Gruess Gott! Enzo here, only recently returned from a first-time visit to the land of beer, bratwurst and bretzel. This second installment of my world tour report details things operatic in Munich and back home in Chicago.
The Bavarian capital has many historically important opera houses, including the rococo treasure known as the Cuvillies. It was here that Mozart's Idomeneo had its world premiere. Enzo was unable to see an opera performed in this venue but I did hear a chamber concert there and was quite charmed by all the red and gold candybox ornament. This tiny, 500seat auditorium must be a perfect setting for works like Capriccio.
The National Theater is home to the Bavarian State Opera. An imposing neoclassical structure, the theater was destroyed by Allied bombing in World War Two. It was lovingly restored after the war and reopened in the early 1960's. Outside, the theater has fallen prey to graffiti, smog and other forms of urban blight. But the ice-blue interior, with its crystal chandeliers and portraits of past singers associated with the company, still evokes a feeling of grandeur. I noted with particular nostalgia a lovely painting of the late Claire Watson, costumed as the Marschallin. The American diva was a favorite of Munich audiences and remained a member of the Staatsoper ensemble for many seasons.
Our first evening at the National Theater featured an appropriately representative bill of fare, Salome by native son Richard Strauss. Conceived almost 25 years ago, the August Everding staging has apparently not aged very well: having the Page kill Salome in revenge for Narraboth's suicide was a particularly absurd "innovation." Jorg Zimmermann's designs mixed Star Wars imagery with traditional Orientalism.
Inga Nielsen may not be a Salome for the ages but in her capable and committed way, she proved satisfying. A former Micaela and Musetta on the American regional circuit, Nielsen has moved on to the jugendlich fach in opera houses throughout Europe. On this occasion, her bright lyric soprano soared in the ecstatic glorification of Jochanaan's physical attributes, the voice gaining strength and brilliance the higher it ascended; elsewhere, she sounded feeble and unfocuseda deficiency that Nielsen attempted to disguise with heavy doses of parlando.
Nielsen's interpretation emphasized girlish innocence over feline cunning. Essayed in harem pants and jeweled bra, the soprano's Dance of the Seven Veils conveyed a rare and touching empathy for Salome's wounded narcissism. Like many interpreters, Nielsen tired noticeably in the strenuous climaxes of the final scene. Still, her dedication to the drama never wavered, even when a clumsy comprimario caused the hem of her dress to rip by planting his feet on Salome's train. The local aficionados in the upper gallery accorded Nielsen their highest tribute: vigorous footstomping on the resonant wood floor of the National Theater. In yet another surprising career development, the soprano will add the title role in Norma to her repertoire next season in Berlin.
As Jochanaan, Munich favorite Bernd Weikl received a similarly enthusiastic ovation. The basic tone quality remains attractive as ever but age and hard use have led to effortful vocal production: hardly a phrase emerged without some compromise to pitch or note values. Dramatically, he resembled an overfed burgher cast in a village passion play, communicating little of the fanatic zeal that drives the character.
Marita Knobel would appear to be the Bavarian equivalent of Jane Shaulis, performing any and all mezzo assignments at a moment's notice. Her reward is the occasional Herodiasa role she inhabited here with all the competence one would expect of an accomplished utility singer.
As Herod, Wolfgang Neumann continued the tradition of a leatherlunged heldentenor having a go at mincing neurosis. A past and future Siegfried for the Met, Neumann got the job done with a minimum of musical and/or textual nuance.
The real protagonist of the evening was maestro Peter Schneider, who summoned a reading of redhot intensity from the Bavarian State Orchestra. Schneider was sensitive to the limited vocal capacities of his singers, employing fortissimi with discretion. The sheer opulence of the playing had my better half (the everlovely Joanne Melzia-Bordello) in tears! Hard to believe that this same conductor and ensemble could make such hash of Elektra a few evenings later -- read on, meine Damen und Herren.
Next up was a new production of Janacek's Katya Kabanova, starring Catherine Malfitano. Ever the operatic miracle worker, Malfitano fused the seemingly irreconcilable elements of mystical spirituality and erotic longing that characterize the title role. Not since Rysanek has an artist transcended her undeniable vocal flaws to such devastating dramatic effect. Time and experience have taught Malfitano how to reduce every part to its essence: her portrayal glowed with inner life and intention. Malfitano's identification with the repressed Katya was so complete that only the most pedantic curmudgeon would dismiss her work on the basis of a tired high note or unsteady attack.
The soprano's memorable accomplishment was given a thankfully serious framework by stage director David Poutney and set designer Stefano Laziridis. Famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) for their provocative stagings at English National Opera, the production team opted for an expressionistic approach to the work. Resembling an oppressive dollhouse, Laziridis' cutaway of the Kabanov residence gave Poutney's direction an almost dreamlike fluidity. Davy Cunningham's stark lighting enhanced the already claustrophic atmosphere.
True to form, Poutney could not resist the occasionally perplexing touch (just who were those zombielike figures picking vegetables down at the footlights during the third act storm?) In general, however, the director effectively balanced the romanticism and harsh social commentary of Janacek's opera. The final tableau struck an especially haunting note: Kabanicha lit, then quickly extinguished a candle over Katya's coffina ceremonial duty executed with chilling detachment.
None of the supporting cast came close to Malfitano's level of achievement but they still managed to function as a solid ensemble. As Kabanicha, Sally Burgess made a smallscale impression with her underpowered mezzosoprano; the staging made it quite clear that this dowager acts out some very dark sexual impulses privately with Dikoy.
Peter Straka's Boris was no object of fascination but the usual ineffectual loser implied by the music and text. Nadja Michael's wellsung Varvara received an ovation more suitable for the second coming of Maria Callasa rather provincial display of nationalism for a Germanborn artist.
Conductor Paul Daniel's analytic, sober account was wellsuited to some of the score but rarely connected with the element of sunny radiance that underlies much of Janacek's writing for the heroine.
Whatever its shortcomings, this performance of Katya Kabanova was the highlight of our Munich operagoing. Imagine our dismay when the season premiere of Elektra -- a staple of the company's repertory, if ever there was onedeveloped into a fullscale bloodonthetracks trainwreck.
The first signs of trouble greeted us on our arrival at the theater: the orchestra and soloists could clearly be heard frantically rehearsing right up until the house opened. Then, the curtain was held for ten minutesan unheard of breach of German punctuality. After confused whispers grew to a dull roar in the darkened auditorium, Intendant Peter Jonas walked onstage to announce that Gabriele Schnaut was indisposed but willing to sing the title role.
As things turned out, the prima donna's illness proved to be the least of the company's problems. Schnaut's ungainly voice is already so handicapped that a case of the flu hardly represented a serious liability. Her abrasive timbre sounded particularly sour and ugly on this occasion, with little or none of the interpretative abandon needed to fill out the role's climactic moments.
As Chrysothemis, Nadine Secunde acted like the proverbial deer caught in headlights, unable to conceal a total lack of familiarity with the staging. This clueless soprano would seat herself, then suddenly dart into another position whenever she recalled that she needed to be somewhere else onstage! Unbecomingly costumed as a matronly flapper, Secunde revealed a voice in ruins: the middle register is a squally mess, the top notes practically inaudible. How does this woman still manage to get work?
Dressed in tux and tails, Monte Pederson's Orest lacked vocal and dramatic stature. Veteran tenor William Cochran sang skillfully as Aegisth. The comprimarios were a forgettable lot.
The staging was an appalling exhibit of Eurotrash cliches, totally at odds with the character and ambiance of Strauss' music. Herbert Wernicke's concept confined Elektra to a shabby wooden platform extending out over the orchestra pitwhere she stands, axe in hand, like a grim totem pole until the murder of her mother frees her from this frozen position. Clever, nicht?
Wernicke viewed the characters as onedimensional cartoons, wearing clownish makeup and illuminated by circuslike spotlights. The singers were restricted to playing out the action before a drop curtain, with the stage proper only intemittently used for certain moments (the entrance of Klytemnestra down a red-carpeted staircase, for example). The blocking was shockingly amateurish, with the singers asked to deliver whole scenes partially obscured by the proscenium arch or scenery pieces. If Wernicke intended to show his contempt for the opera, he succeeded admirably.
Peter Schneider's conducting mirrored the events onstage with playing that was constantly undermined by uncoordinated attacks and wrong notes. The orchestra sounded like they had never seen the score prior to the performancea state of affairs that proved nothing short of scandalous. THIS, in the cradle of Strauss' heritage? Much to our amazement, Joanne and I observed Schneider yelling at several players as he exited the pit!
The one saving grace of the performance was Felicity Palmer, who somehow managed to transcend the chaos around her and deliver a potently sung, vividly acted Klytemnestra. I look forward to encountering Palmer's gripping portrayal in another setting.
This hideous spectacle confirmed something I had suspected for a long time: the dearth of idiomatic, strongly sung performances in central repertoire is not a phenomenon unique to the Met. It is happening in opera houses throughout the world. One may have ventured long ago to Munich for deluxe performances of Richard Strauss or to La Scala for the ultimate in Verdian singing. But the pursuit of such authenticity is pretty much a futile gesture today. These theaters are all experiencing a loss of national identityand this extinction of style has very real implications for the quality of what one experiences on the current operatic scene.
Back in Hogtown, Enzo took in a concert performance of Schoenberg's Moses und Aron by the Chicago Symphony at Orchestra Hall. The event was preceded by an informal discussion with the evening's conductor, Pierre Boulez, who reminded the audience that the work pays tribute to Bach, Brahms, Mahler and even jazz.
It was possible to hear the references to these other composers because of Boulez' insistence on clean, transparent orchestral textures and detailed attention to form and structure. There was none of that thick, overripe sound that gummed up Levine's reading for the Met last season. Boulez is a genius in this repertoire and the city has been blessed to have him season after season as a persuasive advocate for twentieth century masterpieces. The CSO played like the virtuoso ensemble they are in the Golden Calf sequence, generating real drama without the aid of stage trappings.
As Moses, David Pittman-Jennings handled the sprechstimme demands of his role with authoritative aplomb. His magnetic presence gave muchneeded focus to the eveninga problem due largely to the lack of a suitable dramatic foil. Some of my fellow concertgoers thought that Chris Merritt's performance heralded a renaissance for his longtroubled voice. I could not concur. His nasal, wobbly vocalism is uglier than ever and his prissy, smirking characterization was a wrongheaded attempt at editorializing on the role of the mercurial Aron.
The supporting singers varied in quality but the chorus was impeccable. They performed their fiendishly difficult music with an interpretative fire that never interfered with precision or accuracy.
Well, that wraps up this report on another world tour by Enzo. My compass is set for a future invasion of the mother country: Milan, Pesaro, Macerata and their environs. With all the gnashing of teeth about the Italian lyric theatre in recent issues of Opera Snooze, I can't wait to check it out firsthand.
I'm especially eager to continue my research on one of the most notorious nights in La Scala historythe aborted 1971 world premiere of Nino Rota's Piu Presto, Gattina! Uccida! Uccida! I won't go into details now but suffice it so say that a riot ensued when Elena Suliotis, Felicia Weathers and Maria Chiara made their entrance in a dusty sports car, wearing halter tops, leather miniskirts and gogo boots!
Enzo Bordello
When Offenbach's La Grande Duchesse de Gerolstein is revived, if at all, it is typically done as a vehicle for a diva of a certain age. As the vocal demands are not extreme, one adjusts one's expectations accordingly and delights in a great star's skill and stage presence even if her voice is past its peak. Thus, Stephanie Blythe's assumption of the title part for the L'Op�ra Fran�ais de New York (seen on June 24) came as a double surprise. Not only is this artist at the beginning of what one hopes is a long vocal prime, but she also held the stage with the skill, charm and grace of a much more experienced artist. As tout New York discovered in Giulio Cesare, she has a marvelous, exciting voice. Here, she demonstrated a virtuoso comic flair, mastery of that diva prerequisite, the funny accent, and most importantly, a sensuous, luscious legato that had boys and girls of all sexual persuasions aflutter during "Voici le sabre de mon p�re." Moreover, she moved gracefully and looked fabulous in the stunning frocks by Kaye Voyce and Greco. During intermission, the lobby was abuzz with audience members trying to find the right superlatives for La Blythe and suggesting a long list of potential roles to fill the inexplicable gaps in her upcoming calendar.
While no one else in the cast was quite at her level, they all performed with charisma, appropriate style and decent French, rare virtues all. In particular, Richard Troxell as the tenor lead, Fritz, displayed a pleasant light tenor voice, a winning comic sense, and the necessary assets for a performance that required him to strip to his underwear as well as wear a strategically ripped outfit. One worries, however, about the heavier parts that are already appearing on his resume. As his love interest Wanda, Anne Saint Denis, had an effective lyric voice, but she wasn't really heard enough to form a complete judgment. As General Boum, G�rard Edery fulminated with panache but also revealed that he didn't have much voice. Robert Kendall Garner's baritone seemed to show lots of potential, but the role of Prince Paul didn't allow him room for display. William Saetre was too foppish as Baron Puck for my taste, but he showed a real skill for character tenor parts.
Director Christopher Alden smoothed over most of the deficiencies of the unnatural hybrid that is semistaged opera. The ingenious modern set (also by Greco and Kaye Voyce) allowed the chorus to participate in the action while still giving them access to their scores. Alden's streamlined mostly English book (singing was in French) stayed close to the basic plot with few gratuitous topical references. He devised effective business for the actors that thankfully did not devolve into tired slapstick.
Once again, Yves Abel, the motivating force behind LOFNY, demonstrated his extraordinary affinity for this repertoire. All too often, Offenbach is conducted with a frantic, crazed, intensity that takes all the gaiety of Gait� Parisienne. However, maestro Abel let the music flow naturally and allowed the singers flexibility. This season LOFNY only brought us one production. One hopes that Abel's increasing fame is not preventing him from committing the time to present two operas in NYC. His efforts are always a source of unalloyed pleasure. The audience was in such a good mood that they even ignored the couple that had brought along their piecework of unwrapping candies.
Dawn Fatale