hings continue to change in the second year of the new regime at the Metropolitan Opera House. There is more life, there is a larger public, and enthusiasm has increased The new general director seems to know very well the ins and outs of the advertising world which packages and sells everything from detergents to politicians, and has used his skill to produce these results. If we include in the packaging category stage sets and design, it must be said the the standard is very high for Roméo et Juliette, as the visual aspect of this production is an elegant and evocative combination of surrealism and Renaissance forms that filled this viewer’s eyes with wonder and delight. The consumer, however, has come to find that sometimes packaging is of better quality than the product at issue, which is, in this case -first and last - singing.

n The eleven hundredth Metropolitan Opera performance of Aida, which took place on October 30th, something out of the ordinary occurred during the prelude. Generally, the fragile opening measures are obliterated by the coughs, rustling programs, and last words of conversation from a progressively inattentive public. However the first phrases, were so gracefully shaped, and played with such beauty of tone by the strings, that they brought a hush over the house.

he Metropolitan Opera’s advertisement in Playbill Magazine for their new production of Macbeth reads “…a powerful new staging for Verdi’s sublime Shakespeare adaptation.” From this we gather that the focus is on the production rather than the singing, as well it seemed to be. Can one say that Verdi’s adaptation, or Shakespeare’s play, for that matter, is really something we would call “sublime?” Monumental, shattering, perhaps, but “sublime,” in the dictionary sense of “lofty” or “elevating” it is not. What proved to be sublime indeed was the singing and acting of Željko Lučić in the title role. He at once, through Verdi’s dramatic skill, and his own many-faceted voice, established himself as a sympathetic character, complex, filled with indecision, and doomed by the ambitions of his malevolent wife. Never did Lučić use the opera as a vehicle of vocal display, but conversely he employed his gifts to the service and truth of the music. Surely this is one of the major components of artistic greatness.

Nov 19  Druid damsel in distress in a doom and gloom production

                 NORMA

Opera in two acts by
VINCENZO BELLINI
Libretto by Carlo Pepoli
Sung in Italian with Met titles

Maurizio Benini, Conductor
Donald Palumbo, Chorusmaster

Performance of November 19, 2007
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York City

haste queen, who silvers these sacred and ancient trees, turn to us your beautiful countenance” the Druid Priestess sings to the moon. It is described in Bellini’s score as La luna splende in tutta sua luce, but the object to which Norma prays in this new Metropolitan Opera production, is a stark mat-white disc resembling the top of a round banquet table. Moonlight can be enchanting, but certainly not in this gloomily lit production which cast a relentless pall over every scene regardless of its dramatic tone. Equally gloomy were the squat black objects encircling the stage which one supposes to be a reference to the soaring white stones of Stonehenge.

 One can’t help but wonder what kind of voice Giuditta Pasta possessed for Bellini to entrust her with this virtually impossible role. It demands a voice of dramatic dimensions which can display warmth as well as grandeur; lyric cantilena and legato; the ability to spin pianissimos; and a highly refined control of fioratura, especially in the cascading chromatic passages of the first aria. In the Metropolitan’s history, as far as we have auditory record, there has not been a “perfect” Norma. Zinka Milanov perhaps came closest, but she was unable, as a true dramatic soprano, to manage all of the coloratura sections with accuracy and grace. Callas of course sang these florid parts superlatively, and presented a staggering dramatic presence, but her murky middle voice and slow oscillation of pitch in fortissimos and pianissimos undermined the magic she so often evoked. The performances of Joan Sutherland, Monserat Caballe, Elena Suliotis, and Jane Eaglen were either dramatically tepid or technically inadequate.

All of the requirements of this formidable role appear in sequence at the outset of Norma’s appearance on stage, and Hasmik Papian made clear, as each of these presented itself, that she was sorely miscast. Her voice, although attractive at times, does not have the magnitude, the agility, or the beauty of tone absolutely necessary for a successful reading. At the opening declamation, Sedizioze voci, voci di Guerra one heard the husky tone of an artists who over-sings. The phrasing in the aria was clumsy and the coloratura seemed just a flurry of random pitches, having almost nothing to do with the notes in the score. There was a sense that the evening ahead of us would be long, and so it was. Franco Farina, as well, was in technical difficulties, and his unsuccessful struggle to manage a slow wavering vibrato precluded any possibility of plausible acting. In fact among the singers, the drama itself, its complex course of conflicting emotions, vows of love and friendship, indictments and apologies, seemed to be a secondary issue.

Each member of the cast appeared to function in an invisible isolated cylinder, solely intent on his/her vocal mission. Even the technically superb Dolora Zajick delivered her beautiful, free legato phrases to no ostensible purpose but the sound itself. Her second act duet with Norma, a plea for the lives of her children, and an ecstatic declaration of eternal devotion, had no more intensity than a daytime television drama. This, unfortunately, was the standard throughout, and weighed heavily on the credibility of the final sacrificial gestures of Pollione and Norma. Vitalij Kowalijow raised standards with his beautiful ringing voice and compelling portrayal as leader of the Druids and father of their high priestess, but the musical highlight of the evening was the wonderfully sung men’s choruses in the second act. Chorus master Donald Palumbo has proven to be one of the company’s greatest assets throughout the season, guaranteeing memorable moments of musical excellence in every performance.

The conductor, Maurizio Bernini did not often give clear downbeats, and once phrases were begun they moved in a desultory and aimless manner. The introduction to Casta Diva, for example, played so marvelously by principal flutist Michael Parloff, was undermined by the flaccid push and pull of the accompanying triplets. Singers’ entrances were generally tentative under Bernini’s direction, and both cast and conductor had the annoying mannerism of slowing the ends of phrases.  One cannot fault the brilliant members of the Metropolitan Opera orchestra on this account – they are bound to follow the baton – one can only marvel at how they are able to assume the personality night after night, of the various gentlemen wielding that baton – for better or for worse

                       WAR AND PEACE

Opera in two parts (epigraph and thirteen scenes) by
SERGEI PROKOFIEV
Libretto by Prokofiev and Mira Mendelson
Sung in Russian with Met titles

Valery Gergiev, Conductor
Andrei Konchalovsky, Production
George Tsypin, Set Designer

Performance of December 5, 2007
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York City

t might interest our readers to know that Count Leo Tolstoy hated opera. In the novel War and Peace he gives himself the opportunity to ridicule the form and its audience as he writes about Natasha Rostova sitting in her box.: “ Natasha could not follow the opera, nor even the music; she looked upon the painted cardboard and the queerly dressed men and women who moved, spoke, and sang so strangely in that brilliant light. She knew what it was all meant to represent, but it was so pretentiously false and unnatural, that she first felt ashamed for the actors, and then amused by them.” “She looked at the faces of the audience… which seemed attentive to what was happening on stage, and expressed delight which, to Natasha, seemed feigned.”  In his essay What is Art? Tolstoy attacks opera from both a moral and artistic standpoint,  observing that singers open their mouths in unnatural ways, wear absurd costumes to cover their often peculiar bodies, and cut very poor capers as actors in an attempt to entertain the idle rich, giving them an opportunity to flaunt their wealth and pretensions to culture. Tolstoy also hated patriotism: “Patriotism cannot be good. Why do not people say that egoism might be good? For this might more easily be maintained as to egoism which is a natural and inborn feeling, than to patriotism, which is an unnatural feeling, artificially grafted on man.”

One cannot help but wonder in light of this, that Prokofiev created the opera War and Peace which inevitably included all of the trappings Tolstoy ridiculed, superimposing as well, a grandiose patriotic tone which is absent in the novel.  Its thirteen hundred and some pages are divided by the composer into thirteen scenes, which highlight some of the main actions of the book and cannot help but compress the carefully drawn characters into standard operatic clichés. In the opening scene, for example, Prince Andrew sings of his heart being reawakened. This event appears a third of the way into the novel, after the death of his wife while giving birth to their son, and after his many soul struggles over the meaning of life and death – that is to say - after a great sympathy is developed on the part of the reader for his complex and vulnerable nature. With all these factors considered, and notwithstanding its being a child bearing little resemblance to the parent, the opera War and Peace is deeply moving. Ultimately, one’s tear ducts are the critical judge and jury, and only after the fact does one ask why they did or did not function. In this case the tears flowed, especially in the final rousing patriotic chorus, based on the beautiful theme of Kutuzov’s aria, in which the people express their love for great Moscow. The Russian people comprise the hero of this opera, and the brilliant, sonorous chorus was certainly the hero of the evening.

One reason this review deals with things other than the performance itself up to this point, is that the cast – over fifty strong- did not include one truly outstanding singer. The roles of Natasha and Prince Andrew, so admirably sung and acted previously by Marina Poplavskaya and Alexej Markov, were given to two Russian artists making their Metropolitan Opera debut. Indeed, they were artists, but the voice of Irina Mataeva was really too small, and too brittle, her acting too unconvincing, for the role. Vasili Ladyuk sang better than well, but once again the acting was stiff and the voice insufficiently memorable or beautiful for the listener to forget the act of singing and be drawn into the music itself. Kim Begley’s vocal distress at the top of his range also made it impossible to forget the act of singing or focus on the lovable and ardent character of Prince Pierre Bezukhov.  Although the ancient General Kutozov is described as weakened by age, it is important that his vocal part be sung in a strong and heroic way. Samuel Ramey cannot begin to accomplish this anymore in spite of the still beautiful quality of his voice. The vocal lines, generally long, slow, and declamatory, are just the thing to show aging voices at their worst. Especially painful were the sustained notes and fermatas at the end of phrases, which resembled a languorous series of sixteenth notes alternating at half step intervals. These were sad moments.

Valery Gergiev has become much more the master of ensemble between the orchestra and singers than in earlier seasons. In years past, the orchestra often overpowered even the strongest voices, as well as the full chorus, but now the entire complement rings through the house like a sonorous bell. The nuances of tone and phrase in the orchestra under his direction were most compelling.

As with the majority of productions this season, the production itself was on a much higher level than the singing – a beautiful package which sometimes brings disappointment when the contents are revealed. The superb imagination of Andrei Konchelovsky and George Tsypin, always supporting and never eclipsing the music, was everywhere evident. For sets a variety of styles is employed, from the cardboard balcony used for Natasha’s and Sonia’s conversation in the first act, (possibly a wink at Tolstoy’s above mentioned commentary in War and Peace), to the minimalist ball scene, and finally the brilliantly lit cinematic effects of Moscow in flames. 

It is staggering to think of the tangled sequence of obstacles, accumulated over the years, that stood in the way of this opera’s being heard tonight, beginning with Prokofiev’s oppressive government censors, and ending with the present production costs and the task  assembling an immense cast such as this,  that gave, it seemed, everything it had to the performance. One is reminded of Rilke’s words to his young poet that “…more inexpressible than all else are works of art, mysterious existences, the life of which, while ours passes away, endures.”  With all the reservations one might have about some of the singing, this great, mysterious work, with its infinite demands, spoke powerfully,  and deserved the ovation it received, which seemed to acknowledge the composer,  the performers, and the second half of the title, “Peace,” as well.

    
                Iphigénie en Tauride

Opera in four acts by
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK
Libretto by Nicolas-François Guillard
Sung in French with Met titles

Louis Langrée, Conductor
Stephen Wadsworth, Production
Thomas Lynch, Set Designer

Performance of December 1, 2007
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York City

ilence can be a powerful dramatic tool. It is used however, to awkward effect, in the beginning of this version of “Iphigenie en Tauride” as the curtain swiftly and noiselessly rises to reveal what looks like a torture chamber. After some moments, a woman is dragged onstage breaking the silence by screaming “No! No!” Silence again reigns as she is thrown upon a slab representing Diana’s alter, and a huge knife is thrust into her heart. Only after this unconvincing invention, which turned the spotlight upon producer Stephen Wadsworth, did Gluck’s opera begin. It was wonderful to hear how quickly the magnificent opening phrases from the orchestra altered the stagy atmosphere of that false start to one of authenticity and dignity. The music, so elegantly and stylishly played and sung throughout, would surely have pleased Gluck, the opera reformer, for the principle singers, in form technically and dramatically, underscored his view that vocal display, is a matter secondary to the work itself, to be used only in its service.

Susan Graham’s compelling rendition of ‘O toi, qui prolongeas nos jours’ was a wonderful example of vocal perfection and dramatic commitment,  which employed a mixture of theatrical realism with stylized gestures when, for example, she tries to murder Oreste but cannot bring herself to do it. 

Gluck is known to have been deeply involved with acting, as well as singing, during the musical preparation of his operas, and it was heartening to witness the marriage of these two elements in this production, which was especially impressive in Oreste’s mad scene. Tenor Plácido Domingo sang this baritone role flawlessly with a fresh, youthful ring in his voice that belies his many years on stage. Perhaps one might say in regard to his highly polished deportment, ‘what craftsmanship Domingo displays,’ but it has always been difficult to become forgetful of his craftsmanship, and wholly drawn into the character. Nevertheless, this was a brilliant performance.

Paul Groves, sang the role of Pylade with occasional difficulty, especially in the shifting from middle to top register, but he also brought considerable dramatic depth to the character, and although William Schimell also struggled sometimes with the vocal and dramatic demands put upon Thaos, his singing of ‘De noirs pressentiments’ was deeply moving. It must be said that the conducting of Louis Langrée was nothing less than superb. The beauty of tone, rhythmic grace, elegant phrasing and impeccable style that issued from the orchestra, soloists, and chorus, were by and large the result of his intelligent and capable work.                  
                           
In regard to the sets, Gluck specifies that Act I take place outside, before the atrium of the temple of Diana, and that the second act be set within. The stark dungeon, which glared at the audience for the entire evening, threatened to cast a pall over this superlative performance, and could have been avoided simply by following the composer’s wise instruction that there be a scenic contrast of the external at the onset, and the internal, as the drama unfolds with fate proffering no escape. What was shown on stage could hardly be called a temple and certainly reflected none of the elegance and dignity of the music. Nothing however could begin to detract from the effects of the high artistic level of the music making. This was one of the season’s most admirable achievements.

                Hansel and Gretel

Opera in three acts by
ENGELBERT HUMPERDINCK
Libretto by Adelheid Wette
Sung in English with Met titles

Vladimir Jurowski, Conductor
Richard Jones, Production
John Macfarlane, Set and Costume Designer

Performance of January 8, 2008
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York City

he music of “Hansel and Gretel” is quite charming, and, to risk a hackneyed word,  quite beautiful. It would be a good guess, however, that after a few hearings one would choose to listen to it only occasionally, as is not the case with another fairy tale opera, Die Zauberflöte. Nevertheless, Humperdinck was served well by the cast of the Metropolitan Opera performance of January 8th. I have noticed over the years that the finest singers often do their near-perfect best in lighter repertoire: Elizabeth Schwarzkopf singing Giuditta, Nicolai Gedda in Le Postillion de Longumeau, or Lotte Lehmann singing Leoplodi’s melancholy Wien, sterbende Märchenstadt, come to mind. Perhaps part of the reason for such excellence might be a feeling in the artist that there is less to prove, and as a consequence, a greater ease.

At any rate, the entire cast of the Met’s 244th performance seemed indeed at their ease, and at their best. Wonderful Alice Coote who sang, Cherubino so brilliantly last season, was an endearing, believable Hansel, even when carrying out some rather preposterous stage directions. One wondered, for example, whether she was shadow boxing, or break-dancing in the first act dance sequence. Her exemplary English diction contrasted with that of German-born Christine Schäfer, who sometimes sang “theh” instead of “the” and “gled” rather than “glad,” but her singing of Gretel was so exquisite that one felt charmed rather than put off by such inaccuracies, especially as it was nearly impossible, by virtue of the vast hall and the clumsy translation, to understand the greater part of the text. The ensemble singing of these perfectly matched voices was remarkably fine throughout, especially in the second act prayer of the fourteen angels.

Rosalind Plowright, whom I first heard many years ago in Eve Queller’s concert version of Die Liebe der Danae has lost some vocal luster, but her reading of Gertrude, the mother, was craftsmanly and compelling, even when she too, was carrying out some rather preposterous stage directions. Alan Held, who played her husband, burst on stage with a huge and hearty tone. Once again, it occurred to me as in the case of Gedda and Lehman ‘would he sing with such consummate ease if it were the music of a more serious and dramatic nature?’ At any rate, his voice was abundant opulent.

One of the theatrical and vocal highlights of the evening was tenor Adam Klein’s performance of the Witch, originally scored for mezzo-soprano. He did not hide the beauty of his freely produced voice, but with his gestures and comic timing brought about  the authentic fairy tale tone of the opera, in spite of a grim Weimar Era pall cast over it by the producer and set designer.

Of course it is often an admirable thing to be inventive. When one considers a Bach fugue however, it is inventive indeed, but subject to stringent musical canon which stands as a touchstone of its quality. Producers and directors are subject to rules too. They are subject to the wishes of the composer. When in the dream pantomime, Humperdinck requires fourteen angels to “descend from a staircase in light garments, two at a time,” this precludes the substitution of fourteen gigantic Macy’s Parade balloons representing sinister cooks. Following the appearance of these monsters, the children dutifully sang about the angels that never appeared. In the third act Humperdinck requires a witch’s house made of gingerbread and chocolate. One cannot substitute a flat sporting an illustration of a hideous open mouth with crooked teeth and a cake on its tongue. Even the fine acting of Hansel and Gretel became difficult to believe as they nibbled away at a house that was not there. As well, during the opening prelude full of forest sounds, birdcalls, and folk tunes we stare at a crude painting of an empty plate. The same plate appears at the beginning of the last act, now smeared with blood, evoking nervous laughter from the audience. Most objectionable of all was Gertrude’s lumbering across the stage and vomiting into an aluminum sink while her husband sings of the witch’s haunts.

Hansel and Gretel, which was advertised as “a family treat for children eight and above” is not a politico-social commentary of Weil or Eisler. It is a fairy tale opera with its more violent aspects tempered at the request of Humperdinck’s sister, Adelaide, who wrote the libretto. Although the children are poor, both composer and librettist stress that Hansel and Gretel have the dew fairy, the sandman, and all the wonders of nature to fill their young lives with enchantment. Nature, however, is obliterated here through the producer’s and designer’s self-declared immunity to the wishes of the composer. Even the forest is a room made of bushes compressed into blocks comprising walls, with a ceiling from which hangs a chandelier made of antlers. 

In this year 2008 children eight and above are ceaselessly inundated with the ugly: violent video games, violent music, violent movies, violent television shows, and news of a violent world. By contrast, a fairy tale opera, presented as the composer and librettist intended -without being degraded by a clever producer and set designer - might be a fine and beautiful thing. It might be a fine and beautiful thing to let those children eight and above repossess their childhood for two hours and twenty minutes.

                Manon Lescaut

Opera in four acts by
GIACOMO PUCCINI
Based on a novel by Abbé Prévost
Sung in Italian with Met titles

James Levine, Conductor

Performance of February 1, 2008
The Metropolitan Opera House, New York City

uccini described his creative process to the American journalist and critic, Arthur M. Abell: “God makes the tree grow, but man, if he wants to build a house, must cut it down and saw it into boards. It is the same with a composer.” In Puccini’s third opera, Manon Lescaut, we discover timber of a higher quality than was used in his earlier Le Villi and Edgar, and although it sometimes lacks the characteristic dramatic tightness and flow of  later works, there is much musical brilliance, especially notable in the orchestral sequences and the arias of des Grieux.

From the opening measures of this performance, one becames aware of the particularly opulent tone, uncomfortably similar to a movie sound track, that James Levine draws from his orchestra. The effect is buoyant and grand, reminding one of a ship at full sail, but there is the perennial drawback that in spite of his redoubtable facility, the conductor seems aloof from the dramatic core of the music, observing it, rather than being involved in it.

Marcello Giordani, who, purely from the standpoint of vocal quality, is perhaps the best dramatic Italian tenor on the roster, delivered his arias and dialogues with authentic style and beauty of tone. He is rather a pleasantly old fashioned singer, in this pleasantly old fashioned production, and portrayed des Grieux, a far less complex character, than Manon, with genuine ardor and, most admirable of all, with simplicity.  His spirited singing of “Donna non vidi mai”, palpably ignited the cast, as sometimes happens, and lifted them at that point to a higher artistic level for the remainder of the evening.

Dwayne Croft played the role of Manon’s disarming and lighthearted scoundrel brother with élan and effortless singing, a contrast to his rather stiff and vocally tenuous performances of Germont earlier in the season.

Karita Mattila’s voice is not suited to the Italian repertoire. Although the middle range is sometimes beautiful, it is neither sumptuous nor supple and does not lend itself to the demands of a Puccini heroine. She shares some characteristics reminiscent of Elisabeth Schwarzkopf, as, for example, a more instrumental than vocal sound that generally becomes thin as it ascends. Similarly, one finds the purity of Italian pronunciation alloyed, as in the case of the very essential vowel “ah,” which is not in Mattila’s phonetic vocabulary, and is replaced generally by “uh,” a sound that does not exist in the Italian language. Furthermore, the listener senses that the heroine, Manon, has been deftly analyzed, and the musical outcome, again reminiscent of Schwarzkopf, appears to be a product of the brain rather than collaboration of brain and heart. 

As an actress, her playing the ingénue in the first act, and the agitated young lover in the second, were quite compelling, but in the wastelands of New Orleans, where the dramatic demands become more severe, Mattila was no longer convincing. Musically she proved unable to deliver the secure top fortes so vital to the dramatic shape of the opera, and was forced, at the end of the first act duet, to hide behind the tenor’s sustained A flat, which she sings at the octave.  Later she ventured a stylized shriek at the climax of “sola, perduta, abandonata” (also only an A flat), when solid singing – without compromise – was absolutely necessary. There is a beautiful passage in Willa Cather’s Song of the Lark where she describes a particular singer’s power to convey sincerity and simplicity. She justly observes that this is a supremely profound and rare gift. If the Manon Lescaut of the evening had this power, many of the shortcomings mentioned above would be gladly overlooked.