Opera Today

Laurent Pelly on Glyndebourne's Ravel Double Bill

“It is the genius of Ravel that inspires me”, says Pelly, his face animated with expression. “I adore Ravel, I love the whole musical movement of that epoch, from Chabrier and Offenbach to Massenet, to Debussy, Ravel, Poulenc. That whole period, from the mid 19th century to the mid 20th century was full of artistic riches”, he adds, enthusiastically.

Pelly’s iconic Glyndebourne Hansel und Gretel is only one of many triumphs. His Massenet Manon (with Anna Netrebko) was well received at the Met and at the Royal Opera House. His Massenet Cendrillon i(with Joyce DiDonato) was a hit in London and at the Opéra Comique, Paris. His Donizetti La Fille du regiment and L'Elisir d'amore are greatly admired.

Glyndebourne presented Ravel’s L’heure espagnole and L’enfant et les sortilèges as a double bill nearly 25 years ago, with visuals by children’s author Maurice Sendak. Pelly, however, is an all round man of the opera. He not only directs and designs, but has extensive practical experience as an actor in theatre. Pelly directed L’heure espagnole nine years ago with the Opéra de Paris, but this time it will be quite different, since it’s paired with L'enfant et les sortilèges, an even more daring and innovative piece, Doing both Ravel operas together will enhance the way Pelly can present the scope of Ravel’s vision. “These operas are very theatrical and very well written musically. When Glyndebourne offered them to me, I said 'Yes! Yes!' The conditions here are marvellous, we’re surrounded by nature”.

“These operas come from a time when there was so much imagination. They are full of poetry, drollness and also gravity, intelligence and spirituality, profoundity and madcap silliness at the same time. The two pieces are very different though they are both surrealist fantasies”. In L’heure espagnole a woman juggles lovers while her husband is obsessed with clockwork mechanisms. “It is set in Spain, but it’s very French”, says Pelly. Ravel could write farce about sexual mores by disguising it in an exotic situation.

“L’enfant et les sortilèges is a work that makes us understand what it’s like to be a child, maybe 6, 7, 8 to 10 years old. I was 14 years old when I first got to know it, and I was very moved. It lasts about 45 minutes, but it has the depth of an opera of three or four hours. There are so many images, so many personalities, and so many ideas! When I think about the music and its freedom and inventiveness, and the poetry in the text by Colette, I’m so happy that I’m doing it at Glyndebourne.“

“L’enfant is about a nightmare, but the nightmare is the child’s vision of the world of adults. For me, the teapot, the teacup and the shepherdesses represent adults”. The child doesn’t understand the adult world, so he sees familiar objects come to life and threaten him. It’s fantasy but at the same time understandable “You see the world through the eyes of a child”, says Pelly.

There are parallels between L’enfant et les sortilèges and Humperdinck’s Hansel und Gretel. In both operas, children are dealing with traumatic situations by projecting their anxieties onto fantasy objects. When they defeat these things, they learn to deal with their fears. Of Hansel und Gretel, Pelly says “it’s difficult today to stage a story about poor children who have nothing to eat. Especially, when the audience looking on is wealthy”, he adds with a grin, a reference perhaps to Glyndebourne and its tradition of fine dining. “So I decided to transform it to make it more interesting, and make references to conservation”. Humorous as Pelly’s production was, it was a pointed commentary on consumer excess and emotional impoverishment.

“In L’enfant, it’s necessary that the audience rediscovers the soul of childhood, and thinks through a child’s feelings. The music is magic, it describes so much. Technically it’s very difficult to stage. You need to get everything right, the costumes, the décor, the lighting”. Some of Ravel’s concepts are abstract, like the arithmetic the child rebels against. Pelly has long been fascinated by experimental and surrealist film, like the films of Cocteau and of Buñuel . “Un chien Andalou” he adds, a film from the same period. . Speaking of film, Pelly says “Today we have a wider variety of techniques we can use”, which may come in handy with Ravel’s surrealist fantasies.

Film and live opera are different disciplines, though. “We work in the same direction but we aren’t the same”, he says of film directors. Live opera is a unique experience “After my Manon in New York”, he says, “I went home to Toulouse, and watched it in the cinema there, sitting with the audience. They used at least 15 cameras to make the film, to make it lively, and the audience loved it. But filming and stage are not the same at all”.

Laurent Pelly’s great passion is French opera. He has directed in other languages, such as Mozart and Verdi and an interesting 2009 Janáček The Cunning Little Vixen (Saito Kinen and Maggio Musicale Fiorentino) but French repertoire is his first love. “These days there’s so much more choice with singers”, he says, since more are coming to appreciate the unique aesthetic of French style.

This suits Pelly, for he’s keen to explore less well known repertoire. “La Traviata and Carmen, everyone knows”, he says, “and you have to find something to say. But there’s so much else that needs to done. Pelly has directed a great deal of Offenbach, for example, including Les Contes d'Hoffmann, La Belle Hélène, (Santa Fe), La Grande Duchesse de Gerolstein, La Périchole, and La Vie parisienne. “I adore Massenet”, he says. He’s had such success with Manon and Cendrillon that the prospect of more Massenet intrigues. “Don Quichotte”, he smiles, “Hérodiade, or Le Jongleur de Notre Dame”.

In December, Pelly is directing the first Meyerbeer Robert le Diable to be staged in London for decades. It’s quite a challenge as tastes in Meyerbeer’s time and in ours are different. So if anyone can present a superlative Ravel double bill, it's Laurent Pelly. The production starts 4th August 2102. All ears and eyes on Glyndebourne!

Glyndebourne's Ravel Double Bill is reviewed here in Opera Today.
For more information please see the Glyndebourne Festival site.

Anne Ozorio

Exquisite Juxtapositions : Ian Bostridge, Wigmore Hall

Throughout the series, Bostridge has revealed some thought-provoking juxtapositions and connections between old and new, as well as his own aptitude and discernment in wide-ranging repertoire - from Monteverdi to Satie, Scarlatti to Stravinsky - extending far beyond what many may think of as the tenor’s ‘natural’ material. Here, there was not only a dialogue between past and present but also an assimilation of east and west.

The first vocal work, though, was ‘home territory’ - Franz Schubert’s Four Rückert Lieder, albeit in an arrangement for tenor and guitar by the Chinese guitarist Xuefei Yang. The delicate tracery of the guitar figuration bestowed an airy gracefulness on the first of Schubert’s settings of Rückert’s Östliche Rosen (‘Oriental Roses’), ‘Du bist die Ruhe’ (‘You are repose’); and, seated throughout the first half, Bostridge matched this grace with a lightness of tone which soared translucently in the poet-speaker’s final eulogy to his beloved’s “radiance”.

While, in these arrangements, some of the intensity of the dialogue between voice and accompaniment may have been lost, the performers captured the intimacy of the traditional Viennese salon where Schubert himself first presented his lieder before a select audience. Bostridge, poised and restrained, did not miss an opportunity to subtly colour the text, wryly portraying the rapid alternation of the youthful poet-speaker’s tears and laughter in ‘Lachen und Weinen’, building the yearning repetitions of “ "Sei mir gegrüßt!! Sie mir geküßt!” (“I greet you! I kiss you”) to an ardent climax in the central stanza of ‘Sei mir gegrüßt’.

In the final song, ‘Daß sie hier gewesen’ (‘That she was here’), the singer was joined by pianist Julius Drake and the change of timbre brought about an expansion of the inherent dramatic depth of the song, as Drake picked up the vocal melody at the conclusion of the second stanza, sweeping expansively into the final stanza and underpinning the poet-speaker’s earnest avowal that “Düfte tun es und/ Tränen kund, Daß sie hier gewesen” (“Fragrance and tears/ will make it known/ that she was here”).

Benjamin Britten’s Songs from the Chinese were written in 1957 following a concert tour undertaken by the composer with the tenor Peter Pears which took in the Far East. Pears had recently begun a recital partnership with the young guitarist, Julian Bream, and they premiered the work at the 1958 Aldeburgh Festival. Concentrated and terse, the forms of the individual songs are simple - employing stanzaic or straightforward ritornello forms - but each has a distinct character. Although there are no facile ‘orientalisms’, the sparse guitar timbre, perhaps reflecting the spirit of the Chinese lute or pipa, enhances the exoticism of Arthur Waley’s translations of ancient Chinese texts in which the narrator, in mid-life, reflects upon the coming of old age - possibly reflecting the forty-four year old composer’s personal narrative.

In the first song, ‘The big chariot’, the speaker rejects fame and fortune - “You will only make yourself dusty” - and warns against taking on the sorrows of the world, although Bostridge’s poignant repetition of the final line, “You will only load yourself with care”, suggested the stoical resignation of the careworn composer. Xuefei Yang articulated the contrasting accompaniment textures - a rhythmic chordal element and a more linear independent line - with clarity. In ‘The old lute’, Bostridge crafted an elegantly expansive line reflecting the timeless beauty of the “cord and cassia-wood” of the lute which has been superseded by the flute and zithern; the dignity of the nevertheless neglected lute was suggested also by the guitar’s elegant, spare polyphonic accompaniment. Sad acquiescence in the face of approaching age was tenderly conveyed in ‘The autumn wind’, most especially by a perfectly judged pause after the recollections of former amours, “Amidst revel and feasting sad thoughts come”.

Eerie guitar glissandi, recalling the mysteries and dreams of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, underpin the ruminations on the body’s grim mortality in ‘Depression’, and Xeufei Yang’s languid shifts and slides certainly conveyed the dispiriting lethargy of approaching age, matched by Bostridge’s own falling swoop, “my body sinks to decay”. After the weighty rhythmic cadence of this brief but explicit song, energy was restored in the final ‘Dance song’, recounting an energetic hunt for a unicorn - a traditional symbol of chastity. With the capture of the unicorn Britten dwells on the word “Alas!”, the glissandi now in the voice, and Bostridge’s affecting laments were a moving expression of the destruction of innocence, the final whispered “Alas!”, accompanied by an ethereal rising arpeggio from the guitarist, fading weightlessly into the air.

Surrounding these two sequences were three renditions by Julius Drake of John Cage’s Seven Haiku for piano - a Webernesque chance-determined work reflecting Cage’s interest in oriental culture and philosophy. Each of the ephemeral movements is devoted to a particular individual in Cage’s life, and is structured around the haiku form, consisting of three units in a length relation of 5-7-5. Drake emphasised the surprising contrast of spaciousness and succinctness, and dramatised the varied nuances of articulation and attack. The fragments of nascent melody grew more tantalising with each varied repetition of the piece, the economy of means belying a deeper resonance and emotional reach.

The second half of the recital was devoted to a performance of Hans Werner Henze’s Six Songs from the Arabian, written for Bostridge and Drake in 1997-98. This was an immaculate performance, both tenor and pianist rising effortlessly to the virtuosic, and at times unpredictable, demands of the harmonic and melodic writing. Bostridge’s plangent, yearning tone is perfectly suited to the wandering melodic idiom and to the texts’ elusiveness, and he missed not a single opportunity to respond to the shades and nuances of the text.

Henze - who wrote both music and texts (excepting a few quotations from Goethe and the final song which is a setting of Hafiz, translated by Rückert) - suggests in a preface to the score that the work is “not only peopled by pirates sea monsters and other monstrosities, but it also contains ‘moments of beauty’ in the form of love and love's pleasures, even if those pleasures are constantly marred by the ocean salt and spray”. Such a moment might be epitomised by ‘Die Gottesanbeterin’ (‘The praying mantis’) which depicts the murderous mating ritual of the female praying mantis. Drake’s flirtatious flurries accompanied a nonchalant vocal line which gradually grew in intensity to a rapturous climax, “I bite hard and consume you, you who are consumed by your longing for me”, before the aggressive, pounding of the deathly conclusion: “I bite through your heart and tear it in two, my bridegroom, my darling, alas, my dead mate.”

The third song, ‘Ein Sonnenaufgang’, (‘A sunrise’) evokes a Bergian romanticism as it paints a gaudy picture of sea, shore and sky. Bostridge saved a heroic tone for the “grand entrance” of Helios, and the ecstasy of the sun’s exultant celebrants, giving thanks for the “new day’s glory”, was developed further in Drake’s excited, exuberant piano postlude.

Henze has been a frequent visitor to the East coast of Africa for several years, and the songs are peopled by real-life characters - such as the adventurous seafarer, Selím, and the tragically abandoned Fatuma. Bostridge and Drake endowed these large dramatic movements with a personal, passionate quality. At the conclusion of ‘Selím and the wind’, the sailor’s sail is in shreds as the ship slowly sinks among “algae, medusas and vermin from hell”. A turbulent uproar in the piano’s bass register conveyed the horror of the plummeting vision, while the spoken last line, “Selím, ah! Selím, ah! what have you done?” was chillingly unambiguous. In ‘Fatima’s Lament’, Bostridge’s affecting melisma sighs were paradoxically both emotionally tense and melodically supple. The dramatic range of the song is vast, from Fatima’s angry, gleaming protestations against her assailant, whose “cool flesh [that] glowed so resplendent in the shadow of lust”, to her quiet acquiescence in the face of inevitable death, “It is here, then, that I must die, where each rock exudes poison and torment”. Leaps, scales and trills were effortlessly despatched; and, Bostridge’s emotional commitment was total and consuming, nowhere more evident than in the closing image of the vanquished Fatima, “soon to be entrusted to a chalk-white old lecher”, the tenor’s tall, willowy form bowed over the music stand in defeat.

‘Das Paradies’ (‘Paradise’) concludes the sequence, the piano’s slow, steady line conveying the unalterable end of the earthly journey and the still timelessness of eternity. In the final moments, rising to a strikingly ethereal head voice, Bostridge conveyed the narrator’s acceptance of his fate: “I ascend to your castle, fair moon.” I suspect many in the Wigmore Hall audience shared the journeyer’s “tear-moistened eye”.

Claire Seymour

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28th July 2012, Wigmore Hall, London

Beethoven Ninth Symphony, Daniel Barenboim, BBC Prom 18

Most conductors seem either fearful or simply uncomprehending of his demands, of the powerful, indeed overwhelming moral import of Beethoven’s work. Divested of meaning, reduced to the level of a performance kit - follow a metronome marking, make the strings sound unpleasant, drive as mercilessly as you can - that nonsense, which, if not initiated by Toscanini’s cretinous remark on the Eroica (‘Some people say it is Napoleon, some Mussolini, some Hitler, but for me it is Allegro con brio’), is certainly symbolised by the at best disingenuous claim to play ‘as it is written’, seems to have reached its ultimate conclusion in absurdity. If only it were merely absurd; in reality, it is pernicious beyond words, for no age, least of all our own, can afford to cut itself off from Beethoven’s message, irrespective of whether ‘mere’ words can ever come close to expressing that message.

We take refuge, of course, in the great performances of the past: above all, Klemperer and Furtwängler, extraordinarily different though they may be. Yet, whilst it would be madness ever to forsake the recordings - or still, in the enviable case of some people, actual memories - of those conductors, it is an intolerably unhealthy situation when so many of us find ourselves fleeing from the Beethovenian unity of the concert hall for solitary reassurance, or at best communion with souls of the dead, proffered by the gramophone. Words such as these from Furtwängler in 1943, and behind him Wagner, would be more likely to elicit incomprehension than impassioned debate:

.

The Ninth is perhaps the sternest task of all, at least for those few conductors today who might be willing to take on the full interpretative moral burden entailed. It would be difficult to come up with a keeper of the flame - perhaps Sir Colin Davis, not least in the light of last year’s astounding Proms Missa Solemnis - as likely to rise to the occasion as Daniel Barenboim. Moreover, Barenboim had a number of trump cards up his preparatory sleeve. First, the very nature, the very existence, of the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra, its underlying philosophy almost an instantiation of the hopes expressed for the brotherhood of man by Schiller and Beethoven. Second, placing the performance at the conclusion of a cycle of all Beethoven’s symphonies, each instalment urging on conductor, players, and audience to greater heights. Third, the example of earlier performances, though not this, in performing Beethoven’s symphonies in conjunction with works by Boulez. In Hans Sachs’s words, ‘Es klang so alt und war doch so neu.’

Beethoven is rarely if ever writing in similar fashion to Boulez; that is not the point of the comparison. Nor is it enough simply to say that both musicians as revolutionaries, though they certainly are. But hearing the very idifferent responses to material necessitated not only by serial method but also by the æsthetic and, yes, moral dictates of another time helps bring home to us both the singularity and the universality - somehow, miraculously, Beethoven’s music can still speak to us, just as Marx expressed wonder in the case of the art of ancient Greece - of Beethoven and of his symphonies in particular. Perhaps it was a pity that the opportunity was not taken to pair another Boulez work with the culmination of the Beethoven cycle. Imagine, in the Royal Albert Hall, a performance of Répons, or, failing that, Rituel in memoriam Bruno Maderna. Or perhaps even a new work, whether by Boulez, or by someone else, Walther von Stolzing’s hour finally striking? One will always, however, be able to come up with alleged ‘improvements’ and ‘enhancements’, and up to this concert, all but Beckmesser would have been immeasurably grateful for what they had experienced. How, then, would the grand finale measure up to such formidable or even impossible expectations?

There was a bemusing false start, in which applause greeted - well, no one. Second time around Barenboim appeared, to initiate a performance with anything but a false start. Time was when one could speak quite freely of the opening of the Ninth Symphony as a representation - almost in Schopenhauer’s sense - of creatio ex nihilo; that time came again, displacing or rather rendering supremely irrelevant even the slightest thought of positivist pedantry. There would be throughout the first movement an elemental quality that would be difficult not to relate to Wagner, far more so, for me, than to Bruckner, despite the obvious temptation. Though that primæval stirring owed a great deal to Furtwängler, a Klemperer-like stentorian quality soon revealed itself as a dialectical counterpart in Barenboim’s reading. (A greater debt to, or better, a greater sense of commonality with, Klemperer has been one of the especially intriguing aspects of this series.)

Another dialectic, for Beethoven is surely the dialectical composer par excellence, perhaps in a sense related though not identical, would be that between a motivic integrity and network cohesion that was surprisingly Wagnerian with the tectonic workings of harmony and its demands upon sonata form, Haydn remaining a powerful presence, however different the scale of expression. The sense of exposition in the first movement was very strong; ‘exposition’ was not a mere word, nor an all-too-ready formula. This, despite Wagnerian intimations and Mozartian echoes - Don Giovanni, in particular - was emphatically symphony rather than aspirant music-drama. The coda tested that rule - and how! Its bass line was spine-chilling, terrifying, its contagion spreading to the entire orchestra. Would humanity overcome (apparent) Fate?

The scherzo’s kinetic energy came from within, from deep understanding of harmonic rhythm, not as sadly so often is the case, as an exhibitionistic importation from without. There was some wonderfully rollicking brass playing in a movement that exhibited more gruff Beethovenian humour than might have been expected. The whole was relentless in the proper sense, harmony dictating that it should be so. Once again Barenboim’s handling of transition, in this case to the trio, was of an order rarely encountered today. Wagner once called the art of transition his most subtle art; one might well have said the same of Barenboim. In the trio itself, the world of The Magic Flute seemed to fuse with Pastoral reminiscences, to create something quite new, an early pre-sentiment of the emergence of that tune in the finale. The last recurrence of the scherzo material was all the more powerful for its lack of hysteria: Klemperer again?

Tempo and formal understanding were finely judged in the slow movement. Barenboim’s command of line permitted an almost Gluckian noble simplicity, which yet dialectically revealed itself to be complexity. If the unfolding variations lacked quite the heightened luminosity and sublimity of Furtwängler, then Barenboim is not alone in that; indeed, it is Furtwängler who stands alone. Perhaps wisely, this at least opened in more modest fashion, yet remained beautifully sung, suffused with longing - and sheer goodness. More than once I felt kinship with the slow movement of Mahler’s Fourth Symphony: a little surprisingly, since I am not aware that this is a symphony Barenboim has conducted. (I shall be happy to stand corrected though.) Nevertheless the cumulative effect of experiencing Beethoven as supreme master of variation form was powerfully felt. Even when I wondered whether the first brass intervention towards the end might have been given a little more time, it was the second time around, the latter thereby intensified.

The celebrated cries at the opening of the finale were taken at quite a speed, without sounding hurried or harried. There was real depth of tone to be heard from the cellos and basses in their responses. The first enunciation of the theme was miraculously hushed: quite extraordinary. A sense of communion was engendered, as the players’ orchestral brothers - and sisters - joined; the brass entry sent shivers down the spine and had tears welling up, though we still lacked the word, perhaps even the Word. There were a couple of points when the music threatened to run away with itself, but it just about held together, and all was put right by René Pape’s Sarastro-like entry. His diction was straightforwardly superlative. more to the point, not only could every word be heard; every word meant something, and something important at that. The choral declaration, ‘Alle Menschen warden Brüder, wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt,’ was for this listener at least, emotionally overwhelming.

Words, music, and performance came together as so much more than the sum of their parts. For the performance given by the National Youth Choir of Great Britain was as fresh as it was weighty, its layout - vocal parts dotted throughout the choir rather than split into sections - heightening the sense of mankind’s variety. I was again quite taken aback by the high quality of the diction, not an easy matter in which to succeed in this choral writing. ‘Und der Cherub steht vor Gott!’ was enunciated more clearly than I can ever recall, and that in an acoustic that really cannot help. Barenboim held the final ‘Gott!’ for an ecstatically long time, or so at least it felt. Anna Samuil’s rendition of the soprano part was somewhat problematical, not only lacking blend but at times quite unpleasant of tone; Waltraud Meier did a perfectly good job, as one would expect, but one does not listen to the Ninth for the mezzo, even for that mezzo.

I thought Peter Seiffert was on much better vocal form than I had heard him for some time, before realising that he had been replaced by Michael König. The ‘Turkish March’ sounded just right in terms of tempi, contrast, and balance. Thereafter, the return of ‘Freude, schöner Götterfunken’ genuinely lifted the spirits; I could not help myself smiling, nor did I wish to do so, infected with ‘Freude’. The questioning, ‘Ihr stürzt nieder Millionen?’ was splendidly mysterious, imparting a sense of gradual revelation quite in keeping both with Schiller and Beethoven. The great combination of the ‘Freude’ and ‘Seid umschlungen’ themes was taken at an exhilarating tempo, full of life, and still full of expectation, full indeed of joy. Structural underpinning continued, however, to have a great deal in common with Klemperer’s granitic example. The final accelerandi were of course Furtwängler’s province, if less extreme. The very particular circumstances that enabled Furtwängler’s response no longer pertain; this was a Ninth that honoured tradition but spoke of our present condition, and to an audience of the present day.

It was a genuinely lovely touch at the end of the symphony for Barenboim to shake the hand of every member of the orchestra; it also reminded us that the West-Eastern Divan is so much more than just an orchestra. A speech was expected and came: succinct, resolute, even Beethovenian in spirit. Though a forthcoming concert in East Jerusalem had had to be cancelled, some elements in the Occupied Territories having objected to the orchestra as a role of ‘normalisation’ - how wrong could they be?! - the work of listening to each other, the democracy of a musical society in which every member was an equal, would continue. They might not be able to change the governments of the Middle East, but those governments would never change them.

Mark Berry

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28th July 2012, Royal Albert Hall, London.

Pierre Boulez : Le marteau sans maître BBC Proms

Ironically, though Daniel Barenboim's Proms series features Beethoven, its greatest achievement long term may be bringing Boulez to mainstream audiences. Barenboim is a man of courage and principle. He's confronted social injustice, and now he's challenging musical prejudice.

Although the singer (Hilary Summers) sings in only four of the nine sequences of Boulez's Le marteau sans maître , it is a work infused with the concept of voice, a kind of meta-song. "Whereas Pierrot Lunaire is a theatre piece with instrumental accompaniment, the voice always prepondering," said Boulez in a description of the piece. "Le marteau sans maître stems from the cell of a poem which is eventually absorbed in toto". As a young man, Boulez was drawn to the poetry of René Char and wrote three major cycles based on his work. "Le marteau sans maître is thus crucial to any understanding of Boulez's output.

Char was a surrealist In his poetry, images are compressed, as if by homeopathic distillation. The poet's brief phrases don't reveal meaning in the usual sense, but force the reader to respond intuitiuvely. "Sudddenly", said Boulez, "You recognize yourself.... the illuminating paragraph seems simultaneously to take possession of you, and to increase your potential, your grasp and your power beyond anything you had dreamed possible".

In Le marteau sans maître, Char's words are crystalized still further so their very relationship with obvious meaning dissolves into the music itself, like a droplet spreading concentric cirles in a pool of water. Words are used for musical quality, such as alliteration. Boulez specifies that the singer is not a soloist. She sits with the ensemble, so the flow between players is uninterrupted. At the end, she intones abstract sound, almost the sound of body rhythms, and the flute (Guy Eshed) sings on her behalf, as had the viola (Ori Kam) before It's significant that Char was anti-fascist long before the German occupation. On a very deep level, Boulez is reiterating Char's beliefs in the value of the individual against the mass. He uses a strict, almost mathematical structure of three internal cycles within the nine pieces and other more subtle interrelationships. From this almost ritual formality, however, springs freedom of invention. Hence, the concept of hammer without a master.

Yet how that "hammer" is wielded ! Instead of blasts of massed brass and percussion, the "aural violence" of the orchestral palette, Boulez uses a small ensemble, where instruments are carefully balanced in terms of pitch and timbre. Lines are short, with lively traceries of individual notes rather than full tutti. Nor does he demand Lachenmann-esque distortions. These players aren't there to show off, but to co-operate. Boulez also emplys instruments that suggest, but don't copy, instruments from non-western cultures. The guitar (Caroline Delume), suggesting the Japanese koto, xylomarimba (Adrian Salloum) and vibraphone (Pedro Manuel Torrejon Gonzales) suggesting gamelan and the African balafon. They exist, not as exotics, because they can express the non-dogmatic nature of the piece and its sparkling fragments, merrily moving together. Even the percussion (Noya Schleien) employs no heavy timpani but a brushes, a gong, maracas, bongos. On this occasion I was struck by how Le marteau sans maître picks up on Messiaen's concepts. In a dawn chorus, many birds sing, but each is individual, and an astute listener can pick them out. In many ways Le marteau sans maître is also a precursor of Messiaen's Sept Haïkaï.

By choosing to showcase Le marteau sans maître in this Proms series, Barenboim is again making an extra-musical statement. This piece gives the musicians much more room to engage than the more complex Dérive 2 at the start of the series and it much more suited to their strengths. Performance is a journey not an end in itself, as a deep reading of this piece might suggest. François-Xavier Roth is a charismatic, slightly eccentric personality (in the best creative sense). He's sensitive to Boulez's idiom, and his rapport with the players was good. In Le marteau sans maître, everyone's a player if they're listening.

Anne Ozorio

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27th July 2012, Royal Albert Hall, London.

Hector Berlioz, Les Troyens (concert performance, BBC Proms)

Speaking to a few members of the audience who had also attended both, I was clearly not the only person to have found conductor and soloists liberated by the concert hall. Sir Antonio Pappano’s conducting still has its problems, but he makes Berlioz sound less like Verdi than he does Wagner, and, as at Covent Garden, his reading gathered strength as it went on. Even the first act, where sometimes he appeared to think that he was conducting Aida, had stronger, more idiomatic moments. The very opening was far too fast, breathless rather than jubilant, the Trojans opening ‘Ha! Ha!’ sounding as if they were hyper-ventilating. However, the transformation of mood signalling the arrival of Cassandre was very well handled, doubtless informed by plenty of theatrical experience yet without the encumbrance of inadequate scenic presentation. The disquieting weirdness of the orchestra throughout her recitative and aria painted a thousand words. Likewise, the terrible, ominous tread of the march and choral hymn, ‘Dieux protecteurs de la ville éternelle’ - the irony of the words properly telling - was compellingly presented, far more in touch with the inheritance of Gluck’s obsequies than had previously been the case. It was a pity, then, that the ensuing Wrestlers’ Dance reverted to Verdian type. Cassandre’s aria, ‘Non, je ne verrai pas la deplorable fête’ was conducted as if Pappano had a bus to catch, but thereafter things settled down, off-stage - or rather arena - brass sounding utterly resplendent in the act finale. One might have had quibbles here and there, but save for an unfortunate lapse of tension towards the end of the fourth act - it really must be maintained here, lest the Berlioz nay-sayers have their day in court over alleged ‘longueurs’ - there was much to enjoy, not least a vividly pictorial Royal Hunt and Storm, suffused also with erotic longing.

Of course, those of us who have heard Sir Colin Davis conduct the opera will never forget the experience: a performance far more alert to Berlioz’s formal imperatives, in which never, not once, did the dramatic, Gluckian tensian sag, but sadly, it is not logistically possible for every performance one hears to emanate from the hands of the world’s greatest Berlioz interpreter. The best stomachs, to misquote Voltaire, are not necessarily those that reject all food. Pappano more often than not did a good job, considerably better than at the staged performance I saw. And the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House played magnificently throughout, even on the occasions when its direction proved a little misguided.

The major problem with a number of the sung performances remained the level not only of French pronunciation, but French style. The latter is not monolithic of course, and it is no bad thing to have preconceptions challenged, but singing Berlioz as if he were Verdi simply does not pass muster, especially if pronunciation is all over the place. (Incidentally, the lack of comment by many writers on this crucial aspect should really be a matter for concern. If English-language critics simply cannot hear when the French language is being distorted, even butchered, they should probably leave Berlioz well alone.) There was a broad spectrum, of course: two singers who again covered themselves in glory were Ed Lyon as Hylas, his song deceptively simple and touching, and Anna Caterina Antonacci as Cassandre. If there were times when the orchestra threatened to overwhelm the latter’s voice, it never did, and that struggle is surely expressive of the drama. Relieved of McVicarisms, Antonacci channelled all of her musico-dramatic energies into a searing portrayal of the doomed prophetess. Even as a little boy reading the ancient legends, Cassandra was for me a figure of empathy; here, her predicament and nobility of spirit were searingly portrayed in a performance that would have nothing whatsoever to fear from comparison with Davis’s Petra Lang. Ironically, Eva-Maria Westbroek’s Didon, if hardly an epitome of French style, came alive far more dramatically than on stage. There was now a proper sense of a woman scorned, of righteous fury. Bryan Hymel’s Enée, however, continues to lack not only correct, or even feasible, pronunciation, but also refulgence of tone. If only, Jonas Kaufmann had been fit to sing. At times, alas, Hymel sounded like a parody of Jon Vickers Perhaps others can more readily overlook the odd mispronunciations, also a characteristic of Fabio Capitanucci’s Chorèbe, but they surely ought at least to have difficulties with the strangulated tone and the crude, Verdi-like delivery. Vignettes were often well taken. Ji-Min Park’s Iopas was sung beautifully, if one could ignore the lack of ease with the language. And small though the part may be, Pamela Helen Stephen’s Hécube somehow managed blood-curdlingly to capture the attention, as she and others recoiled at the death of Laocoön.

Aside from the second act finale, when the women experienced slight intonational problems, the choral singing was excellent too. Not quite a match, perhaps for Davis’s London Symphony Chorus - is there a chorus anywhere that has sung more Berlioz? - but impressive nevertheless. As an introduction to Berlioz’s extraordinary opera, this could hardly have failed to impress. Even for those of us who have known Les Troyens for a while, it remained an inspiring, if in some respects flawed, experience. Both the Proms and the Royal Opera should be congratulated for their efforts in bringing the work to a wider audience.

Mark Berry

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product_title=Hector Berlioz : Les Troyens
product_by=Cassandre: Anna Caterina Antonacci; Chorèbe - Fabio Capitanucci; Enée: Bryan Hymel; Didon: Eva-Maria Westbroek; Narbal: Brindley Sherratt; Anna: Hanna Hipp; Ascagne: Barbara Senator; Priam: Robert Lloyd; Hécube: Pamela Helen Stephen; Ghost of Hector: Jihoon Kim; Panthée: Ashley Holland; Hélénus: Ji Hyun Kim; Greek Captain: Lukas Jakobski; Trojan Soldier/Mercure: Daniel Grice; Iopas: Ji-Min Park; First Soldier: Adrian Clarke; Second Soldier: Jeremy White; Hylas: Ed Lyon. Orchestra of the Royal Opera House; Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna)/Sir Antonio Pappano (conductor).

22nd July 2012, Royal Albert Hall, London.

Verdi Falstaff Opera Holland Park

Director Annilese Miskimmon certainly aimed for unclouded comedy and ceaseless zest in an uproarious production of Falstaff at Opera Holland Park, which nevertheless did not always avoid hyperbole or kitsch.

During a pacy Prelude, designer Nicky Shaw’s simple wooden huts spun deftly to reveal a mock-Tudor interior: not a bawdy tavern but a 1920s care home for the war-wounded. Invalids in striped pyjamas staggered about on crutches and were whizzed in wheelchairs by efficient nurses, while a medal-bestrewn Sir John held court centre-stage, throwing his weight around - quite literally - and verbally abusing the long-suffering Pistol and Bardolf (Simon Wilding and Brian Galliford respectively).

I may be being overly fastidious, but given the significant casualties resulting from recent overseas conflicts, I for one didn’t find hobbling amputees and wheelchair capers particularly amusing; and, in any case, once is enough - a gag repeated is a gag diluted. However, having introduced this particular ‘angle’, director Annilese Miskimmon somewhat inexplicably did not choose to pursue it further. By Scene 2 the convalescence period was over and we were transported to a 1950s village fete, all jubilee bunting, jelly mounds and Victoria sponges. It was more Albert Herring than Elizabethan escapade: church spire, cricket whites, boy scouts, surplices, plodding policeman … just about every stereotype was represented. Even Ford found himself cast as the village rector with his own clerical chorus.

The hurly-burly of Act 2 Scene 2 - when a preening, cock-sure Falstaff arrives for his assignation with Alice - took place in a floral bedroom typical of a 1950s farce, with the requisite hiding nooks, fresh-faced lovers, duplicitous housewives, indignant husbands and a shameless old lecher. The action was lightning quick, with some delightfully detailed direction: from Falstaff’s ungainly arrival, head-first via the window, the busy exits and entrances were neatly handled.

But then, in Act 3, as the plot hatched by the women unfolds, we were whisked off again, now to the glades of Windsor Forest. Mark Jonathan’s atmospheric lighting cast an eerie translucent glow, as cricket whites were swapped for faery fineries. It was almost back to Britten-land again, as the fantasy of sham spirits evoked the world of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, before we returned to a world of maypoles and flags - just about everyone seemed to get tied up in knots of red, white and blue at some point - for the final scene, which, after the preceding comic exuberances seemed rather static. During the final fugue the chorus, bundled in bunting by Falstaff, seemed unsure of what they should be doing and, occasionally, singing, and the zip rather went out of things.

Despite the lack of clarity and consistency in Miskimmon’s direction, there was much to admire and many moments of comic hilarity. She was aided by a uniformly strong cast, led by Olafur Sigurdarson - an OHP veteran, who having previously taken the title roles in Rigoletto and Macbeth now turned his hand from tragedy to buffo. Sigurdarson was the physical and vocal epicentre of this performance; his full-blooded bellow suggested the immensity of Falstaff’s pomposity and self-importance, and also the warm generosity underlying the bluff blustering. Although he lost the pitch at times, particularly in the opening scene, this was a fully committed, rumbustious performance; vocally and physical agile, his exploits included hanging like a sail from the four-poster, and even a carefree cartwheel of glee of some accomplishment!

Such exuberance, and Sigurdarson’s strong musical presence, enlivened the whole production, often to very amusing effect. But, one can have too much of a good thing. Miskimmon did not acknowledge the more serious undercurrents of the opera, and the unalleviated merriment, mayhem and madness became a little wearing. For, in forging his libretto Boito assimilated material from Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor and from Henry IV: his Falstaff is not simply the coarse clown of the former, but retains some of the qualities of the Falstaff of the history play. Here there was little sense of Falstaff’s ‘stateliness’, his sense of his own social superiority and entitlement - he is a ‘Sir’ after all - and thus no recognition of his tragic decline.

Still, there were some fine musical performances, not least from Carole Wilson, a knowing Mistress Quickly, whose rich, rounded voice conveyed the pragmatist’s years of wisdom and experience (but, why was she dressed as a nun during conversations with Falstaff?).

Linda Richardson was a lively Alice, proving herself a strong character actress. At times, a delightfully suggestive blossoming of the voice made it clear that this Mrs Ford would not be averse to an amorous adventure or two. Carolyn Dobbin was similarly focused and strong as Meg. Although the opening scenes were a little unsettled, perhaps not to be unexpected on an opening night, by the unaccompanied quartet of Act 1 Scene 2 the complicated ensemble writing was crystal clear.

As Ford, George van Bergen, despite projecting a firm, focused musical line, struggled to stamp his presence on the role; his famous monologue to Jealousy was accurate but lacked menace, his voice insufficiently fierce. Ford’s duet with Falstaff in Act 2 Scene 1 - some of the finest music of the opera - was well sung, but the final simultaneous exit of the two men through the door again lacked the necessary tension.

Benjamin Hulett, looking like an overgrown schoolboy in his knee-length shorts and striped cap, was a superb Fenton. He has just the right ardent ‘ping’ to suggest over-enthusiastic youthful passion, and his yearning solo and subsequent duet with Rhona McKail (Nanetta) were among the highlights of the evening; the pathos of old man in his final years writing such tender, innocent music is truly affecting. As the evening progressed McKail overcame an initial tendency to sing sharp, and revealed a beautifully pure and touching tone.

Peter Robinson, conducting the City of London Sinfonia, brought out the Beethovian qualities of the score, particularly its tapestry of motifs. Textures were crisp and clear, from the woodwind trills during Sir John’s monologue on Honour to the staccato brass in the old rogue’s soliloquy of self-satisfaction, “Va vecchio John”, which built to an exultant conclusion. Verdian ‘labels’ such as Mistress Quickly’s curtsey were effectively shaped; there was some joyful woodwind playing in Act 1 Scene 2, accompanying the mischievous mirth of the Merry Wives and some fleet string spiccatos at start of bedroom scene. The small forces often garnered a surprisingly full tone, but while precise and attentive to detail, the rather restrained overall approach was a little at odds with the unruly larks onstage.

Whatever my misgivings, the audience were clearly entertained and highly appreciative, giving Sigurdarson in particular a roaring ovation. But, despite the fun and frolics - and the strong individual performances - the parts did not really add up to a coherent, or sufficiently nuanced, whole. This production is certainly a jolly jape but does not really present the insights into human nature that Verdi, and Shakespeare, offer: that all men and women, regardless of status or wisdom, may be foolish even ridiculous, but they are still deserving of both love and pity.

Claire Seymour

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product_title=Giuseppe Verdi : Falstaff
product_by=Sir John Falstaff: Olafur Sigurdarson, Ford:George von Bergen, Alice Ford: Linda Richardson, Meg Page: Carolyn Dobbin, Mistress Quickly: Carole Wilson, Nannetta: Rhona McKail, Fenton:Benjamin Hulett, Dr Caius:Christopher Turner, Bardolfo: Brian Galliford, Pistola: Simon Wilding. Opera Holland Park Chorus, City of London Sinfonia, Conductor :Peter Robinson, Director: Annilese Miskimmon, Designer: Nicky Shaw, Lighting Designer:Mark Jonathan.

20 July 2012, Opera Holland Park, London.

Rossini Il viaggio a Reims, Royal Opera House

Normally each summer the current young artists give a programme of semi-staged opera scenes. This year the celebrations called for something bigger and a complete performance of Rossini’s Il Viaggio a Reims was given, semi-staged, in the main Covent Garden auditorium.

Rossini’s 1825 opera is very much an occasional work, despite being one of his finest compositions. It was commissioned to celebrate the coronation of Charles X in France and has a plot specific to the occasion, a group a aristocrats coming together to travel to Rheims for Charles’s coronation. Rossini did not intend the piece to have a life beyond the first performances in Paris and about half the music found its way into Le Comte d’Ory. It was premiered at the Theatre Italien with some of the greatest voices of the day and has had a modern life, thanks to the strength of Rossini’s music, since the piece’s reconstruction for the 1984 Pesaro Festival.

It is a very unlikely piece, one which would seem destined for the scrap heap of history; it needs 14 soloists, all strong Rossinians, and has plot of elemental simplicity. But Rossini rose to the challenge and showed a wide degree of skill and humour. He used his full dramatic manner to satirise the storm in a teacup that represents the work’s ‘drama’, and then displayed superb skill with the grand ensemble for the 14 soloists.

Covent Garden last performed the work in 1992, with an all-star cast in an eminently forgettable production. Few companies can afford to mount the work properly, and with its plethora of small but demanding roles would seem ideal for a large young cast. The trouble is that everyone needs to be able to perform Rossini stylishly; there is little room for error. Covent Garden assembled a cast which included all of the current Jette Parker Young Artists with a number of returning ones from previous seasons. The conductor, Daniele Rustioni, was an associate conductor of the scheme a few years ago and the concert staging was by Pedro Ribeiro who is a current young artist.

The Royal Opera Orchestra was given a night off and the ENO Orchestra played. The orchestra were placed on stage in a wood panelled acoustic shell which ensured that the sound quality in the auditorium was optimum. The singers were placed in a row in front of the orchestra, they used music and music stands but many were just about off the book and none sang with eyes glued to copy. The result was surprisingly successful and dramatically involving. All sang Rossini’s fioriture creditably, there was no embarrassing flailing about or flabby wobbling round runs. Granted a couple of the bigger voices tended to smudge their runs, but there were few real Rossini specialists here. For example, Corinna was played by Marina Poplavskaya (2005-2007 young artist) who is moving into heavier roles; she has an Elisabeth (Tannhauser) planned.

What also impressed was the discovery that a number of the returning singers, who I had only ever seen in serious roles, had a strong flair for comedy, notably Poplavskaya, Jacques Imbrailo (2006-2008 young aristst) who played Trombonk, Ailish Tynan (2002-2004 young artist) who played Madam Cortese and Matthew Rose (2003-2005) who played Lord Sidney.

Madeleine Pierard (a current Young Artist), as La Contessa di Folleville, got one of the work’s best known numbers, the countess’s large scale tragic aria bewailing the loss of her hats. Pierard did Rossini the compliment of taking the piece entirely seriously, which made it all the more hilarious as Pierard’s stylish roulades cascaded out. Rossini used his grand tragic manner in this aria. Pierard has a big dramatic voice and used it brilliantly. There were moments of harshness at the top, and her fioriture would not stand scrutiny in the recording studio, but she brought style and vibrancy to the piece.

Tynan was on superb form, clearly enjoying herself and making a lovely contribution to all the ensembles, her opening solo displayed some of the finest singing of the evening and a lovely trill. As Madama Cortese (the owner of the inn) laments her inability to get travel to Rheims, Rossini again sends up the genre with an over-elaborate aria which Tynan relished.

Imbrailo did not really get a major solo moment but as the German character he was rather ubiquitous as he seemed to be organising everything. Imbrailo did so with beautiful tone and a wry sense of amusement.

Poplavskaya looked suitably dramatic as the poetess given to rhapsodising. When participating in the main opera, especially in her long scene with Belfiore (Edgaras Montvidas, 2001-2003 Young Artist), she was in fine form. In the two rhapsodies, sung from the rear of the stage with just harp accompaniment, she seemed to be attempting to thin her voice down further than it really wanted to go so that there was some unwanted strain, which was a shame.

Montvidas seemed to be in his element as the rather greasy cavalier, his performance just nicely overdone with a fabulous duet with Poplavskaya. Rose’s Lord Sidney was also in love with Corinna and this gave Rose his long solo moment, full of compressed pomposity and repressed emotion, accompanied by a superb flute solo.

The first half concluded with Don Profondo’s catalogue arias. Lukas Jakobski (2009-2011 Young Artist) gave this a fine comic turn and proved remarkably adept at Rossini’s patter song. Later in the opera he showed himself not averse to using his height for comic purposes when he sang a duet with Tynan.

By this point, Rossini had essentially introduced all the characters. Nearly all had been given a significant display moment, in aria or duet. The interval was placed after Don Profondo’s aria (which is in fact scene 3 of Act 2). This meant that the second half opened with Rossini’s master-stroke. The one major piece of drama in the piece, the lack of horses to take the party to Rheims, brings as a response the gran pezzo concertato a classic Rossinian ensemble, but written for 14 soloists.

There followed one final duet, for the Marquise, Kai Rüütel (2009-2011 Young Artist) and Libenskof, Jin-Hyun Kim (current Young A|rtist). Rüütel has an attractively warm mezzo-soprano voice which she used intelligently and with great charm, though I don’t think that she is a natural Rossini singer. Kim displayed his fine lyric tenor with superb fluency in the fioriture and an ability to take his voice up high with apparent ease. Kim should certainly be an asset in this repertoire.

For the finale, each of the aristocrats sings a National song, which gives Rossini a chance to have fun at other people’s expense. The cast enjoyed themselves and this helped enormously in what is, I think the weakest part of the opera. I worked out that in a large international cast, only Matthew Rose (as Englishman Lord Sidney) was playing his own nationality.

The smaller roles were all well taken. Justina Gringyte (current Young Artist) was a strong Maddalena who impressed enormously in the opening ensemble, Daniel Grice (current Young Artist) was a characterful Antonio, Hanna Hipp (current Young Artist) showed a talent for expressive face pulling as the countess’s maid and Jihoon Kim (current Young Artist) was nicely pretentious with orotund voice as Don Prudenzio

Conductor Daniele Rustioni was extremely hard working. Not only is he a very active conductor, but he was assiduous in cueing singers and ensuring that the complex ensembles stayed on track. He gave the work a lively and infectious bounce and paced it nicely. In the ensembles and the gran pezzo concertato he ensure that not only did things stay on track, but that the music never sagged, ensuring forward momentum without ever seeming driven. This was a brilliant vibrant performance with surprisingly crisp edges. His podium was effectively part of the acting aria and he participated in the action as well.

Jean-Paul Pruna (current Young Artist) played the forte-piano continuo. He was also on stage, but the instrument seemed slightly under powered for my taste, though Pruna’s playing was discreet and effective.

The ENO Orchestra were on good form, giving us some superb solo playing, fine accompaniment, crisp lively playing with fine details. From the opening notes there was something infectious about their performance, perhaps they enjoyed the unfamiliar repertoire or just being in the spot-light on-stage for once, but the players seemed to enjoy themselves as much as the singers and it showed in their playing.

The standard of Rossinian singing was creditably high, particularly from non-specialist singers. All the young voices sang the Rossini with a degree of style, conveyed the humour with the music showing their enjoyment. Aided by Rustioni’s conducting and Ribeiro’s discreetly effective staging this was a sparkling evening in the theatre

Robert Hugill

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19 July 2012, Royal Opera House, London

David et Jonathas at the Aix Festival

It was an oratorio, David et Jonathas, by Marc-Antoine Charpentier who created between the acts tableaux for Molière comedies before Louis XIV banned frivolous entertainments, like plays and opera. Thus theater, never to be suppressed, moved to the concert hall where bible stories were told. That they were really operas anyway was a secret no one told.

David et Jonathas is about two boys who love each other passionately (that’s the David of the Goliath story by the way, and Jonathas, son of Saul) . And yes, there was a prolonged kiss in the Aix staging by Andreas Homoki, lately intendant of Berlin’s Komishe Oper, coming in as that of Zurich Opera. William Christie and his Les Arts Florisants orchestra were in the pit, about forty musicians, including 24 strings to provide a big, lush sound and winds and percussion to add seemingly infinite colors. The wind roll and thunder sheet, both exceptionally well played, made the case for the virtuosity of this famed early music ensemble.

In concert with all this fire power were its three principal singers, Pascal Charboneau as David, Ana Quintans as Jonathas and Neal Davies as Saul, who delivered the maximum rapture, agony and rage that any drama of the Baroque could possibly conjure. There can be no way to hear how this music sounded long ago, but the suspicion lurks that three centuries of operatic progress have layered bel canto, verismo and expressionism onto what singing once was. These singers gave us all of this.

In these voices the usual vocal technique of floating a tone on a column of air gave way (it seemed) to singing on the chords (the vocal chords), like shouting (or screaming) where the vocal urgency is apparent. Of course exercised by these artists it was singing at its most dramatic. And seventeenth century Catholic priest librettist Père François de Paule Bretonneau gave Charpentier’s singers a lot to sing about.

In the Homoki staging David, an outcast of both the Jews and the Philistines, has been taken into the bosom of Saul’s household, the en famille dinner table. The silent mother, first portrayed by an actress and later brilliantly sung by identically costumed counter-tenor Dominique Visse provides the love, Saul is consumed by suspicions, obsessed that David is a powerful rival. Homoki introduced the innocence and intensity of the David/Jonathas relationship in the overture with two young boys happily playing in Saul’s home. These young boys, wonderful actors, later in the opera may have sung a brief duet as their lips moved though no sound was apparent.

Homoki gently and succinctly portrays the crisis in Saul’s mind and kingdom (Saul’s family) by pantomiming the death of the mother. But the mother transformed into the witch Pythonisse, now Mr. Visse, who appears to torment Saul in a lengthy scene where her presence is inexorably intensified by ten (or so) identical mothers. Mr. Visse rendered this scene otherworldly in an operatic voice that is feminine but is not. It was the voice of a witch.

Young Canadian tenor Pascal Charboneau as David compelled us to suffer the death of Jonathas, his love, to be trapped in his complex feelings for his surrogate father and sworn enemy Saul and to understand his emotional desolation at his coronation as the bible’s King David. Mr. Charboneau is a dynamic performer who has yet to gain final finish though this roughness added to his performance. Portuguese soprano Ana Quintans as Jonathas made time stand still in her lament that she (Jonathas) must forsake her love for David, the eternal nature of such love expressed in suspended tones floating above the staff. Mlle. Quintans is a quite polished singer and actress. English baritone Neal Davies made Saul both a conflicted, more or less contemporary Orthodox Jew pater familias and a conflicted political leader. Stabbed by David he lay seemingly dead through an extensive scene until resurrected by rage he made a final, extensive, spine tingling, vocally splendid lunge at David to avenge the death of his son.

Mr. Homoki with his designer, architect Paul Zoller played on the concert genesis of the opera by constructing a huge wooden box, like a concert stage. It was however a sentient machine that expanded and contracted in concert with the drama and its music, its side walls moving in to crush Saul as he learns that God has forsaken him. Its walls again move in to crush Jonathas when he must decide if he will forsake his duty to his father for the sake of his love for David. The costumes by Gideon Davey were brilliantly simple, a timeless modern adaptation of Orthodox dress and an adaptation of the Arabic thwab.

Not to forget to extol the exemplary performance by Les Arts Florisants chorus, both individual voices in solo lines and the scenes with full chorus. Not only did this fine ensemble find the urgency and excitement of opposing populations in its vocal projection, its members physically embodied the action in stance and movement. It was an opera chorus performance of stellar accomplishment.

Michael Milenski

Click here for broadcast information.

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image_description=David et Jonathas at the Aix Festival

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product_title=Marc-Antoine Charpentier: David et Jonathas
product_by=David: Pascal Charbonneau; Jonathas: Ana Quintans; Saül: Neal Davies; Achis: Frédéric Caton; Joabel: Krešimir Špicer; La Pythonisse: Dominique Visse; Samuel: Pierre Bessière. Chorus and Orchestra: Les Arts Florissants. Conductor: William Christie; Mise en scène: Andreas Homoki; Scenery: Paul Zoller; Costumes: Gideon Davey; Lighting: Franck Evin. Théâtre Archevêché, Aix-en-Provence. (July 11, 2012)
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Le Nozze di Figaro in Aix-en-Provence

Yes, it was risky indeed for the Festival’s umpteenth production of Le Nozze di Figaro by the Festival’s signature composer, W.A. Mozart (that’s Mose-art in French by the way). Richard Brunel, director of the Comédie de Valence (a small city south of Lyon), re-conceived Beaumarchais’ testy little comedy to take place in a contemporary notaire’s office, or maybe it was an avocat’s office or some sort of corporate office where Barbarina was the receptionist (it was confusing), with grand doors embedded into the stage left wall leading into, we later learned, a large room with two sewing machines.

Kate Lindsey as Cherubino

It seems that there was to be an office wedding with Susanna and Marcellina arguing who was going to wear the wedding veil (Via, resti servita), a long white filmy thing that was on stage most of the opera. The count, who was a lawyer or something, sometimes brought his dog to the office as if he had just been hunting and still had his gun with him. His dog was really smart and sniffed out the door behind which Cherubino was hiding and guarded it while the Count, strangely lacking janitorial staff, went to get some tools. Later when things got out-of-hand between the Count and Countess the dog barked in just the right place, the only moment he could get a bark in.

A court room appeared on stage right, abutting the count’s office. Everyone soon gathered for various reasons and then the Countess wandered in too and sang her Dove sono (translation: Where am I?). In the end the Countess wore a wedding gown to disguise herself as Susanna, and Susanna wore black with a high grey turban to hide the Countess’ long blond hair (we had been amazed earlier by this strange coiffure on the Countess ). The sterile (no plants) garden seemed to be behind some featureless house in a French banlieue (suburb) parts of which kept sliding eerily about the stage making everyone even sleepier (it was 1:30 AM by then).

Patricia Petibon as Susanna, Kyle Ketelsen as Figaro and Paolo Szot as the Count

The curtain fell (well, a large flat thing slowly descended) and when it rose for the artists to take their bows the star of the show appeared alone on the stage. Yes! The dog.

Some very good singers then made their way onto the stage to accept applause. Figaro, American baritone Kyle Ketelson, of course had the final bow. Mr. Ketelsen had a huge success two years ago in Aix as Don Giovanni’s cheeky sidekick, a very physical Leporello. He is a vivid performer who projects text to perfection but dressed in a suit and tie his cheek did not find character in Figaro. The biggest ovation went to Cherubino, American mezzo Kate Lindsay, dressed in a suit and tie who fussed with the Countess’ bra (the libretto says ribbon) and sang breathlessly making Mozart’s young lover quite fun and real.

Brazilian baritone Paolo Szot who was to have appeared in Aix’s Nose but did not was the Count. Mr. Szot has a quite beautiful voice, beautifully used. He is often strangely type miscast in big houses (because he is South American i.e. latin) as Escamillo in spite of a soft, pretty presence. He did not read as a bonafide sexual predator, and made Almaviva seem even sympathetic and misunderstood in his garden escapade.

John Graham-Hall as Basilio, Mari Eriksmoen as Barbarina, Kyle Ketelsen as Figaro and Patricia Petibon as Susanna

These were the big house singers. Things got risky with French soprano Patricia Petibon as Susanna and Swedish soprano Malin Byström as the Countess. Mlle. Petibon gave Susanna a quite saucy “ina” (Zerlina, Despina) character in a quite smokey voice that precluded any text projection. At first it seemed Mlle. Byström might be a Swedish dramatic soprano in training, but it became apparent that she is a lovely, quite beautiful singer who does not project strong character. Both women boast important credits in early music so perhaps the attributes that made their performances pale on the Archevêché stage are valuable in other circumstances. The singers in the supporting character roles were swallowed up in the concept.

The evening’s conceit seems to have been to juxtapose hard edge contemporary dramaturgy and design with real, old, decorative music, a conceit that in some circumstances might spawn better results. The risky orchestra in Aix was Le Cercle de l’Harmonie, a group based in Deauville (Normandy) led by violinist/conductor Jérémie Rhorer, a protégé of William Christie. This orchestra has been specifically built to perform the music of the late 18th century (i.e. Mozart and Hadyn). As it was from row M in the Archevêché the music seemed long ago and far away, a bit like an old reed organ without sufficient air supply. Conductor Rhorer’s tempi seemed appropriate for the occasion.

Maybe you had to be French.

Michael Milenski

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image_description=Patricia Petibon as Susanna, Malin Byström as the Countess and Kate Lindsey as Cherubino [Photo by Pascal Victor / Artcomart, courtesy of the Aix Festival]

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product_title=W. A. Mozart: Le Nozze di Figaro
product_by=Almaviva: Paulo Szot; Countess: Malin Byström; Susanna: Patricia Petibon; Figaro: Kyle Ketelsen; Cherubino: Kate Lindsey; Marcellina: Anna Maria Panzarella; Bartolo: Mario Luperi; Basilio: John Graham-Hall; Don Curzio: Emanuele Giannino; Barbarina: Mari Eriksmoen; Antonio: René Schirrer. Orchestre: Le Cercle de l’Harmonie; Chorus: Les Arts Florissants. Conductor: Jérémie Rhorer; Mise en scène: Richard Brunel; Dramaturg: Catherine Ailloud-Nicolas; Scenery: Chantal Thomas; Costumes: Axel Aust; Lighting: Dominique Borrini. Archevêché Théâtre, Aix-en-Provence. (July 7, 2012)
product_id=Above: Patricia Petibon as Susanna, Malin Byström as the Countess and Kate Lindsey as Cherubino

Photos © Pascal Victor / Artcomart, courtesy of the Aix Festival

Christoph Prégardien, Wigmore Hall

The sequence had been carefully chosen to form a circular progression of emotions, from pained lamentation to delusory hope, returning to bittersweet despair; and the songs were delivered with a sure sense of musical relationships and overall form to create a naturally flowing narrative and musical whole.

Drake’s role in shaping the pace and overall form was not inconsiderable. This was apparent from the opening bars of Schubert’s graveside lament, ‘Tiefes Lied’ (‘Deep Sorrow’), in which the squalling roars of wind which gust through the piano texture, suggesting the speaker’s turbulent soul, were tempered by soothing diminuendos bringing calm at the end of each verse.

The six texts by the tormented, unstable Ernst Konrad Schulze explore the poet’s unrequited passion for two sisters, Adelheid and Cäcilie Tyshcen; they may employ many a poetic cliché to depict Schulze’s self-absorbed longing and delusions, but Schubert’s responses are often anything but predictable.

Roaring winds also burst “across the pine slopes” in ‘Über Wildemann’ (‘Over-looking Wildemann’), the voice now in octaves with the bass, ominously dark and suggesting a repressed violence within. Desperation turns to rueful consolation, as the poet regards the beauty of the mountain landscape, and Drake and Prégardien shaped a thrilling climax, the tenor’s forthright, ringing line ecstatically declaring his fleeting elation, “O love, O love,/ O breath of May!”

The contrast with the tenor’s soft, dreamy tone at the conclusion of the preceding ‘Um Mitternacht’ (‘At Midnight’) — as the singer calls for the “Sweet echo” of his beloved’s words to lull his head to gentle rest” — was startling, and made still more dramatic by the unceasing movement from Drake’s tender postlude into the opening bars of the next song. Rhythmic nuance was also used to expressive effect, the apparent simplicity of the sentiments and idiom deepened by the subtle rhythmic variations of the main melodic motif, shared by voice and piano, at times calm and stable, then enlivened, even agitated.

Even the poetic limitations of ‘An mein Herz’ (‘To my heart’) were overcome by Drake’s fierce chain of restless ostinato chords, first loud then soft, with major and minor tonalities interchanging, to suggest the futility of Romantic obsession. Initially echoing this reckless agitation, the singer finally turns to a quieter introspection, and here Prégardien employed a wonderful half-voice to suggest brief, if illusory, solace — “Let us bravely endure/ as long as tears still flow”.

The Schulze texts concluded with ‘Auf der Brücke’ (‘On the bridge’), Drake’s moto perpetuo and a sequential rising motif in left hand providing forward momentum as the poet-speaker’s horse gallops “briskly on without restraint”, away from his beloved, through darkness towards the “bright eye of longing”. With an exhilarated tone, Prégardien conveyed the protagonist’s initial bold confidence, before doubt entered and a momentary shadow veiled the close.

Schumann’s settings of Nikolaus Lenau deepened the melancholic mood still further, only the opening ‘Lied eines Schmiedes’ (‘Blacksmith’s song’) portraying peace and contentment; here, Drake conjured a suitable brassy tone to evoke both the clang of the anvil and the rhythms of the “little steed’s” journey, while Prégardien brought a soft sweetness to the peaceful closing ruminations.

The control and modulation of sentiment which both performers achieved was striking, both between and within songs, perhaps most remarkably in ‘Requiem’, where Prégardien’s dramatic projection of the poet’s elation, “when he beholds his Lord/ in Heavenly glory”, faded moments later to a more subdued quietude as he hears the “lovely song” of the angel’s harps.

Most affecting of the Lenau songs were ‘Meine Rose’ (‘My rose’) and ‘Der schwere Abend’ (‘The oppressive evening’). In the former, Schumann’s doleful chromaticisms and appoggiaturas, and unpredictable harmonic progressions, prompted thoughtful and deeply expressive responses from singer and pianist. The sudden change of harmonic direction at the close of the first stanza of ‘Meine Rose’ — evoking the sombre mysteries of the ‘deep, dark well’ from which the poet draws water to revive the waning flower — were enhanced by Drake’s eloquent shaping of the piano’s falling motif; similarly, Prégardien’s restrained, introspection deepened the poignant longing of the repetition of the opening verse.

The Eb Minor tonality, dark register and repetitive circular motif of ‘Der schwere Abend’ conveyed the brooding insularity of the poet’s (and perhaps the composer’s) depression, punctuated only by the singer’s rhetorical exclamations. The culminating angry cry, “I wished us both dead/ in the anguish of my heart”, and the sustained tolling of the final piano chord, left one in no doubt of the self-destructive fury and despair of the poet-speaker.

After the interval came Dichterliebe. The performers moved swiftly from song to song, creating excitement and energy but also intimacy. Prégardien’s attention to the details of the text was superb, from the fragile dissolution of the voice in the final lines of each stanza in the opening ‘Im wunderschönen Monat Mai’ (‘In the wondrous month of May’), to the pointing of individual words. Thus a rich, earnest timbre highlighted the unique perfection of she who is “small, fine, pure and rare” (“Die Kleine, die Feine, die Reine, die Eine”) in ‘Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube’ (‘Rose, Lily, Dove’); while the tenor’s dark cloudy tone at the conclusion of ‘When ich in deine Augen seh’ (‘When I look into your eyes’), underpinned by the following tumbling piano gestures, conveyed the poet’s torment: “but when you say: I love you!/ I must weep bitter tears.”

Prégardien revealed a round baritonal warmth in ‘Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome’ (‘In the Rhine, the holy river’) to evoke his sincere fervour, as sacred and sexual love coalesce - the eyes, lips and cheeks of the cathedral’s beloved Lady becoming “the image of my love’s”. A simple clarity, complemented by Drake’s sparse accompaniment, characterised “Hör ich das Kiedchen klingen” (‘When I hear the little song’), perfectly capturing the unaffected nature of the remembered song, and the unmovable, unalleviated grief which ultimately erupts in a profound piano postlude.

The performers’ focus and control never wavered, but in ‘Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet’ (‘I wept in my dreams’) heights of expressive affect were reached. Nearing the end of the cycle, after a consequential pause Prégardien restrainedly commenced the unaccompanied opening line, the steadily controlled monotone darkened by a semitonal ‘sob’, the poet’s almost suffocating grief intimated by Drake’s dry punctuating chords. The repetitions of the refrain and the confined contours of the almost drone-like melodic line stress the self-consuming nature of the poet’s obsession; and the piano languorously echoed the voice in the interlude between stanzas two and three, Drake movingly heightening the repeating plagal cadences, thereby weakening any hint of solace that the poet’s dream of continuing love may offer. In the final stanza, Prégardien allowed the vocal line to dissolve, his fragmented repetitions of a single pitch disturbed by restless dissonant harmony.

Self-regarding obsession, disillusionment and self-delusion may have remained unrelieved at the end of this recital, but such an intelligent interpretation by a perfectly attuned partnership, performing with such eloquent beauty, was more than enough recompense.

Claire Seymour

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Programme:

Schubert

Tiefes Leid (Im Jänner 1817)
An mein Herz
Um Mitternacht
Über Wildemann
Im Frühling
Auf der Brücke

Schumann

Lied eines Schmiedes
Meine Rose
Kommen und Scheiden
Die Sennin
Einsamkeit
Der schwere Abend
Requiem
Dichterliebe

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Pregardien.gif image_description=Christoph Prégardien [Photo © Marco Borggreve] product=yes product_title= product_by=Christoph Prégardien, tenor; Julius Drake, piano. Wigmore Hall, London, Tuesday 17 July 2012. product_id=Above: Christoph Prégardien [Photo © Marco Borggreve]

Florida Grand Opera Appoints New Artistic Administrator

By Frank Cadenhead [Opera Today, 18 July 2012]

Effective July 30, Cassidy E. Fitzpatrick will be the new artistic administrator of Florida Grand Opera. a position open since the dismissal of Kelly Anderson last year.

Changes at Florida Grand Opera

Fitzpatrick has recently served as development & artistic associate for the Boston Lyric Opera. She has a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in history and music from Amherst College. Fitzpatrick will work with FGO’s managing director, Kevin Mynatt, to assure the artistic vision of the company.

Florida Grand Opera will feature four operas in the coming season, Puccini’s “La bohème,” Mozart’s “The Magic Flute,” Donizetti’s “La sonnambula” and Verdi’s “La Traviata.” Performances are both at the Adrienne Arsht Center for the Performing Arts in Miami and also at Fort Lauderdale’s Broward Center for the Performing Arts.

Frank Cadenhead

Click here for the complete press release.

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Cassidy.jpg image_description=Cassidy E. Fitzpatrick [Photo courtesy of Florida Grand Opera] product=yes product_title=Changes at Florida Grand Opera product_by=By Frank Cadenhead product_id=Above: Cassidy E. Fitzpatrick [Photo courtesy of Florida Grand Opera]

BBC Prom 3: Pelléas et Mélisande

Not, one might think, a recipe for success, but this stunning concert performance of Debussy’s enigmatic opera Pelléas et Mélisande under the baton of Sir John Eliot Gardiner repeatedly trounced expectations and preconceptions.

‘Nothing happens’ is one charge sometimes levelled at Pelléas et Mélisande; but while it’s true that literal ‘action’ and physical movement are restrained, the opera matches The Turn of the Screw in its gradual but incessant escalation of emotional intensity to an almost unbearable concentration of passion. And, as in Britten’s opera, it is principally the orchestra which elucidates the affecting and disturbing upsurges of emotion, and their tragic, poignant consequences.

Eliot Gardiner demonstrated a masterly appreciation of the way the subdued sonorities and gentle articulation of period instruments could perfectly convey the shadowy elusiveness and obscurities of Debussy’s score. The instrumental fabric was beautifully blended: orchestral motifs — such as the oboe’s opening arabesques depicting Mélisande’s elusive diffidence — were gracefully etched; delicate, half-whispered gestures, bloomed into swelling torrents of sound. The combination of control and flexibility was impressive as the shifting tonal colours, floating modulations, rhythmic elasticity, half-cadences and flowing, interweaving inner parts conjured a darkly brooding restlessness. The short scenes never seemed fragmented; instead, an air of timelessness was created as we moved from dark forest to enchanted well to gloomy castle. The transition from the second to third scenes in Act 3, as we rose from the subterranean castle vaults to the glaring daylight of the castle terrace was exhilarating.

Initially, the soloists — dressed in standard, modern evening attire — seemed a little unsure whether this was to be a stationary concert performance or a more dynamic semi-staged presentation. Rarefied and enigmatic the opera may be, but detachment and aloofness can be taken too far: it makes little sense for two characters engaged in an intense but hushed exchange of allusive, suggestive remarks to be placed on opposite sides of the stage, or for one to speak to the back of the other. However, movement and gesture gradually became both more natural and more imaginative; this was in no small part due to the engaging physicality and sensuousness of Karen Vourc’h’s Mélisande. Her brief syllables of song as she combed her hair at the window in Act 3 throbbed with impulsive energy and joy. She also revealed here her reserves of vocal strength, which for much of the evening she kept under wrap, preferring to employ a more muted but excited breathless tone to convey Mélisande’s inscrutable vulnerability. In fact, occasionally she seemed a little underpowered in the vast arena, but as one would expect of a native speaker, Vourc’h’s diction was crystal clear and the text elegantly shaped, the deliberate ordinariness of Maeterlinck’s language deepening the obscurity of its meaning.

Canadian baritone, Phillip Addis, was equally at home with the French text; indeed, many of the exceptional cast were first assembled at the Opéra Comique in 2010, and there was a confidence and strong sense of familiarity about the whole performance. Addis was suitably fresh and lithe of voice as a youthful, athletic Pelléas: innocently fervent and bright of tone to begin with, he grew to a fiery outpouring of love in the Act 4 love duet, finding the ideal timbre to negotiate the high range.

Both vocally and physically Laurent Nouri had enormous presence; even when seated he projected consummate authority and self-assurance. His powerful bass-baritone was subtly graded and coloured in a reading that confirmed that it is Golaud as much as the lovers who are tortured by his cruelty.

Sir John Tomlinson’s Arkel was resonant but not without a fitting fragility. Elodie Méchain possesses a pure, ringing contralto, and her lyrical projection of Geneviève’s declamation was truly moving. A gamine, sweet-toned Dima Bawab was convincing as Yniold.

The will be plenty of hyperbole, bombast and bravado during this ‘Olympic’ Promenade season; but, on this evening Eliot Gardiner reminded us of the genuine potency of refined understatement.

Claire Seymour

Click here for streaming audio of this performance.

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Pelleas_and_Melisande-Leigh.gif image_description=Pelleas and Melisande by Edmund Blair Leighton [Photo © Williamson Art Gallery & Museum courtesy of BBC] product=yes product_title=Claude Debussy: Pelléas et Mélisande product_by=Pelléas: Phillip Addis; Mélisande: Karen Vourc’h; Golaud: Laurent Naouri; Arkel: Sir John Tomlinson; Geneviève: Elodie Méchain; Yniold: Dima Bawab; Shepherd/Doctor: Nahuel Di Pierro. Monteverdi Choir. Orchestra Révolutionnaire et Romantique. Conductor: Sir John Eliot Gardiner. BBC Proms, Royal Albert Hall, London. Prom 3, Sunday 15 July 2012. product_id=Above: Pelleas and Melisande by Edmund Blair Leighton [Photo © Williamson Art Gallery & Museum courtesy of BBC]

Otello, Royal Opera

but, aided by Timothy O’Brien’s impressively towering Cypriot pillars and gleaming marble and Robert Bryan’s resourceful lighting designs, Moshinsky provides a sumptuous spatial and visual arena for the interplay of powerful emotional forces, which can be harnessed by skilful protagonists to showcase the opera’s disturbing intensity and their own musical and dramatic arts.

Moshinsky and O’Brien aim for historical authenticity and unambiguous symbolism and gesture. Black and white chequerboard tiles hint at the racial antagonisms so vociferously presented in Shakespeare’s opening Act but which are only briefly voiced in Boito’s libretto. Rich, velvety crimsons reveal both the depth of the protagonists’ emotions — love, hatred, loyalty and jealousy — and their bloody consequences. The Christian iconography of the lush, Veronese-inspired Renaissance backdrops may be stretching the ‘tragic hero’ notion a little too far, especially given that the excision of most of Shakespeare’s first Act reduces the racial and religious antagonisms of the drama; moreover, the absence of Othello’s final ‘redeeming’ Act 5 monologue, which renders his suicide a restitution of nobility and an act of selfless service to the state, means that we feel pity but perhaps not catharsis at the end of the opera. But, the Crucifixion allusions do add to the timeless quality of the whole.

Initially, Lucio Gallo was a rather blustering, brawny Iago, tending towards noisy vociferousness; but, perhaps this was apt, for Iago is a rough, brash private, lacking Cassio’s gentle chivalry and graciousness. Moreover, Boito’s Iago is a simpler psychological portrait than Shakespeare’s elusive antagonist, his motivation less complicated and elusive, his machinations more transparently enacted. Although prone at the outset to slightly wearing shoulder-shrugging gestures of ‘innocence’, Gallo increasingly found, both in gesture and timbre, more subtle lights and shades — guiding and coercing Otello, bullying Roderigo, duplicitously consoling Desdemona, harrying Emilia. He made good use of the forestage, coercively involving the audience in his plotting while maintaining a scornful detachment; throughout the text was meticulously pronounced, and while arrogantly domineering, he largely avoided pantomime exaggeration. Gallo’s Credo was muscular and focused, as if inviting us to find him attractive, to fall under his spell as readily as his deceived captain. At the end of Act 2, as Iago and Otello fell to their knees to utter an appalling oath of brotherhood and vengeance, the slowly falling curtain intimated the ghastly, tragic fateful path which the ‘hero’ inescapable trod. Their immediate fore-curtain bow was well-deserved.

Hanna Hipp as Emilia, Anja Harteros as Desdemona and Lucio Gallo as Iago

Anja Harteros’ Desdemona had both innocent vulnerability and feisty self-possession — she was not a wilting violet but a self-possessed, if somewhat inexperienced, young woman, sure of her love and confident of its reciprocation; a worthy wife for a conquering hero. Despite her unwavering grace and loveliness, Harteros was never overshadowed or dominated; she commanded her scenes with a refined but charming presence, her gleaming, sweet timbre supported by a firm, steely underpinning when required, particularly in the middle voice. With her realisation that death is near and unavoidable, Harteros’ floated ever more delicate, ethereal vocal threads, as Desdemona paradoxically seemed both more powerful in her essential purity and increasingly defenceless before her husband’s deranged delusions. Although Harteros’ intonation was not always flawless, the long-breathed phrases that mattered spoke affectingly; her final angelic cry, elegantly poised and redolent with pathos, truly touched the heart.

So, given the acknowledged technical and dramatic challenges of the role, what of our Otello, the Latvian tenor, Aleksandrs Antonenko? If there were any doubts that vocally he is a worthy successor to his illustrious predecessors in the role, Antonenko’s triumphant first appearance immediately quelled them; his gleaming trumpeting roar, ‘Esultate’, instantly established Otello as a hero of noble grandeur and profound passions, and simultaneously confirmed the Latvian Antonenko as a mighty Italianate tenor with an infallibly lustrous tone and secure upper register. Though perhaps a little rigid dramatically, Antonenko convincingly depicted a man in torment, his external confidence and inner peace unravelling with every twist of Iago’s verbal knife. He had the stamina to project, if not conquer, the challenges of the low register of the Act 3 soliloquy. And, the slightly husky pianissimo rasps of his final fragmented, despairing “Desdemona”s revealed the extent of his psychological disintegration.

There were no weak links in the chain: Jihoon Kim as Montano, Ji Hyun Kimboth as Roderigo and Hanna Hipp as Emilia, all Jette Parker Young Artists, were professional, accomplished and engaging. Antonio Poli’s Cassio had an appropriately light-weight elegance which, dramatically, suggested both a debonair nonchalance and a perilously naive self-assurance.

Aleksandrs Antonenko as Otello, Anja Harteros as Desdemona and Antonio Poli as Cassio [Photo © ROH/Tristram Kenton 2012]

Antonio Pappano’s characteristic mastery of the score’s details brought forth nuances which were occasionally missing from the actual movements on stage, if not from the singing itself. From the ferocious storm that he conjured to a deafening but supremely controlled climax, to the portentous, insidious bass rumblings which permeate Act IV, Pappano was in total command, shaping the lines of the Act II quartet to energise the conflicting dramatic dialectics, pushing the vengeful close of the same Act to an agonizingly bitter climax. Every instrumental entry was crisp and clean, and the rhythmic propulsion never wavered, intensity and unrest sitting side by side with quietude and serenity.

The enlarged chorus roared in resplendent and well-marshalled fashion, but their role is fairly small (as was the space available, hence some rather stilted arm waving in the storm scene), and this performance was all about the three principals, whose prowess, consistency and professionalism brought praise-worthy technical flair and sincere depth of feeling to Moshinsky’s solid framework.

Claire Seymour

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Otello_ROH_2012_01.gif image_description=Aleksandrs Antonenko as Otello and Anja Harteros as Desdemona [Photo © ROH/Catherine Ashmore 2012] product=yes product_title=Giuseppe Verdi: Otello product_by=Montano: Jihoon Kim; Cassio: Antonio Poli; Iago: Lucio Gallo; Roderigo: Ji Hyun Kim; Otello: Aleksandrs Antonenko; Desdemona: Anja Harteros; Emilia: Hanna Hipp; Herald: Bryan Secombe; Lodovico: Brindley Sherratt. Conductor: Antonio Pappano. Orchestra of the Royal Opera House. Royal Opera Chorus. Director: Elijah Moshinsky. Set Designs: Timothy O’Brien. Costume Design: Peter J Hall. Lighting Design: Robert Bryan. Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, London, Thursday 12th July 2012. product_id=Above: Aleksandrs Antonenko as Otello and Anja Harteros as Desdemona

Except as otherwise indicated, photos © ROH/Catherine Ashmore 2012

Live Video Streaming of Figaro, Festival d’Aix en Provence

Opera Today, 12 July 2012

Arte LiveWeb will be streaming Marriage of Figaro from the Festival d’Aix en Provence today. The time of performance is scheduled for 3:30 p.m. Eastern time. It will remain available online for approximately 6 months. The live performance will also be broadcast by Radio Classique.

Triple Delights in the City of Light

Marco Arturo Marelli’s Rubik-cube of a set design for Arabella engaged the eye and the imagination as it constantly re-invented itself. At first glance a sumptuous, white curving drawing room (with a Magritte-like cloud-dotted blue sky painted on one wall), the structure consisted of swiveling panels, some of them backed with variegated mirrors, all of them trimmed with extravagant molding. With admirably precise coordination, furniture and props glided in clockwise on a turntable as panels yawned open to allow the set pieces through, and then closed again. Or not. The effect paralleled the shifting emotional and financial fortunes of the principal characters, and while the visuals were somewhat unsettling, they also looked reassuringly serene. Transitions to the party and back home again were seamless, with characters appearing almost prankish, leaning around various openings and/or effecting bold entrances at will. A series of highly detailed backdrops added color and depth.

Friedrich Eggert has lit the show with soothing washes, mellow cyc lights, well-timed area cross-fades, and occasional bursts of color, all of which took full advantage of the reflective properties of the white walls. Dagmar Hiefind has created luxurious period costumes, with especially glamorous results for the leading lady.

Within this fluid structural space, augmented by its well-chosen attire and atmospheric lighting, Mr. Marelli also donned his director’s hat and created some telling stage pictures, enabling distinctive character relationships of immense depth. He not only used every inch of the expansive playing area(s) with consummate skill, but also added immeasurably to the impact of this rather slight plot with cunning inventions. Witness the ball scene, where Mandryka’s over-stimulated imagination sees every woman as a ringer for Araballa, every man a handsome rival like Matteo. As the duplicate couples whirl and glide around the dance floor, Mandryka’s wrongheaded suspicions are multiplied ten-fold. When the lads later shed their shirts, bared their torsos, and sexually pursued their various ‘Arabella’s’ the poor man’s negative fantasies went into overdrive, as the corps cavorted in Twyla Tharp-inspired choreography.

It is easy to understand Mandryka’s obsession with the heroine. Who could fail to be bewitched and bedazzled by Renée Fleming’s definitive Arabella? For Ms. Fleming is here performing at the height of her powers. The creamy richness of her tone is generous and undiminished, her solid technique trumps every Straussian challenge, she mines every subtlety to be found in the role, and her acclaimed musicality is unflagging. Moreover, she is a stunning woman whose physique and demeanor partner with her artistry to completely persuade us that at the moment, Renée simply has no equal in the part.

The diva went from strength to strength, offering perfectly accentuated conversational ‘dialogue’ one minute and regaling us with thrilling, soaring passages the next. The extended ‘scena’ in which she pardons Mandryka and offers him the conciliatory glass of water, was heart-breaking in its simplicity, and found her celebrated soprano shimmering, pulsing, and vibrant. As my tears rained down, it was not just for the perfection of the moment, but that I just might not ever hear anything this ravishing again. “The Beautiful Voice,” indeed.

She was well partnered by Michael Volle as Mandryka, who reacts with such deep disbelief and gratitude to Arabella’s pardon, that he certainly heightened the soprano’s effect in this crucial scene. Mr. Volle has a voice with ample thrust and ringing presence but the extreme tessitura of the part on both ends finds it thinning out a bit. Don’t get me wrong, he is completely secure in everything he vocalizes, but the top doesn’t quite turn over. There maybe be a baritone out there that could sing this a bit more comfortably, with a bit more ‘ping’ upstairs, but surely no one could perform it more memorably. Like his winning Beckmesser (‘the’ glory of the most recent Bayreuth Meistersinger) Michael crafts a well-rounded and sympathetic character out of a man who spends much of the piece as a hectoring prat. The depths of his shame and remorse are so profoundly communicated that he has us in the palm of his hand. Together, he and his Arabella transmitted a real chemistry that fairly crackled in the house.

Genia Kühmeier was a winning, diminutive Zdenka, believably boyish for (nearly) the first two acts, then girlishly tormented for the rest. Ms. Kühmeier has a voice of individualized personality, meaty enough to blaze through the frequent orchestral outbursts but youthful and pliable enough to spin out Straussian phrases of great sensitivity. The tone has laser-like focus and a pleasing, slight vibrato. Although Joseph Kaiser was announced as indisposed, the strapping young tenor threw himself into the swinging emotions of Matteo, and his rich mid-voice promised that this is an instrument of considerable quality. He did have to somewhat ‘mark’ the uppermost reaches but never once conveyed any peril. Truth to tell, I have heard many a tenor in perfect health sing not half as well as Mr. Kaiser on this evening, and I will look forward to hearing him again soon at full throttle.

Kurt Rydl brought a lifetime of experience and a maturity of utterance to the willful, gambling-addicted Count Waldner. Doris Soffel, another treasurable seasoned artist, used her powerful, dark-hued mezzo to etch a three dimensional Adelaide, the self-pitying mother. I am not sure there is a less grateful role in all Coloraturadom than Fiakermilli, for she either prances on at full tilt and nails all the over-written, exposed, fiendish pyrotechnics or…not. Luckily, Iride Martinez, petite of stature but big of voice, warbled freely and accurately, and managed to make a decent case for a perky role that is really not very well integrated into the story. As the suitors, Eric Huchet brought an over-sized presence and pleasant tenor to Count Elemer; Edwin Crossley-Mercer used his refined baritone to good purpose as Count Dominik; and best of all, Thomas Dear cut a fine figure and sang a very solid, coltish, preening Count Lamoral.

Conductor Philippe Jordan impresses me even more with each outing, and he elicited a luminous performance from the excellent resident orchestra. The Maestro drew forth rich coloration, resonant banks of sound, and stellar solo work, and imbued the whole with an urgent forward motion that was cohesive and pliable. Jordan not only has poster boy good looks but is also racking up a growing resume of top level musical results. If he does not achieve superstardom in the very near future I will eat my beret. He is surely among the top conductors of our day, and a local ‘rock star’ who generates cheers simply by entering the pit. (Mr. Gelb, are you paying attention?)

Click here for a video presentation of Arabella.

Director Gilbert Deflo appears to have looked to Cirque de Soleil as inspiration for his Cecil B. DeMille staging of The Love of Three Oranges. Set designer William Orlandi has given him a circus ring of a set; tracks full of curtains of various colors; a flown, white, bi-parting architectural show drop that suggests the Opéra Bastille facade; a circular balcony that encompasses the playing space; platforms and ramps that morph to various useful configurations; and assorted colorful chairs and stools for the players as well as the observers. Oh, and of course, three pretty darn’ terrific oranges!

Mr. Orlandi did double design duty, also creating a wide array of magical costumes, many “commedia”-based (the Prince in white pants and smock recalled Watteau’s “Gilles”). Others were pure fantasy, witness Princess Clarice’s slinky slit green vamp gown (with matching wig), Tchelio’s buttercup yellow morning suit and hat; the lovely, delicate white dresses for the three princesses that looked like stray Wilis wandered in from “Giselle;” and the colossal drag creation for the cook, constructed atop a ‘skirt’ concealing a rolling wagon, that enabled the actor atop it to appear twelve feet tall. The huge masks, the rat head, the oversized props, every fanciful item was carefully wrought. Only the black-faced Pickaninny concept for Smeraldino mis-fired. I appreciate the intent, but the blunt minstrel look stopped one step short of “I speks I’se de wickedest crea-chuh in de worl’.”

Joel Hourbeigt’s clever assortment of lighting specials provided constant delight with a design to be counted among the finest he has accomplished at the house. In addition to excellent inclusion of spotlights (including five used for atmospheric back-lighting from the onstage balcony), Mr. Hourbeigt devised any number of tricks that greatly enhanced our enjoyment: star lights flying in during the love duet; silhouettes on the upstage curtain as the baddies are chased around the set; side lights that accentuated the treachery of the plotting; and subtle changes of color and intensity in the general wash. The production also incorporated dazzling pyrotechnical duels, surprising flash pots, and clever solutions to the all-important sliced-orange moments. The complex scenic components were transported, placed and removed with utmost precision by the exemplary running crew.

Mr. Deflo generally used the space exceedingly well, allowing the “commentators” to reside on the stage apron far left and right, keeping the chorus (outfitted in evening wear) seated on semi-circles of chairs under the onstage balcony left and right, maintaining much of the action in the central ring. However, he also made clever use of the entire stage, reserving use of the balcony for the most effective moments like the extended chase, where the pursued as well as the pursuers clambered up and down ladders and traversed every inch of the balcony. Fata Morgana and Tchelio also squared off imperiously in their “card game” atop opposite perches on the upper level. Flying the Prince and Truffaldino as they left on their quests (not once but twice) over the upper level high into the wings, was a real audience pleaser. Even with the bare bones script and dialogue of the piece, Deflo has worked with the performers to create individualized movement and character-specific gestures that informed the audience of their personalities.

No one embraced this concept more effectively than Charles Workman as an endearing Prince. Mr. Workman was all flowing limbs and mock-balletic poses, and his physical work was matched by a flexible, warmly pleasing tenor. A little adjustment of technique might be in order to tame a couple of sudden jumps to (very) high notes that almost came to grief, but still his was a memorable, touching portrayal that earned an appreciative ovation. I find the real star potential of “Oranges” to be Truffaldino, and Eric Huchet did not disappoint. At times Mr. Huchet’s enjoyable tenor seems deployed with comprimario sensibilities, only to jar us a moment later with radiant, secure tone as he luxuriates on the odd lyrical phrase. While his dramatic performance had all the animation required, he might consider just a bit more physical abandon. That said, his climbing up on the Cook’s skirt and riding along on the rolling wagon was an inspired goof. Eric proved to be the audience favorite, earning a cascade of approving shouts at curtain call.

Arguably the vocal honors of the night belonged to Lucia Cirillo in the unsympathetic role of Smeraldine. Hers is a wonderfully even, throbbing, fiery mezzo, and she dispatched the extremes of the writing with plucky aplomb and reserves of power. Amel Brahim-Djelloul was a sweet-voiced, bell-like Ninette, and her well-founded technique and placement allowed her slender soprano to enchant even the top balcony. Marie-Ange Todorovitch was an imperious Fata Morgana. Her searing top notes and robust chest tones served all the needs of the enchantress, although her middle voice got a mite cloudy at times with a bit too much cover. Patricia Hernandez struck a lovely figure as Clarice, but she occasionally pushed her pleasant medium-sized mezzo one size past its comfort level, resulting in a bit of a wobble and the occasional splayed release on longer sustained tones.

As the King of Clubs, old hand Alain Vernhes brought all of his considerable experience to the befuddled character. Mr. Vernhe’s resolute baritone serves the role well, and if a bit of dryness has crept into the tone over the years, his was still a commanding presence. Igor Gnidh sang with ringing, refined tone as a pleasing Pantalone. I found Nicolas Cavallier’s Leandro a bit a bit barky and blustery, but his sizable, pointed singing was a decided hit with the public. Vincent Le Texier relished each of Tchelio’s pronouncements and treated us to a rolling bass that was all suave menace. It’s hard for a singer worth their fee to miss with the silliness of the (Man-as-Lady-)Cook, and Hans-Peter Scheidegger put his burly bass and comic sensibilities to maximum use in an infectiously giddy portrayal. Antoine Garci made such a solid impression in the brief role of Farfarello, it was a shame he didn’t have more to sing. As the expiring princesses, Alix Le Saux showed off a gleaming soprano in her brief turn as Lisette, and Alisa Kolosva followed up with a warmly tinged, glowing cameo as Nicolette.

In the pit, Alain Altinoglu conducted with verve and utmost authority, keeping the massed forces in perfect sync and eliciting handsome playing from his musicians. The score’s brief moments of introspection seemed a tad ‘cool’ but the overall piece bubbled with admirable drive. Needless to say, the world-famous March sparkled on its every appearance.

Click here for a video presentation of The Love of Three Oranges.

These days, when an opera production takes your breath away it is usually because it is so unutterably dreadful. What a joy then to be ennobled by the impeccable period design for Hippolyte et Aricie at the Palais Garnier. Antoine Fontaine’s remarkable forced perspective scenery was an eye-popping Masters Class in theatrical tradition. Mr. Fontaine’s inventiveness knew no bounds as each succeeding setting tracked in from the wings, descended from the flies, or arose from the depths. Just when you thought one lovingly rendered environment could not be bettered, another surpassed it. Surprises were constantly forthcoming. To name one: a crossbar bearing three bodies suspended by their feet gets lowered to hover near the ground, and somehow the ‘live’ faces of the Three Fates rose from the rocks to superimpose over the heads of the strung up victims.

The other-worldly ambience of this and many another chilling visual was owing to Hervé Gary’s superb approximation of lighting from Rameau’s time. His footlights’ shadowy wash was artfully and subtly augmented by modern day pin spots, such as those that illumined the heads of the three Fates. Jean-Daniel Vuillermoz has given us virtually a non-stop parade of luxuriant costumes, one rivaling the other for accuracy, color, and opulence. The physical production revealed that artistic marvels created in a simpler time could still thrill us when so expertly executed and so lovingly recreated. Even the sound effects were ‘true’ with a thunder sheet, and muslin-and-turning-drum wind machine. But all this magnificence would been for naught had the music been lacking.

With her own ‘orchestre et choeur du Concert d’Astrée’ peopling the pit and the stage, conductor Emmanuelle Haïm led the most exciting ‘period ensemble’ performance I could ever have imagined. While this is a tightly knit ensemble, Maestra Haïm has also coaxed vivid dramatic playing from her solo instrumentalists. The fierce, brilliant trilling from the horns, the droning of the bagpipe/musette, the acrobatic arpeggios from the winds, the urging of the drum, all of these memorable moments were accumulated into one, colossal musical achievement.

Ms. Haïm accomplishes this highly theatrical reading with great economy of gesture, no baton, a pumped fist here, a toss of the head there, a bump of the hip thrown in for good measure. Her responsive players and singers (chorus master, Xavier Ribes), schooled to a fare-thee-well, delivered a totally mesmerizing account of the score.

Director Ivan Alexandre devised a non-fussy staging approach for his singers, allowing choreographer Natalie van Parys to fill the stage with pleasant suggestions of court and folk dances. Mr. Alexandre keeps mostly with the tradition of moving the principals around economically and then allowing them to stand-and-deliver, and his exciting roster singers needed little further embellishment.

If Stéphane Degout’s brilliantly sung Theseus is not a career best, it certainly must be numbered among his many highpoints. His robust lyric voice, resonant and emotion-laden, boasted great range of expression. And Mr. Degout evoked great sympathy as he imbued the character’s challenging journey with eloquently plangent phrasing. Star mezzo Sarah Connolly also scored a success with her assured Phaedre. Ms. Connolly contributes an intense, tightly-wired characterization, and unleashes a torrent of glowing bravura singing that fairly zings off the crystal of the famed chandelier.

Click here for a video presentation of Hippolyte et Aricie.

Anne-Catherine Gillet is a most appealing Aricia, singing with poise, heart, and gleaming tone. Andrea Hill’s assured mezzo made for a commanding Diana. Jael Azzaretti proved an ideal Cupid, delectable, sassy, and assured, with polished, honeyed tone. Topi Lehtipuu was a thoroughly engaging Hippolytus, gifting the role with his mellifluous, fresh tenor which he uses with considerable skill to achieve a well-rounded portrait of the tortured hero. The balance of the large cast is uniformly accomplished, offering good diversity of vocal color and focused theatrical involvement.

But at the end of the night, the responsibility for reaching the highest pinnacle of communal artistry belonged to Emmanuelle Haïm, and her resounding achievement was vociferously, joyously celebrated.

James Sohre

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Arabella

Count Waldner: Kurt Rydl; Adelaide: Doris Soffel: Arabella: Renée Fleming; Zdenka: Genia Kühmeier; Mandryka: Michael Volle; Matteo: Joseph Kaiser; Count Elemer: Eric Huchet; Count Dominik: Edwin Crossley-Mercer; Count Lamoral: Thomas Dear; Fiakermilli: Iride Martinez; Fortune Teller: Irène Friedli; Conductor: Philippe Jordan; Director and Set Design: Marco Arturo Marelli; Costume Design: Dagmar Hiefind: Lighting Design: Friedrich Eggert; Stage Direction Collaborator: Anrico de Feo; Chorus Master: Patrick Marie Aubert

The Love of Three Oranges

King of Clubs: Alain Vernhes; Prince: Charles Workman; Princess Clarice: Patricia Fernandez; Leandro: Nicolas Cavallier; Truffaldino: Eric Huchet; Pantalone: Igor Gnidh; Tchelio: Vincent Le Texier; Fata Morgana: Marie-Ange Todorovitch; Linette: Alix Le Saux; Nicolette: Alisa Kolosova; Ninette: Amel Brahim-Djelloul; Cook: Hans-Peter Scheidegger; Farfarello: Antoine Garcin; Smeraldina: Lucia Cirillo; Master of Ceremonies: Vincent Morell; Herald: Alexandre Duhamel; Conductor: Alain Altinoglu; Director: Gilbert Deflo; Set and Costume Design: William Orlandi; Choreographer: Marta Ferri; Lighting Design: Joel Hourbeigt; Chorus Master: Alessandro Di Stefano

Hippolyte et Aricie

Phaedre: Sarah Connolly; Aricia: Anne-Catherine Gillet; Diana: Andrea Hill; Cupid: Jael Azzaretti; Oenone; Salomé Haller; Tisiphone: Marc Mauillon; Diana’s Grand Priestess: Aurélia Legay; Hippolytus: Topi Lehtipuu; Theseus: Stéphane Degout; Pluto/Jupiter: François Lis; First Fate: Nicholas Mulroy; Arcas/Second Fate: Aimery Lefèvre; Mercury: Manuel Muñez Camelino; Neptune/Third Fate: Jérôme Varnier; Hunter: Sydney Fierro; Conductor: Emmanuelle Haïm; Director: Ivan Alexandre; Set Design: Antoine Fontaine; Costume Design: Jean-Daniel Vuillermoz; Lighting Design: Hervé Gary; Choreography: Natalie van Parys: Chorus Master: Xavier Ribes

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Hippolyte_Paris2.gif image_description=Sarah Connolly as Phedre and Topi Lehtipuu as Hippolyte [Photo by Agathe Poupeney/Opera National de Paris] product=yes product_title=Triple Delights in the City of Light product_by=By James Sohre product_id=Above: Sarah Connolly as Phedre and Topi Lehtipuu as Hippolyte [Photo by Agathe Poupeney/Opera National de Paris]

Written on Skin at the Aix Festival

Because Written on Skin seems to be about every thing you can think of, let us just say it is about being alive and knowing it. The artistic trick in Written on Skin is this huge revelation, which is art itself. It is big art, hard art, tender art, brutal art. Written on Skin above all is very real art.

Written on Skin is a libretto and its music — not since Monteverdi have music and words combined with more force and clarity. Playwright Martin Crimp distills a thousand years of images and issues into a brief text that composer George Benjamin embodies in one hour and forty minutes of sounds that defy definition.

If opera is essentially sex and violence Written on Skin well qualifies, Benjamin’s score magnifies the strange and delicate sexual stirrings that Benjamin Britten musically discovered and carries these urges to powerful and violent climax, rendering Britten’s guilty regret into utter hopelessness. And there is the sonic scope of timeless Messiaen transferred from God’s lofty nature to the creator’s own, base human nature. It is the sonic gamut of human nature.

It was an exhilarating evening that owes everything to everyone who created it, an astounding portrayal of the wife Agnes by soprano Barbara Hannigan, at once the fourteen year-old girl, the bride, the subject of her husband and an animal in heat. Baritone Christopher Purves made a profoundly moving portrayal of the Protector, Agnes’ husband, provider and, yes, protector and victim. The Boy, the medieval and timeless illuminator who was at once artist, innocence, lover and angel, was countertenor Bejun Mehta in beautiful voice and charismatic character.

Two additional presences complete Martin Crimp’s humanity, the female, mezzo soprano Rebecca Jo Loeb, consumed by unconsecrated sexuality, her essence played out on the senses of her skin. She is a lost, unredeemed angel. Her husband, baritone Allan Clayton, like the Protector is an actor in the world, like all men unprotected, ineffectual and meaningless. He too is an unredeemed angel.

Metteur en scène Katie Mitchell and scenographer Vicki Mortimer echoed the complexities of the Crimp text within five designated spaces on the split level stage to move between dialogue and narration, from action to description, from self discovery to self-conscious notation. High above was the artist's studio where the world’s happenings are recorded, and next to it a verdant space with a window looking into something, maybe fulfillment, below a sort of ante-room to heaven and hell next to the world stage that was a room in the Protector’s house, both heaven and hell.

A side space in nature gave way in the last of the three part opera (marked by two brief pauses) to a coup de théâtre — the sudden apparition of a stairway ascending to undefined spaces above the stage where Agnes climbed to a sort of redemption. At last, served for dinner the heart of the boy, the artist, the lover, she knows that nothing will ever take its taste from her mouth, erase the boy’s pictures from her skin.

Like Bartok’s Bluebeard’s Castle, Written on Skin is a horror story, a journey into the darkest abyss’s to be tread by the human spirit. It brings the fascination and exhilaration of a glimpse into a psychic place one should never enter without the protection of really good art. Like Written on Skin.

Michael Milenski

image=http://www.operatoday.com/WRITTEN634a.gif
image_description=Photo © Pascal Victor / Artcomart, courtesy of Festival d’Art Lyrique d’Aix en Provence

product=yes
product_title=George Benjamin: Written on Skin
product_by=The Protector: Christopher Purves; Agnès: Barbara Hannigan; Angel 1/The Boy: Bejun Mehta; Angel 2/Marie: Rebecca Jo Loeb; Angel 3/John; Allan Clayton. Mahler Chamber Orchestra. Conductor: George Benjamin; Mise en scène: Katie Mitchell; Scenography and Costumes: Vicki Mortimer; Lighting: Jon Clark. Grand Théâtre de Provence, Aix-en-Provence. 7 July 2012.
product_id=Photos © Pascal Victor / Artcomart, courtesy of Festival d’Art Lyrique d’Aix en Provence.

‘Ancient & Modern’ with Angelika Kirchschlager and Ian Bostridge

Yet, despite the indisputable musical finesse and sensitivity to the text of all involved, the end result lacked a certain frisson: a little more unpredictability or even capriciousness might have heightened the emotional and dramatic impact.

Claudio Monteverdi moved to Venice in 1613, to take up the position of maestro di capella at St. Mark’s. Although he continued to provide music until the early 1620s for his former employer, Duke Gonzaga of Mantua, the composer now found himself no longer an Italian prince’s private ‘servant’ but rather a freelance musician who could accept commissions in and out of Venice, and he found a ready market for concertante style works, combining voices and instruments, which provided popular entertainment at musical evenings in the homes of the city’s wealthy elite.

The seventh of Monteverdi’s eight books of madrigals, published in 1619, contains a miscellany of such concertante pieces, madrigals ‘proper’ and other types of song. ‘Tempro La Cetra’ (‘I temper my lyre’) is a setting of a sensual sonnet by Giambattisto Marino in which the singer initially declares that he has come to praise Mars, the god of war, but then finds himself distracted by thoughts of Love. It is essentially a strophic aria recalling the formal model of the Prologue to Orfeo: following an introductory sinfonia, the four verses are supported by a repeating bass pattern with slight variations, and a ritornello à 5 drawn from the opening of the sinfonia is interspersed between the verses.

As might be expected, Ian Bostridge was typically attentive to the composer’s response to the nuances of the text, finding sweetness, frustration, assertion, imperiousness and rejoicing in Marino’s Petrarchianisms, and communicating these sentiments through a rich palette of vocal colours. Moreover, he crafted the increasingly ornate expressive decorations with fluency and naturalness, perfectly complementing Marino’s evolving extended metaphors. The players of the English Concert brought energy and joy to the concluding dance passage, confirming the singer’s elated celebration of Love.

Thematically and stylistically ‘Tempro La Cetra’ is certainly a fitting preface to ‘Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda’, a through-composed dramatic work published in 1638 in Monteverdi’s eighth book of madrigals, Madrigali guerrieri, et amorosi. ‘Combattimento’ was included among the warlike numbers but had in fact been commissioned by wealthy Venetian, Girolamo Mocinego, in the 1620s for the marriage of his daughter in 1624, thus underlining the metaphoric relationship between war and love. It presents — “in genere rappresentativo” — an episode from Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberate recounting a military encounter between the crusading Tancredi and his former inamorata, the Saracen Clorinda, whom he does not recognise in her battle armour and whom he slays, her dying words being a request the he might say a Christian prayer for her soul.

Monteverdi prefaced the work not only with very precise instructions as to how the work should be performed — the two combatants are armed, Tancredi arrives on horseback, the conflict is to be depicted in gesture and movement which corresponds to the text — but also with an account of his own aesthetics: that is, his desire to depict all three of the ‘passions of the mind’ — anger (musically to be conveyed through agitation), temperance (softness) and humility (moderation), the first of these, so he believed, never before having been satisfactorily embodied in music.

This imitative ambition was to be achieved primarily through rhythm and articulation; it was not merely the emotions of conflict but also the real hostilities of war which were to be depicted. The string players of the English Concert proved adept at responding to the rapidly changing emotions of the text and conveying the precise pictorial gestures in the score — the clacking trot of the horses’ hooves, the stinging pizzicato clashes of the combatants’ swords, the triadic fanfare flourishes. With controlled, detailed ensemble playing, the spontaneity of battle was evoked by sudden changes of dynamic and abrupt transitions from agitation to calm.

There were no horses or battle-dress on the Wigmore Hall platform, but even with such accoutrements the work is far from operatic and, given that the action is in effect related rather than enacted, it is not even very dramatic. The Narrator, accompanied principally by the continuo alone, recites events in a largely declamatory style; here Bostridge and Kirchschlager shared the role, a rather odd decision given that essentially it is the Narrator who unites the various elements, binding together the instrumental commentary and the direct speech of the two protagonists. However, despite the rather restricted melodic range and almost total absence of coloratura, both Bostridge and Kirchschlager proved equally penetrating in using emphasis and pronunciation to observe the passions of the text. Kirchschlager’s rich mezzo is not ideally suited to this repertoire, but her intense, burnished lower register did bring urgency to the conclusion of the tale; the more expansive melodic contours of the passage depicting night — “who has hidden in her dark breast/ and consigned to oblivion this magnificent action, memorable deed, worthy of the dazzling sun,/ worthy of the great stage” — were expressively crafted. One problem of the work is that the direct speech for the sparring pair is rather brief, and thus their emotions are not really directly expressed; only in the Narrator’s final explication can there be any expansion of human emotion. However, Matthew Long was a confident Tancredi, his warm, nimble tenor conveying the crusader’s heated passions, and the final blessing of Julia Doyle’s Clorinda, “The heavens open; I go in peace”, was fittingly pure and crystalline.

After the interval, Long and Doyle were joined by Rebecca Outram and Caroline Trevor for three madrigals by Carlo Gesualdo. ‘Dolcissima mia vita’ (‘Sweetest life’) presents the familiar Renaissance metaphor of love/death, Gesualdo’s piquant harmonies conveying the extreme emotions of the text in which bliss and anguish are inseparable. The vocalists were always alert to the rhetorical effects, producing a perfectly blended timbre while decorously highlighting textual details, both collective and individual. Perfect intonation characterised the sustained chromatic contortions of ‘Beltà, poi che t’assenti’ (‘Beauty, though you are gone’), as the voices lament the loss of Beauty — “you carry with you his heart, his torments” — and the startling harmonic twists at the climactic cry, “I am the one who should weep”, in ‘Asciugate i belgi occhi’ (‘Dry your fair eyes’). However, it also seemed rather too well-mannered and demure. In these madrigals, Gesualdo presents not flowing drama but static, extreme, abstract emotions: chromaticisms overflow in a continuous stream, no longer a pictorial device but rather the embodiment of the ecstatic fusion of contradictory feelings. The overall effect should surely be one of both exhilaration and exhaustion, even hallucinatory in its affective power; here, the impeccable technical mastery was just a little too self-controlled and polite.

Self-possession and moderation were more fittingly deployed in the concluding work, Stravinsky’s Cantata — a setting of anonymous fifteenth- and sixteenth-century English texts which Stravinsky selected “not only for their great beauty and their compelling syllabification, but for their construction which suggests musical construction”. The nine verses of ‘A Lyke-Wake Dirge’, a prayer for the dead sung by the chorus, are interspersed with two arias, one each for soprano and tenor, the two soloists later joining together in an intensely imitative duet setting of the secular text, ‘Westron Wind’. Scored for a mixed ensemble similar to the wind-based groups of the pastoral scenes in The Rake’s Progress, the architectural symmetry of the form enabled Stravinsky to explore and experiment with temporal structures.

Kirchschlager blended beautifully with the contrapuntal woodwind lines in the first aria, ‘The maidens come’, before her recitative-like prayer descended to a rich, contemplative warmth for the entreaty, “After ther liff grant them/ A place eternally to sing”. In the long central carol, ‘Tomorrow shall be my dancing day’, players (flutes, oboes and cello) and singer mastered the intricate series of canonical devices and increasingly intense dissonances, with lucidity and precision, the at times unblended instrumental timbres underpinning Bostridge’s beautifully decorated cantilena lines. Despite the harmonic and structural complexities, the music remained at heart melodic; the polyphony was never overly urgent and the overall effect one of calm control. In contrast, the duet was stormy and impetuous, before composure was restored in a postlude which concluded with a haunting restatement of the opening of the dirge.

This impressive performance presented intriguing musical matter for the mind but was not entirely up-lifting for the spirit.

Claire Seymour

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Programme:

Biago Marini Passacaglio à 3 & à 4 from Diversi generi di sonate Op.22
Claudio Monteverdi: ‘Tempro la cetra’; ‘Combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda’
Carlo Gesualdo: Three madrigals
Igor Stravinsky: Cantata

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Kirchschlager.gif image_description=Angelika Kirchschlager [Photo © Nikolaus Karlinsky courtesy of Askonas Holt] product=yes product_title=‘Ancient & Modern’ with Angelika Kirchschlager and Ian Bostridge product_by=Angelika Kirchschlager: mezzo-soprano; Ian Bostridge: tenor. The English Concert. Harry Bicket: director, harpsichord. Julia Doyle: soprano; Rebecca Outram: soprano; Caroline Trevor: contralto; Matthew Long: tenor. Wigmore Hall, London, Saturday 7th July 2012. product_id=Above: Angelika Kirchschlager [Photo © Nikolaus Karlinsky courtesy of Askonas Holt]

Friedrich Haider Appointed Artistic Director of Slovak National Theatre

By Frank Cadenhead [Opera Today, 7 July 2012]

A change of leadership has been announced today by Bratislava’s Slovak National Theatre. In the opera division, famed tenor Peter Dvorsky, the current artistic director, is to be replaced on August 1st by the Austrian conductor Friedrich Haider.

Changes in Bratislava

The changes were announced in a press release by the Slovak National Theatre director, Marián Chudovský. The modern theatre building, in Bratislava near the Danube, opened in April 2007 and includes ballet and theater as well as opera. The smaller old opera house, from 1886, is also still used by the SNT.

Dvorsky, born in 1951 in Partizánske, Czechoslovakia, had his first successes at the Slovak National Theatre, is widely recorded and has sung in top houses like La Scala and the Metropolitan Opera. He will continue the rest of this calendar year as a consultant to complete projects that he was involved with.

Haider, who studied with Nikolaus Harnoncourt, is currently music director of the Oviedo Filarmonía in Northern Spain. In 1991, at the age of just 30, Haider became the youngest general music director in the history of the Opéra national du Rhin in Strasbourg, serving until 1994. In the fall of 2006, he celebrated his debut at New York’s Metropolitan Opera with Verdi’s Rigoletto and has conducted major orchestra throughout Europe.

Frank Cadenhead

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Haider.gif image_description=Friedrich Haider [Photo © Helene Ott courtesy of Iberkonzert] product=yes product_title=Changes in Bratislava product_by=By Frank Cadenhead product_id=Above: Friedrich Haider [Photo © Helene Ott courtesy of Iberkonzert]

Margrave Opera House Receives UNESCO World Heritage Status

By Frank Cadenhead [Opera Today, 4 July 2012]

Bayreuth’s opera house has been awarded the honor of UNESCO World Heritage status. If you think that means Wagner’s festival house in the same city, with its excellent acoustics and uncomfortable seats, you will be mistaken.

Honors for Bayreuth’s “other” house

Only a few of Wagner’s acolytes who flock to Bayreuth every summer take the time to see the Italian Baroque architectural wonder that is the Margrave Opera House. With the awarding of the UNESCO honor, one of only 37 in Germany, it recognizes one of the most elegantly breathtaking theaters in Europe.

Wilhelmine, a daughter of King Friedrich Wilhelm I, was married off to an unimportant aristocrat living in the dreary provincial town. A town today of still around 70,000 inhabitants, the theater was her idea and construction started in 1748. It was recognized, even during her lifetime, as a masterpiece.

“Bayreuth will now be known the world over, not just for Richard Wagner and his Festival, but also for its opera house,” Bayreuth’s Mayor Brigitte Merk-Erbe said. The awarding of the UNESCO World Heritage status inevitably results in increased tourism. Maybe some of the thousands who fill the town every summer for the Bayreuth Wagner Festival will now plan an afternoon to see the Margrave Opera House.

Frank Cadenhead

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Bayreuth%2C_Markgr_Opernh_199.gif image_description=Margrave Opera House [Source: Wikipedia] product=yes product_title=Honors for Bayreuth’s “other” house product_by=By Frank Cadenhead product_id=Above: Margrave Opera House [Source: Wikipedia]

Wiener Staatsoper’s Financial Condition Improves

By Frank Cadenhead [Opera Today, 4 July 2012]

In his second season, intendant Dominique Meyer has chalked up increases both in tickets sold and earnings at the Vienna State Opera. There were 588,990 attendees passing through the doors for some 360 performances of opera, ballet and children’s programs. The average capacity was above 98%. There is little evidence of Europe’s economic troubles in this Danube city.

Continued Progress at the Vienna State Opera

There were 588,990 attendees passing through the doors for some 360 performances of opera, ballet and children’s programs. The average capacity was above 98%. There is little evidence of Europe’s economic troubles in this Danube city.

His program of gently expanding the house repertory and his successful renovation of the sleepy resident ballet company has won him many fans. The work of new music director, Franz Welser-Möst, has been praised and his introduction of baroque operas and more contemporary fare were welcomed by the opera-loving Viennese. The increases are remarkable considering that his “competition” the Volksoper and the Theater an der Wien, are also both healthy.

Frank Cadenhead

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Wiener_Staatsoper.gif image_description=Wiener Staatsoper product=yes product_title=Continued Progress at the Vienna State Opera product_by=Frank Cadenhead product_id=Above: Wiener Staatsoper

Uwe Erich Laufenberg Fired

By Frank Cadenhead [Opera Today, 3 July 2012]

The fall-out from the very public display of anger on both sides continues in Cologne (see our earlier report of 24 April). Uwe Erich Laufenberg, 51, director of the city’s opera, one of the leading operas in Germany, was fired with immediate effect on June 22. The Cultural Affairs deputy, Georg Quander, the subject of biting attacks by Laufenberg, made the announcement of the city council’s vote after a month long public dispute over the financing of the upcoming season. Council members of the opposing political party criticized the action.

Lots of Loose Ends in Cologne

The Cultural Affairs deputy, Georg Quander, the subject of biting attacks by Laufenberg, made the announcement of the city council’s vote after a month long public dispute over the financing of the upcoming season. Council members of the opposing political party criticized the action.

Laufenberg, whose employment contract included the next season, was to direct three of the new productions announced plus sing the role of Henry Higgins in the production of Lerner and Loewe’s “My Fair Lady.” He is still listed in those roles on the opera’s website however a local press report only just today has indicated that unnamed new directors will take over the new productions of “Parsifal” and “Marriage of Figaro” and an unnamed vocalist will sing the role of Professor Higgins. Laufenberg’s production of “Cosi fan Tutti,” scheduled in the Fall, is essentially complete and will be staged by assistants. Laufenberg had raised the possibility of court action against the city.

Laufenberg’s behavior, according to the mayor, Jürgen Roters, was “disgraceful and unacceptable.” Laufenberg did make a public apology in the press: “Of course I accept what the city requires of its opera director and that they do not want me to refer to city managers as scheming, incompetent and irresponsible.” Quander criticized the apology as “half-hearted.”

The vacant intendant’s seat, temporarily filled now by Karin Baier, will soon again become vacant as she is leaving for another theater position in Hamburg in 2013. In addition, the respected director of the city’s orchestra, Markus Stenz, announced he will be leaving at the end of the 2013/14 season. Most expected him to exercise the two year renewal option in his contract. Since 2003, Stenz has been the artistic director of the Gürzenich Orchester and also holds the title of Generalmusikdirektor for the city of Cologne.

Frank Cadenhead

Click here for our earlier report on this controversy. image=http://www.operatoday.com/Laufenberg.gif image_description=Uwe Eric Laufenberg product=yes product_title=Lots of Loose Ends in Cologne product_by=By Frank Cadenhead product_id=Above: Uwe Eric Laufenberg

Susan Graham, Wigmore Hall

Much of the success, both musical and theatrical, was surely due to the finely-tuned partnership between Graham and her frequent collaborator, pianist Malcolm Martineau. The ease with which Martineau moved between idioms, the naturalness and fluency of the dialogue he shaped between piano and voice, and his sensitive gradation of dynamics and timbre all contributed immensely to the superb, sustained quality of the recital.

Graham did, however, take a little while to get into her stride. Beginning in ‘beatific’ mode, suitably attired in a white, floating frock, she appropriately restrained from unleashing the full warmth of her richly lyrical timbre in the opening song, Purcell’s ‘Tell me, some pitying angel’ (which presents Mary’s prayer upon finding the twelve-year-old Jesus missing, when he remains behind to talk to the elders in the temple). But, while elegant, with clarity of tone and line, the phrases felt a little constrained, the persona not so readily communicated, as if this particular ‘costume’ didn’t quite fit. This is a dramatic, recitative-like aria, almost operatic in intensity, the virtuosic vocal line reflecting Mary’s rapidly changing emotions, and Graham built up the tension effectively, her increasingly desperate questions underpinned by Martineau’s pointedly intense harmonies. After the meandering movement of Mary’s anxious “How shall my soul its motions guide?” and the dense chromaticism which conveys her “lab'ring thoughts”, at the song’s close, “but oh! I fear the child”, Graham demonstrated the whispered, but crystal-clear pianissimo which touched the heart-strings many times during the evening.

More comfortable ‘inhabiting’ Shakespeare’s Ophelia, and perfectly attuned to the French idiom and language, Graham gave a tender rendition of Hector Berlioz's song ‘La mort d'Ophélie’. Inspired by the young composer’s infatuation for Harriet Smithson, the Irish Shakespearean actress, this song is gently lyrical rather than agonisingly tragic, and the softly oscillating piano introduction perfectly established a fitting mood. Graham can control the smallest nuances equally well at both ends of her register, casting a womanly glow in the lower range, while floating ethereally at the top. Martineau beautifully shaped and sustained the narrative in the in-between-verse interludes, demonstrating the genuine empathy shared by the performers.

Next came Goethe: since her first manifestation in his novel Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre (“Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship”) countless composers have been fascinated and inspired by Mignon’s mystery and ambiguity. Graham presented German lieder by Schubert, Schumann and Wolf, as well as less well-known settings by Liszt, Tchaikovsky, and Henri Duparc. Schubert’s ‘Heiß mich nicht reden’ is a poignant poem for the enigmatic Mignon, contrasting her stoical suffering with more comforting hopes, a juxtaposition delicately reflected in the sensitive modulations between major and minor modes. Graham expertly shaped the emotional movement, using dynamics, harmonic colour and vocal timbre to express Mignon’s faith that “the hard rock opens up its bosom,/ does not begrudge earth its deeply hidden springs”. A brief piano postlude, cadencing in the tonic major, provided a quiet moment of consolation.

Schumann's ‘So laßt mich scheinen’ followed, in which Martineau created a more animated drama through the polyphonic energy of the accompaniment lines. Graham’s final cry, encompassing a dramatic vocal leap, ‘Too early I grew old with grief -/ make me forever young again!’ was affecting, but it was not until Liszt’s ‘Mignon Lied’ that she was able to settle securely into the lustrous Romantic idiom which allows her to demonstrate both the silky sheen and airy translucency for which she is renowned. Leaping melodic contours were handsomely crafted and together with the increasingly fragmented accompaniment drove the music forward with questioning urgency, culminating in a breath-taking final pianissimo which movingly, but without sentimentality, conveyed Mignon’s frailty.

An adept linguist, Graham now moved further eastwards, finding a dark beauty in Tchaikovsky’s sensuous melodies in ‘Nyet, tolko tot, kto, znal’ (‘None but the lonely heart’), in which Martineau’s pulsing syncopations reinforced the expressive power of the voice. Henri Duparc's ‘Romance de Mignon’ was radiant and sweet, culminating with a deep piano postlude suggestive of the lovers’ passion. And the mini-series rose to its heights with Wolf's ‘Kennst du das Land’; the most operatic of these Mignon settings, Wolf’s soaring lines allowed Graham to fully reveal the power, control and Straussian splendour of her instrument.

Swapping her virginal white for a slinky black number, Graham returned after the interval in a rather less sombre mood, beginning the second half with a rhetorical, highly dramatic performance of Joseph Horowitz’s scena, ‘Lady Macbeth’. The restless ambition of the ruthless queen’s spirit was perfectly captured by Graham as she moved seamlessly between parlando, recitative and arioso, supported by Martineau’s imposingly agitated accompaniment.

In Poulenc's song cycle ‘Fiancailles pour rire’ (‘Lighthearted Betrothal’) Graham demonstrated her eye/ear for subtle nuance and detail, and for story-telling. Ranging from an almost sacred purity (as at the opening of ‘Dans l’herbe’) to the informal knowingness of ‘La dame d’André’, from tender pathos (at the close of ‘Mon cadaver est doux comme un gant’) to the insouciant swagger of ‘Violon’, this was a superbly fashioned and assured performance, in which Graham was not afraid to take risks but never crossed the line into hyperbole or melodrama.

Things began to loosen up with a carefree rendering of Messager’s ‘J’ai deux amants’ and from here on Graham was in cabaret mode, exchanging relaxed, witty repartee with her pianist and audience, and treating us to some light numbers by Cole Porter and Vernon Duke, before rounding things off with Ben Moore’s ‘Sexy Lady’, a specially commissioned song which —with apt illustrative musical quotation —regales us with the ups and downs of the mezzo-soprano’s lot —a life spent en travesti fending off competition from the currently in-fashion crop of countertenors! Such satirical self-reflection engendered more than a little self-indulgence, but if Graham showed her diva credentials, the hamming-up felt just right and the humour was genuine and sharp.

The audience seemed reluctant to let Graham go, but fortunately she and Martineau were obviously having as much fun as we were, and were happy to oblige with three encores which, in microcosm, displayed the full range of Graham’s deeply impressive talents.

Claire Seymour

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Programme:

Purcell: Tell me, some pitying angel (The Blessed Virgin’s Expostulation)
Berlioz: La mort d’Ophélie
Schubert: Heiß mich nicht reden
Schumann: So laßt mich scheinen
Liszt: Mignons Lied (Kennst du das Land)
Tchaikovsky: None but the lonely heart
Duparc: Romance de Mignon
Wolf: Kennst du das Land
Horovitz: Lady Macbeth - a Scena
Poulenc: Fiançailles pour rire
Messager: J’ai deux amants from ‘L’amour masqué’
Porter: The Physician
Vernon Duke: Ages Ago (arr. Roger Vignoles)
Moore: Sexy Lady

image=http://www.operatoday.com/Graham2_Credit_Dario_Acosta.gif image_description=Susan Graham [Photo by Dario Acosta courtesy of IMG Artists] product=yes product_title=Susan Graham, mezzo-soprano; Malcolm Martineau, piano. Wigmore Hall, London, Friday 29 June 2012. product_by=Above: Susan Graham [Photo by Dario Acosta courtesy of IMG Artists]

The Marriage of Figaro in Montpellier

Haute couture designer Jean Paul Gaultier created costumes for Mozart’s masterpiece in this new production of Le Nozze di Figaro at the Opéra National de Montpellier with set design and stage direction by Jean-Paul Scarpita. The most theatrical among haute couture stars Gaultier is uniquely suited to Mozart comedy, sharing with the venerated composer both sharp wit and a preoccupation and fascination for women.

Gaultier had a particular fascination for his grandmother’s underclothes, structural corsets above all, and this preoccupation with structure permeates his oeuvre (currently on exposition at the De Young Museum in San Francisco, through August 19). In Montpellier he literally exposed the understructure of late 18th century couture in visible linear sculptures that resonated wittily with Mozartian musical structures.

Like all haute couture that of Gaultier is elegant and luxurious. In Montpellier (France’s most elegant city) Mozart too became haute couture of rarefied elegance and luxury. The reduced Orchestra National de Montpellier was in splendid form responding to Austrian conductor Sascha Goetzel’s delicate and obsessive shaping of the multiple instrumental voices that sang out in flights of studied splendor. Mo. Goetzel evoked a multitude of unusual colors and musical shapes by exploiting the sharper sounds we associate with early music rendered by the virtuoso forces of this exceptionally fine modern French orchestra.

Now let us talk about true perfection (and the suspicion that you had to fit the clothes to get the role). Czech baritone Adam Plachetka was the epitome of the libidinous Almaviva, in a costume masterpiece that resonated with the darkness of a Don Juan figure. Mr. Plachetka towered as the male, thirty-ish libido in full force, his voice with a sharp, maybe sadistic edge, and power, know-how and vulnerability. Svelte blond Italian soprano Erkia Grimaldi countered with a precociously full lyric thirty-ish Rosina and an astounding vocal technique (the reprise of Dove sono sung in a sleepy pianissimo). When not the sensuous woman in a form-fitting white early Hollywood gown lying on the floor or petting in a corner with Cherubino she donned a towering white wig-like construction to become the Countess.

Cherubino, young Israeli soprano Rachel Frenkel entered in white underclothes eschewing all trouser affectation. She was soon dressed by Rosina and Susanna to be Cupid himself as he remained for the rest of the opera. This Cherubino sung in an unusually lyric fashion was an ephemeral blue presence. Bartolo, Italian basso Antonio Abete, and Marcellina, svelte, not-at-all tall French mezzo Virginie Pochon were dressed in brilliant crimsons and were colorful rather than buffo objects, as was the brilliant yellow Basilio of French tenor Loîc Félix.

Loïc Félix as Basilio, Rachel Frenkel as Cherubino and Adam Plachetka as Count Almaviva

Both Figaro and Susanna were light on their feet, German baritone Konstantin Wolff effecting a few very graceful full body falls (not to ignore a spectacular body roll over the fourth act bench by Almavia himself). Mr. Wolff was in black leather pants and white shirt with criss crossing details that hinted Harlequin. An exquisite actor and fine singer he created a Figaro of genuine, even moving innocence, assuming finally the fetal position next to Marcellina during her fourth act aria. Québécoise soprano Hélène Guilmette, Susanna, carried an exposed traverse bustle under construction on her hips for most of the opera. The opera’s catalyst, its constructive and destructive forces she delivered her Deh, vieni alla fenestra with consummate innocence, its words emerging with such vocal naturalness that it seemed nearly spoken.

Designer and stage director Scarpita offered a vaguely detailed architectural space of neutral color in which the vividly costumed actors assumed high relief. There were very few props — an abstracted Susanna/Figaro bed subsequently also served as the chair for the first act trio (though the only idea of a bed in the Countess’ boudoir was the Countess lying on the floor). There was no window for Cherubino’s escape (he ran off stage right), and there was no shrubbery to hide behind in the fourth act. This minimalism was strikingly elegant, and carried into Mr. Scarpita’s story telling by his omission of most gestural detail, streamlining the action into fleet, sometimes abstractly narrative lines.

There were some real problems in the performance on June 26. Conductor Goetzel concentrated his attention on his instrumental voices, the stage voices left to fend for themselves. But sometimes these brilliant young artists missed the dramatic and musical confidence to be on their own, and, well, maybe opera does need an opera conductor after all. At the worst moments, and there were many, the pit and stage seemed absolutely unconnected (at best, in the fourth act, Mozart was more magical than ever).

Peter Longauer as Antonio, Konstantin Wolff as Figaro, Erika Grimaldi as Countess Almaviva and Hélène Guilmette as Susanna

The brilliance of the costume design and the refinement of the staging seemed to overwhelm the simple humanity of the repertoire’s most succinctly human opera.

It could be that everyone’s game was a bit off that evening. The performance was postponed for 30 minutes so that the chorus, orchestra and stage hands could make the audience aware of their dissatisfaction with Jean-Paul Scarpita as general director of the Opéra National de Montpellier. Among the complaints was that Mr. Scarpita had banished the chorus to the pit for this production because he did not want “fat cows” (des vaches grasses they said he said) on the stage, replacing them with the lithe bodies of supernumeraries who presumably fit more suitably into haute couture.

Such artistic considerations would have been more commendable had Mr. Scarpita used a corps de ballet (even better bodies than his supernumeraries) and a choreographer for his servants and peasants. These scenes were regretful, clumsy moments.

There are two more performances as part of the Montpellier Radio France Festival, July 14 and 15. It is quite possible that stars may align and forces may converge to achieve the perfection we imagined on June 26.

Michael Milenski

image=http://www.operatoday.com/_MG10323a.gif
image_description=Adam Plachetka as Count Almaviva and Hélène Guilmette as Susanna [Photo courtesy of Opéra Orchestra National Montpellier]

product=yes
product_title=W. A. Mozart: The Marriage of Figaro
product_by=Almaviva: Adam Plachetka; Rosina: Erika Grimaldi; Susanna: Hélène Guilmette; Figaro: Konstantin Wolff; Cherubino: Rachel Frenkel; Bartolo: Antonio Abete; Marcellina: Virginie Pochon; Don Basilio: Loîc Félix; Don Curzio: Thomas Curzio; Barbarina: Omo Bello; Antonio: Peter Longauer. Chorus and Orchestra of the Opéra Orchestra National Montpellier. Conductor: Sascha Goetzel; Stage Director and Set Designer: Jean-Paul Scarpita; costumes: Jean Paul Gaultrier; Lighting: Georg Veit. Opéra Comédie, 26 June 2012.
product_id=Above: Adam Plachetka as Count Almaviva and Hélène Guilmette as Susanna

Photos courtesy of Opéra Orchestra National Montpellier.