A voi tutti, salute! Enzo here, only recently returned from a busy but rejuvenating sojourn in New York City and New Orleans.  As is often the case when sampling a wide array of repertoire and artists, I witnessed filth and dementia in equal measure--and just about everything in between. First up was Aida at the Metropolitan Opera on the evening of October 9.  The performance showcased an incredible hodgepodge of talents. 

^{In the title role, Maria Guleghina offered yet another of her inconsistent portrayals.  As always, she looked fabulous and moved with great assurance.  Her interpretation communicated a real sense of engagement in Aida's emotional dilemma.  Unfortunately, her vocal ability continues to prove erratic and ultimately frustrating. Guleghina's voice functions best a levels of mezza forte or higher; with her clarion delivery, she easily dominated the major ensembles.  However, Guleghina literally fell to pieces in "O patria mia."  Her ascent to the high C sounded nervous and ill-prepared, while the actual note split in two.  From here onward, Guleghina's attempts at climactic pianissimi were hit or miss--and even her best efforts sounded thin and precariously sustained.  In addition, she displayed an odd tendency of steamrolling her way over grace notes and other little ornaments in the vocal line.  This lack of polish does not bode well for a soprano who will soon be attempting the title role in Norma.   Audience response was cool toward Guleghina at the final curtain calls, although there was one audible booer in the standing room area of Family Circle.} 

^{While Guleghina's performance may have engendered disappointment, at least she did not arouse outright hostility.  Vladimir Bogachov, the Radames of the evening, was not so lucky. In almost two decades of operagoing at the Met, I have never heard a more appalling performance from a singer in a leading role.  Bogachov sang at two dynamic levels:  bellowing and whispering.  The bellowing portion was unbelievably coarse and wobble-ridden, while the whispering was unsupported and registered as a clumsy attempt at something musical and/or artistic.  Exposed notes splattered and smashed with increasing frequency as the evening progressed.  By the tomb scene, Bogachov was intent on nothing but vocal survival.  There was loud booing after "Celeste Aida," while an even more outraged response ensued at the tenor's final solo bow. It is an absolute disgrace that Met management allowed such a woefully incompetent singer to go on at all.  It makes no difference whether Bogachov was indisposed (no announcement was made) or simply inadequate to the task:  he was clearly unable to carry off his assigned role.  If the Met administration wagered that no one would be paying attention at one of their schlock-as-usual revivals, they lost the bet.  After much hue and cry from audiences and critics alike, it appears that Bogachov has been replaced at all future performances by none other than Giorgio Merighi!  I guess Mario Ortica was unavailable.} 

^{Greg Baker made a strong impression as Amonasro, his dark, resonant baritone savoring the words and music to maximum dramatic effect.  He should reconsider that final solo bow:  going down on both knees while embracing himself was a bit much for Amonasro.  Robert Lloyd and Jeffrey Wells were capable as Ramfis and the King, respectively, while Sondra Radvanovsky's firmly voiced, creamy toned utterances as the Priestess caused a bit of a stir. Saving grace of the evening was Nina Terentieva as Amneris.  My reaction to the various criticisms of her performance has been one of puzzlement.  Yes, the voice is hooded in the middle and lower registers, with a tendency toward raw, strident Obraztsova-like shouting on the high notes.  Still, there was more than a hint of opulence in the tone and her chest voice was put to powerful use in the Judgement Scene.  In short, Terentieva's voice is of secondary interest to the artistry working behind it.  And what artistry! Terentieva's encounter with Aida in the first scene of Act Two was a masterpiece of superbly played dramatic intention.  The Russian mezzo-soprano did not settle for a feigned attempt at emotional attunement with the heroine's distress, but joined so empathically with Aida that the deceit was complete.  I actually began to squirm in my seat watching the subtle methods with which Terentieva began to entrap Guleghina, the inevitable turnabout all the more devastating because of what came before it. But Terentieva's performance was fully of this kind of high-quality interpretation.  The opening phrases of the boudoir scene were spun with uncommon delicacy and poise.  Her pleading with Radames in the Act Four duet was moving in its intensity, while the final denunciation of the priests provided a well-needed dose of catharsis.  In everything she did, Terentieva conveyed an unerring command of the grand manner:  there was grandezza aplenty in this stylish performance.  She was greeted warmly at the final curtain calls and I hope the Met will bring her back for other assignments.} 

^{On the podium, Placido Domingo brought the curtain up and down with convincing panache but his conducting was short on detail and insight; orchestra and chorus sounded like they were on automatic pilot for the evening.  More than once, the strings sounded out of tune and uncoordinated in attack.  With the exception of a lifeless Triumphal March, the staging presented the opera in a straightforward manner, thankfully devoid of kitsch.} 

^{Next up on my itinerary was the matinee portion of a day-long doubleheader at the Met, a revival of the now-infamous Robert Wilson staging of Lohengrin. As one of the "internet hatemongers" credited in the New York Times for inciting hatred and sedition against the production at its premiere last season, I must say that my presence at the October 10 performance had a decidedly less disruptive impact on the proceedings.  I must be slipping:)  At any rate, the staging has been admirably adapted to the needs of a repertory house like the Met.  First and foremost among these adapatations is the integration of the singer's individual interpretative input with the highly stylized movements devised by Wilson.} 

^{Leading the way in this respect was Karita Mattila, surely one of the most successful exponents of Elsa to grace the Met stage. Whereas Ortrud in hyperactive vogue mode was the original focus of the director's concept, Mattila rightfully shifted the balance back toward Elsa and the unfolding of her dilemma in the drama.  Mattila found a way to inject her confining blocking with a sense of personal connection to the music and text.  Everything she did was illuminated by an inner conviction that transformed the previously straightjacketing movements into something immediate and deeply moving.  Mattila was the radiant, otherworldly heroine to the life and Elsa's struggle was cleary reflected in her beautiful face--despite the handicap of that Elsa Manchester "Bride of Frankenstein" wig.  Vocally, Mattila's peaches-and-cream timbre provided the most unalloyed stimm pleasure since Teresa Zylis-Gara graced the Met roster.  Only some forte high notes gave cause for concern:  her hollow, breathy attacks near the end of the bridal chamber scene sounded underpowered and tentative. There was a huge ovation for Mattila at the final curtain calls and she was clearly the audience favorite in this strongly cast performance.} 

^{While the other singers did not manage to work as convincingly with Wilson's concept, they did seem more relaxed than previously. In the title role, Ben Heppner was at his lyrical ease and struck the correct note of mystical transport during "In fernem land."  The strong, shining tone was admirable as ever but there were some worrisome elements, too.  The lower and lower-middle registers continue to sound unsupported (with a pronounced tendency toward flatting), while some alarming intonation problems marred pivotal moments:  the huge scoop up to "Heil dir, Elsa!" near the end of Act Two was one such mishap.  Still, the majority of Heppner's work gave considerable pleasure and the criticisms mentioned above are only intended to highlight what keeps a good portrayal from becoming a great one.} 

^{I heard a lot of catty commentary about Deborah Polaski at the intermissions and found most of it unwarranted.  While it is true that she displayed a considerable amount of unattractive, squally tone in the higher-lying portions of Ortrud's music, her intense musicality and attention to the text were ample compensation.  I suspect that either her or Wilson's unwillingness to overplay the climaxes does not endear her to an audience accustomed to the inspired excesses of Christa Ludwig, Mignon Dunn or Leonie Rysanek. Replacing the originally scheduled Falk Struckmann, Richard Paul Fink acquitted himself with distinction.  This Telramund conveyed dignity, authority, menace--nothing wimpy or equivocal about the character.  Vocally, Fink's focused, handsome baritone registered powerfully without resorting to forcing or hectoring. Rene Pape's Heinrich was deluxe casting, his plush bass putting one in mind of prime Kurt Moll, while Eike Wilm Schulte's Herald delivered his pronouncements with commitment and the requisite sense of importance.} 

^{James Levine's conducting evoked glories of yore, his high-powered presence on the podium reminding me of that eager, impassioned quality so evident in the early years of his tenure.  He managed to shave at least 10 minutes off his reading from last season with no evident impairment to the resplendent playing of the orchestra.  Ditto the inspired work of the chorus.  Bravi, tutti!} 

^{With the dramatic content of the staging enhanced by Mattila and, to a lesser extent, the rest of the cast, I was able to appreciate more of Wilson's visual aesthetic on this occasion.  The simplicity and integrity of his designs told more strongly without the singers being on such a short lease.  I still have no idea what that nuked ice cream parlor chair is supposed to represent during Elsa's "Euch lueften," while the shadow-puppets lighting scheme for the concluding ensemble of Act Two remains an abomination.  Nevertheless, based on a comparison of this performance with the prima, I think Wilson would find greater success if he limited his operatic contributions to the area of design.  It seems to be his real metier.} 

^{The evening portion of my Met doubleheader was a performance of Tosca featuring Aprile Millo in the title role.  Skeptics, naysayers and other close-minded types should turn the page now, since what follows is a rave for the frequently reviled diva.  After an endless progression of sopranos making stylistic hash of Puccini's potboiler in recent years, Millo proved to be the genuine article:  a full-bodied Italianate spinto, with grandezza to spare. There's been much debate in cyberspace concerning the current state of the soprano's vocal health.  For an artist who is often compared with Renata Tebaldi, Millo now shares yet another uncanny similarity with the older diva:  both artists went through a vocal crisis in their late thirties, followed by a period of restudy and restoration.} 

^{Like Tebaldi's, Millo's transformation is persuasive but incomplete.   While still possessing an opulent, richly textured instrument, Millo has traded some vocal gold for baser metals.  There was newfound heft and power to be savored in forte passages but her capacity to sing high pianissimi seems to be either limited or entirely disabled.  But the basic vocal package remains the same:  warm, feminine tone allied with a thorough schooling in the art of authentic Italianate style.  What a joy to hear her easy command of portamento, legato, accento and other formerly basic elements of the performance tradition in this role!  Yes, with some thoughtful consideration of repertoire, Millo still has much to offer.} 

^{And Tosca is just such a vehicle. Millo's interpretation was a thing of beauty.  She entered the Attavanti chapel with a yearning for Mario that was real, immediate and quite touching.  Insecurity and self-doubt underlay everything about this Roman diva. Millo's Tosca didn't just bristle at the idea of betrayal--she fragmented completely.  The heroine's gradual realization that the Marchesa Attavanti is a potential rival was not the usual comic interlude for soprano and tenor but a deeply moving episode of emotional devastation and eventual reparation.  This is the hallmark of great operatic artistry:  to uncover previously unsuspected dimension and depth in the character.  With Millo as the vehicle, one sensed a life of hardship, struggle and deprivation that long preceded the first act.  Thus, Mario is not simply a Mediterranean boytoy--he is her support system, her affirmation, her redemption.  And that's what the drama hinges on.  So simple, yet so rarely understood.} 

^{But Millo's portrayal was full of this kind of con amore detail.  When Scarpia's henchmen carry Mario back from the torture chamber, Millo ran to the couch to prepare the cushions for his arrival.  But the thugs simply tossed his unconscious body on the floor.  Millo recoiled in horror, then extended her arms imploringly to the unfeeling monsters.  This Tosca could not comprehend the workings of such cruelty.  But she learned fast:  Scarpia's murder was savage, shocking, dangerous.  Millo exuded a scary sense of newly awakened menace. The diva still had a heapload of dementia saved for the concluding moments of the opera.  Eager to join Mario in death, Millo turned on her way to the parapet and blew a pathetic final kiss to her slaughtered lover.  Her convincing leap into the void was the capstone of a great performance, the 180 degree turn in the air drawing audible gasps from the stunned audience.   Millo earned a standing ovation for her efforts, looking radiant and fulfilled during solo bows.  Houselights were brought up to quell the applause but the audience refused to leave until it was good and ready to terminate the lovefest.} 

^{Richard Leech made a favorable impression as Cavaradossi, putting his lyric instrument to attractive use in the big arias.  I don't buy the argument that the role makes unnecessary demands on his resources:  John McCormack, Ferruccio Tagliavini and other lighter-voiced tenors have achieved success in this opera.  Leech sounded surprisingly stentorian in the "Vittoria!" section of Act Two, unfurling some ringing high notes here and elsewhere.  However, he seems to be developing a worrisome patch of feeble, threadbare tone around the break; I first observed this in his Grant Park tribute to Mario Lanza and see no signs of it abating.  Leech is far too valuable an artist to fall victim to premature vocal decline.  I sincerely hope he is able to resolve this problem.  A sexy, handsome stage presence, Leech acted with conviction and sincerity.} 

^{Alain Fondary had no business performing Scarpia at a major opera house.  His gruff baritone sounded blustery and out-of-sorts, his opening statement more notable for shortness of breath rather than raging self-righteousness.  Among the comprimario singers, special mention must be made of Charles Anthony.  The veteran character tenor made something riveting out of Spoletta's every utterance. Nello Santi's conducting was the usual assortment of half-baked ideas and clumsy execution, complete with claque to bravo his every appearance in the pit.  While I hesitate to say he deliberately set out to destroy the efforts of his leading lady, I do find it curious that Santi could make immediate adjustments for the needs of the tenor and baritone yet be so unaware of Millo's way of shaping a vocal line.  Time and time again, Millo tried to phrase with rubati but Santi was either unwilling or unable to follow her lead.} 

^{The Zeffirelli production seemed less offensive than usual, probably due to the presence of a take-charge diva ready and willing to focus the dramatic attention where it belonged.  I still wonder about that blazing fire in Scarpia's study--surely no such thing is needed during a Roman summer.  And who knew the chief of police was such an avid reader?  Given his other proclivities, it's a wonder the man ever got any sleep. Still, it was Millo's evening and her comeback has generated the kind of intense debate and analysis so often missing from the operatic scene.  One would hope the Met will consider Millo for many future performances of Tosca.  But the track record isn't promising.  Unless, of course, you consider Hildegard Behrens, Anna Tomowa-Sintow, Carol Vaness and Janis Martin to be great veristas.} 

^{Next up was the season prima of Carmen at the Met, a performance featuring the company debut of Beatrice Uria-Monzon in the title role.  There was some anticipatory buzz beforehand about the unusual phenomenon of experiencing a French native as Carmen.  After all, the last such rarity had been Regine Crespin during the 1970's.  In actuality, idiomatic correctness turned out to be a minor selling point:  Uria-Monzon possessed only moderately interesting vocal material and sounded decidedly overparted in a house the size of the Met. In terms of endowment, Uria-Monzon is more a Cherubino than the force of nature required to fill a large-scale production of Bizet's warhorse.  Of course, it could be argued that a Von Stade-sized instrument is well-suited to the comique form of Carmen.  However, since the overblown Met production is lightyears away from such an approach, the aptitude of Uria-Monzon for this kind of assignment becomes a moot point.} 

^{The mezzo-soprano pushed her limited voice relentlessly, employing generous amounts of exaggerated chest voice, glottal attacks and other misguided attempts at the grand manner.  What might have sounded commanding and/or sexy in the hands of Stevens, Bumbry, Verrett and Resnik registered in this context as shrewish, hectoring and resolutely unseductive. A tall, gangling figure onstage, Uria-Monzon eschewed any attempt at traditional operatic voluptuousness but then failed to capture the earthy, elemental quality she seemed to be pursuing.  Saddled in true Zeffirelli-like fashion with various props and enough business to pad three stagings, the mezzo-soprano looked ill-at-ease in the Habanera, fumbling with cards, matches, cigarettes, etc.  As expected, the one unalloyed pleasure of Uria-Monzon's performance was her beautiful, natural way with the text and language.} 

^{If he were blessed with a more glamorous instrument, Franco Farina would be among today's leading tenors.  As it is, Farina's musically nuanced, sensitively phrased Don Jose placed him far ahead of the Met's usual losers.  I was greatly impressed by his use of mezza-voce and messa di voce.  The voice starts to lose tonal quality when pressed for volume but the overall sound is arrestingly rich and attractive.  If only he had been given the encouragement to conclude the Flower Song on a fully sustained pianissimo!  Instead, Farina began with the usual bellowed B flat, then did an absolutely gorgeous diminuendo on the note.  He isn't much of an actor but he does make a convicing love interest onstage. As Escamillo, Gino Quilico was only a shadow of his formerly imposing self.  The voice has dried out and become alarmingly unreliable:  only a few phrases into "Votre toast," the baritone was struggling to sustain a sense of line.  Throughout the evening, there was an unsettling air of unpredictability about Quilico's performance.  A well-delivered phrase would be followed by another afflicted with cracking, hollowness or other defects.  'Tis a pity in one still young.} 

^{The standout of the evening was Hei-Kyung Hong.  She is surely the most radiant, unaffected and vocally resplendent Micaela to have trod the Met stage since Mirella Freni renounced the role.  Except for a distracting habit of covering her top notes in order to generate a darker tone color, Hong's singing gave unalloyed pleasure.  The pure, focused and uncloying sweetness of her instrument made the famous aria even more of a highlight than normal.  She earned loud, long and totally deserved ovations here and at the final curtain calls.  The Met would be well-advised to utilize her aptitude for the French lyric fach in a numer of parts:  Marguerite, Manon, Antonia and Melisande come to mind.} 

^{There was a rousing ensemble of comprimarios at this performance, including Emily Pulley's vivacious Frasquita and Nathan Gunn's dashing Morales.  David Robertson's conducting deserves credit for intention--if not execution.  Perhaps a lack of rehearsal time prevented him from achieving his obvious attempts at subtle, dynamically varied musicmaking.  The choral scenes featured a number of scene-stealing wannabes, including a Wesley Snipes-in-drag lookalike who cavorted about outrageously during the entrance of the cigarette girls. In general, the lack of directorial focus was the evening's most serious liability.  The technicolor lightshow on the showcurtain during the various preludes, complete with projections of belle epoque femme fatales in closeup, merely served to trivialize the music.  Zeffirelli's settings were similarly cheap and uninspired:  that fenced-in crucifix festooned with lanterns looked like rejected statuary from a La Quinta Inn.  The staging had more than its share of risible moments, including a priest who dragged off a struggling street urchin for God-knows-what purpose. A ho-hum evening, alas, and a depressing end to my otherwise stimulating stay in the Big Apple.} 

^{On to New Orleans! The initial offering of the New Orleans Opera Association's 1998-99 season was an utterly appalling production of Saint-Saens' Samson et Dalila that was intermittently redeemed by the artistry of mezzo-soprano sensation Irina Mishura. This was my first encounter with Mishura.  As other reports have suggested, she is an astonishing talent.  While not large, the instrument is breathtaking in its velvety beauty and ease of emission.  The timbre is not truly Italianate but it is mercifully devoid of the unpleasant qualities sometimes associated with the Russian school of singing.  Mishura's voice is firm and evenly produced throughout its impressive range, the tone exuding warmth, femininity and glamorous appeal. Burdened with several Whore of Babylon costumes that Nell Rankin might have balked at wearing, Mishura still managed to look like a million bucks.} 

^{Blessed with a tall, voluptuous figure, Mishura is a great stage beauty; a becoming auburn wig accentuated her already ravishing facial features.  She did what she could to project a strong and interesting character within the constraints of a ridiculously misguided staging.  This was not an easy task, especially when you consider that Mishura was directed at the top of Act Two to rehearse her upcoming seduction of Samson--with a pillow as substitute for the absent hero.  How she managed to keep a straight face while stomping the same pillow under her foot to indicate Dalila's treacherous intentions is beyond me. My one caveat about Mishura concerns the potential impact of her instrument in a large house.  She has scored notable success in the provinces as Amneris, Azucena and other highpowered roles.  However, it remains to be seen what kind of impression her moderately sized voice will have in the expanses of a huge auditorium like the Met or Lyric Opera of Chicago.  Nevertheless, it would be hard to imagine a more apt singer for parts like Adalgisa, Giovanna Seymour, Charlotte and other lyric plums.  She has already established herself as an arresting Carmen and it is likely Mishura's success in the part will translate well in bigger venues. Compared to her colleagues and surroundings, Mishura was the second coming of Ebe Stignani.} 

^{As Samson, Mark Lundberg's nasal, whiny tone put one in mind of James McCracken--without any of the late tenor's large-scale vocalism or powerful stage presence to compensate.  An uninspiring and uncharismatic actor, Lundberg made the warrior a more priggish character than usual.  Kimm Julian's raspy baritone proved distinctly unmenacing as the High Priest of Dagon, while Irwin Densen's worn, wobbly voice generated a double dose of boredom in the dual assignment of Abimelech and the Old Hebrew.} 

^{Conductor Pierrre Hetu drew some fine playing from the Louisiana Philarmonic Orchestra but seemed embarrassed by the hothouse eroticism of the work.  Hetu's pacing of the opera was turgid and only fitfully illustrative of the dramatic moment.  The chorus sang and acted with supreme indifference to the material, a stance no doubt encouraged by the clueless stage director, a certain Nando Schellen.  Flee in horror when you encounter that name again:  Schellen is a hack. New Orleans Opera has had its share of cheaply mounted productions over the years, but what is one to make of a staging that introduces gratuitous innovations to the plot while ignoring obvious musical and textual details?  Dalila and the High Priest were overwrought lovers, pawing each other throughout their Act Two encounter to nauseating effect.  The millstone was missing altogether from Samson's prison cell, with the offstage chorus of reproachful Israelites moved to stage center.} 

^{Throughout, chorus and supers were clomped on and off like a herd of drugged wildebeests. The absolute low point of the evening was a ludicrous stab at pagan decadence in the Temple of Dagon.  Dressed like extras in a lurid Cecil B. DeMille film, the chorus was directed to employ interpretative movement, with much butt-bumping, swaying in unison, line dancing and other hilariously awful improvisation.  Dutifully lifting their plastic goblets, they looked like members of a suburban Mardi Gras krewe trying to stay warm at a rained-out parade.  Joseph Giacobbe's aerobics-class choreography made the Bacchanale unnecessarily risible.  David Gano's low-budget sets and lighting only added to the debacle.  What a mess! Still trying to regain its footing after the recent departure of two artistic directors, the company is currently in the throes of an administrative power struggle from which it may not recover.  A few more productions like this one and the company's already shaky reputation may be beyond help.} 

^{Ignoring a screaming intuition to do exactly the opposite, I purchased a ticket to the matinee performance of La Gioconda at Lyric Opera of Chicago.  While the in-house experience was largely consistent with my dismayed reaction to the opening night broadcast, I must note one important difference:  Jane Eaglen was in much better form at this performance. Since no announcement was made regarding her recent indisposition, I assume that Eaglen is now enjoying better health--and it showed in her singing.  With the exception of some still tentative attacks on forte high notes, Eaglen displayed an instrument of formidable size and weight.  Her singing in the middle register gave considerable pleasure, the warm, velvety vocal texture allied with stentorian delivery.  The lower register was handled with caution but Eaglen's reticence seems more the result of choice, rather than any lack of endowment.  Her cries of "A terra!  A terra!" after the duet with Laura were notable for their potent use of chest voice.  And the final confrontation with Barnaba hinted at similar capacities.} 

^{While I am willing to attribute Eaglen's anemic high notes to the aftereffects of her recent illness, I found her unsupported piano singing to be a far more worrisome aspect of her vocal performance.  The attack was consistently flat, a deficit that Eaglen would compensate for by applying a small amount of pressure to the tone.  Indeed, vibrato speed changed noticeably when Eaglen was executing diminuendo and crescendo markings.  This is a troublesome feature of a soprano in her prime and Eaglen would be well-advised to resolve the problem. Eaglen's stage deportment was far better than I would have imagined.  Becomingly costumed in a series of Titian-inspired gowns, the diva moved with a reasonable degree of facility.  She was clearly attempting to listen and respond to her colleagues.  What her portrayal lacks at this point is the sort of focus and emotional specificity necessary to transform the heroine's dramatic situation from implausible melodrama into cathartic revelation.  There was little of the firebreathing intensity and interpretative abandon indicated by the vocal writing:  Eaglen assumed the same all-purpose stance with rival, lover, aristocrat and unwanted suitor.  In addition, the phrasing lacked the easy command of accento and verbal bite that would give variety and shape to the long stretches of recitative in the final act. With the proper coaching and direction, Eaglen could be an admirable Gioconda.  The question is whether she will allow herself the time and flexibility to extend herself in service of what will never be an ideal showcase for her talents.} 

^{At least we are talking about a singer of stature, worthy to be standing on the stage of an international opera company.  The rest of the cast registered even more wretchedly in the house than they did over the airwaves. Johan Botha's leathery voice droned on and on at dynamic levels of mezza-forte or higher; it would be hard to imagine a more clueless approach to Enzo's gratifying music.  Sporting what looked like a lacqueured cat on her head, Robynne Redmon sounded like a comprimaria sent to do a star turn.  Her Laura was small-scale and overparted. Nikolai Putilin's intonation grows more ghastly upon each new hearing, his reduction of the dynamic Barnaba to the level of a vapid sleepwalker robbing crucial scenes of their dramatic vitality.  There was absolutely no applause after "O monumento" and "Pescator, affonda l'esca," the audience clearly shocked by Putilin's hideous vocal problems.  Eric Halfvarson managed to keep his wobbly tone under reasonable control but still came off as miscast in the role of Alvise.} 

^{Nancy Maultsby looked and sounded hopelessly youthful as La Cieca. Bruno Bartoletti's tempi struck me as more somnolent than previously but he communicates an almost tangible affection for the material.  John Copley's direction was pure production-book tedium, a dead-on-arrival staging that evoked only the most dutiful response from chorus and supers.  There were several risible touches, including the charred sailors who emerged from the bowels of the exploding Dalmation during the finale of the second act.  And why was Gioconda senza maschera for her big showdown with Laura?  Wouldn't Laura have recognized the woman whose mother she saved a few hours previously?  Never mind the fact that Gioconda later offers her disguise to the fleeing Laura. Originally created for the notorious 1979-80 San Francisco season opener with Renata Scotto and Luciano Pavarotti as the leads, Zack Brown's sets and costumes effectively suggest opulence without resorting to Zeffirelli-like overkill.  Kenneth von Heidecke's choreography was tasteful to the point of blandness. For the sake of reassessing Eaglen, I was glad to have experienced LOC's Gioconda in the house.  But make no mistake:  in no way, shape or form did this resemble anything close to an ideal representation of the work.} 

^{Maestro Bartoletti was honored onstage after the performance for his years of service to the company.  Heartfelt messages of thanks were read by General Director William Mason and other staff.  The entire orchestra assembled on the last-act set as a gesture of respect for LOC's retiring artistic director.  Bartoletti himself offered humble words of appreciation, referring to the members of the orchestra first and foremost as "dear friends."}

^{As has been his practice lately, Dr. Miller did not direct the opera; he pinned it down in his dissection tray and watched it squirm.  The production was cold, clinical, and ugly.  Designer Peter Davison had the Almavivas living in a state of chic disrepair.  There was peeling paint, broken balustrades, off-kilter walls, a near total absence of furniture, and empty clothes closets (one wonders what Cherubino found to drop).  Any cultural illiterate could have figured out that the aristocracy was crumbling; the only missing hint was a cracked mirror.  Mark McCullough lit the sets with an unsubtle glare, except in Act IV, when an ominous gloom replaced the requisite moonlit glow.  James Acheson�s costumes were unflattering.  Susanna�s bizarre wedding dress made her look like a waitress in a Spanish theme restaurant.  The singers seemed to have been dropped into these unfriendly surroundings with little direction or coaching, and passed much of the time senseless careening around the stage.  The big musical and dramatic moments passed by without convincing action or gesture.} 

^{Musically, things were much, much better.  Bryn Terfel�s Figaro was limber, blustery, and convincingly stupid.  His voice is in stunning form.  I wish he would just sing and loose some of the unnecessary vocal mannerisms, particularly the crooned pianissississimmo high notes.  �Si vuol ballare� was nearly smothered by the physical and vocal hamminess.  Cecilia Bartoli as Susanna was Mothra to his Godzilla, buzzing around the stage like some kind of hyperkinetic super-vixen (Faster Susanna! Kill!  Kill! ).  Wisely, she and James Levine elected to do the alternate aria �Al desio� instead of �Deh vieni non tardar� in Act IV.  This rambunctious coloratura gallop is more suited to Bartoli�s skills and temperament.   Even though the opera needs the calming magic that �Deh, vieni� provides, I cannot imagine Bartoli finding the quiet, loving repose necessary for that aria.  I cannot even imagine her standing still.}

^{Despite the personal turmoil reported elsewhere in parterre box, Renee Fleming had a vocal triumph as the Countess.  She sang with gorgeous line and tone, well-judged ornamentation, and plenty of incisiveness.  Her bland acting was most likely due to misdirection.  Given little to do other than pat the heads of small children, she could easily have been mistaken for the Almaviva�s mousy, well-intentioned governess.  Still, this hardly distracted from the glorious singing.  As her husband, Dwayne Croft was even better than he was at Salzburg this past summer.  The technical glitches in the Act III aria were gone and he sang with passion and range. He looked fabulous, even with the doofy wigs. Can he be persuaded to open a few more shirt buttons?}

^{Thankfully, the antics of her colleagues did not inspire Susanne Mentzner to deliver a tasteless, overwrought Cherubino.  Her portrayal was just hormonal enough, and she sang quite beautifully. The smaller roles were also well cast, including Danielle de Niese as a lovely Barbarina, Wendy White as a pleasantly dignified Marcellina, Paul Plishka who didn�t bark  �La vendetta� as Dr. Bartolo, and Heinz Zednik as an unnecessarily foppish Don Basilio.  I cannot recall another performance where even the smallest roles where so capably sung.}

^{James Levine conducted with a near ideal balance of warmth and spirit.  Occasionally, he lapsed into near-stasis, but the performance never felt sluggish.  He displayed extraordinary deference to his singers, following their lead in their big numbers and keeping the orchestral volume so low as to be nearly drowned out by all the chatting going on in the audience.}

^{A little hooky during a recent business trip to Paris earned me my first visit to the Opera Bastille, which would be a very nice place if it had some bathrooms.  In any event, the opera was Der Rosenkavalier, with sets, costumes, and direction by Herbert Wernicke, in a production shared with the Salzburg festival.  I find Wernicke�s productions to be fustian, pedantic affairs filled with clumsily executed �ideas� and random cultural allusions that crudely illustrate his turgid program essays but provide no help whatsoever to the singers stuck with performing in his void.} 

^{Wenicke�s Rosenkavalier was an illustrated lecture on �Spiritual Paralysis and Nostalgia in Turn-of-the-Century Vienna.�  The point seemed to be that any work of the period must be viewed through a �mirror of nostalgia.�  The �lecture� began when the servant Mohammed, in Pierrot costume and blackface, opened the curtains to reveal a Pines-Pavilionesque collection of Mylar-clad screens, columns, and panels that reflected the conductor and the audience.  Lost in the glare were the Marschallin and Octavian, who clearly had just finished having sex because they were on opposite sides of the stage.  The columns eventually spun around, revealing a few panels painted in a vaguely turn-of-the-century style and the reflections of more unseen panels on the Mylar.  The rest of the opera brought more panels and more �reflections� (get it?).  During the Presentation of the Rose, the columns parted, revealing Octavian decked out in a cream-colored tux and atop a dramatic black staircase.  He was either about to launch into �One� or the opera we were seeing was actually Maurice Chevalier a la Rose.  Wasn�t it clever to have the Italian tenor eat some pasta between verses? And wasn�t it a riot to crowd the stage with hundreds of people for the levee and the scene at the inn? At the end, Wernicke bowed to tradition, actually letting Mohammed retrieve the handkerchief � only to have him use it to wipe off his blackface and cast it bitterly to the floor.} 

^{The singers did their best but were generally disappointing.  Felicity Lott was far from an ideal Marschallin (shouldn�t she have been in New York for Figaro rehearsals?).  She lacked vocal power for the big moments and was unconvincing in her dramatic approach; surely there must be more to the Marschallin than detached bemusement.  She was, however, quite moving in the quiet moments in Act I.  Although a little weak on ardor, Anne Sofie von Otter was a persuasive Octavian:  boyish, restless, and instantly smitten by Sophie, notwithstanding Sophie�s breathtakingl hideous costume.  Ruth Ziesak failed to project and didn�t soar when required, but did capture the awkward innocence of Sophie.  It might have been the director�s fault that Franz Hawlata�s Ochs was too crass and vulgar.  After all, it�s hard to play Ochs with any nobility when you have to pop open a special frontal flap in your lederhosen and sing, �Now I�m beginning to feel a bit hot.�}

^{The German conductor Ulf Schirmer led a superb account of the score.  His emotionally complex interpretation was subtle and detailed, but never bathetic.  He maintained an ideal balance between the stage and orchestra, even when the singers failed to project.}

^{The capacity audience was extraordinarily well-behaved.  They gave a tumultuous ovation at the end, with particular enthusiasm reserved for Franz Hawlata.  (Jerry Lewis, I know, I know).}

^{Having come back from a six-week summer vacation in the US that include two exciting performances of Tristan und Isolde in Seattle, I soon started my opera-going spree in Japan. First, I went to Matsumoto, Nagano Prefecture (the site of the Winter Olympics) to see my favorite opera Dialogues des carmelites, conducted by Ozawa Seiji and directed by Francesca Zambello, at the Saito Kinen Festival.  I saw it on September 7 and 9.} 

^{When the curtain rose, we saw a minimalist set consisting of three curved walls of different sizes and shapes that rotate on the stage that were visible throughout the performance, as well as Le Marquis (Victor Braun) lying on a divan, wearing period clothes.  Its simple wall set really reminded me of Robert Israel's set for Emmeline, also directed by Zambello, that I saw in Santa Fe.  By the rotation of the walls, we not only got the library of the Marquis, but also various rooms at the Carmelite convent, the prison, the Conciergerie, the Place de la Revolution, etc.  When I first saw it, I felt that the minimalist set was a bit disappointing and wished for lavish, naturalist sets, but I soon realized that they were evocative and did not disturb the music.  Lighting was economical, yet very effective. Shadows were used tellingly.  For instance, there was a huge shadow of Thierry on the wall when Blanche screamed in Act 1. Glaring white light was used to represent fear, etc.} 

^{The singers were generally excellent.  The opera was not a prima donna vehicle, and none of the soloists really stood out.  But female soloists were uniformly excellent as an ensemble. Patricia Racette sang Blanche in such a way that she was able to portray multiple layers of Blanche's character.  At the beginning, she was a shy, nervous young woman, but she was later a red-hot verismo character who hurls Constance to the floor in anger!  Racette's acting method was perhaps not very subtle, but one could easily see what Blanche was feeling through her myriad expressions and gestures.  Racette is a full lyric soprano and her voice carries more weight than, say, Duval, Ewing, Upshaw, and Dubosc.  I am sort of used to hearing very old mezzos/contraltos acting (rather than singing) the Old Prioress.  When I saw Helga Dernesch sing the Old Prioress at the Met, she was very dramatic and compelling, but she really didn't have some of the high(ish) notes and opted for lower variants.  Felicity Palmer, on the other hand, while appropriately sounding like an aging woman in authority, still had plenty of great voice in all range, and she was able to sing this role dramatically, without resorting to verismo theatrics.} 

^{A young mezzo named Beth Clayton replaced Josephine Barstow as Mere Marie.  She turned out to be a fabulous Marie, fierce, ambitious, haughty, and yet vulnerable in some respects.  (As an example of her vulnerability, she nearly collapsed when the Old Prioress died.)  I didn't expect to see such a detailed, complex characterization from so young a singer. Marie Devellereau, who sang Constance, is very young (born in 1971), and has a very high piercing voice (like, say, that of Tracy Dahl).  Her Constance was very vivacious, petite, and charmante.  I cannot think of too many roles suited to that type of voice, but she sang and acted Constance very well indeed. The New Prioress is a wonderful role, and she's definitely one of the nicest persons in all opera. Of course I love Regine Crespin and Jessye Norman, who sang Madame Lidoine so gloriously and majestically that disobeying them would be unthinkable.  But Madame Lidoine was, after all, of the humble origin (unlike Mere Marie, Blanche, etc. who were from aristocratic families), and Christine Goerke seemed to stress the simple, ordinary side of the New Prioress, which actually made her characterization all the more moving, because Goerke's Madame Lidoine was an ordinary human being like you and me who was able to be sympathetic, compassionate, and heroic.  (Norman's Lidoine is a superhuman hero, so we kind of expect her to act the way she does.) Among the soloists, the least I liked was Victor Braun, who sang the Marquis. He didn't bother himself with such minor things as correct tempi.  William Burden's Chevalier was young and handsome, and the way he looked at Blanche was almost incestuous!} 

^{The final scene never fails to move me profoundly.  Perhaps because I am an atheist, their deaths seemed to me to be an unqualified tragedy.  (I guess that, for a Christian who believes in the New Testament to the letter, those Carmelite nuns would eventually resurrect on the Day of the Judgment and go to the heaven, so it wasn't all that bad after all, n'est-ce pas?)  The nuns climbed the stairs that leads to the guillotine, which was invisible from the audience, but the sounds of the guillotine were quite scary and realistic.  I was emotionally devastated, and apparently, everybody else was, too, because there was a total silence for about 10 seconds after the final note of the opera was played, as if clapping one's hands were inappropriate.  It was only after chorus members appeared in a still dark stage to line up for the bows that someone started to clap his/her hands hesitantly, and after that, all the singers, orchestra players, and Ozawa received a long, enthusiastic ovation.} 

^{Incidentally, Matsumoto is also known as a hot-spring resort, so I also enjoyed soaking and relaxing in warm water quite a bit.  With my pierced nipple and "EDITA" tattoo, I was a bit self-conscious in the bath, but nothing happened.} 

^{Let's skip the truly pathetic Arabella (Pamela Coburn) and tasteless Il barbiere di Siviglia (overparted Cecilia Gasdia and youthful Shigematsu Mika sharing Rosina, Bruno Pratico a very funny Bartolo) that I saw at the New National Theater Tokyo.  I would like to write about a very fascinating and entertaining performance of L'incoronazione di Poppea by the Purcell Quartet Opera Project on October 9 at a small wooden hall (cap. 800) called Kioi Hall, which is not equipped with modern opera-house facilities.  Set designer Agnes Treplin created a structure which is a single-story building with a staircase that leads to the top of the building. The building is divided into two rooms, which can be concealed or revealed with draperies.  Simple, but ingenious.  I had seen the opera in March last year fabulously done in the grand kabuki style.  Peter James' production was completely different.  It's updated, and people wear modern clothes.  And IT WORKED WONDERFULLY!} 

^{There is no curtain at the Hall, and before the lights started to dim, we saw a man in a suit with a bouquet on the top of the building, who was, of course, Ottone.  Two young hunky men, wearing a white T-shirt and a suit were sitting on chairs in front of the building, so they had to be Nero's guards.  But there was also an old bag lady, who came down and started to beg money from the audience in Italian.  She turned out to be none other than La Virtù!  LOVED IT!  La Fortuna looked like a hooker, carrying cards.  Amore wore a red T-shirt with big heart-pierced-with-an-arrow appliqué, red-and-black pants and a baseball cap. Poppea was a call girl wearing Victoria's Secret lingerie.  Arnalta was her secretary wearing a red suit and red high-heel shoes, etc.  Nerone looked like a mafioso.  Mercurio appeared as a bicyclist, and Ottone tried to kill Poppea with an electric chainsaw!  Poppea and Arnalta read Marie Claire and Le Point. If one regards L'incoronazione di Poppea not as a stylized high art work that needs to be revered, but rather as somthing to be enjoyed, this updated production works very well, and it certainly did so for me.} 

^{With the exception of Richard Wistreich, who was totally inadequate as Seneca, all the singers sang quite well.  Julia Gooding cut an alluring figure, and sang Poppea seductively.  Her last duet with Nerone, was particularly beautiful.  Guy de Mey's Nerone was so flamboyantly faggy that it was hard to believe that he was not more interested in his hunky guards than Poppea.  He sang Nerone passionately with ringing top notes, and acted as a mafia boss convincingly. Ottavia is a mafia boss's wife instead of an empress, and Susan Bickley, who reminded me of Lucia Popp a little in both vocal timbre and physical appearance, sang it emotionally in the first act and turned "A Dio, Roma" into a verismo opera! The most fun was of course Dominique Visse's assumption of three roles, two of which are in drag.  He wore women's clothes rather well.  Visse, one of the "3 Contre-Tenors," was camping it up, and he was hilarious! The other singers were generally very good, too.  (Let's leave the bass aside....)} 

^{Perhaps because there are so many Poppeas (of both sexes) surrounding us these days, Poppea no longer strikes me as particularly evil.  Sure, she is no angel, but she is just a cunning aggressive careerist like so many politicians and business executives of today.  Ottavia, who acted oh so morally when Seneca was still alive, turned into a vengeful person as soon as Seneca died and blackmailed Ottone, so even when she sang that she was innocent in "A Dio, Roma," she was not really as innocent as she claimed.  Even Drusilla, who is generally considered to be the moral, ethical one, expresses her delight at the prospect of Ottone killing her rival, so she's not stainless, either.  So most characters are neither cardboard heroes nor cardboard villains, which makes the opera all the more interesting. The musicians used odd-looking period instruments such as a lirone, a theorbo, and a chitarrone, which sounded just quaint and charming!  They played on the right corner of the stage, as the Kioi Hall does not have an orchestra pit.} 

^{Even though Japan has been in a serious recession for the past several years, foreign opera companies keep coming here.  The Teatro Comunale di Bologna came to Japan to do Gianni Schicchi/Cav, Fedora, and Don Carlo.  I bought tickets to see each of them once, but I was so busy that I forgot to attend the the double bill of Juan Pons Gianni Schicchi and Jose Cura/Agnes Baltsa Cavalleria Rusticana!  30,000 yen (about $260) down the drain!} 

^{I did remember to go to the NHK Hall this afternoon to see Gordano's Fedora on October 10 and Don Carlo on October 17. Fedora, directed by de Tomasi, was basically the same as the Met production, telecast on PBS in the US.   The acoustics of NHK Hall are notoriously bad--Ghena Dimitrova sounds like Kathleen Battle here � so I was quite surprised by the sheer volume of Mirella Freni's voice.  She easily filled the vast hall with her steady, creamy, beautiful voice -- easily the loudest among the cast!  And not only was she able to sing loud, she could also sing beautifully.  In fact, she was in splendid form, her tone steady and never wobbly.  She was also very dramatic, exclamatory sometimes, using gutsy chest voice quite often, and was a very moving actress actor.  (A woman sitting next to me started to sob almost uncontrollably when Fedora took the poison.)  Freni will come back to Tokyo early next year to sing Mimi, and then repeat her Fedora, this time with Washington Opera on tour in 2000.} 

^{Carerras started rather tentatively in the beginning of Act 2, and I didn't care for his semaphoric acting, but he soon changed gears and, much to my surprise and delight, he sang far better than I had expected.  He is immensely popular with middle-aged Japanese women with lots of disposable income, so he comes to Japan very often.  He is of course not the Carreras that I know through recordings that he made in his prime, but I was able to get a glimpse of what he must have sounded like twenty years ago from this performance. I must say that the Met had far better Olga and De Siriex than Bologna. Scarabelli, who sang Despina in Solti's Cosi fan tutte CD, was as unmemorable as Bruno Pola, who sang De Siriex. It wasn't a spectacular performance, but it was certainly worth the high price just to see Mirella Freni sing still very well.} 

^{I heard that the Teatro Comunale di Bologna would perform the four-act Italian version of Don Carlo.  Thinking that I knew enough about the four-act Italian version, I didn't bother to read the expensive program carefully.  I was surprised that they inserted part of the Act 3 Scene 1 of the 1867 Paris version at the beginning of Act 2 (in Italian, of course) at conductor Daniele Gatti's suggestion.  When tickets went on sale months ago, Jose Cura was announced as Don Carlo, so many people rushed to buy tickets.  After most tickets were sold, the Japanese promoter announced that Cura would not sing after all, and that Alberto Cupido would replace him.  (Japanees opera fans later found out that Cura would sing Loris with Baltsa in Vienna when he was supposed to sing Don Carlo in Japan.  We were not amused.)  Cupido must have felt under a lot of pressure; however, he was warmly received by most of the audience.  For my taste, he sounded too metalic and his singing was senza legato, but I think I am in a minority here.} 

^{Daniela Dessi, who had cancelled her single engagement as Tosca at the Met, looked fabulous as Elisabetta.  How I wish she had sounded as fabulous as she looked.  Her middle is often quite lovely, but her top tended to be rather threadbare and screechy.  I hope she won't become a Ricciarelli.   I tend to regard Eboli as a dramatic mezzo role, but Gloria Scalchi has a rather light, bright voice.  But then, Eboli doesn't have to sound like a virago, does she?  (The Fach police might get me.) I had heard Carlo Colombara sing "Ella giammai m'amo`!" as a virile, powerful Filippo II at an opera gala on October 1 in Tokyo.  Compared with that, Ghiaurov's Filippo II sounded like an septugenarian (which he will become next year).  (I think that Philip II was actually 30 or 31 years old when he married Elisabeth de Valois.)  I guess we can understand why Elisabetta was so disappointed when she met Ghiaurov's Filippo, who positively sounded ancient.  He is well loved by many Japanese fans, so no matter how he sang, he received enormous applause. The biggest disappointment was Paolo Coni's Rodrigo.  I mean, Rodrigo is such a wonderful role that it makes me sad to see this great man sung by a singer who is not up to it.  Coni's voice is tiny, and it lacks the nobility and dignity inherent in the role. Gatti's conducting was also praised by many people who attended the performance, but I didn't think it was as all that galvanizing.  Andrei Serban's direction was dark, dark, dark.  Where's the flashlight?}