My worst fears were realized when I heard Seth Brundle singing "help me!" As the afternoon wore on, I empathized with this sentiment. Even a gymnast could not save this production.

While it is not in any way dull, much to the credit of the talented director, it is perhaps just ill conceived. It is certainly more than just a bit dreary, verging on the grisly and downright unpleasant in sections. One can only tolerate so much symbolism in an opera and when it overshadows the substance of the singing, it's not a good thing. The audience was laughing, but I was never sure if it was because it was funny, or they were just amazed that it could be that bad. They may have even been uncomfortable. All of that may have been the original intent of the creators. Or not!

The first act seemed stilted and the characters were offering a great deal of over indulgent asides to explain the back ground of the story to the waiting audience. While it was probably intended to involve us in an intimate fashion, this was slow moving and not particularly dramatically interesting. Despite the very interesting staging, by the end of the first act, I had firmly established a complete lack of caring or interest in any one of the characters.

There were moments that would capture one's attention. The bar scene with a population of low achieving n'er-do-wells, that seemed perfectly happy to lead their unproductive, substance addicted lives was highly amusing on it's face, but struck me as being rather arrogant and derisive in it's portrayal of the common man. More than one person at the intermission was upset by the vivid imagery portrayed by Brundle's first attempt at teleporting a baboon that ended a bit badly, so the animals rights crowd or the squeamish might wish to avoid this. This opera also has a fair amount of rather steamy scenes suggestive of sex acts and nudity, so you might want to leave your kids at home of you find this objectionable.

The singers did their level best to breathe some life into this monster and deserve every accolade. Seth Brundle was sung admirably, despite the lack of any really inspiring melodic material by handsome Canadian baritone Daniel Okulitch. His portrayal was intense and often made one a bit uncomfortable, which I am sure was the intent. He did sing suspended from the ceiling, which amazed me, but when the highlight of your performance includes you stripping naked and climbing into a small chamber, it cannot bring much satisfaction. Mezzo-soprano Ruxandra Donose was a sympathetic Veronica, torn between her love for Seth and her concern that something was most certainly amiss. She has a golden voice, and it was shame that there was little here given to her to demonstrate this fact. Her shining moment was her aria about abortion, that seemed rather unpleasant material, hard to get worked up over in a song. Tenor Gary Lehman was wasted as a very unlikable Stathis, but it seems he was written that way, so his performance was true to the form. It was a treat to see tenor Jay Hunter Morris again in LA, his characterization of Marky was absorbing as he told his tale to the crowd. Tiny soprano Ashlyn Rust played Tawny Perkins, whom Brundle wins from Marky in an arm wrestling match at the bar and takes her home to ravish under his newfound fly sexual prowess. She packs a surprisingly huge voice into a very small body. 

The use of the chorus as an offstage narrative force was perplexing, they sounded great, but we did not really get to see many of them.

The news here, is not all bad.  Howard Shore's orchestral score was very good and amazingly well conducted by Placido Domingo, despite its decidedly difficult and modern musical bent, it was enjoyable. The big problem here is that it was most enjoyable to listen to, if no one was singing. This is kind of a problem at the opera, where the voice has to be more important than special effects make up, sets or costumes.  Understanding the singer is a somewhat more complex operation than it might seem to be on its face. There was none of the meaty material that a singer could sink their vocal cords and breath into, and it seemed almost monotonous at times. There was no theme you might be inspired to hum on the drive home.

I would assume that Mr. Shore's lack of operatic experience contributed to a rather lifeless vocal offering here, but I suppose we all have to begin somewhere. The Lord of the Rings score was fabulous, but it's not opera. However the chief villain in this case was a completely inappropriately written and just plain horrible libretto by David Henry Hwang, Tony award winning playwright. The material was much more suitable for the brighter articulation and less cultured vocal styling of the Broadway stage. When one is singing, the meter and syllabic stresses are musically important, and need to blend with the vocal line and melody, yet this defied traditional prosody at every possible vocal turn. Words that do not carry with them a full sound or effective syllabic emphasis were frequently used for effect, while words that sound good sung, were not abounding. The result was harsh or unyielding, and often in no way melodious. I found myself wishing it was in a foreign language, so ugly were some of the word combinations being used.  It had a clumsy feeling to it, rather like a thundering herd of amputee spiders.

The set by Dante Feretti was workable and visually engaging in a sort of creepy mad scientist way, but despite the moving around of props and set furniture, and creative changes in lighting, did not give enough of a change to sustain 3 hours of looking directly at it. the costumes designed by Denise Cronenberg were lovely and quite faithful to the 50's B movie theme. The lighting was dim as a general rule, so it would be hard to say how good the special effects really were. The part that concerned me that was all of that combined, seemed more important than the singers or the music itself.  David Cronenberg did a good job with the directing, but the material did not seem to be there to inspire anyone to much of anything.

It was really more of a spectacle than an opera. I am not holding my breath while I wait for the opera version of "E.T."

- Guest review by Dawn Southwick

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The main problem, it seems, is the cast being forced to don a straightjacket by Robert Wilson’s minimalist, Japanese Kabuki-inspired production.  The barren stage features a pathway and a couple of props in front of a blank color-projection backdrop, which changes color every so often in action scenes but mostly remains a deep aqua blue.  The stage is peopled by, not real flesh-and-blood, but mannequin-like cardboard figures who pace around in tiny steps in geometric lines like R2D2.  All this and they have to sing, too, with such overflowing passion that could hardly be contained in the ‘cardboard box’. 

Apart from some hoarseness in the beginning, Farina sang with great ardor, phrased his lines sensibly and trumpeted his high notes with white heat.  No wonder this Pinkerton gets all the girls.  Russian veteran baritone Vladimir Chernov portrayed the sympathetic Sharpless in a voice that was weather-beaten but still suave.  Ning Liang’s Suzuki served the role well, but was hampered by the lack of physical movements, especially during the Cherry Blossom duet. 

Chinese soprano Liping Zhang, in her L.A. Opera debut, made all the right moves per director Wilson, but per Puccini her singing was distinctly lacking in passion.  The ‘concept’ might be Kabuki Theatre, but the music is all Italian, and must be conveyed as such – something that conductor James Conlon understood too well.  The orchestra surged and heaved with drama and passion in Cio-Cio-San’s great Act 2 aria “Un bel dì”, where Ms. Zhang’s vocal expressions seemed strangely muted.  Another dramatic moment came in the scene between Sharpless and Cio-Cio-San, when he asks her what she would do if Pinkerton never came back, Zhang’s Cio-Cio-San uttered her words “I shall go back to dancing or die” matter-of-factly, while Conlon’s orchestra (and the great timpani stroke) thundered out with unbearable poignancy and power.  Similarly, Zhang dispatched the music that announces Yamadori’s arrival coolly without the mocked passion of a disinterested woman.

Ah! such is the tyranny of directors nowadays.  The legendary Italian soprano Licia Albanese, a great Cio-Cio-San herself, interviewed by Classical Voice a few months ago, denounced modern directors for the downfall of opera as the traditional art form as we know it.  Perhaps this was not how any self-respecting opera singer worth her art would choose to put her best foot forward in an important debut, if given the choice.  Therefore, I shall reserve my final judgment on Ms. Zhang for a more conventional production later on. In this Butterfly, she was clearly ‘hemmed in’ by director Wilson and sounded uncomfortable.

Orchestrally, this was as good-sounding a Butterfly as I have heard in my twenty years of opera-going.  My last fond memories were in San Francisco, a beautifully detailed production incomparably conducted by Sir. Charles Mackerras, whom I declared at that time “a conductor who could do no wrong”.  Today, maestro Conlon seems to have taken up Sir Charles’ mantle and turns everything he touches into gold.  Los Angeles Opera is lucky to have him.


- reviewed by Truman C. Wang

The only thing unwelcome is the work of newbie director Javier Ulacia, making his L.A. Opera debut that might well also be his farewell.  He shall forever be remembered for inventing a puzzling ‘alternative’ ending for Carmen in which the heroine deliberately throws herself onto Don Jose’s dagger, and Jose inscrutably declaims “It is I who have killed her!”  If that’s not bad enough, during most of the opera we saw Carmen standing around,  totally aloof, when she’s not dancing the sequidilla or playing the castanets.  Such directorial contrivances extend also to the all-important flower throwing moment in Act 1, when this Carmen calmly walks up to Don José, tosses him a flower and stares him down for a full minute before retreating.  What ever happened to the flighty, rebellious bird that Carmen sings about?

To be fair, Ulacia did not have the right material to work with.  His Carmen, Viktoria Vizin, sports a pleasant but generic mezzo-soprano voice that is distinguished neither by its word-pointing intensity nor by its dramatic accents.  It produced alluring tones in the dance numbers, but little buzz during the recitatives and the few short, truncated dialogs.  This is an ideal voice for Offenbach’s Niklause or Massenet’s Charlotte, not for Bizet’s Carmen.  For all the wild child of love that Carmen is presumed to be, Vizin is seriously miscast. 

Her Don José , tenor Marcus Haddock, was similarly miscast, belting out his Flower Song with little finesse or poetry.   Bass Raymond Aceto‘s toreador Escamillo had more gravels in his throat than in the mountain pass used by the smugglers.  His declaration of love for Carmen in Act 4 was hardly convincing. 

All is not lost, however.  The show was saved by – surprise – Micaëla!  Austrian soprano Genia Kühmeier sang with Mozartean purity of line and silvery tones (She was born, appropriately, in Mozart’s hometown of Salzburg) in her passionate pleas to Don José in Acts 1 and 3.   Kühmeier’s Micaëla showed an underlying strength of steel, more than just a little girl with a pretty voice.  Her very fine singing in Micaëla’s famous aria “Je dis que rien ne m’épouvante” (“I say nothing can frighten me /But I die of fear! /Protect me Lord, Give me courage!”), a splendidly realized micro-drama ending with a ravishing, perfectly-placed high B, reminded me of the young Mirella Freni.  The Los Angeles Opera would do well to sign her up immediately for their future Countess (Le Nozze), Pamina (Magic Flute) and Sophie (Der Rosenkavalier).

French conductor Emmanuel Villaume presided over the pit with authority and whipped up some gorgeous playing from his Los Angeles Opera Orchestra musicians.  The Opera Chorus and Children’s Chorus both sang very beautifully – but where was the flirtation of the ladies in Act 1, or the rambunctious horseplay of the street kids?  Maybe director Ulacia is once again to blame here. 

This revival of Carmen is to be commended for the outstanding visuals (gorgeous sets and costumes), a fine troupe of Spanish dancers, and Kühmeier’s memorable Micaëla.  Bizet’s music, of course, remains a perennial favorite and will survive even a mediocre cast.

- reviewed by Truman C. Wang

The Egyptian-themed sets feature a Giant Pyramid, projected hieroglyphics, painted backdrops and men in Sphinx masks.  Scene changes are swift and seamless, with the Pyramid appearing in nearly all the scenes, in whole or in various configurations of the halves.  Bright orange costumes are worn by Sarastro and his Sun-followers, while the Three Ladies of the Night and their Queen are clothed in sequined dark blue gowns that make them shimmer in the lighting like apparitions.

All the stage wizardry, however great they might be, must be employed in the service of the composer and the music.  That is something understood perfectly by conductor James Conlon.  The beloved L.A. Opera Music Director, as soon as he came out to the podium, was greeted with a shout of “We love you! maestro Conlon!”.  Such a prominent public display of affection was repaid tenfold by the maestro, who lavished all his love and affection on the music.  In the overture, the fugal passage was executed with lots of bouncy alacrity and charm.  The bassoon cooed sweetly during Tamino’s  Portrait aria “Dies bildnis” declaring his love for Pamina.  The Queen of the Night’s Act 2 Vengeance aria “Der Holle Rache” was preceded by vehement stabbing chords in the strings.   The Act finales achieved a tremendous sweep and organic unity, tying together all the duets, trios and choruses nicely.

The handsome cast featured Swedish soprano Marie Arnet singing sweet, silver tones as Princess Pamina, and sinking into heartwrenching pathos at her encounter with a silent Tamino in Act 2.  Tenor Matthew Polenzani sang a cheerful and clarion-voiced Prince Tamino, confident of his eventual victory over evil.  Austrian bass Günther Groissböck sang with a deep rolling tone and commanding authority as Sarastro. 

The very fine German lieder singer Matthias Goerne made a surprising cameo appearance  as the Speaker (a non-singing role) in a piece of luxury casting.

The Three Ladies were well-matched vocally – soprano Tamara Wilson, mezzo-sopranos Lauren McNeese and Beth Clayton – forming an euphonious trio and acting with comical flair without resorting histrionics.  Despite their competitive nature, they all share the bond of sisterhood.  Their leader, the Queen of the Night, was sung with remarkable precision and élan by soprano L’ubica Vargicova. 

But the “Best Artist” award must go to Nathan Gunn as the bird catcher Papageno.  He was a mesmerizing singing actor to observe, transforming Mozart’s simple, childlike melodies for Papageno and Schikaneder’s innocuous text into little nuggets of humanity.   All clowning aside, when this Papageno thinks he has lost his woman forever and is about to hang himself, we truly feel for his loss and despair.  His Pagagena, soprano Amanda Suitieri, was as giddy and perky as her Lisette in last season’s La Rondine.  

The Three Genies – sung by boy altos Ryan Schiller, Stephen Cruz and Caleb Glickman – acquitted themselves well considering that, most of the time, they were hanging from perilous heights. 

The Los Angeles Opera Chorus sang their hears out for their new chorus master Grant Gershon. 

This is the most utterly delightful L.A. Opera production that I have seen in a while.  Even more rare is its wholesome appeal to adults and kids alike – not many opera stories can boast that claim.   The remaining show dates are January 16, 17, 18, 21, 22, 24 and 25.   Do not miss it!
 

- reviewed by Truman C. Wang

 

Maestro James Conlon has conducted Zauberflöte (Magic Flute) many times in many opera houses around the world. This performance, peopled by “alternate” casting in the main, could well stand positive comparison with the finest European opera performances. It must also be said that it is his dynamic leadership that prevented potential ennui in the cast, especially those lesser roles and chorus who were in their eighth performance of the nine scheduled. One does not doubt that this production could well have sold tickets into an even longer mini-season had they been offered.

This Peter Hall production, in its second go-around, is wonderful, simply put. The scenery, the staging, the lighting scheme and most of the costumes were as charming as Mozart’s music, and that is a standard that many European opera houses fail to deliver in presenting “au courant” productions. The audience was instantly drawn into a happy accord with the mythological vision of this production, one that for PC reasons transformed the black Moor Monostatos, frenetically performed by Greg Fedderly, into a “green man” while going the opposite direction in making African-American Morris Robinson what appeared from the audience to be a white-faced Sarastro. One wonders why.

Outstanding in their Singspiel roles were Erin Wall as Pamina, Albina Shagimuratova as The Queen of the Night, Joseph Kaiser as Tamino, Mr. Robinson as Sarastro, and Markus Werba as Papageno, all of whom were making their debut performances with Los Angeles Opera as was Matthias Görne as The Speaker. Mr. Werba of Austria was making his United States debut. Another Company debutante was Valerie Vinzant as Papagena, whose flirty hip wiggles with Papageno during their fin-de-opera duet about making lots of children greatly amused the audience.

The Three Ladies were in their eighth performance, too, and showed a high level of energy and excellent, well-balanced vocalism. First Lady Tamara Wilson, Second Lady Lauren McNeese and Third Lady Beth Clayton were attired in different costumes, each highlighting their various individual characteristics. All three sang well, within the confines of their characters.

The loudest cheers of the night were showered upon Ms. Shagimuratova for her high-wire performance as she nailed nearly every note up to and including that high F in the famous “Hölle Rache” aria. But for the cognoscenti, it was her musical handling of the aria’s roulades that were most admirable. The role is a tough nut to crack, and she did it with bravura and vocal strength.

Mr. Werba left a most positive impression as Papageno, displaying a comic flair for the role that is all too often overstated. His singing was exemplary, and at age 35, he is in his prime. Also impressive was Mr. Kaiser, who also appears in this role in the recent Kenneth Branagh cinematic adaptation of The Magic Flute (in English) conducted by Maestro Conlon.

Under the heading of “aw, shucks” were the various mixed-breed animals, who appeared onstage while poor Tamino was attempting to sing, making it difficult for him to be heard over the audience’s laughter and cooing. But the animals, especially the short one (obviously portrayed by a child) who stood next to Tamino, and was carried off by him at aria’s end, were delightful and colorful. Speaking of animals, the first act “dragon” turned out to be an enormous, floaty serpent. How many operas are there with just a snake as the only terminated one?

It was all presented as a comedy, and that helped to make Monostatos more of a clown than a sinister would-be rapist, although his lyrics seemed to indicate that was his intent. 

The costumes worn by the chorus looked like a cross between Planet of the Apes and Star Trek, with suggestions of Pharoaic head-dress and funny makeup that could tend to lead one to think “cult” of Sarastro’s temple gang. Under Grant Gershon’s direction, they sang very well. The stage set pieces were wonderful and dramatic; scene changes were made quickly and unobtrusively.

The Three Boys, portrayed by Josiah Yiu, Gregory Sliskovich and Justus Bradshaw, were nearly inaudible from Orchestra Row N, Seat 9. The wonderful quartet of The Three Boys with Pamina (“Zwei Herzen”) could not be heard. The boys are members of the Los Angeles Children’s Chorus, and are taught to be choral singers, without the necessary vocal tools required of soloists. Some have questioned their staging as well in not physically disarming Pamina or Papageno, but relying on some mysterious magical powers that enabled them to save the two would-be suicides regardless of the fact they were physically some distance from both at their respective critical moments. Magic, of sorts, but not that an audience would likely understand.

Maestro Conlon’s preconcert lecture was as brilliant as his conducting, with leading questions posed by KUSC’s Duff Murphy.


- Guest review by Douglas Neslund




 

First up is “Das Rheingold” where we meet the characters that will be working on and off stage at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in coming months.  Grading the various components, one would have to give the principal singers an A- on the basis of opening night, because as a rule their singing was superb, their acting was adequate, and they accomplished all that while putting their lives on the line on Achim Freyer’s raked disk complete with risky traps, cables, ladders and flies (not the pest, the theatrical cables that swing one above the mere mortals onstage).  A raked disk is not usual. Having tripwires everywhere is.

The music of Richard Wagner, upstaged as it was by the visual light show onstage, triumphed both on and below the stage for those who listened.  The Opera Orchestra and its top-drawer conductor, James Conlon, get an A+ for accomplishing so much in such a small space, compared with the roomy under-stage orchestra pit in Bayreuth.  One wonders a bit how much more glorious the music could be with a pit large enough to accommodate 100 players.

And the grade for Director-Designer-Costumers-Lighting Designer Achim Freyer, himself, with daughter Amanda Freyer creating the costumes?  C+, and that’s a stretch.  (At curtain call, there were scattered boos for the Brechtian disciple.)  For starters, the man has become an arm-fetishist.  Everyone onstage seems to have at least two sets of arms, and some, like the Loge of Arnold Bezuyen, have three – in addition to their own.  The 74-year old Herr Freyer also seems to relish memories of his childhood, with a World War-style single piloted airplane hanging over stage right, and a man-puppet in a wire cage hanging over stage left.  What is one to make of the huge, blood-shot eyeball parked downstage right?  One has to wonder why, since none of these seem to have anything to do with plot or character development.

Of the derivative productions since Richard Wagner found existing theatres to be inadequate for his creations, and built the famous Festspielhaus in Bayreuth, the Ring has undergone some pretty wild and crazy versions.  This one, at least in its first public exhibition, is a mixture of many strengths and a few weaknesses, an mélange of brilliance and kookiness that amuses and annoys, and ultimately distracts from the music, all the while claiming to be in the spirit of the Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk ideal.

Herr Freyer places huge Charlie Brown-sized headpieces over Gordon Hawkins’ Alberich and Graham Clark’s Mime, while allowing the other principals to sing out of holes drilled through enormous cutouts meant to evoke an oversized image of their respective characters.  Ellie Dehn is tasked to sing out between double boobs of her wedding-gowned Freia, and run up and down the raked disk, risking a trip and plunge into the orchestra pit.  Morris Robinson and Eric Halfvarson as Fasolt and Fafner, respectively, must portray their role of giants-as-construction workers from far upstage, which means patrons sitting higher than the Founder’s Circle cannot see them, yet can hear them better than those sitting in Orchestra.  The Wotan of Vitalij Kowlajow, thank the gods, is placed downstage, and sings from a fairly static position, while Michelle DeYoung as Fricka is directed to wander out onto the disk from downstage left, extending her oversized arms and illuminated hands in the general direction of Wotan throughout the entire work (turning off the flashlights when not singing).  Alberich has a body double that climbs the ladder and another two effigies that become a sort of giant and sort of frog, while standing and singing extreme downstage left.  His hat of gold flies off and reappears moments later hovering over the stack of gold upstage center, setting off audience titters.  Lots of wires and cables enable these moments of magic, but offer their own sometimes extreme hazards for the singers and actors. 

At least Wagner, abandoning Gesamtkunstwerk in this instance, managed to leave a ballet troupe out, but wait!  Sixteen youngsters act as Nibelungen and wave- and fog-makers, spending the beginning and ending of the opera under a gigantic parachute-like cloth with holes in it that allow Woglinde (Stacey Tappan), Wellgunde (Lauren McNeese) and Flosshilde (Beth Clayton) to protrude from the waist up and sing, but their body doubles, hanging upside down in front of them and meant to be watery reflections, have to mimic their every arm movement, but don’t (cannot, actually).  When Erda (German Erde=Mother Earth) emerges courtesy of an elevator in the center of the raked disk, she is crowned with what appears to be the entire contents of Tammy Fay Bakker’s wig collection, and when she is lowered again, attendants below must haul in the frizzy locks in order to avoid getting hung up and/or beheading Jill Grove.  Wayne Tigges as Donner and Beau Gibson as Froh sang and acted well from their medium upstage posts, with Mr. Tigges easier to hear.

Brian Gale’s (and Achim Freyer’s) lighting scheme is both amazing and annoying.  There are “special effects” that leads one to wonder how they managed to do that; for example, the upward spiral of light that, from the audience’s perspective, encircled those onstage.  And then the grotesquely oversized drips of blood oozing down the front scrim to tell us what we already know, as Fafner rips the head off Fasolt so far upstage that those in the balcony have to wonder what happened, unless they, like many in the audience, are fans of the composer and his genius, and already aware of the fratricide.

Maestro Conlon knows his Wagner, and the excellent Opera Orchestra is “invisible” like that in Bayreuth.  The sound emanating from the pit is fulsome, rich and satisfying.  Next up:  Die Walküre.


- Guest review by Douglas Neslund
 

Editor's Note:  For a comparison review of San Francisco Opera's 1920's-chic "Das Rheingold" (June 28, 2008), click here.

 

As Alfredo, the Russian tenor Alexey Dolgov has a fine voice and sings with passion, even though it’s a distinctly un-Italianate voice lacking in a ringing top and élan.  However, he managed to employ it to great effects in the powerful first act duet which Futral sang with astonishing brilliance.

Stephen Powell, the elder Germont, sang with a smooth velvet tone and projected the air of distinguished authority essential to the success of his great Act 2 duet with Violetta. 

Giovanni Agostinucci‘s handsome and sumptuous sets complement the singers well, making his mark in the Act 3 ballroom scene, where the immensity of the room, the lighting, the interaction of the party attendees, and, of course the delightful dancers elicited a great ovation from the appreciative, overflowing audience.

- reviewed by Truman C. Wang