reviews from parterre box

NEW YORK - Kiri te Kanawa gave what may have been her local farewell recital at Carnegie Hall on October 18. What information we had was hardly definitive: the diva has been talking of retiring in interviews for some time; she only has one announced engagement after her current tour; the Internet was awash in rumors that this would be her farewell; and we all know from her Rolex ads that she already has the gold watch. Accordingly, the Carnegie Hall performance was sold out to fans wanting to pay tribute. Many more swarmed the sidewalks outside trying to hunt down spare tickets.

We rushed inside looking for clues to determine what mindset to be in. Was it going to be a sentimental Proustian reverie of farewell or the usual hypercritical New York sulk? The bio in the program was distressingly coy ("Ms. Te Kanawa continues to perform in opera houses and at concert engagements all over the world."). There were no special flower arrangements. The lights were extremely low, but that's no more than the recital equivalent of a thin layer of Vaseline on the camera lens. She came out to tumultuous applause and bravas, clearly ready to bask in the adulation of a farewell recital without any acknowledgement to the passing of time. (Would we expect anything less from a noted Marschallin?)

And so, cheered by all the diva-worship, we put aside issues of career direction and just listened. Her voice and style are remarkably unchanged; her instrument continues to be warm and attractive and she still sings with the same nobility and reserve. This served her well in material such as Duparc’s L’invitation au voyage which was full of mystery, portent and gorgeous legato singing. She fared less well in Rachmaninoff’s Vocalise which exposed many of the flaws in her voice and was rushed and blandly shaped. In fact, much of the interpretation was on the dull side, aggravated by her tepid choice of material (Guastavino's Flores Argentinas were particularly tedious) and her reluctance to sing out, even though the voice was exciting and vibrant on the rare occasions when she did.

Even though la Te Kanawa is an experienced recitalist, she ignored several of the important ingredients of a successful diva recital. Both halves ended with slow and quiet songs with long piano postludes even though we expected something stirring with a big refulgent high note. The program also included few signature tunes. We got "O mio babbino caro" as a third and final encore, which did get the audience invigorated, but we were not rewarded for our remonstrations. Most seriously, she did not change outfit between halves. This requirement is not optional when the tickets cost an exorbitant $77. In fact for that price, we deserve a costume change, special lighting effects, supernumeraries, and backup dancers. Perhaps Dame Kiri could study Dame Edna to advantage. In the end, it was hard not to feel a little cheated, even though Warren Jones’s pianism was a true pleasure. Working from memory, his playing was poetic, insightful, yet deferential.

Whatever the disappointments of Kiri Te Kanawa's recital, they were relatively minor in comparison to Vesselina Kasarova's disheartening appearance at Alice Tully Hall on November 28. Here is an artist with striking good looks, a warm and affecting manner, a vibrant and distinctive voice -- and no discernible talent. Despite the favorable acoustics of the hall, her singing was so constricted that the voice had no impact. In addition, she constantly manipulated the tempo, vibrato, and tone color without any evident expressive or musical purpose other than to hopelessly distort each helpless lied. Her eyebrows worked harder than Joanne Worley’s and she spent much of the recital making out with the piano lid. This heavy-handed approach made "Nacht und Tr�ume" a real trauma. She showed no creativity or generosity in programming in that her recital exactly duplicated the contents of her most recent CD, save two songs which were omitted from the program without explanation.

If there are any gay men in Bulgaria, none were involved in helping Ms. Kasarova choose her outfit. She looked like a Soviet-bloc gymnast who had been hastily tarted up to present at the Best Agricultural Cooperative Awards. Absolutely no one, gay or straight, needs to see as much of her ample d�colletage as she chose to expose and her clingy sleeveless gown only emphasized the pudginess of her upper arms. To be fair, though, her outfit was in no worse taste than her musicianship. Friedrich Haider was a game if rather nondescript accompanist. I fled at the intermission; my hardier friends inform me that in the second half things did not get better, only louder.

As you probably know by now, Jane Eaglen cancelled her fourth Isolde at the Met (12/3) and was replaced by Sue Patchell. And I use the word "replaced" advisedly. I heard someone say that Patchell did not know until 11 a.m. today that she would "probably" be singing tonight. I also heard that she was "contracted" to cover Renate Behle, who is the "official," cover. Though I don't really know what all that means, it probably means no more than what one can gather by the description. So, had she had any rehearsal? I didn't ask. I just kept thinking, "Who is Sue Patchell? I've vaguely heard the name, but can't think of one thing I've heard about her...."

But I decided to try to be big about this, and just go with it: after all, we would have Heppner and Jimmy and the Orchestra and Wagner. I'd been fortunate enough to have attended the opening night of this Tristan, and aside from some doubts and questions and misgivings about the production itself, I was thrilled by the performances. Across the board, all performances that night were stellar. But tonight was one of the most wonderful nights I've ever had in the House. When we saw the announcement of Eaglen's cancellation, the audience was not happy, friends attending were doubtful, and I was none too thrilled. Yet, the mixture of all this emotion in the House made this performance sizzle. And so did Sue Patchell.

She's not a youngster. She is tall and lithe and beautiful in an angular, I've-been-around-the-block-a-few-times kind of way. She is also a stunning actress, with the most expressive hands I've seen in years. Starting slow, she was a tad jittery in sound, not huge, and the voice hasn't any particularly grabbing timbre. But, I said to myself, let's hang on -- I'd start slowly and hold back, too, if I were making my Met debut in this "somewhat" challenging role.... I was right. Her voice grew in confidence, steadiness, volume, and her presence grew in character and strength.

She sank her teeth, and her own style, into Isolde's big stuff in Act I. She manipulated that tellingly chipped sword like a scene out of one of Freud's dreams. When she wasn't waving, and gesticulating with the sword, her large, strong, long-fingered hands cut through the air like whips. A beautifully squared mouth of gnashing teeth spat out the damnings. And that voice just grew, and built and nailed you to your seat. What looked like an un-altered costume of Jane's hung on her like a cross, yet she dragged and flung and furled and unfurled those cloaks with those clutching hands like the cursed predicament Isolde found herself in.

Act II's previously murky silhouette scenes became vivid and poignant given Patchell's angular face and quicksilver movements. Her voice continued to bloom, to grow, and stayed with Heppner's ringing outpourings word for word, measure for measure. The "O sink hernieder" rumbled, and swirled and spiraled and luxuriated. After the lovers' discovery, her shock was palpable and beatific on her expressive face.

Heppner sang and acted the hell out of Tristan's delirium -- and the little toy soldier knights made perfect sense to me tonight. He sang that final "Isolde" as though it was the most important moment of his career. Then I started crying and couldn't stop -- I hadn't expected to! The end of Tristan's longing, and Isolde's bereft longing over her missed chance, not believing -- she got down there and lay with his corpse, caressing him, begging him to open his eyes. More than I could bear!

The Liebestod -- the word, the name seems too weak to describe what Patchell did with it. By this point, she was totally hot (in voice, not to mention drama, but voice I'm talking now) -- and she sang that damned thing the way any and all of us have ever imagined it should be sung. The final "Lust!" was clear, steady, confident, and explosively, gently orgasmic. The look on her face was the look any director of this opera would kill to get from an Isolde: total bliss, beyond, out there, gone, something none of us will ever know until....

The performance tonight was just on. Everything was perfect and made total sense, there was no stopping into "real time" to question anything. Paul Plishka was a dignified, older Marke than the young and virile Pape; yet his elegant, poignant, less-apt-to-find-another-love and older-guy-I-thought-I'd-seen-everything-re-betrayal Marke brought tears to my eyes because of its being nearer to my idea of the character. Wendy White's Brangaene was more of a servant-type, in voice and demeanor, than Dalayman, but her confusion therefore was touching. Hans-Joachim Ketelson was a less youthful and puppydogish Kurwenal than Fink, and vocally not quite as strident. His final words, wounded, to his dead master were evocative of true, deep devotion rather than idolatry.

What a night. It just sped by. No way does this opera in this production seem like it's five hours. A word about the audience. In a way, it was far worse than the opening night. More coughers, sneezers, candy-unwrappers, zippers, etc., and nose blowers! (Tell me, how did it ever become acceptable to blow one's nose in public, let alone during the quiet moments of Tristan und Isolde?) But they held their applause at the Act curtains. Why? I think it was because even they, who are used to living-room-television-watching manners, were stunned by what was going on on that stage and in that pit tonight. Fewer of the audience abandoned ship during the performance tonight than they did on opening night -- but, then, openings attract more of the rich swells, and most of them turn glassy-eyed if you try to talk to them about anything beyond the Three Tenors or where did you get that dress. I haven't seen seen an audience jump to its feet and applaud and scream and yell with such enthusiasm since the opening night of Elektra last season.

Now of course I realize that everyone wants to be a part of a "special evening," so sometimes this en masse desire of an audience is self-perpetuating, and blah, blah, blah, and what better chance to effect this than the cancellation of a "star" performer? Sort of justifies your being screwed. But believe me, having been screwed in this way a number of times by the Met, and NOT having felt particularly like justifying it with an "imagined rave," tonight was not my nor the rest of the audience's imagination. Sue Patchell may not be a new find, and we all realize she may not be heard or seen to such good advantage again at the Met. But her appearance tonight certainly created a performance that -- although in some casting aspects not as good as the opening night I saw -- turned out to be one that I will cherish forever. My apartment building could be blown up by Con Ed tonight and everyone killed, and I would die happy, having seen, finally, that Tristan I'd always imagined and longed for.

Enzo was faced, on the eve of his annual fall trek to New York City, with four staples of the Italian repertoire at the Met — usually a recipe for disaster! I mean, I've been burned before by those "all-star" lineups. You know, stellar evenings like the Eaglen-Johannsson Turandot or the Anderson-Margison Trovatore. But hope springs eternal in the heart of an opera queen and Enzo set off for the Big Apple to slake his unquenchable thirst for dementia.

The October 12 performance of Verdi's Otello found the Met in blazing form, with Placido Domingo serving as the pivotal centerpiece for this revival. In what was widely rumored to be his final appearance as Otello, Domingo silenced his critics and naysayers with a portrayal of incredible tragic stature. The widely publicized half-step transposition in Act Two (as well as an assortment of ducked high notes) has been discussed ad nauseam elsewhere. Based on what I observed, the fuss seems woefully overblown. It would be one thing if such allowances were made with few or any compensations from the performer. However, Domingo operated at full dramatic intensity in this new framework, his creative energies clearly freed of the sort of anxiety that would have accompanied his attempt to negotiate what is written. To use an analogy from the world of visual art, who would dismiss the overall beauty and worth of the Venus de Milo simply because the statue is missing a limb or two?

What really impressed me about Domingo's interpretation on this occasion was its unbridled exploration of Otello's shadow side. From the very beginning, it was apparent that the Moor had been traumatized and conflicted by years of oppression, slavery, deceit and prejudice. He appeared uncomfortable, even tormented by his happy estate. Otello's too-easy acceptance of Iago's accusations seemed fueled by an easily aroused death instinct, with the hero becoming a gleeful participant in his own destruction. One sensed the character's unspoken longing for oblivion. This interpretative chiaroscuro imbued the death scene with an emotional depth that was overwhelming.

Barbara Frittoli's earlier appearances in the run had been greeted with an ecstatic response bordering on the giddy. The reasons were not hard to understand: with her voluptuous Mediterranean beauty and dark-hued lyric soprano, Frittoli was born to sing Desdemona. She possesses an absolutely ravishing pianissimo -- which she put to heartbreaking use in the final scene. As if all these attributes were not enough to inspire dancing in the streets, Frittoli proved to be a highly expressive artist. Poetic sensitivity and dramatic intuition flowed naturally and purposefully through her delivery of the last-act scena. But soprano beware: I recall another gifted Italian lyric whose Desdemona elicited Hosanna choirs and a bushel full of hastily written contracts. I'm referring to Katia Ricciarelli's breakthrough performance in the 1977-78 season. And we all know how that story ended. Fortunately, Frittoli includes healthy doses of Mozart in her repertoire and has no productions of Aida, Turandot, Norma or other big-money follies looming on the horizon. The one obvious blemish on this otherwise star-making performance was a tendency for the voice to spread under pressure. But it's nothing some fine-tuning with the right voice teacher couldn't fix.

Against all expectation, James Morris checked his usual bag of tricks (emotionally false posturing, emphatic barking, etc.) at the stage door and concentrated on delivering a refreshingly organic performance of Iago. There was attention paid to accents, textual nuance, dramatic transitions and character development. Toward this aim, Morris employed a wide range of dynamics to flesh out crucial passages.

All of this might have come off like so much appliqu� if it were not fired by Morris' obvious inner connection with the material. Intellect and soul were engaged in a way that is rare for this singer. And Morris really looked like the burly, weather-worn comrade of a military veteran like Otello, not some fussy bureaucrat. In purely vocal terms, the role was never an ideal vehicle for Morris' craggy bass-baritone -- as evidenced by some painful compromises along the way (i.e., the sketchy intervals of the first-act brindisi). But as a totality, Morris' Iago was admirably convincing.

Charles Anthony's hopelessly decrepit Rodrigo aside, the comprimario roles were impressively cast. Kurt Streit was an imposing Cassio in both voice and presence, while Jane Bunnell's personal warmth made Emilia even more simpatica than usual. Paul Pliskha conveyed Lodovico's pronouncements with dignity.

Over the past quarter century, James Levine's readings of this autumnal masterpiece have given me some of my most cherished memories in the opera house. Keenly aware of the giving performance taking place onstage, Levine reciprocated with conducting that extracted every ounce of cathartic passion from the score. Not only did the orchestra and chorus give of their inspired best but each soloist seemed at one with Levine and his profound vision of the work.

Elijah Moshinsky's production has come in for its share of criticism but I found it persuasive. The architectural layout of the opening scene doesn't make much sense from a literal standpoint but it's not supposed to: highlighting the individual reactions of the soloists during the storm sequence helped to clarify the different forces represented by Iago and Cassio. The Titian-inspired costumes and settings were pleasing to the eye and well-suited to the dramatic needs of the work.

In contrast with this moving sternstunde, the following evening's Lucia di Lammermoor turned out to be a tedious snooze-fest. The program notes included an essay from maestro Sir Charles Mackerras outlining various corrections made to the standard performing edition of the opera used for decades by the Met and other companies. These corrections reflected the same scholarly vision of the work already documented on Mackerras' studio recording for Sony: restoration of original keys, elimination of all climactic high notes, removal of the traditional cadenza with flute from the Mad Scene, etc. In general, Mackerras' stated aim was to present the opera "in a style that its composer would have recognized."

Mackerras made a convincing advocate for the cause of musical correctness. He was a vital presence on the podium, striving for the sort of dramatic immediacy needed to ignite what might otherwise deteriorate into a dry academic exercise. Unfortunately, the conductor received little or no help from the generally faceless participants onstage. The chief culprit in this respect was Andrea Rost in the title role.

With her girlish, storybook presence, Rost certainly looked like the ideal Romantic heroine. But any further resemblance to a satisfactory Lucia ended there. Rost has a serviceable if rather metallic lyric soprano but her singing was totally devoid of dramatic substance. Her acting was similarly blank, with movement motivated by little more than a mindless, "connect-the-dots" approach to the stage direction. Rost was particularly risible in the Mad Scene, wielding a bloodied sword with all the menace of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Roberto Frontali made some impressive sounds on top but was otherwise a small-scale Enrico. Paul Plishka was in wobbly form, the once meaty tone worn down to pure gristle. Only Frank Lopardo's suavely vocalized Edgardo added up to anything worthwhile.

The Nicholas Joel-Ezio Frigerio production is only a season old and it's already tired. The gilt Gothic interiors looked tacky and uninhabited by real people. The walls split open during the Mad Scene to reveal Lucia cavorting around an ugly clump of rock. The rest of the staging functioned at a similar level of brain-dead ineptitude. Who would have imagined the tepid audience response to what is normally a surefire applause generator?

Through the generosity of divina scrittrice Dawn Fatale, I was able to squeeze in a delightful interlude at New York City Opera during all these Met-centered activities. I'm referring to the musically and visually distinguished production of Handel's Ariodante. Not that I was missing much at Sybil's Barn that particular night: the inexplicable casting of a mediocrity like Elizabeth Holleque as Tosca was a mystery I preferred not to ponder. Ariodante is dramatically slight but Handel's music affords the singer a tremendous range of virtuosic and/or expressive possibilities. As the rival heroines, Amy Burton and Lisa Saffer offered portrayals of enormous appeal and personable charm. With her slightly warmer instrument, Burton's Ginevra provided the perfect foil for Saffer's glittery-toned Dalinda. In the title role, Sarah Connolly sang capably but lacked a critical element of Horne-like swagger.

As the King of Scotland, Sanford Sylvan cut a figure of great authority and conveyed the plight of Ginevra's father with moving sincerity. Bejun Mehta made an ambiguous impression as the villainous Polinesso. His singing had dramatic purpose but the vocal production was rough and unpleasant. Mehta's characterization seemed especially misguided. Upon entering Ginevra's boudoir, the countertenor proceeded to examine the contents of her dressing table with the feline curiosity of Rosalind Russell in The Women: "I tried this cream once. It brought out a rash!"

Jane Glover ably supported the ensemble onstage while summoning elegant playing from the company orchestra. Purists complained about Glover's pruning of the score but the opera seria format of aria following aria can prove tiresome to modern sensibilities. John Copley's direction succeeded in giving the stock characters a distinctive profile, while Michael Stennett's baroque-via-Vegas costumes stood out from John Conklin's austere settings with eye-catching splendor.

Of all the warhorse pieces that form a core part of the Met's repertoire, Aida has suffered the most in recent years from the withering impact of mediocre casting. Therefore, it was a pleasure to encounter an unusually convincing performance of the work on October 15.

In her first local performances of the opera, Deborah Voigt delivered the most competently vocalized realization of the title role to be heard here in years. There was some grumbling at intermission about the non-Italianate timbre of the voice and it must be admitted that she exhibited some linguistic gaucheries with the text. However, her grasp of Verdian style was masterful, with phrase after phrase characterized by a fluent command of accento. Always a graceful, feminine presence onstage, Voigt entered into Aida's dramatic conflicts with enormous conviction. Most important, she was equal to all of the role's musical demands, whether soaring over the clangorous ensembles or scaling her voice down to a refined pianissimo. Voigt sounded fresh-voiced and radiant in the final scene, a far cry from the croaking and shouting that most sopranos muster by this point in the evening.

While Aida could hardly be considered her most important accomplishment, Voigt is an honorable exponent of the title role. If she fails to achieve the standard of Ponselle or Milanov in this opera, that is certainly no crime. In these vocally impoverished times, how could anyone be ungrateful for a performance as accomplished as this one? Some churls of yesteryear were similarly dismissive of Rysanek and Nilsson in the Italian repertoire. But both ladies were partial to Verdi and their fans found it an interesting change from their predominantly Teutonic fare. I hope New Yorkers have further opportunities to enjoy Voigt as Aida. The Met could do a lot worse.

As Amneris, Olga Borodina proved yet again why she is the most winning mezzo-soprano active today. The voice is an opulent-toned miracle, capable of pouring out torrents of sound in the Judgment Scene. Yet she excelled in applying finesse to such moments as the opening of the Act Two boudoir scene; her insinuating delivery of "un dio possente . . . Amore!" had me quivering with erotic anticipation. Borodina's performance was notable for many such examples of musical detail. A stunningly beautiful woman, she exuded glamorous hauteur and aristocratic allure. If Borodina has one limitation it is a rather insubstantial low register. There were none of the roaring chest tones � la Cossotto or Obraztsova that some consider de rigueur in this repertoire. No matter. Borodina more than made up for her "deficiency" through subtle musicianship. Both she and Voigt were rapturously received at the final curtain calls, complete with bouquets and standing ovations.

The male contingent of the cast operated on a distinctly lower plane of achievement but was never less than solidly professional. As Radames, Fabio Armiliato did his share of bellowing at climactic moments but showed some sensitivity in quieter passages. He understood the style and his idiomatic qualities were appreciable throughout. Nikolai Putilin has major intonation problems but successfully communicated the fanatical zeal that motivates Amonasro. As Ramfis, Peter Rose's mellow legato seemed wasted in a largely declamatory role. The one really offensive element of the production was Carlo Rizzi's appallingly rigid conducting. The Italian maestro raced through the opera as if it were a chore to be dispatched as quickly as possible. Rizzi's graceless account of the score conveyed nothing but contempt for the singers, all of whom struggled to stay abreast of his insanely fast tempi. Surely there are conductors for hire out there who have more to bring to this assignment than a bad attitude.

Rizzi was back the following night to heap more disrespect on a masterpiece, this time an absolutely wretched account of Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana. The orchestral ensemble was shoddy and Rizzi seemed even more determined to plow through the score with a minimum of detail. A strong-minded group of singers might have been able to take matters into their own hands but such was not the case.

Dolora Zajick has an instrument of undeniable quality. But what does it matter when her musicianship is so blunt, her interpretative powers so limited? Zajick executed a textbook-perfect messa di voce and other vocal effects with admirable ease but they were not integrated into a communicative whole. They remained effects without causes. With the exception of some huge chest tones, Zajick's approach to Santuzza was deficient in matters of style. One searched in vain for the presence of even a rudimentary portamento in Zajick's singing. Her acting was similarly one-dimensional.

Dennis O'Neill resembled an ewok in trousers but brought the right sort of salami tearfulness to his portrayal of Turridu. Paolo Gavanelli has a strange, rather dead-toned baritone but he made the most of the thankless role of Alfio. Wendy White's Lola bordered on the vulgar but Jane Shaulis acquitted herself with a touching, well-acted Mamma Lucia.

Things improved immeasurably with the second portion of the evening, a hot-blooded account of Leoncavallo's Pagliacci. Fresh from the Otello success, Domingo scored yet another triumph with his neurotically insecure Canio. I was less supportive of the tenor's need for transposition on this occasion, especially since the moment in question involved an unwritten -- and unnecessary -- high note before the Bell Chorus. Nevertheless, the superstar tenor supplied robust, full-throated singing in "Vesti la giubba" and capped the final commedia sequence with acting of terrifying intensity.

Veronica Villarroel brought exotic beauty and thrilling commitment to her portrayal of Nedda. She didn't always sing in tune and the top notes could be shrill. But her exquisitely detailed, representational style put one in mind of Renata Scotto -- and there can be no higher praise, as far as I'm concerned. Juan Pons sang Tonio competently while Mark Oswald's scrumptious-looking Silvio made Nedda's risky behavior highly plausible. Predictably, Rizzi kept his singers on a short lease, rushing Domingo through his big aria with no consideration for the tenor's ideas about phrasing. The conductor was rightly given a chilly reception at the final curtain calls. May he go the way of Simone Young.

Well, that wraps up Enzo's exploits in New York. Fate cor, fellow regine: there's life yet in those Italian chestnuts -- and artists like Domingo, Frittoli, Voigt, Borodina and Villarroel have the goods to make them live.

CHICAGO - La Cieca's trip to Hogtown began as an odd sort of hybrid version of A Streetcar Named Desire and Beyond The Forest. Due to mechanical difficulties, she was changed off onto another airline which arrived three hours late and at a different terminal -- O'Hare instead of Midway. The problem was, Enzo Bordello was already on the way to Midway to meet this scribe. So La gathered her courage and her luggage and set out to follow the directions she was given to reach Enzo's place -- a Blue Train, the Addison bus, a streetcar called "Cemeteries" -- well, anyway, when she reached the Bordello abode, no one was home. La Cieca couldn't turn up any neighbor named "Eunice," and there was no booze in sight, so she waited like a good little duBois on the doorstep.

About half an hour later, Enzo came scurrying around the corner. "Stella! Stella for Star!" I cried, falling into his arms, then realized I was in Chicago, not New Orleans. "So, Mr. Neil Lattimah, ya thought ya could stand me up! Me! Rosa Moline!" That silliness dispensed with, we went upstairs to Enzo's memorabilia-bedecked apartment (autographed photos of Farrar and Garden in the powder room, my dears) and changed for the opera.

First night was A View From The Bridge (10/28), which promises to be a very attractive supplement to the American opera repertoire -- very easy-on-the-ear music, with two showstopper arias for the tenor (Gregory Turay, who stopped the show both times). The big excerptable piece is his "New York Nights," which appropriately enough echoes the Leonard Bernstein of On the Town. Mr. Turay's honeyed voice caressed the minor-inflected melody as the back-projections faded into a romantic vision of the nighttime Manhattan skyline, and La Cieca cried like a baby. She was also very impressed with young Isabel Bayrakdarian as Catherine, a clear light soprano, excellent diction, and a perfect physique du role. This was what you would call the "Cathy Malfitano" part, the ethnic ingenue in peril.

The real Ms. Malfitano gracefully took the more mature role of the middle-aged aunt Beatrice, a rock of strength in the troubled Carbone family. Malfitano excelled at the most interesting aria of the piece, "Was there ever any fella that he liked for you," a real example of music as subtext. What Bea is saying is eminently sensible: don't act like a child and Eddie will treat you like an adult. But Bolcom sets this apparently loving and motherly advice to an angular and rhythmically irregular melody. Malfitano took the hint and played Bea's resentment and frustration against her pretty niece.

William Bolcom's greatest strength in this opera, it seems to me, is really perfect word-setting. I thought at first the singers simply had superb diction, but I realized eventually that a big part of the credit should go to the composer: he not only sets the rhythms but the pitch patterns of colloquial speech. I never had a sense of singers "spitting" words, but even from the second balcony, I followed every turn of the dialogue.

Kim Josephson took the nominal star part of Eddie, but unfortunately he hasn't very much to do vocally. That's a flaw in the Arthur Miller play, which, like most of Miller's work, has always struck me as essentially phony and rhetorical as it reaches the home stretch. The playwright tries to trick Eddie out as some sort of modern Greek-tragedy hero, but then depicts the poor schlub as almost entirely passive: the only action he takes in the whole show is to make a phone call turning in his relatives to the Feds! Now, in spoken drama (or, even better, on film), a sensitive character actor can play all the non-textual reactions that make up Eddie's character. But in opera, you have to have something to sing besides the occasional parlando "I told ya to SHUT UP!" Eddie has no self-awareness at all, no real connection to his emotions, and therefore has nothing to sing.

And that's a big flaw in an opera. I really hated the intrusive "explanation" bits for the lawyer Alifieri (Timothy Nolen), especially his "Who died and made you Captain Vere" summation. But, again, that's in the Miller, part of the author's arty attempt to give the piece "stature." (Here's an idea for a possible future Bolcom project: how about an After the Fall for Dwayne Croft, Renee Fleming and Anne Sofie von Otter?) I cannot imagine a better staging for this piece: the unit set and lighting exactly felt like Brooklyn under the Bridge, down to the dirty cobblestones.

Falstaff suffered from a cheesy, low-comedy physical production which shot its wad on a "spectacular" entrance for Bryn Terfel, rising up from a red-lit Hell like, oh, I don't know, Rysanek in The Queen of Spades. Except for that, everything else was just crummy slabs of plywood cartooned with "Elizabethan" cityscapes. Director Olivier Tambosi's few ideas were vulgar sex jokes: Falstaff was in the process of performing a gynecological exam on Alice when Ford burst in, and the final tableau featured Fenton throwing Nannetta on the forest floor and dry-humping her as Falstaff played voyeur. Mistresses Ford and Page did their morning housekeeping in decollet�e jewel-toned evening gowns, diamond earrings and 1940s-style upsweep hairdos: Kallen Esperian and Patricia Risley were even made up to look like twins. Esperian was stunningly beautiful, but pushed all night, and there seems to be nothing above about an A-flat left in her voice. Bernadette Manca di Nissa sounded rich but rather too tasteful as the bawdy Dame Quickly.

The real vocal standout was slim, pretty Inva Mula (Nannetta), who despite being announced as having influenza, floated those tricky high notes like a golden-ager, including the final line of her aria, which she dared to take in a single breath. (It was hardly her fault that the first phrases of that aria were drowned out by uneasy laughter from the audience -- the "spirits" were dressed in KKK robes.)

Terfel, amazingly restrained most of the time, sang with rich burnished tone almost too glamorous for Falstaff. I worry, though, about the sudden and precipitous decline in quality of the voice above about E-natural. High notes sounded small and forced, not the sort of sound from a potential Dutchman and Wotan. But that's a small quibble when you contrast him with the total-loss Ford of Lucio Gallo, voiceless, tasteless, and more self-adoring than Thomas Hampson. Once Antonio Pappano stopped jerking the tempo around (i.e., in the last act) the show sounded fine.

On Saturday, Enzo, his partner Joanne Worley-Bordello and I dropped in at the dress rehearsal of Ms. Malfitano's charity cabaret program. Attired in Texas Guinan-style slit black sheath, gloves, feather boa and Bette Midler platform shoes, the diva favored us with full-out performances of Weill, Bolcom, Arlen, and Gershwin. My favorites were the patter songs like "One Life to Live" and "Amor," and she brought a warmly reflective quality to "I Never Has Seen Snow" and "Speak Low." The waltz-song rhythm of "Foolish Heart" naturally sent Malfitano out wandering among the tables and, thrillingly, to dance a few turns with little me.

Now, I very much admire how well Robert Carsen brought off his "Nouvelle Vague" dramatic ideas for Alcina (10/30), real A+ polish on the movement and lighting and especially the dramatic attitudes -- this is by far the most convincing, stylish physical performance I have ever seen from Renee Fleming. Costumed (by Tobias Heheisel) in an eau de Nil chiffon Dior knockoff, coiffed in a classic honey-colored Grace Kelly flip, and setting her lovely face in an enigmatic Mona Lisa smile, Fleming absolutely conveyed the essence of Old World glamour and (by extension) creepy Eurodecadence. Carsen's most chic idea was to stage the "Si, son quella" aria (Alcina's "N'est-ce plus ma main") around a formal dinner table for two: the passionate lovers sat grimly facing each other over the Spode like a couple trapped in an arranged marriage.

Now, all that said, La Cieca questions the thought behind Carsen's execution of this production. In common with all those Magic Island stories (up to and including Parsifal), the protagonist is not the strange enchanting lady (Armida, Circe, Kundry) but rather the youth struggling to sublimate his adolescent sexuality into mature masculinity. It may well be that we do not today accept the Renaissance/Baroque idea that Real Men don't think about sex all the time, but, the fact is, that was the ideal. Any man who (as we might say) kept his brains below his waist was considered weak and effeminate, no proper hero.

And so the real story that goes on in Alcina is Ruggiero's successful struggle to free himself from his fascination with sex, as symbolized by Alcina. She hardly exists except as a projection of his immature obsession with his physical urges. (This is symbolized by the fact that her Magic Island is all illusion, which crumbles as soon as he is forced to confront it.) He does not kill her so much as he renders her powerless: first by taking back his role as warrior (reclaiming his weapons) and then by destroying the Urn that empowers Alcina, a rather obvious but powerful womb symbol. In Jungian terms, he is undergoing a second birth by escaping from her devouring womb; by asserting conscious control over his sexuality, he is finally an adult. (At that point, he is ready for a conjugal relationship with Bradamante.)

The symbolism is terribly muddled in Carsen's production, which takes an essentially optimistic and positive myth about the transition from adolescence into adulthood and recasts it as a post-Freudian psychosexual horror story: Alcina presides over a houseful of skagged-out semi-nekkid studs; the show ends with Ruggiero eviscerating his beloved and strung out and suffering from anomie. The director even had to cut the joyous "Hornpipe" happy-ending chorus in order to pull off his tragic ending. I really think that, for all the lovely polished performances and well-judged effects, I have to call the production a failure simply because it trivializes and distorts the opera.

You know I am no fan of Renee Fleming's more recent performances, but I was very pleasantly surprised by the warmth and flexibility of her voice in the first half of the opera. It is of course a truly golden instrument, and she has the whole arsenal of technical effects at her fingertips. The first two arias, moderate-tempo and languourous pieces, suited the soprano's "Lazy Afternoon" attitude very well. I took some exception to her liberties with tempo rubato, which in baroque music means something rather different than it does in the romantic style.

Correct me if I'm wrong here, but I have always thought that in baroque music, the accompaniment (especially the bass) continues to move forward at the given tempo, despite the soloist's give-and-take with the rhythm of the melody. (The exception is a written fermata, where basically the pulse stops altogether for a moment, and then begins anew.) Well, Fleming seemed to think that she could take without giving. Conductor John Nelson slowed down the accompaniments in what I took to be an anachronistic style, with what sounded like measures of 5/4 and 7/4 and now and then even 13/4 scattered among the 4/4 Handel wrote. The effect, however lovely Ms. Fleming's cooed pianissimi and lightly-touched ornaments, was self-indulgent. No one else pulled the tempo around that way except Fleming; they all made their effects (some of them quite ravishing) within the context of steady metrical movement.

Fleming shot her bolt on the incredible difficult "Ah, mio cor," an aria of marathon length and almost superhuman finesse. Early in the da capo, I could hear the quality of her tone change and turn monochromatic; the pitch began to sag very slightly as well. It was not hard to tell what was happening: Fleming was getting tired. That impression was confirmed by "Ombre pallide," a dramatic recitative and almost Medea-like invocation calling for power or at least brilliance in the upper-middle register. It seemed Fleming just couldn't put any pressure on the voice at all, and had to sing the whole piece mezzo-piano.

Two big pieces in the final act (the aria "Ma quando tornerai" and the trio "Non e amor ne gelosia") also call for brilliance of attack to suggest Alcina's rage; Fleming just couldn't manage any sort of metal in the tone at all. Eventually the middle voice turned breathy and weak, and the soprano resorted to pushing a raucous open chest tone up to F and even G to try to fill in the gap. This is just what happened in the Susannah performance I heard last spring at the Met and the tape of the Louise from San Francisco, and it makes me fear for Fleming's vocal health. She should not at this point sound like a 60-year-old verista, but, unfortunately, she does not seem capable of singing a long role without running out of voice.

No such problem for Natalie Dessay, who sang the pants off Morgana, throwing in kitchen-sink ornamentation up to (I think) a high G, and skittering sexily around on those long, long legs like an operatic Gwen Verdon. The two mezzos unfortunately looked exactly alike (three-piece dress suits, short brunet wigs) but fortunately provided some vocal contrast in their fireworks. I felt Jennifer Larmore's voice was not quite big enough for Ruggiero's more ballsy outbursts, but she flung out those roulades in "Sta nell' Ircana" with seemingly inexhaustible energy, really waking the theater up at 11 pm.

Kathleen Kuhlmann's machine-gun coloratura was pretty dazzling too, but I liked her smooth legato line even more, especially in her last act "All' alma fedel" (which she had to perform while stripping off her suit and climbing into a dowdy Jane Wyman-style cloth coat). I didn't care much for Robin Blitch Wiper's decision to rework her "Barbara!" aria into the Doll Song, and Rockwell Blake was given too much uninteresting music to sing. (The tenor role in this opera is a real dog.) I didn't like the extreme tempi set by John Nelson: "allegro" does not mean "hell-for-leather" and "andante" does not mean "dirge."

The biggest laugh of the whole weekend came early in Act Two of the opera. In a sort of Transformation Scene, Ruggiero is supposed to awaken from his trance and see the "beautiful" island for what it is: a desert of thorns and stones. "Qual portento mi richiama la mia mente a rischiarar?" he cries, "What magical power has restored my mind to clarity?" Carsen decided to sexualize this scene by showing the unhappy youth the "real" Alcina: a pair of sliding doors opened to reveal Renee en n�glig�e, cavorting in slow motion with two butt-nekkid Calvin Klein models. And the supertitle said, "At last I see things as they really are." The house roared, hooted, and clapped. Thank God Eva "Give Her Two Black Eyes" Marton wasn't in the house!

Have you ever attended a performance expecting anything from mediocrity to pure filth, only to be completely and pleasantly surprised by a great evening of opera? Such an experience confronted me Wednesday night, November 24, when I saw Lyric Opera of Chicago present Verdi's Macbeth.

Several correspondents from Houston condemned this production as the ultimate in Eurotrash, what with its inclusion of such elements as witches in black overcoats and film footage for the spectral presentation of Banquo's kingly lineage. Further, I was dreading Catherine Malfitano's Lady Macbeth. Her last few outings at Lyric -- Jenny in Weill's Mahagonny and Beatrice in Bolcom's View from the Bridge -- were less than successful, suggesting a major vocal crisis. As the production design and the woman playing Lady Macbeth are rather important elements in this opera, I headed downtown with the lowest hopes for every aspect of this particular evening at the opera other than what I expected to be a fine Macbeth from German superstar baritone Franz Grundheber.

So, imagine my surprise when I -- who so love traditional, faithful representations -- found myself loving this production. Director David Alden gives us a Macbeth in which all aspects of plot and scene are the imagined products of an insane Macbeth. The witches, a nondescript army of black coats, and the banquet guests, a bland assortment of nobodies, have no personalities aside from the way in which Macbeth imagines them. The other main characters are well-developed independently of Macbeth, but they become complete only when viewed in relationship to Macbeth himself. Thus, Lady Macbeth's goal is to motivate Macbeth to help her attain power, Macduff's primary ambition is to murder Macbeth, Banquo aims to survive a walk in the dark without being killed by Macbeth's henchmen. Macbeth, one of literature's most ambivalent characters, is presented as a man about whom no one can have a neutral feeling.

Set designer Charles Edwards' off-the-wall physical accoutrements match Alden's conception of the screwy inner world of Macbeth. Images of a mental ward and a married couple's living room rapidly interchange, as if asking the viewer how different those environments actually are. When storming the castle, Macduff and Malcolm literally tear down the walls of Macbeth's house, perhaps alluding to the utter destruction a group can bring when they interfere in the private lives of their leaders. The trench created for the witches worked in presenting their breaking of the fourth wall, and the wide variety of furniture Edwards gave Malfitano to mount and straddle added to her sexually charged characterization. As the story of Macbeth is one of Shakespeare's most blatant dismantlings of the unities of time and place, this production, while still cogent in the grander sense, focuses on individual moments to achieve its impact. One such moment is when Macbeth prepares for his battle against Macduff and his Birnam Wood-clad followers. Rather than donning armor as the libretto suggests, Macbeth wraps himself in a banner which reads "Nessun nato di donna" (No one born of a woman), illustrating the protective powers of delusional ideas. Moments like these remained on the proper side of the fine line between oblique suggestion and hammering the audience over the head.

Given such a fine physical and psychological world to inhabit clearly benefited the performers. Malfitano, in particular, posited herself wonderfully into the elements surrounding her, combining an amazingly good vocal performance with a unique portrayal of the role. From the moment she first took the stage, reading Macbeth's letter in a decrepit sotto voce, it became apparent that Malfitano's Lady Macbeth would be like no one else's. Malfitano, though clearly cognizant of the recorded performances of Callas, M�dl, Ludwig, and Rysanek, has her own ideas about Lady Macbeth. Portraying the same immense desire for power as her predecessors, Malfitano adds to the desire for power a sexuality, yielding a riveting Lady Macbeth ready to pounce at a moment's notice. Such impetuosity was matched by her occasionally ragged, but always fascinating vocalism. In a strong "Vieni, t'affretta" Malfitano's sometimes huge register breaks seemed ironed-over, delighting this listener with a more prominent chest voice than I'd ever heard from her. It is true that this chest voice is not natural to Malfitano's essentially lyric-coloratura instrument, but the method in which she has carved out a lower register is most successful. Rather than pounding down on the lowest notes, Malfitano supported them truthfully, finding power more in subtlety than brute force. The passage work in "Or tutti sorgete" was cleaner than, say, Cossotto or Ludwig, with almost as much fervor as those great ladies.

Malfitano really comprehends the descending character arc of Lady Macbeth and she provided a vocal portrayal to match the histrionic one. Her "La luce langue" showed some of the vocal and emotional seams coming undone, demonstrating a sickeningly blas� attitude toward crime with each panted "Nuovo delitto" and a frightening enjoyment of her new powers with a blaring "O scettro, alfin sei mio!" The Brindisi presented Malfitano with an opportunity to return to her coloratura roots to sing this scene with more ease than almost every other Lady Macbeth in recorded history. High notes were intact and gruppetti were well-articulated and meaningful. Such a well-sung performance points toward Lady Macbeth's brilliance at keeping up the appearance of calm in the face of Macbeth's mad hallucinations.

The only moment of the evening in which Malfitano's power proved lacking was the vengeance duet, "Ora di morte e di vendetta," which closes Act Three. Malfitano simply could not match Grundheber for vocal power, although the look of pure hatred on her face was memorable. At the performance I attended, Malfitano sang the Sleepwalking Scene's final pianissimo D-flat successfully, although I am told that some nights the note deserted her most pathetically. No matter. While the D-flat can be a lovely effect, that note is not what this scene is about. Malfitano's presentation of the final moments of the obsessive, distracted Lady Macbeth was simply brilliant. With aching specificity (I won't forget how she murmured "Di Fiffe il Sire sposo e padre or or non era?") and frayed tone, Malfitano more than met the requirements of this great scene.

Unlike Lyric's prima donna-centered production of La boh�me in which all but Freni failed to impress, Chicago's darling Malfitano was given quite the supporting cast. In particular, Franz Grundheber's Macbeth ranks as the most Italianate performance I've ever heard from a non-Italian, much less a German. Known for his brilliant Wozzeck and Dutchman, Grundheber can now count a dazzling Macbeth in his gallery of great portrayals. The range from the despair of his final arioso, "Piet�, rispetto, amore," to the wonder of "Fuggi, regal fantasma" in the Apparition Scene was striking. Brilliant top notes were quite present and that luscious middle voice was also used to tremendous effect, particularly in his first act contemplation of murder, "Mi si affaccia un pugnal?" Grundheber was staggering both in sound and portrayal in the Banquet Scene, providing a psychotic portrayal reminiscent of his Wozzeck. A masterful sense of dramatic pacing and the ability to control the stage for a long period of time was demonstrated in a superb Act Three. Macbeth's final pathetic moments, including the contemplation of the corpse of Lady Macbeth and his cursing of the witches for offering such perplexing prophecies, were quite touching. I look forward to so much more from this great artist; I can already hear great Renatos, Amonasros, and the Ernani and Forza Carlos from Grundheber.

Roberto Aronica's ringing, plangent tenor breezed through "Ah, la paterna mano" and the following duet with Malcolm, also well-sung by the devilishly handsome Michael Sommese. Aronica has big plans for the future, including Alfredo at the Met, Duca di Mantua for Houston, and Des Grieux for Bilbao; I have no doubt that he will find great success in these assignments. I hope he returns to Lyric soon.

Only Raymond Aceto's overly gruff Banquo disappointed. "Come dal ciel precipita" can be a beautiful moment of respite in this otherwise stormy opera (listen to recordings by Ramey and Tajo for examples of such a phenomenon), but Aceto, an alumnus of the Met Young Artist Program, was not up to the aria's demands. Nothing about his top E's was exciting and the aria was missing the fluid legato Verdi so lovingly assigned to one of his best basso cantante moments.

Conductor Asher Fisch kept the orchestra together well enough, but without any individual stamp. At the hands of an Abbado or a de Sabata, Macbeth can be a great opera, proving early Verdi every bit as exciting as the beloved middle period operas and the fantastic late works. However, at the hands of Fisch, the singers were forced to shoulder the legislation of Macbeth's musical greatness. In spite of Fisch, Malfitano, Grundheber, and Aronica clearly demonstrated what a great night of music theatre Macbeth can be.

[A slightly different version of this review appears on the Opera Jamboree website (http://matrix.crosswinds.net/~operajamboree)]

HOUSTON/SAN FRANCISCO - Les boys did another of the their four-operas-in-two-cities-in-five-days marathons. First it was off to Houston for A�da, a performance that could have used a gang of soccer hooligans to liven things up. If major opera houses bemoan their inability to cast this opera, imagine the woes of a regional house like Houston when they have to summon a substitute for Radames (Walter Fraccaro), who was under the surgeon's knife.

Lower voices Larissa Diadkova and Gregg Baker flung out big sounds that had the intermission crowds buzzing excitedly. Diadkova is a short, stout woman with flame-thrower delivery and chest tone plentiful enough to suggest she lives on Vitamin C(ossotto). The highlight of the night, as usual, was the Judgment Scene, most of which the mezzo sang flat on her stomach, using the stage floor as a sounding board -- an old-school trick that still pays off. And Baker has a large, liquid Italianate voice; let's hope he gets treated with more respect than Simon Estes.

Marquita Lister looks like a supermodel, but we are doubtful about the wisdom of her tackling the title role so early on. After all, did not the program notes (written by a ubiquitous scribe whose name is all too familiar to readers of this zine) warn that A�da is a "voice-breaker," adding that Cecilia Bartoli has turned down at least two offers to sing the Ethiopian princess? As expected, Lister was exquisite in the quieter moments of Act 3, but the first two acts were rough sledding indeed. Stephen O'Mara, who jumped in as Radames, should be concentrating on Nemorino and Fenton.

The hideous and antiquated Pier Luigi Pizzi production was exhumed yet again, with the delightful innovation this time around of a sliding panel that did no such thing, stranding a brace of stagehands center stage staring into the auditorium. Their dilemma detracted momentarily from the plight of Amneris.

Bo Skovhus's Don Giovanni was vocally suave, but he looked hideous in a half-bald black wig that looked like an alleycat was fucking the back of his head. Someone needs to tell Skovhus that a "moving" performance is not a literal term; he whirled, rolled on the floor, laughed demonically, flailed his arms, staggered, lurched, then did it all again in double-time. Alexandrina Pendatchanska starred as Donna Anna, slim and glamorous but with a large and accurate voice. (We were delighted to read in the program that we will hear her again as Rossini's Ermione in Santa Fe.)

Pamela Armstrong (Elvira) poured out creamy Te Kanana tones, and Nicole Heaston was as delightful as the young Kathy Battle, and allegedly nice besides. Alessandro hammed it up as Leporello in self-defense against his Don's whirly-gyro physicality, and Dennis Peterson pleased the crowd with ravishing soft singing, and, later, brilliant coloratura in Ottavio's two arias. The conductors were the baby-faced Roberto Abbado (Aida) and, for the Mozart, Somebody Renes, who looks like the secretary of a high school drama club. His lack of experience showed in very inaccurate ensemble in the first scenes.

The boys planned on only Lucia in San Francisco, but they stayed for Wozzeck as well, for several reasons that sounded very good at the time:

At the elevator bank, an elderly gent inquired of a mother with her nine-year-old daughter, "Isn't Wozzeck inappropriate for such a young child," to which the sweet young thing in the Easter dress sneered, "Of the three operas I see each season, I chose this one not so much for the music, but for the drama." Her tone would have made any twentysomething opera queen snap to attention.

Surrounded by acres of empty seats, Richard and Peter drained the flask long before all 15 scenes flew by. Behrens, superstar though she may be, yelled most of the role in a one-dimensional portrayal. Alan Held made little impression, which may be Berg's point, but still. Kenneth Riegel's Captain was pure D'Oyly Carte. Conductor Michael Broder coaxed the orchestra to some shattering climaxes that made one thankful for the theater's seismic refitting. The question of the night was, "Why would a handsome man wear an expensive tuxedo to do Wozzeck," and the final answer was, "He's going someplace more interesting afterwards."

Lucia promised to be, well, interesting. The Old Gent in the Kilt made his annual appearance. God bless him! Just anyone can wear leather chaps or bulging bike shorts to the opera, but it takes a true star to pull off the whole Scottish kit, complete with pheasant feather in the beret.

Ailing Ruth Ann Swenson missed the first four performances and was replaced by Tracy Dahl; a false fire alarm disrupted performance number five. Missy showed up for the sixth, but still seemed dispirited, all fuse and no bang, a great trill but no idea of how to hold a performance together. She had the embarrassing task of miming the Prelude, mostly running around aimlessly. Ramon Vargas stole the show with his sweet lyric voice, but we fear The Big Circuit will chew him up and spit him out faster than you can say "Susan Dunn." Anthony Michaels-Moore barked a very exciting Telramund.

Richard "Authenticity" Bonynge butchered the score while paradoxically delivering a bloodless performance. The only audience enthusiasm was for the Flower Maiden who flung his de rigueur multiple identical bouquets. By this point the audience actually counts in unison the number of floral tributes tossed; Missy's score was five catches, one miss.

Un ballo in maschera does not stand or fall on the merits of a conductor, even Donald Runnicles, especially when the Amelia is Carol Vaness. Ramon Vargas sang the part of the queer Swedish King ravishingly, with only a few higher tones sounding overparted.

To Louise I say a great big "oui" despite the two middle-aged romantic leads who made only the most minimal efforts to sing French. The Utrillo-based production (Mansouri/Coyne) looked charming and played well, though I must say the supper scene in Act One seemed rushed -- light eaters, those working-class French! It goes without saying that Fleming's matronly demeanor and arch singing (even in "Depuis le jour") would mis-fit her for the role of the 20-year-old seamstress, but Jerry Hadley was even worse, nearly voiceless and a half-step sharp in a screamed "O coeur promis." Sam Ramey mopped up as P�re, the incestuous overtones well etched, and the 54-year-old basso sang like a frigging angel.

La Favorite is mostly formulaic balderdash, repetitious and lacking in invention. But one was happy San Francisco lavished a fine cast and splendid production on it. Prima Italian mezzo Sonia Ganassi triumphed; she may be tomorrow's Eboli par excellence. Marcello Giordani, who Flora hears has restudied his voice in the past few years, has a bright springy quality that delights; he tired some in the big Act Three ensemble and lacked the ultimate in legato for "Ange si pur." Vladimir Chernov's voice is in tatters and most of the time under pitch; a career that never happened. Sad.

WASHINGTON - If you're inclined to think of the creator of Manon as a lovely androgyne in the pantheon of operatic titans, then Le Cid might strike you as Jules Massenet in a ten-inch strap-on dildo. In this grand opera of 1885 the composer eschews the swoony eroticism, pressed-violet sentiment, and self-consuming narcissism that brand his most familiar works. Instead, "Mlle. Wagner" strikes a series of decidedly phallic poses, thrust forth with such musical gestures as fat brass fanfares and lunging interval leaps, all to limn such virile virtues as honor, valor, and righteous piety. But where those very values may have tumescent vigor in, say, Verdi, Massenet renders them with a kind of rubbery insistence that ultimately rings false.

Part of the problem is a plot which, once set in motion through a fatal snit between two insufferable patriarchs, quickly devolves into an anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better tale of filial duty. The Oedipal tensions inherent the story of a knight honor-bound to kill his beloved's father go for little. In spite of this, as seen at the Washington Opera on November 22, much of Le Cid registers as whomping good fun, with solid tunes, flavorful instrumental writing, and the high-camp highlight of "O souverain," wherein our hero enjoys a tenor-baritone buddy duet with a pearly vision of his patron saint. The music's frequent banalities are at least efficient ones; as with a Hollywood film score, you know exactly what you are supposed to be feeling at any given moment. And where derivative, Massenet often has the taste and skill to improve on his models; Rodrigue's investiture sounds like a zingy makeover of "Dieu des anges" from Le Proph�te.

The production, originating at the Teatro de la Meastranza in Seville, was this season's onstage vehicle our esteemed Artistic Director, and once again we are grateful that himself is using the Domingo name to sell a worthy or at least entertaining rarity. We admire the dark-honey tone, now cooing, now vaulting to portray the emotional compass of the role of Rodrigue (le Cid). But we are rather resentful of calculated restraint with which the tenor/conductor/ administrator parcels out precisely one evening's worth of his carefully budgeted energy, as he puts his talent into his performances, his genius into his career.

As Chim�ne, a role that calls for equal parts of steel and velvet, Susan Patterson delivered luxurious nappy tone, a game chest register, and a penetrating if soft-focus top. Perhaps she was overparted, but the go-for-broke abandon of her singing and committed plastique of her acting were a welcome counter to Domingo's detachment. The remainder of the roles in Le Cid are thankless where they aren't downright pointless, but the supporting cast and chorus were solid. Conductor Emmanuel Villaume seemed to be favoring Domingo with let's-get-on-with-it tempi that failed to give the music its expansive due.

The production, designed and blocked (directed is too strong a word) by Hugo de Ana, consisted of a single stage-filling staircase varied by a series of encrusted pillars, grilles, and a sarcophagus the size of a passenger van. Though the scale was big, the effect was less than spectacular: surface without mass, artifacts without atmosphere. As in Samson et Dalila or Gioconda, the show's most familiar music comes in the ballet. Here the Washington Opera didn't stint, outfitting choreographer Leda Lojodice with a corps of 30 who triumphed over hard-labor conditions -- voluminous costumes, plexiglass flooring, and those omnipresent, dance-defying stairs -- to perform a stylish divertissement. Heroes of the evening?

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