out the worse.

With Erda, Wotan’s request echoes his earlier dark, demanding self, only alluded to in this opera. Contralto Ronnita Miller’s Erda brought the strength of the earth in her voice, in trying to get the upper hand, remarkable in its depth and richness in its reach. She certainly succeeded in reaching Wotan, even though he succeeds in getting his way, once again.

Finally, he fights Siegfried, who demolishes Wotan’s Spear, and is able, then, to seek Brünnhilde.

Tying it All Together

Sir Donald Runnicles brought the “story” alive through every beat of the orchestra. “Siegfried” has been considered by some critics, one of the “lighter” operas of the Ring, but the music is nonetheless glorious. From the top of the sound range to the bottom, flute to bass, we bask in its beauty. Nine horns, two harps, although Wagner originally wanted several more, an abundance of strings, and more, we venture into a new landscape. Is the sound new? What with “Die Meistersinger” and “Tristan und Isolde” having been composed between the first Ring operas and the last, most likely so. More leitmotifs are woven together, more of the patterning of the whole is audible. Runnicles aptly detailed these and according to some orchestra members, succeeds in setting the whole narrative straight through to the end of “Die Götterdämmerung” from the opening notes of “Das Rheingold.”  Some have even said they can follow the Ring without text or song and still know what is going on with ease. This could be the case here. The orchestra was alive and full of story; we never had to follow only the words.

Technical marvels delight us throughout, however, searching and expressive the story. Hissing steam, fire, under-lit floors, sparks from the forge, projections of forest and cloud abound, the original versions of these by Jan Hartley and remounted by S.Katy Tucker, make for a dazzling display, at once highlighting the theme of technology vs. nature in Zambello’s American Ring, but also just in itself. It reminds us how wondrous our first circus was – full of marvels we do not even dare to understand. Too much of a miracle. The imaginative lighting accents it all.

One more thing: when Brünnhilde begins to see herself in new ways, without weaponry, for example, without godlike powers, it is as if through Siegfried’s eyes. This catapults her to evolve in the direction Wagner aims  – the humanity she will embrace in “Die Götterdämerung.” And we cannot wait.

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